*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14257 ***

The Magician

by W. Somerset Maugham


TOGETHER WITH A FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY

1908




Contents

 Chapter I
 Chapter II
 Chapter III
 Chapter IV
 Chapter V
 Chapter VI
 Chapter VII
 Chapter VIII
 Chapter IX
 Chapter X
 Chapter XI
 Chapter XII
 Chapter XIII
 Chapter XIV
 Chapter XV
 Chapter XVI




A FRAGMENT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY


In 1897, after spending five years at St Thomas’s Hospital I passed the
examinations which enabled me to practise medicine. While still a
medical student I had published a novel called _Liza of Lambeth_ which
caused a mild sensation, and on the strength of that I rashly decided
to abandon doctoring and earn my living as a writer; so, as soon as I
was “qualified”, I set out for Spain and spent the best part of a year
in Seville. I amused myself hugely and wrote a bad novel. Then I
returned to London and, with a friend of my own age, took and furnished
a small flat near Victoria Station. A maid of all work cooked for us
and kept the flat neat and tidy. My friend was at the Bar, and so I had
the day (and the flat) to myself and my work. During the next six years
I wrote several novels and a number of plays. Only one of these novels
had any success, but even that failed to make the stir that my first
one had made. I could get no manager to take my plays. At last, in
desperation, I sent one, which I called _A Man of Honour_, to the Stage
Society, which gave two performances, one on Sunday night, another on
Monday afternoon, of plays which, unsuitable for the commercial
theatre, were considered of sufficient merit to please an intellectual
audience. As every one knows, it was the Stage Society that produced
the early plays of Bernard Shaw. The committee accepted _A Man of
Honour_, and W.L. Courtney, who was a member of it, thought well enough
of my crude play to publish it in _The Fortnightly Review_, of which he
was then editor. It was a feather in my cap.

Though these efforts of mine brought me very little money, they
attracted not a little attention, and I made friends. I was looked upon
as a promising young writer and, I think I may say it without vanity,
was accepted as a member of the intelligentsia, an honourable condition
which, some years later, when I became a popular writer of light
comedies, I lost; and have never since regained. I was invited to
literary parties and to parties given by women of rank and fashion who
thought it behoved them to patronise the arts. An unattached and fairly
presentable young man is always in demand. I lunched out and dined out.
Since I could not afford to take cabs, when I dined out, in tails and a
white tie, as was then the custom, I went and came back by bus. I was
asked to spend week-ends in the country. They were something of a trial
on account of the tips you had to give to the butler and to the footman
who brought you your morning tea. He unpacked your gladstone bag, and
you were uneasily aware that your well-worn pyjamas and modest toilet
articles had made an unfavourable impression upon him. For all that, I
found life pleasant and I enjoyed myself. There seemed no reason why I
should not go on indefinitely in the same way, bringing out a novel
once a year (which seldom earned more than the small advance the
publisher had given me but which was on the whole respectably
reviewed), going to more and more parties, making more and more
friends. It was all very nice, but I couldn’t see that it was leading
me anywhere. I was thirty. I was in a rut. I felt I must get out of it.
It did not take me long to make up my mind. I told the friend with whom
I shared the flat that I wanted to be rid of it and go abroad. He could
not keep it by himself, but we luckily found a middle-aged gentleman
who wished to install his mistress in it, and was prepared to take it
off our hands. We sold the furniture for what it could fetch, and
within a month I was on my way to Paris. I took a room in a cheap hotel
on the Left Bank.

A few months before this, I had been fortunate enough to make friends
with a young painter who had a studio in the Rue Campagne Première. His
name was Gerald Kelly. He had had an upbringing unusual for a painter,
for he had been to Eton and to Cambridge. He was highly talented,
abundantly loquacious, and immensely enthusiastic. It was he who first
made me acquainted with the Impressionists, whose pictures had recently
been accepted by the Luxembourg. To my shame, I must admit that I could
not make head or tail of them. Without much searching, I found an
apartment on the fifth floor of a house near the Lion de Belfort. It
had two rooms and a kitchen, and cost seven hundred francs a year,
which was then twenty-eight pounds. I bought, second-hand, such
furniture and household utensils as were essential, and the _concierge_
told me of a woman who would come in for half a day and make my _café
au lait_ in the morning and my luncheon at noon. I settled down and set
to work on still another novel. Soon after my arrival, Gerald Kelly
took me to a restaurant called Le Chat Blanc in the Rue d’Odessa, near
the Gare Montparnasse, where a number of artists were in the habit of
dining; and from then on I dined there every night. I have described
the place elsewhere, and in some detail in the novel to which these
pages are meant to serve as a preface, so that I need not here say more
about it. As a rule, the same people came in every night, but now and
then others came, perhaps only once, perhaps two or three times. We
were apt to look upon them as interlopers, and I don’t think we made
them particularly welcome. It was thus that I first met Arnold Bennett
and Clive Bell. One of these casual visitors was Aleister Crowley. He
was spending the winter in Paris. I took an immediate dislike to him,
but he interested and amused me. He was a great talker and he talked
uncommonly well. In early youth, I was told, he was extremely handsome,
but when I knew him he had put on weight, and his hair was thinning. He
had fine eyes and a way, whether natural or acquired I do not know, of
so focusing them that, when he looked at you, he seemed to look behind
you. He was a fake, but not entirely a fake. At Cambridge he had won
his chess blue and was esteemed the best whist player of his time. He
was a liar and unbecomingly boastful, but the odd thing was that he had
actually done some of the things he boasted of. As a mountaineer, he
had made an ascent of K2 in the Hindu Kush, the second highest mountain
in India, and he made it without the elaborate equipment, the cylinders
of oxygen and so forth, which render the endeavours of the mountaineers
of the present day more likely to succeed. He did not reach the top,
but got nearer to it than anyone had done before.

Crowley was a voluminous writer of verse, which he published
sumptuously at his own expense. He had a gift for rhyming, and his
verse is not entirely without merit. He had been greatly influenced by
Swinburne and Robert Browning. He was grossly, but not unintelligently,
imitative. As you flip through the pages you may well read a stanza
which, if you came across it in a volume of Swinburne’s, you would
accept without question as the work of the master. “_It’s rather hard,
isn’t it, Sir, to make sense of it?_” If you were shown this line and
asked what poet had written it, I think you would be inclined to say,
Robert Browning. You would be wrong. It was written by Aleister
Crowley.

At the time I knew him he was dabbling in Satanism, magic and the
occult. There was just then something of a vogue in Paris for that sort
of thing, occasioned, I surmise, by the interest that was still taken
in a book of Huysmans’s, _Là Bas_. Crowley told fantastic stories of
his experiences, but it was hard to say whether he was telling the
truth or merely pulling your leg. During that winter I saw him several
times, but never after I left Paris to return to London. Once, long
afterwards, I received a telegram from him which ran as follows:
“Please send twenty-five pounds at once. Mother of God and I starving.
Aleister Crowley.” I did not do so, and he lived on for many
disgraceful years.

I was glad to get back to London. My old friend had by then rooms in
Pall Mall, and I was able to take a bedroom in the same building and
use his sitting-room to work in. _The Magician_ was published in 1908,
so I suppose it was written during the first six months of 1907. I do
not remember how I came to think that Aleister Crowley might serve as
the model for the character whom I called Oliver Haddo; nor, indeed,
how I came to think of writing that particular novel at all. When, a
little while ago, my publisher expressed a wish to reissue it, I felt
that, before consenting to this, I really should read it again. Nearly
fifty years had passed since I had done so, and I had completely
forgotten it. Some authors enjoy reading their old works; some cannot
bear to. Of these I am. When I have corrected the proofs of a book, I
have finished with it for good and all. I am impatient when people
insist on talking to me about it; I am glad if they like it, but do not
much care if they don’t. I am no more interested in it than in a
worn-out suit of clothes that I have given away. It was thus with
disinclination that I began to read _The Magician_. It held my
interest, as two of my early novels, which for the same reason I have
been obliged to read, did not. One, indeed, I simply could not get
through. Another had to my mind some good dramatic scenes, but the
humour filled me with mortification, and I should have been ashamed to
see it republished. As I read _The Magician_, I wondered how on earth I
could have come by all the material concerning the black arts which I
wrote of. I must have spent days and days reading in the library of the
British Museum. The style is lush and turgid, not at all the sort of
style I approve of now, but perhaps not unsuited to the subject; and
there are a great many more adverbs and adjectives than I should use
today. I fancy I must have been impressed by the _écriture artiste_
which the French writers of the time had not yet entirely abandoned,
and unwisely sought to imitate them.

Though Aleister Crowley served, as I have said, as the model for Oliver
Haddo, it is by no means a portrait of him. I made my character more
striking in appearance, more sinister and more ruthless than Crowley
ever was. I gave him magical powers that Crowley, though he claimed
them, certainly never possessed. Crowley, however, recognized himself
in the creature of my invention, for such it was, and wrote a full-page
review of the novel in _Vanity Fair_, which he signed “Oliver Haddo”. I
did not read it, and wish now that I had. I daresay it was a pretty
piece of vituperation, but probably, like his poems, intolerably
verbose.

I do not remember what success, if any, my novel had when it was
published, and I did not bother about it much, for by then a great
change had come into my life. The manager of the Court Theatre, one
Otho Stuart, had brought out a play which failed to please, and he
could not immediately get the cast he wanted for the next play he had
in mind to produce. He had read one of mine, and formed a very poor
opinion of it; but he was in a quandary, and it occurred to him that it
might just serve to keep his theatre open for a few weeks, by the end
of which the actors he wanted for the play he had been obliged to
postpone would be at liberty. He put mine on. It was an immediate
success. The result of this was that in a very little while other
managers accepted the plays they had consistently refused, and I had
four running in London at the same time. I, who for ten years had
earned an average of one hundred pounds a year, found myself earning
several hundred pounds a week. I made up my mind to abandon the writing
of novels for the rest of my life. I did not know that this was
something out of my control and that when the urge to write a novel
seized me, I should be able to do nothing but submit. Five years later,
the urge came and, refusing to write any more plays for the time, I
started upon the longest of all my novels. I called it _Of Human
Bondage_.




The Magician




Chapter I


Arthur Burdon and Dr Porhoët walked in silence. They had lunched at a
restaurant in the Boulevard Saint Michel, and were sauntering now in
the gardens of the Luxembourg. Dr Porhoët walked with stooping
shoulders, his hands behind him. He beheld the scene with the eyes of
the many painters who have sought by means of the most charming garden
in Paris to express their sense of beauty. The grass was scattered with
the fallen leaves, but their wan decay little served to give a touch of
nature to the artifice of all besides. The trees were neatly surrounded
by bushes, and the bushes by trim beds of flowers. But the trees grew
without abandonment, as though conscious of the decorative scheme they
helped to form. It was autumn, and some were leafless already. Many of
the flowers were withered. The formal garden reminded one of a light
woman, no longer young, who sought, with faded finery, with powder and
paint, to make a brave show of despair. It had those false, difficult
smiles of uneasy gaiety, and the pitiful graces which attempt a
fascination that the hurrying years have rendered vain.

Dr Porhoët drew more closely round his fragile body the heavy cloak
which even in summer he could not persuade himself to discard. The best
part of his life had been spent in Egypt, in the practice of medicine,
and the frigid summers of Europe scarcely warmed his blood. His memory
flashed for an instant upon those multi-coloured streets of Alexandria;
and then, like a homing bird, it flew to the green woods and the
storm-beaten coasts of his native Brittany. His brown eyes were veiled
with sudden melancholy.

“Let us wait here for a moment,” he said.

They took two straw-bottomed chairs and sat near the octagonal water
which completes with its fountain of Cupids the enchanting
artificiality of the Luxembourg. The sun shone more kindly now, and the
trees which framed the scene were golden and lovely. A balustrade of
stone gracefully enclosed the space, and the flowers, freshly bedded,
were very gay. In one corner they could see the squat, quaint towers of
Saint Sulpice, and on the other side the uneven roofs of the Boulevard
Saint Michel.

The palace was grey and solid. Nurses, some in the white caps of their
native province, others with the satin streamers of the _nounou_,
marched sedately two by two, wheeling perambulators and talking.
Brightly dressed children trundled hoops or whipped a stubborn top. As
he watched them, Dr Porhoët’s lips broke into a smile, and it was so
tender that his thin face, sallow from long exposure to subtropical
suns, was transfigured. He no longer struck you merely as an
insignificant little man with hollow cheeks and a thin grey beard; for
the weariness of expression which was habitual to him vanished before
the charming sympathy of his smile. His sunken eyes glittered with a
kindly but ironic good-humour. Now passed a guard in the romantic cloak
of a brigand in comic opera and a peaked cap like that of an
_alguacil_. A group of telegraph boys in blue stood round a painter,
who was making a sketch—notwithstanding half-frozen fingers. Here and
there, in baggy corduroys, tight jackets, and wide-brimmed hats,
strolled students who might have stepped from the page of Murger’s
immortal romance. But the students now are uneasy with the fear of
ridicule, and more often they walk in bowler hats and the neat coats of
the _boulevardier_.

Dr Porhoët spoke English fluently, with scarcely a trace of foreign
accent, but with an elaboration which suggested that he had learned the
language as much from study of the English classics as from
conversation.

“And how is Miss Dauncey?” he asked, turning to his friend.

Arthur Burdon smiled.

“Oh, I expect she’s all right. I’ve not seen her today, but I’m going
to tea at the studio this afternoon, and we want you to dine with us at
the Chien Noir.”

“I shall be much pleased. But do you not wish to be by yourselves?”

“She met me at the station yesterday, and we dined together. We talked
steadily from half past six till midnight.”

“Or, rather, she talked and you listened with the delighted attention
of a happy lover.”

Arthur Burdon had just arrived in Paris. He was a surgeon on the staff
of St Luke’s, and had come ostensibly to study the methods of the
French operators; but his real object was certainly to see Margaret
Dauncey. He was furnished with introductions from London surgeons of
repute, and had already spent a morning at the Hôtel Dieu, where the
operator, warned that his visitor was a bold and skilful surgeon, whose
reputation in England was already considerable, had sought to dazzle
him by feats that savoured almost of legerdemain. Though the hint of
charlatanry in the Frenchman’s methods had not escaped Arthur Burdon’s
shrewd eyes, the audacious sureness of his hand had excited his
enthusiasm. During luncheon he talked of nothing else, and Dr Porhoët,
drawing upon his memory, recounted the more extraordinary operations
that he had witnessed in Egypt.

He had known Arthur Burdon ever since he was born, and indeed had
missed being present at his birth only because the Khedive Ismaïl had
summoned him unexpectedly to Cairo. But the Levantine merchant who was
Arthur’s father had been his most intimate friend, and it was with
singular pleasure that Dr Porhoët saw the young man, on his advice,
enter his own profession and achieve a distinction which himself had
never won.

Though too much interested in the characters of the persons whom chance
threw in his path to have much ambition on his own behalf, it pleased
him to see it in others. He observed with satisfaction the pride which
Arthur took in his calling and the determination, backed by his
confidence and talent, to become a master of his art. Dr Porhoët knew
that a diversity of interests, though it adds charm to a man’s
personality, tends to weaken him. To excel one’s fellows it is needful
to be circumscribed. He did not regret, therefore, that Arthur in many
ways was narrow. Letters and the arts meant little to him. Nor would he
trouble himself with the graceful trivialities which make a man a good
talker. In mixed company he was content to listen silently to others,
and only something very definite to say could tempt him to join in the
general conversation. He worked very hard, operating, dissecting, or
lecturing at his hospital, and took pains to read every word, not only
in English, but in French and German, which was published concerning
his profession. Whenever he could snatch a free day he spent it on the
golf-links of Sunningdale, for he was an eager and a fine player.

But at the operating-table Arthur was different. He was no longer the
awkward man of social intercourse, who was sufficiently conscious of
his limitations not to talk of what he did not understand, and sincere
enough not to express admiration for what he did not like. Then, on the
other hand, a singular exhilaration filled him; he was conscious of his
power, and he rejoiced in it. No unforeseen accident was able to
confuse him. He seemed to have a positive instinct for operating, and
his hand and his brain worked in a manner that appeared almost
automatic. He never hesitated, and he had no fear of failure. His
success had been no less than his courage, and it was plain that soon
his reputation with the public would equal that which he had already
won with the profession.

Dr Porhoët had been making listless patterns with his stick upon the
gravel, and now, with that charming smile of his, turned to Arthur.

“I never cease to be astonished at the unexpectedness of human nature,”
he remarked. “It is really very surprising that a man like you should
fall so deeply in love with a girl like Margaret Dauncey.”

Arthur made no reply, and Dr Porhoët, fearing that his words might
offend, hastened to explain.

“You know as well as I do that I think her a very charming young
person. She has beauty and grace and sympathy. But your characters are
more different than chalk and cheese. Notwithstanding your birth in the
East and your boyhood spent amid the very scenes of the Thousand and
One Nights, you are the most matter-of-fact creature I have ever come
across.”

“I see no harm in your saying insular,” smiled Arthur. “I confess that
I have no imagination and no sense of humour. I am a plain, practical
man, but I can see to the end of my nose with extreme clearness.
Fortunately it is rather a long one.”

“One of my cherished ideas is that it is impossible to love without
imagination.”

Again Arthur Burdon made no reply, but a curious look came into his
eyes as he gazed in front of him. It was the look which might fill the
passionate eyes of a mystic when he saw in ecstasy the Divine Lady of
his constant prayers.

“But Miss Dauncey has none of that narrowness of outlook which, if you
forgive my saying so, is perhaps the secret of your strength. She has a
delightful enthusiasm for every form of art. Beauty really means as
much to her as bread and butter to the more soberly-minded. And she
takes a passionate interest in the variety of life.”

“It is right that Margaret should care for beauty, since there is
beauty in every inch of her,” answered Arthur.

He was too reticent to proceed to any analysis of his feelings; but he
knew that he had cared for her first on account of the physical
perfection which contrasted so astonishingly with the countless
deformities in the study of which his life was spent. But one phrase
escaped him almost against his will.

“The first time I saw her I felt as though a new world had opened to my
ken.”

The divine music of Keats’s lines rang through Arthur’s remark, and to
the Frenchman’s mind gave his passion a romantic note that foreboded
future tragedy. He sought to dispel the cloud which his fancy had cast
upon the most satisfactory of love affairs.

“You are very lucky, my friend. Miss Margaret admires you as much as
you adore her. She is never tired of listening to my prosy stories of
your childhood in Alexandria, and I’m quite sure that she will make you
the most admirable of wives.”

“You can’t be more sure than I am,” laughed Arthur.

He looked upon himself as a happy man. He loved Margaret with all his
heart, and he was confident in her great affection for him. It was
impossible that anything should arise to disturb the pleasant life
which they had planned together. His love cast a glamour upon his work,
and his work, by contrast, made love the more entrancing.

“We’re going to fix the date of our marriage now,” he said. “I’m buying
furniture already.”

“I think only English people could have behaved so oddly as you, in
postponing your marriage without reason for two mortal years.”

“You see, Margaret was ten when I first saw her, and only seventeen
when I asked her to marry me. She thought she had reason to be grateful
to me and would have married me there and then. But I knew she hankered
after these two years in Paris, and I didn’t feel it was fair to bind
her to me till she had seen at least something of the world. And she
seemed hardly ready for marriage, she was growing still.”

“Did I not say that you were a matter-of-fact young man?” smiled Dr
Porhoët.

“And it’s not as if there had been any doubt about our knowing our
minds. We both cared, and we had a long time before us. We could afford
to wait.”

At that moment a man strolled past them, a big stout fellow, showily
dressed in a check suit; and he gravely took off his hat to Dr Porhoët.
The doctor smiled and returned the salute.

“Who is your fat friend?” asked Arthur.

“That is a compatriot of yours. His name is Oliver Haddo.”

“Art-student?” inquired Arthur, with the scornful tone he used when
referring to those whose walk in life was not so practical as his own.

“Not exactly. I met him a little while ago by chance. When I was
getting together the material for my little book on the old alchemists
I read a great deal at the library of the Arsenal, which, you may have
heard, is singularly rich in all works dealing with the occult
sciences.”

Burden’s face assumed an expression of amused disdain. He could not
understand why Dr Porhoët occupied his leisure with studies so
profitless. He had read his book, recently published, on the more
famous of the alchemists; and, though forced to admire the profound
knowledge upon which it was based, he could not forgive the waste of
time which his friend might have expended more usefully on topics of
pressing moment.

“Not many people study in that library,” pursued the doctor, “and I
soon knew by sight those who were frequently there. I saw this
gentleman every day. He was immersed in strange old books when I
arrived early in the morning, and he was reading them still when I
left, exhausted. Sometimes it happened that he had the volumes I asked
for, and I discovered that he was studying the same subjects as myself.
His appearance was extraordinary, but scarcely sympathetic; so, though
I fancied that he gave me opportunities to address him, I did not avail
myself of them. One day, however, curiously enough, I was looking up
some point upon which it seemed impossible to find authorities. The
librarian could not help me, and I had given up the search, when this
person brought me the very book I needed. I surmised that the librarian
had told him of my difficulty. I was very grateful to the stranger. We
left together that afternoon, and our kindred studies gave us a common
topic of conversation. I found that his reading was extraordinarily
wide, and he was able to give me information about works which I had
never even heard of. He had the advantage over me that he could
apparently read, Hebrew as well as Arabic, and he had studied the
Kabbalah in the original.”

“And much good it did him, I have no doubt,” said Arthur. “And what is
he by profession?”

Dr Porhoët gave a deprecating smile.

“My dear fellow, I hardly like to tell you. I tremble in every limb at
the thought of your unmitigated scorn.”

“Well?”

“You know, Paris is full of queer people. It is the chosen home of
every kind of eccentricity. It sounds incredible in this year of grace,
but my friend Oliver Haddo claims to be a magician. I think he is quite
serious.”

“Silly ass!” answered Arthur with emphasis.




Chapter II


Margaret Dauncey shared a flat near the Boulevard du Montparnasse with
Susie Boyd; and it was to meet her that Arthur had arranged to come to
tea that afternoon. The young women waited for him in the studio. The
kettle was boiling on the stove; cups and _petits fours_ stood in
readiness on a model stand. Susie looked forward to the meeting with
interest. She had heard a good deal of the young man, and knew that the
connexion between him and Margaret was not lacking in romance. For
years Susie had led the monotonous life of a mistress in a school for
young ladies, and had resigned herself to its dreariness for the rest
of her life, when a legacy from a distant relation gave her sufficient
income to live modestly upon her means. When Margaret, who had been her
pupil, came, soon after this, to announce her intention of spending a
couple of years in Paris to study art, Susie willingly agreed to
accompany her. Since then she had worked industriously at Colarossi’s
Academy, by no means under the delusion that she had talent, but merely
to amuse herself. She refused to surrender the pleasing notion that her
environment was slightly wicked. After the toil of many years it
relieved her to be earnest in nothing; and she found infinite
satisfaction in watching the lives of those around her.

She had a great affection for Margaret, and though her own stock of
enthusiasms was run low, she could enjoy thoroughly Margaret’s young
enchantment in all that was exquisite. She was a plain woman; but there
was no envy in her, and she took the keenest pleasure in Margaret’s
comeliness. It was almost with maternal pride that she watched each
year add a new grace to that exceeding beauty. But her common sense was
sound, and she took care by good-natured banter to temper the praises
which extravagant admirers at the drawing-class lavished upon the
handsome girl both for her looks and for her talent. She was proud to
think that she would hand over to Arthur Burdon a woman whose character
she had helped to form, and whose loveliness she had cultivated with a
delicate care.

Susie knew, partly from fragments of letters which Margaret read to
her, partly from her conversation, how passionately he adored his
bride; and it pleased her to see that Margaret loved him in return with
a grateful devotion. The story of this visit to Paris touched her
imagination. Margaret was the daughter of a country barrister, with
whom Arthur had been in the habit of staying; and when he died, many
years after his wife, Arthur found himself the girl’s guardian and
executor. He sent her to school; saw that she had everything she could
possibly want; and when, at seventeen, she told him of her wish to go
to Paris and learn drawing, he at once consented. But though he never
sought to assume authority over her, he suggested that she should not
live alone, and it was on this account that she went to Susie. The
preparations for the journey were scarcely made when Margaret
discovered by chance that her father had died penniless and she had
lived ever since at Arthur’s entire expense. When she went to see him
with tears in her eyes, and told him what she knew, Arthur was so
embarrassed that it was quite absurd.

“But why did you do it?” she asked him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it fair to put you under any obligation to me, and I
wanted you to feel quite free.”

She cried. She couldn’t help it.

“Don’t be so silly,” he laughed. “You owe me nothing at all. I’ve done
very little for you, and what I have done has given me a great deal of
pleasure.”

“I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” he cried. “It makes it so much harder for me to
say what I want to.”

She looked at him quickly and reddened. Her deep blue eyes were veiled
with tears.

“Don’t you know that I’d do anything in the world for you?” she cried.

“I don’t want you to be grateful to me, because I was hoping—I might
ask you to marry me some day.”

Margaret laughed charmingly as she held out her hands.

“You must know that I’ve been wanting you to do that ever since I was
ten.”

She was quite willing to give up her idea of Paris and be married
without delay, but Arthur pressed her not to change her plans. At first
Margaret vowed it was impossible to go, for she knew now that she had
no money, and she could not let her lover pay.

“But what does it matter?” he said. “It’ll give me such pleasure to go
on with the small allowance I’ve been making you. After all, I’m pretty
well-to-do. My father left me a moderate income, and I’m making a good
deal already by operating.”

“Yes, but it’s different now. I didn’t know before. I thought I was
spending my own money.”

“If I died tomorrow, every penny I have would be yours. We shall be
married in two years, and we’ve known one another much too long to
change our minds. I think that our lives are quite irrevocably united.”

Margaret wished very much to spend this time in Paris, and Arthur had
made up his mind that in fairness to her they could not marry till she
was nineteen. She consulted Susie Boyd, whose common sense prevented
her from paying much heed to romantic notions of false delicacy.

“My dear, you’d take his money without scruple if you’d signed your
names in a church vestry, and as there’s not the least doubt that
you’ll marry, I don’t see why you shouldn’t now. Besides, you’ve got
nothing whatever to live on, and you’re equally unfitted to be a
governess or a typewriter. So it’s Hobson’s choice, and you’d better
put your exquisite sentiments in your pocket.”

Miss Boyd, by one accident after another, had never seen Arthur, but
she had heard so much that she looked upon him already as an old
friend. She admired him for his talent and strength of character as
much as for his loving tenderness to Margaret. She had seen portraits
of him, but Margaret said he did not photograph well. She had asked if
he was good-looking.

“No, I don’t think he is,” answered Margaret, “but he’s very
paintable.”

“That is an answer which has the advantage of sounding well and meaning
nothing,” smiled Susie.

She believed privately that Margaret’s passion for the arts was a not
unamiable pose which would disappear when she was happily married. To
have half a dozen children was in her mind much more important than to
paint pictures. Margaret’s gift was by no means despicable, but Susie
was not convinced that callous masters would have been so enthusiastic
if Margaret had been as plain and old as herself.

Miss Boyd was thirty. Her busy life had not caused the years to pass
easily, and she looked older. But she was one of those plain women
whose plainness does not matter. A gallant Frenchman had to her face
called her a _belle laide_, and, far from denying the justness of his
observation, she had been almost flattered. Her mouth was large, and
she had little round bright eyes. Her skin was colourless and much
disfigured by freckles. Her nose was long and thin. But her face was so
kindly, her vivacity so attractive, that no one after ten minutes
thought of her ugliness. You noticed then that her hair, though
sprinkled with white, was pretty, and that her figure was exceedingly
neat. She had good hands, very white and admirably formed, which she
waved continually in the fervour of her gesticulation. Now that her
means were adequate she took great pains with her dress, and her
clothes, though they cost much more than she could afford, were always
beautiful. Her taste was so great, her tact so sure, that she was able
to make the most of herself. She was determined that if people called
her ugly they should be forced in the same breath to confess that she
was perfectly gowned. Susie’s talent for dress was remarkable, and it
was due to her influence that Margaret was arrayed always in the latest
mode. The girl’s taste inclined to be artistic, and her sense of colour
was apt to run away with her discretion. Except for the display of
Susie’s firmness, she would scarcely have resisted her desire to wear
nondescript garments of violent hue. But the older woman expressed
herself with decision.

“My dear, you won’t draw any the worse for wearing a well-made corset,
and to surround your body with bands of grey flannel will certainly not
increase your talent.”

“But the fashion is so hideous,” smiled Margaret.

“Fiddlesticks! The fashion is always beautiful. Last year it was
beautiful to wear a hat like a pork-pie tipped over your nose; and next
year, for all I know, it will be beautiful to wear a bonnet like a
sitz-bath at the back of your head. Art has nothing to do with a smart
frock, and whether a high-heeled pointed shoe commends itself or not to
the painters in the quarter, it’s the only thing in which a woman’s
foot looks really nice.”

Susie Boyd vowed that she would not live with Margaret at all unless
she let her see to the buying of her things.

“And when you’re married, for heaven’s sake ask me to stay with you
four times a year, so that I can see after your clothes. You’ll never
keep your husband’s affection if you trust to your own judgment.”

Miss Boyd’s reward had come the night before, when Margaret, coming
home from dinner with Arthur, had repeated an observation of his.

“How beautifully you’re dressed!” he had said. “I was rather afraid
you’d be wearing art-serges.”

“Of course you didn’t tell him that I insisted on buying every stitch
you’d got on,” cried Susie.

“Yes, I did,” answered Margaret simply. “I told him I had no taste at
all, but that you were responsible for everything.”

“That was the least you could do,” answered Miss Boyd.

But her heart went out to Margaret, for the trivial incident showed
once more how frank the girl was. She knew quite well that few of her
friends, though many took advantage of her matchless taste, would have
made such an admission to the lover who congratulated them on the
success of their costume.

There was a knock at the door, and Arthur came in.

“This is the fairy prince,” said Margaret, bringing him to her friend.

“I’m glad to see you in order to thank you for all you’ve done for
Margaret,” he smiled, taking the proffered hand.

Susie remarked that he looked upon her with friendliness, but with a
certain vacancy, as though too much engrossed in his beloved really to
notice anyone else; and she wondered how to make conversation with a
man who was so manifestly absorbed. While Margaret busied herself with
the preparations for tea, his eyes followed her movements with a
doglike, touching devotion. They travelled from her smiling mouth to
her deft hands. It seemed that he had never seen anything so ravishing
as the way in which she bent over the kettle. Margaret felt that he was
looking at her, and turned round. Their eyes met, and they stood for an
appreciable time gazing at one another silently.

“Don’t be a pair of perfect idiots,” cried Susie gaily. “I’m dying for
my tea.”

The lovers laughed and reddened. It struck Arthur that he should say
something polite.

“I hope you’ll show me your sketches afterwards, Miss Boyd. Margaret
says they’re awfully good.”

“You really needn’t think it in the least necessary to show any
interest in me,” she replied bluntly.

“She draws the most delightful caricatures,” said Margaret. “I’ll bring
you a horror of yourself, which she’ll do the moment you leave us.”

“Don’t be so spiteful, Margaret.”

Miss Boyd could not help thinking all the same that Arthur Burdon would
caricature very well. Margaret was right when she said that he was not
handsome, but his clean-shaven face was full of interest to so
passionate an observer of her kind. The lovers were silent, and Susie
had the conversation to herself. She chattered without pause and had
the satisfaction presently of capturing their attention. Arthur seemed
to become aware of her presence, and laughed heartily at her burlesque
account of their fellow-students at Colarossi’s. Meanwhile Susie
examined him. He was very tall and very thin. His frame had a
Yorkshireman’s solidity, and his bones were massive. He missed being
ungainly only through the serenity of his self-reliance. He had high
cheek-bones and a long, lean face. His nose and mouth were large, and
his skin was sallow. But there were two characteristics which
fascinated her, an imposing strength of purpose and a singular capacity
for suffering. This was a man who knew his mind and was determined to
achieve his desire; it refreshed her vastly after the extreme weakness
of the young painters with whom of late she had mostly consorted. But
those quick dark eyes were able to express an anguish that was hardly
tolerable, and the mobile mouth had a nervous intensity which suggested
that he might easily suffer the very agonies of woe.

Tea was ready, and Arthur stood up to receive his cup.

“Sit down,” said Margaret. “I’ll bring you everything you want, and I
know exactly how much sugar to put in. It pleases me to wait on you.”

With the grace that marked all her movements she walked cross the
studio, the filled cup in one hand and the plate of cakes in the other.
To Susie it seemed that he was overwhelmed with gratitude by Margaret’s
condescension. His eyes were soft with indescribable tenderness as he
took the sweetmeats she gave him. Margaret smiled with happy pride. For
all her good-nature, Susie could not prevent the pang that wrung her
heart; for she too was capable of love. There was in her a wealth of
passionate affection that none had sought to find. None had ever
whispered in her ears the charming nonsense that she read in books. She
recognised that she had no beauty to help her, but once she had at
least the charm of vivacious youth. That was gone now, and the freedom
to go into the world had come too late; yet her instinct told her that
she was made to be a decent man’s wife and the mother of children. She
stopped in the middle of her bright chatter, fearing to trust her
voice, but Margaret and Arthur were too much occupied to notice that
she had ceased to speak. They sat side by side and enjoyed the
happiness of one another’s company.

“What a fool I am!” thought Susie.

She had learnt long ago that common sense, intelligence, good-nature,
and strength of character were unimportant in comparison with a pretty
face. She shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know if you young things realise that it’s growing late. If
you want us to dine at the Chien Noir, you must leave us now, so that
we can make ourselves tidy.”

“Very well,” said Arthur, getting up. “I’ll go back to my hotel and
have a wash. We’ll meet at half-past seven.”

When Margaret had closed the door on him, she turned to her friend.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked, smiling.

“You can’t expect me to form a definite opinion of a man whom I’ve seen
for so short a time.”

“Nonsense!” said Margaret.

Susie hesitated for a moment.

“I think he has an extraordinarily good face,” she said at last
gravely. “I’ve never seen a man whose honesty of purpose was so
transparent.”

Susie Boyd was so lazy that she could never be induced to occupy
herself with household matters and, while Margaret put the tea things
away, she began to draw the caricature which every new face suggested
to her. She made a little sketch of Arthur, abnormally lanky, with a
colossal nose, with the wings and the bow and arrow of the God of Love,
but it was not half done before she thought it silly. She tore it up
with impatience. When Margaret came back, she turned round and looked
at her steadily.

“Well?” said the girl, smiling under the scrutiny.

She stood in the middle of the lofty studio. Half-finished canvases
leaned with their faces against the wall; pieces of stuff were hung
here and there, and photographs of well-known pictures. She had fallen
unconsciously into a wonderful pose, and her beauty gave her,
notwithstanding her youth, a rare dignity. Susie smiled mockingly.

“You look like a Greek goddess in a Paris frock,” she said.

“What have you to say to me?” asked Margaret, divining from the
searching look that something was in her friend’s mind.

Susie stood up and went to her.

“You know, before I’d seen him I hoped with all my heart that he’d make
you happy. Notwithstanding all you’d told me of him, I was afraid. I
knew he was much older than you. He was the first man you’d ever known.
I could scarcely bear to entrust you to him in case you were
miserable.”

“I don’t think you need have any fear.”

“But now I hope with all my heart that you’ll make him happy. It’s not
you I’m frightened for now, but him.”

Margaret did not answer; she could not understand what Susie meant.

“I’ve never seen anyone with such a capacity for wretchedness as that
man has. I don’t think you can conceive how desperately he might
suffer. Be very careful, Margaret, and be very good to him, for you
have the power to make him more unhappy than any human being should
be.”

“Oh, but I want him to be happy,” cried Margaret vehemently. “You know
that I owe everything to him. I’d do all I could to make him happy,
even if I had to sacrifice myself. But I can’t sacrifice myself,
because I love him so much that all I do is pure delight.”

Her eyes filled with tears and her voice broke. Susie, with a little
laugh that was half hysterical, kissed her.

“My dear, for heaven’s sake don’t cry! You know I can’t bear people who
weep, and if he sees your eyes red, he’ll never forgive me.”




Chapter III


The _Chien Noir_, where Susie Boyd and Margaret generally dined, was
the most charming restaurant in the quarter. Downstairs was a public
room, where all and sundry devoured their food, for the little place
had a reputation for good cooking combined with cheapness; and the
_patron_, a retired horse-dealer who had taken to victualling in order
to build up a business for his son, was a cheery soul whose loud-voiced
friendliness attracted custom. But on the first floor was a narrow
room, with three tables arranged in a horse-shoe, which was reserved
for a small party of English or American painters and a few Frenchmen
with their wives. At least, they were so nearly wives, and their manner
had such a matrimonial respectability, that Susie, when first she and
Margaret were introduced into this society, judged it would be vulgar
to turn up her nose. She held that it was prudish to insist upon the
conventions of Notting Hill in the Boulevard de Montparnasse. The young
women who had thrown in their lives with these painters were modest in
demeanour and quiet in dress. They were model housewives, who had
preserved their self-respect notwithstanding a difficult position, and
did not look upon their relation with less seriousness because they had
not muttered a few words before _Monsieur le Maire_.

The room was full when Arthur Burdon entered, but Margaret had kept him
an empty seat between herself and Miss Boyd. Everyone was speaking at
once, in French, at the top of his voice, and a furious argument was
proceeding on the merit of the later Impressionists. Arthur sat down,
and was hurriedly introduced to a lanky youth, who sat on the other
side of Margaret. He was very tall, very thin, very fair. He wore a
very high collar and very long hair, and held himself like an exhausted
lily.

“He always reminds me of an Aubrey Beardsley that’s been dreadfully
smudged,” said Susie in an undertone. “He’s a nice, kind creature, but
his name is Jagson. He has virtue and industry. I haven’t seen any of
his work, but he has absolutely _no_ talent.”

“How do you know, if you’ve not seen his pictures?” asked Arthur.

“Oh, it’s one of our conventions here that nobody has talent,” laughed
Susie. “We suffer one another personally, but we have no illusions
about the value of our neighbour’s work.”

“Tell me who everyone is.”

“Well, look at that little bald man in the corner. That is Warren.”

Arthur looked at the man she pointed out. He was a small person, with a
pate as shining as a billiard-ball, and a pointed beard. He had
protruding, brilliant eyes.

“Hasn’t he had too much to drink?” asked Arthur frigidly.

“Much,” answered Susie promptly, “but he’s always in that condition,
and the further he gets from sobriety the more charming he is. He’s the
only man in this room of whom you’ll never hear a word of evil. The
strange thing is that he’s very nearly a great painter. He has the most
fascinating sense of colour in the world, and the more intoxicated he
is, the more delicate and beautiful is his painting. Sometimes, after
more than the usual number of _apéritifs_, he will sit down in a café
to do a sketch, with his hand so shaky that he can hardly hold a brush;
he has to wait for a favourable moment, and then he makes a jab at the
panel. And the immoral thing is that each of these little jabs is
lovely. He’s the most delightful interpreter of Paris I know, and when
you’ve seen his sketches—he’s done hundreds, of unimaginable grace and
feeling and distinction—you can never see Paris in the same way again.”

The little maid who looked busily after the varied wants of the
customers stood in front of them to receive Arthur’s order. She was a
hard-visaged creature of mature age, but she looked neat in her black
dress and white cap; and she had a motherly way of attending to these
people, with a capacious smile of her large mouth which was full of
charm.

“I don’t mind what I eat,” said Arthur. “Let Margaret order my dinner
for me.”

“It would have been just as good if I had ordered it,” laughed Susie.

They began a lively discussion with Marie as to the merits of the
various dishes, and it was only interrupted by Warren’s hilarious
expostulations.

“Marie, I precipitate myself at your feet, and beg you to bring me a
_poule au riz_.”

“Oh, but give me one moment, _monsieur_,” said the maid.

“Do not pay any attention to that gentleman. His morals are detestable,
and he only seeks to lead you from the narrow path of virtue.”

Arthur protested that on the contrary the passion of hunger occupied at
that moment his heart to the exclusion of all others.

“Marie, you no longer love me,” cried Warren. “There was a time when
you did not look so coldly upon me when I ordered a bottle of white
wine.”

The rest of the party took up his complaint, and all besought her not
to show too hard a heart to the bald and rubicund painter.

“_Mais si, je vous aime, Monsieur Warren,_” she cried, laughing, “_Je
vous aime tous, tous._”

She ran downstairs, amid the shouts of men and women, to give her
orders.

“The other day the Chien Noir was the scene of a tragedy,” said Susie.
“Marie broke off relations with her lover, who is a waiter at
Lavenue’s, and would have no reconciliation. He waited till he had a
free evening, and then came to the room downstairs and ordered dinner.
Of course, she was obliged to wait on him, and as she brought him each
dish he expostulated with her, and they mingled their tears.”

“She wept in floods,” interrupted a youth with neatly brushed hair and
fat nose. “She wept all over our food, and we ate it salt with tears.
We besought her not to yield; except for our encouragement she would
have gone back to him; and he beats her.”

Marie appeared again, with no signs now that so short a while ago
romance had played a game with her, and brought the dishes that had
been ordered. Susie seized once more upon Arthur Burdon’s attention.

“Now please look at the man who is sitting next to Mr Warren.”

Arthur saw a tall, dark fellow with strongly-marked features, untidy
hair, and a ragged black moustache.

“That is Mr O’Brien, who is an example of the fact that strength of
will and an earnest purpose cannot make a painter. He’s a failure, and
he knows it, and the bitterness has warped his soul. If you listen to
him, you’ll hear every painter of eminence come under his lash. He can
forgive nobody who’s successful, and he never acknowledges merit in
anyone till he’s safely dead and buried.”

“He must be a cheerful companion,” answered Arthur. “And who is the
stout old lady by his side, with the flaunting hat?”

“That is the mother of Madame Rouge, the little palefaced woman sitting
next to her. She is the mistress of Rouge, who does all the
illustrations for _La Semaine_. At first it rather tickled me that the
old lady should call him _mon gendre_, my son-in-law, and take the
irregular union of her daughter with such a noble unconcern for
propriety; but now it seems quite natural.”

The mother of Madame Rouge had the remains of beauty, and she sat bolt
upright, picking the leg of a chicken with a dignified gesture. Arthur
looked away quickly, for, catching his eye, she gave him an amorous
glance. Rouge had more the appearance of a prosperous tradesman than of
an artist; but he carried on with O’Brien, whose French was perfect, an
argument on the merits of Cézanne. To one he was a great master and to
the other an impudent charlatan. Each hotly repeated his opinion, as
though the mere fact of saying the same thing several times made it
more convincing.

“Next to me is Madame Meyer,” proceeded Susie. “She was a governess in
Poland, but she was much too pretty to remain one, and now she lives
with the landscape painter who is by her side.”

Arthur’s eyes followed her words and rested on a cleanshaven man with a
large quantity of grey, curling hair. He had a handsome face of a
deliberately aesthetic type and was very elegantly dressed. His manner
and his conversation had the flamboyance of the romantic thirties. He
talked in flowing periods with an air of finality, and what he said was
no less just than obvious. The gay little lady who shared his fortunes
listened to his wisdom with an admiration that plainly flattered him.

Miss Boyd had described everyone to Arthur except young Raggles, who
painted still life with a certain amount of skill, and Clayson, the
American sculptor. Raggles stood for rank and fashion at the Chien
Noir. He was very smartly dressed in a horsey way, and he walked with
bowlegs, as though he spent most of his time in the saddle. He alone
used scented pomade upon his neat smooth hair. His chief distinction
was a greatcoat he wore, with a scarlet lining; and Warren, whose
memory for names was defective, could only recall him by that
peculiarity. But it was understood that he knew duchesses in
fashionable streets, and occasionally dined with them in solemn
splendour.

Clayson had a vinous nose and a tedious habit of saying brilliant
things. With his twinkling eyes, red cheeks, and fair, pointed beard,
he looked exactly like a Franz Hals; but he was dressed like the
caricature of a Frenchman in a comic paper. He spoke English with a
Parisian accent.

Miss Boyd was beginning to tear him gaily limb from limb, when the door
was flung open, and a large person entered. He threw off his cloak with
a dramatic gesture.

“Marie, disembarrass me of this coat of frieze. Hang my sombrero upon a
convenient peg.”

He spoke execrable French, but there was a grandiloquence about his
vocabulary which set everyone laughing.

“Here is somebody I don’t know,” said Susie.

“But I do, at least, by sight,” answered Burdon. He leaned over to Dr
Porhoët who was sitting opposite, quietly eating his dinner and
enjoying the nonsense which everyone talked. “Is not that your
magician?”

“Oliver Haddo,” said Dr Porhoët, with a little nod of amusement.

The new arrival stood at the end of the room with all eyes upon him. He
threw himself into an attitude of command and remained for a moment
perfectly still.

“You look as if you were posing, Haddo,” said Warren huskily.

“He couldn’t help doing that if he tried,” laughed Clayson.

Oliver Haddo slowly turned his glance to the painter.

“I grieve to see, O most excellent Warren, that the ripe juice of the
_aperitif_ has glazed your sparkling eye.”

“Do you mean to say I’m drunk, sir?”

“In one gross, but expressive, word, drunk.”

The painter grotesquely flung himself back in his chair as though he
had been struck a blow, and Haddo looked steadily at Clayson.

“How often have I explained to you, O Clayson, that your deplorable
lack of education precludes you from the brilliancy to which you
aspire?”

For an instant Oliver Haddo resumed his effective pose; and Susie,
smiling, looked at him. He was a man of great size, two or three inches
more than six feet high; but the most noticeable thing about him was a
vast obesity. His paunch was of imposing dimensions. His face was large
and fleshy. He had thrown himself into the arrogant attitude of
Velasquez’s portrait of Del Borro in the Museum of Berlin; and his
countenance bore of set purpose the same contemptuous smile. He
advanced and shook hands with Dr Porhoët.

“Hail, brother wizard! I greet in you, if not a master, at least a
student not unworthy my esteem.”

Susie was convulsed with laughter at his pompousness, and he turned to
her with the utmost gravity.

“Madam, your laughter is more soft in mine ears than the singing of
Bulbul in a Persian garden.”

Dr Porhoët interposed with introductions. The magician bowed solemnly
as he was in turn made known to Susie Boyd, and Margaret, and Arthur
Burdon. He held out his hand to the grim Irish painter.

“Well, my O’Brien, have you been mixing as usual the waters of
bitterness with the thin claret of Bordeaux?”

“Why don’t you sit down and eat your dinner?” returned the other,
gruffly.

“Ah, my dear fellow, I wish I could drive the fact into this head of
yours that rudeness is not synonymous with wit. I shall not have lived
in vain if I teach you in time to realize that the rapier of irony is
more effective an instrument than the bludgeon of insolence.”

O’Brien reddened with anger, but could not at once find a retort, and
Haddo passed on to that faded, harmless youth who sat next to Margaret.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is this the Jagson whose name in its inanity
is so appropriate to the bearer? I am eager to know if you still devote
upon the ungrateful arts talents which were more profitably employed
upon haberdashery.”

The unlucky creature, thus brutally attacked, blushed feebly without
answering, and Haddo went on to the Frenchman, Meyer as more worthy of
his mocking.

“I’m afraid my entrance interrupted you in a discourse. Was it the
celebrated harangue on the greatness of Michelangelo, or was it the
searching analysis of the art of Wagner?”

“We were just going,” said Meyer, getting up with a frown.

“I am desolated to lose the pearls of wisdom that habitually fall from
your cultivated lips,” returned Haddo, as he politely withdrew Madame
Meyer’s chair.

He sat down with a smile.

“I saw the place was crowded, and with Napoleonic instinct decided that
I could only make room by insulting somebody. It is cause for
congratulation that my gibes, which Raggles, a foolish youth, mistakes
for wit, have caused the disappearance of a person who lives in open
sin; thereby vacating two seats, and allowing me to eat a humble meal
with ample room for my elbows.”

Marie brought him the bill of fare, and he looked at it gravely.

“I will have a vanilla ice, O well-beloved, and a wing of a tender
chicken, a fried sole, and some excellent pea-soup.”

“_Bien, un potage, une sole,_ one chicken, and an ice.”

“But why should you serve them in that order rather than in the order I
gave you?”

Marie and the two Frenchwomen who were still in the room broke into
exclamations at this extravagance, but Oliver Haddo waved his fat hand.

“I shall start with the ice, O Marie, to cool the passion with which
your eyes inflame me, and then without hesitation I will devour the
wing of a chicken in order to sustain myself against your smile. I
shall then proceed to a fresh sole, and with the pea-soup I will finish
a not unsustaining meal.”

Having succeeded in capturing the attention of everyone in the room,
Oliver Haddo proceeded to eat these dishes in the order he had named.
Margaret and Burdon watched him with scornful eyes, but Susie, who was
not revolted by the vanity which sought to attract notice, looked at
him curiously. He was clearly not old, though his corpulence added to
his apparent age. His features were good, his ears small, and his nose
delicately shaped. He had big teeth, but they were white and even. His
mouth was large, with heavy moist lips. He had the neck of a bullock.
His dark, curling hair had retreated from the forehead and temples in
such a way as to give his clean-shaven face a disconcerting nudity. The
baldness of his crown was vaguely like a tonsure. He had the look of a
very wicked, sensual priest. Margaret, stealing a glance at him as he
ate, on a sudden violently shuddered; he affected her with an
uncontrollable dislike. He lifted his eyes slowly, and she looked away,
blushing as though she had been taken in some indiscretion. These eyes
were the most curious thing about him. They were not large, but an
exceedingly pale blue, and they looked at you in a way that was
singularly embarrassing. At first Susie could not discover in what
precisely their peculiarity lay, but in a moment she found out: the
eyes of most persons converge when they look at you, but Oliver
Haddo’s, naturally or by a habit he had acquired for effect, remained
parallel. It gave the impression that he looked straight through you
and saw the wall beyond. It was uncanny. But another strange thing
about him was the impossibility of telling whether he was serious.
There was a mockery in that queer glance, a sardonic smile upon the
mouth, which made you hesitate how to take his outrageous utterances.
It was irritating to be uncertain whether, while you were laughing at
him, he was not really enjoying an elaborate joke at your expense.

His presence cast an unusual chill upon the party. The French members
got up and left. Warren reeled out with O’Brien, whose uncouth sarcasms
were no match for Haddo’s bitter gibes. Raggles put on his coat with
the scarlet lining and went out with the tall Jagson, who smarted still
under Haddo’s insolence. The American sculptor paid his bill silently.
When he was at the door, Haddo stopped him.

“You have modelled lions at the Jardin des Plantes, my dear Clayson.
Have you ever hunted them on their native plains?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Clayson did not know why Haddo asked the question, but he bristled with
incipient wrath.

“Then you have not seen the jackal, gnawing at a dead antelope, scamper
away in terror when the King of Beasts stalked down to make his meal.”

Clayson slammed the door behind him. Haddo was left with Margaret, and
Arthur Burdon, Dr Porhoët, and Susie. He smiled quietly.

“By the way, are _you_ a lion-hunter?” asked Susie flippantly.

He turned on her his straight uncanny glance.

“I have no equal with big game. I have shot more lions than any man
alive. I think Jules Gérard, whom the French of the nineteenth century
called _Le Tueur de Lions_, may have been fit to compare with me, but I
can call to mind no other.”

This statement, made with the greatest calm, caused a moment of
silence. Margaret stared at him with amazement.

“You suffer from no false modesty,” said Arthur Burdon.

“False modesty is a sign of ill-breeding, from which my birth amply
protects me.”

Dr Porhoët looked up with a smile of irony.

“I wish Mr Haddo would take this opportunity to disclose to us the
mystery of his birth and family. I have a suspicion that, like the
immortal Cagliostro, he was born of unknown but noble parents, and
educated secretly in Eastern palaces.”

“In my origin I am more to be compared with Denis Zachaire or with
Raymond Lully. My ancestor, George Haddo, came to Scotland in the suite
of Anne of Denmark, and when James I, her consort, ascended the English
throne, he was granted the estates in Staffordshire which I still
possess. My family has formed alliances with the most noble blood of
England, and the Merestons, the Parnabys, the Hollingtons, have been
proud to give their daughters to my house.”

“Those are facts which can be verified in works of reference,” said
Arthur dryly.

“They can,” said Oliver.

“And the Eastern palaces in which your youth was spent, and the black
slaves who waited on you, and the bearded sheikhs who imparted to you
secret knowledge?” cried Dr Porhoët.

“I was educated at Eton, and I left Oxford in 1896.”

“Would you mind telling me at what college you were?” said Arthur.

“I was at the House.”

“Then you must have been there with Frank Hurrell.”

“Now assistant physician at St Luke’s Hospital. He was one of my most
intimate friends.”

“I’ll write and ask him about you.”

“I’m dying to know what you did with all the lions you slaughtered,”
said Susie Boyd.

The man’s effrontery did not exasperate her as it obviously exasperated
Margaret and Arthur. He amused her, and she was anxious to make him
talk.

“They decorate the floors of Skene, which is the name of my place in
Staffordshire.” He paused for a moment to light a cigar. “I am the only
man alive who has killed three lions with three successive shots.”

“I should have thought you could have demolished them by the effects of
your oratory,” said Arthur.

Oliver leaned back and placed his two large hands on the table.

“Burkhardt, a German with whom I was shooting, was down with fever and
could not stir from his bed. I was awakened one night by the uneasiness
of my oxen, and I heard the roaring of lions close at hand. I took my
carbine and came out of my tent. There was only the meagre light of the
moon. I walked alone, for I knew natives could be of no use to me.
Presently I came upon the carcass of an antelope, half-consumed, and I
made up my mind to wait for the return of the lions. I hid myself among
the boulders twenty paces from the prey. All about me was the immensity
of Africa and the silence. I waited, motionless, hour after hour, till
the dawn was nearly at hand. At last three lions appeared over a rock.
I had noticed, the day before, spoor of a lion and two females.”

“May I ask how you could distinguish the sex?” asked Arthur,
incredulously.

“The prints of a lion’s fore feet are disproportionately larger than
those of the hind feet. The fore feet and hind feet of the lioness are
nearly the same size.”

“Pray go on,” said Susie.

“They came into full view, and in the dim light, as they stood chest
on, they appeared as huge as the strange beasts of the Arabian tales. I
aimed at the lioness which stood nearest to me and fired. Without a
sound, like a bullock felled at one blow, she dropped. The lion gave
vent to a sonorous roar. Hastily I slipped another cartridge in my
rifle. Then I became conscious that he had seen me. He lowered his
head, and his crest was erect. His lifted tail was twitching, his lips
were drawn back from the red gums, and I saw his great white fangs.
Living fire flashed from his eyes, and he growled incessantly. Then he
advanced a few steps, his head held low; and his eyes were fixed on
mine with a look of rage. Suddenly he jerked up his tail, and when a
lion does this he charges. I got a quick sight on his chest and fired.
He reared up on his hind legs, roaring loudly and clawing at the air,
and fell back dead. One lioness remained, and through the smoke I saw
her spring to her feet and rush towards me. Escape was impossible, for
behind me were high boulders that I could not climb. She came on with
hoarse, coughing grunts, and with desperate courage I fired my
remaining barrel. I missed her clean. I took one step backwards in the
hope of getting a cartridge into my rifle, and fell, scarcely two
lengths in front of the furious beast. She missed me. I owed my safety
to that fall. And then suddenly I found that she had collapsed. I had
hit her after all. My bullet went clean through her heart, but the
spring had carried her forwards. When I scrambled to my feet I found
that she was dying. I walked back to my camp and ate a capital
breakfast.”

Oliver Haddo’s story was received with astonished silence. No one could
assert that it was untrue, but he told it with a grandiloquence that
carried no conviction. Arthur would have wagered a considerable sum
that there was no word of truth in it. He had never met a person of
this kind before, and could not understand what pleasure there might be
in the elaborate invention of improbable adventures.

“You are evidently very brave,” he said.

“To follow a wounded lion into thick cover is probably the most
dangerous proceeding in the world,” said Haddo calmly. “It calls for
the utmost coolness and for iron nerve.”

The answer had an odd effect on Arthur. He gave Haddo a rapid glance,
and was seized suddenly with uncontrollable laughter. He leaned back in
his chair and roared. His hilarity affected the others, and they broke
into peal upon peal of laughter. Oliver watched them gravely. He seemed
neither disconcerted nor surprised. When Arthur recovered himself, he
found Haddo’s singular eyes fixed on him.

“Your laughter reminds me of the crackling of thorns under a pot,” he
said.

Haddo looked round at the others. Though his gaze preserved its fixity,
his lips broke into a queer, sardonic smile.

“It must be plain even to the feeblest intelligence that a man can only
command the elementary spirits if he is without fear. A capricious mind
can never rule the sylphs, nor a fickle disposition the undines.”

Arthur stared at him with amazement. He did not know what on earth the
man was talking about. Haddo paid no heed.

“But if the adept is active, pliant, and strong, the whole world will
be at his command. He will pass through the storm and no rain shall
fall upon his head. The wind will not displace a single fold of his
garment. He will go through fire and not be burned.”

Dr Porhoët ventured upon an explanation of these cryptic utterances.

“These ladies are unacquainted with the mysterious beings of whom you
speak, _cher ami_. They should know that during the Middle Ages
imagination peopled the four elements with intelligences, normally
unseen, some of which were friendly to man and others hostile. They
were thought to be powerful and conscious of their power, though at the
same time they were profoundly aware that they possessed no soul. Their
life depended upon the continuance of some natural object, and hence
for them there could be no immortality. They must return eventually to
the abyss of unending night, and the darkness of death afflicted them
always. But it was thought that in the same manner as man by his union
with God had won a spark of divinity, so might the sylphs, gnomes,
undines, and salamanders by an alliance with man partake of his
immortality. And many of their women, whose beauty was more than human,
gained a human soul by loving one of the race of men. But the reverse
occurred also, and often a love-sick youth lost his immortality because
he left the haunts of his kind to dwell with the fair, soulless
denizens of the running streams or of the forest airs.”

“I didn’t know that you spoke figuratively,” said Arthur to Oliver
Haddo.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

“What else is the world than a figure? Life itself is but a symbol. You
must be a wise man if you can tell us what is reality.”

“When you begin to talk of magic and mysticism I confess that I am out
of my depth.”

“Yet magic is no more than the art of employing consciously invisible
means to produce visible effects. Will, love, and imagination are magic
powers that everyone possesses; and whoever knows how to develop them
to their fullest extent is a magician. Magic has but one dogma, namely,
that the seen is the measure of the unseen.”

“Will you tell us what the powers are that the adept possesses?”

“They are enumerated in a Hebrew manuscript of the sixteenth century,
which is in my possession. The privileges of him who holds in his right
hand the Keys of Solomon and in his left the Branch of the Blossoming
Almond are twenty-one. He beholds God face to face without dying, and
converses intimately with the Seven Genii who command the celestial
army. He is superior to every affliction and to every fear. He reigns
with all heaven and is served by all hell. He holds the secret of the
resurrection of the dead, and the key of immortality.”

“If you possess even these you have evidently the most varied
attainments,” said Arthur ironically.

“Everyone can make game of the unknown,” retorted Haddo, with a shrug
of his massive shoulders.

Arthur did not answer. He looked at Haddo curiously. He asked himself
whether he believed seriously these preposterous things, or whether he
was amusing himself in an elephantine way at their expense. His mariner
was earnest, but there was an odd expression about the mouth, a hard
twinkle of the eyes, which seemed to belie it. Susie was vastly
entertained. It diverted her enormously to hear occult matters
discussed with apparent gravity in this prosaic tavern. Dr Porhoët
broke the silence.

“Arago, after whom has been named a neighbouring boulevard, declared
that doubt was a proof of modesty, which has rarely interfered with the
progress of science. But one cannot say the same of incredulity, and he
that uses the word impossible outside of pure mathematics is lacking in
prudence. It should be remembered that Lactantius proclaimed belief in
the existence of antipodes inane, and Saint Augustine of Hippo added
that in any case there could be no question of inhabited lands.”

“That sounds as if you were not quite sceptical, dear doctor,” said
Miss Boyd.

“In my youth I believed nothing, for science had taught me to distrust
even the evidence of my five senses,” he replied, with a shrug of the
shoulders. “But I have seen many things in the East which are
inexplicable by the known processes of science. Mr Haddo has given you
one definition of magic, and I will give you another. It may be
described merely as the intelligent utilization of forces which are
unknown, contemned, or misunderstood of the vulgar. The young man who
settles in the East sneers at the ideas of magic which surround him,
but I know not what there is in the atmosphere that saps his unbelief.
When he has sojourned for some years among Orientals, he comes
insensibly to share the opinion of many sensible men that perhaps there
is something in it after all.”

Arthur Burdon made a gesture of impatience.

“I cannot imagine that, however much I lived in Eastern countries, I
could believe anything that had the whole weight of science against it.
If there were a word of truth in anything Haddo says, we should be
unable to form any reasonable theory of the universe.”

“For a scientific man you argue with singular fatuity,” said Haddo
icily, and his manner had an offensiveness which was intensely
irritating. “You should be aware that science, dealing only with the
general, leaves out of consideration the individual cases that
contradict the enormous majority. Occasionally the heart is on the
right side of the body, but you would not on that account ever put your
stethoscope in any other than the usual spot. It is possible that under
certain conditions the law of gravity does not apply, yet you will
conduct your life under the conviction that it does so invariably. Now,
there are some of us who choose to deal only with these exceptions to
the common run. The dull man who plays at Monte Carlo puts his money on
the colours, and generally black or red turns up; but now and then zero
appears, and he loses. But we, who have backed zero all the time, win
many times our stake. Here and there you will find men whose
imagination raises them above the humdrum of mankind. They are willing
to lose their all if only they have chance of a great prize. Is it
nothing not only to know the future, as did the prophets of old, but by
making it to force the very gates of the unknown?”

Suddenly the bantering gravity with which he spoke fell away from him.
A singular light came into his eyes, and his voice was hoarse. Now at
last they saw that he was serious.

“What should you know of that lust for great secrets which consumes me
to the bottom of my soul!”

“Anyhow, I’m perfectly delighted to meet a magician,” cried Susie
gaily.

“Ah, call me not that,” he said, with a flourish of his fat hands,
regaining immediately his portentous flippancy. “I would be known
rather as the Brother of the Shadow.”

“I should have thought you could be only a very distant relation of
anything so unsubstantial,” said Arthur, with a laugh.

Oliver’s face turned red with furious anger. His strange blue eyes grew
cold with hatred, and he thrust out his scarlet lips till he had the
ruthless expression of a Nero. The gibe at his obesity had caught him
on the raw. Susie feared that he would make so insulting a reply that a
quarrel must ensure.

“Well, really, if we want to go to the fair we must start,” she said
quickly. “And Marie is dying to be rid of us.”

They got up, and clattered down the stairs into the street.




Chapter IV


They came down to the busy, narrow street which led into the Boulevard
du Montparnasse. Electric trams passed through it with harsh ringing of
bells, and people surged along the pavements.

The fair to which they were going was held at the Lion de Belfort, not
more than a mile away, and Arthur hailed a cab. Susie told the driver
where they wanted to be set down. She noticed that Haddo, who was
waiting for them to start, put his hand on the horse’s neck. On a
sudden, for no apparent reason, it began to tremble. The trembling
passed through the body and down its limbs till it shook from head to
foot as though it had the staggers. The coachman jumped off his box and
held the wretched creature’s head. Margaret and Susie got out. It was a
horribly painful sight. The horse seemed not to suffer from actual
pain, but from an extraordinary fear. Though she knew not why, an idea
came to Susie.

“Take your hand away, Mr Haddo,” she said sharply.

He smiled, and did as she bade him. At the same moment the trembling
began to decrease, and in a moment the poor old cab-horse was in its
usual state. It seemed a little frightened still, but otherwise
recovered.

“I wonder what the deuce was the matter with it,” said Arthur.

Oliver Haddo looked at him with the blue eyes that seemed to see right
through people, and then, lifting his hat, walked away. Susie turned
suddenly to Dr Porhoët.

“Do you think he could have made the horse do that? It came immediately
he put his hand on its neck, and it stopped as soon as he took it
away.”

“Nonsense!” said Arthur.

“It occurred to me that he was playing some trick,” said Dr Porhoët
gravely. “An odd thing happened once when he came to see me. I have two
Persian cats, which are the most properly conducted of all their tribe.
They spend their days in front of my fire, meditating on the problems
of metaphysics. But as soon as he came in they started up, and their
fur stood right on end. Then they began to run madly round and round
the room, as though the victims of uncontrollable terror. I opened the
door, and they bolted out. I have never been able to understand exactly
what took place.”

Margaret shuddered.

“I’ve never met a man who filled me with such loathing,” she said. “I
don’t know what there is about him that frightens me. Even now I feel
his eyes fixed strangely upon me. I hope I shall never see him again.”

Arthur gave a little laugh and pressed her hand. She would not let his
go, and he felt that she was trembling. Personally, he had no doubt
about the matter. He would have no trifling with credibility. Either
Haddo believed things that none but a lunatic could, or else he was a
charlatan who sought to attract attention by his extravagances. In any
case he was contemptible. It was certain, at all events, that neither
he nor anyone else could work miracles.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Arthur. “If he really knows Frank
Hurrell I’ll find out all about him. I’ll drop a note to Hurrell
tonight and ask him to tell me anything he can.”

“I wish you would,” answered Susie, “because he interests me
enormously. There’s no place like Paris for meeting queer folk. Sooner
or later you run across persons who believe in everything. There’s no
form of religion, there’s no eccentricity or enormity, that hasn’t its
votaries. Just think what a privilege it is to come upon a man in the
twentieth century who honestly believes in the occult.”

“Since I have been occupied with these matters, I have come across
strange people,” said Dr Porhoët quietly, “but I agree with Miss Boyd
that Oliver Haddo is the most extraordinary. For one thing, it is
impossible to know how much he really believes what he says. Is he an
impostor or a madman? Does he deceive himself, or is he laughing up his
sleeve at the folly of those who take him seriously? I cannot tell. All
I know is that he has travelled widely and is acquainted with many
tongues. He has a minute knowledge of alchemical literature, and there
is no book I have heard of, dealing with the black arts, which he does
not seem to know.” Dr Porhoët shook his head slowly. “I should not care
to dogmatize about this man. I know I shall outrage the feelings of my
friend Arthur, but I am bound to confess it would not surprise me to
learn that he possessed powers by which he was able to do things
seemingly miraculous.”

Arthur was prevented from answering by their arrival at the Lion de
Belfort.

The fair was in full swing. The noise was deafening. Steam bands
thundered out the popular tunes of the moment, and to their din
merry-go-rounds were turning. At the door of booths men vociferously
importuned the passers-by to enter. From the shooting saloons came a
continual spatter of toy rifles. Linking up these sounds, were the
voices of the serried crowd that surged along the central avenue, and
the shuffle of their myriad feet. The night was lurid with acetylene
torches, which flamed with a dull unceasing roar. It was a curious
sight, half gay, half sordid. The throng seemed bent with a kind of
savagery upon amusement, as though, resentful of the weary round of
daily labour, it sought by a desperate effort to be merry.

The English party with Dr Porhoët, mildly ironic, had scarcely entered
before they were joined by Oliver Haddo. He was indifferent to the
plain fact that they did not want his company. He attracted attention,
for his appearance and his manner were remarkable, and Susie noticed
that he was pleased to see people point him out to one another. He wore
a Spanish cloak, the _capa_, and he flung the red and green velvet of
its lining gaudily over his shoulder. He had a large soft hat. His
height was great, though less noticeable on account of his obesity, and
he towered over the puny multitude.

They looked idly at the various shows, resisting the melodramas, the
circuses, the exhibitions of eccentricity, which loudly clamoured for
their custom. Presently they came to a man who was cutting silhouettes
in black paper, and Haddo insisted on posing for him. A little crowd
collected and did not spare their jokes at his singular appearance. He
threw himself into his favourite attitude of proud command. Margaret
wished to take the opportunity of leaving him, but Miss Boyd insisted
on staying.

“He’s the most ridiculous creature I’ve ever seen in my life,” she
whispered. “I wouldn’t let him out of my sight for worlds.”

When the silhouette was done, he presented it with a low bow to
Margaret.

“I implore your acceptance of the only portrait now in existence of
Oliver Haddo,” he said.

“Thank you,” she answered frigidly.

She was unwilling to take it, but had not the presence of mind to put
him off by a jest, and would not be frankly rude. As though certain she
set much store on it, he placed it carefully in an envelope. They
walked on and suddenly came to a canvas booth on which was an Eastern
name. Roughly painted on sail-cloth was a picture of an Arab charming
snakes, and above were certain words in Arabic. At the entrance, a
native sat cross-legged, listlessly beating a drum. When he saw them
stop, he addressed them in bad French.

“Does not this remind you of the turbid Nile, Dr Porhoët?” said Haddo.
“Let us go in and see what the fellow has to show.”

Dr Porhoët stepped forward and addressed the charmer, who brightened on
hearing the language of his own country.

“He is an Egyptian from Assiut,” said the doctor.

“I will buy tickets for you all,” said Haddo.

He held up the flap that gave access to the booth, and Susie went in.
Margaret and Arthur Burdon, somewhat against their will, were obliged
to follow. The native closed the opening behind them. They found
themselves in a dirty little tent, ill-lit by two smoking lamps; a
dozen stools were placed in a circle on the bare ground. In one corner
sat a fellah woman, motionless, in ample robes of dingy black. Her face
was hidden by a long veil, which was held in place by a queer ornament
of brass in the middle of the forehead, between the eyes. These alone
were visible, large and sombre, and the lashes were darkened with kohl:
her fingers were brightly stained with henna. She moved slightly as the
visitors entered, and the man gave her his drum. She began to rub it
with her hands, curiously, and made a droning sound, which was odd and
mysterious. There was a peculiar odour in the place, so that Dr Porhoët
was for a moment transported to the evil-smelling streets of Cairo. It
was an acrid mixture of incense, of attar of roses, with every
imaginable putrescence. It choked the two women, and Susie asked for a
cigarette. The native grinned when he heard the English tongue. He
showed a row of sparkling and beautiful teeth.

“My name Mohammed,” he said. “Me show serpents to Sirdar Lord
Kitchener. Wait and see. Serpents very poisonous.”

He was dressed in a long blue gabardine, more suited to the sunny banks
of the Nile than to a fair in Paris, and its colour could hardly be
seen for dirt. On his head was the national tarboosh.

A rug lay at one side of the tent, and from under it he took a goatskin
sack. He placed it on the ground in the middle of the circle formed by
the seats and crouched down on his haunches. Margaret shuddered, for
the uneven surface of the sack moved strangely. He opened the mouth of
it. The woman in the corner listlessly droned away on the drum, and
occasionally uttered a barbaric cry. With a leer and a flash of his
bright teeth, the Arab thrust his hand into the sack and rummaged as a
man would rummage in a sack of corn. He drew out a long, writhing
snake. He placed it on the ground and for a moment waited, then he
passed his hand over it: it became immediately as rigid as a bar of
iron. Except that the eyes, the cruel eyes, were open still, there
might have been no life in it.

“Look,” said Haddo. “That is the miracle which Moses did before
Pharaoh.”

Then the Arab took a reed instrument, not unlike the pipe which Pan in
the hills of Greece played to the dryads, and he piped a weird,
monotonous tune. The stiffness broke away from the snake suddenly, and
it lifted its head and raised its long body till it stood almost on the
tip of its tail, and it swayed slowly to and fro.

Oliver Haddo seemed extraordinarily fascinated. He leaned forward with
eager face, and his unnatural eyes were fixed on the charmer with an
indescribable expression. Margaret drew back in terror.

“You need not be frightened,” said Arthur. “These people only work with
animals whose fangs have been extracted.”

Oliver Haddo looked at him before answering. He seemed to consider each
time what sort of man this was to whom he spoke.

“A man is only a snake-charmer because, without recourse to medicine,
he is proof against the fangs of the most venomous serpents.”

“Do you think so?” said Arthur.

“I saw the most noted charmer of Madras die two hours after he had been
bitten by a cobra,” said Haddo. I had heard many tales of his prowess,
and one evening asked a friend to take me to him. He was out when we
arrived, but we waited, and presently, accompanied by some friends, he
came. We told him what we wanted. He had been at a marriage-feast and
was drunk. But he sent for his snakes, and forthwith showed us marvels
which this man has never heard of. At last he took a great cobra from
his sack and began to handle it. Suddenly it darted at his chin and bit
him. It made two marks like pin-points. The juggler started back.

“‘I am a dead man,’” he said.

“Those about him would have killed the cobra, but he prevented them.

“‘Let the creature live,’ he said. ‘It may be of service to others of
my trade. To me it can be of no other use. Nothing can save me.’

“His friends and the jugglers, his fellows, gathered round him and
placed him in a chair. In two hours he was dead. In his drunkenness he
had forgotten a portion of the spell which protected him, and so he
died.”

“You have a marvellous collection of tall stories,” said Arthur. “I’m
afraid I should want better proof that these particular snakes are
poisonous.”

Oliver turned to the charmer and spoke to him in Arabic. Then he
answered Arthur.

“The man has a horned viper, _cerastes_ is the name under which you
gentlemen of science know it, and it is the most deadly of all Egyptian
snakes. It is commonly known as Cleopatra’s Asp, for that is the
serpent which was brought in a basket of figs to the paramour of Caesar
in order that she might not endure the triumph of Augustus.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Susie.

He smiled but did not answer. He stepped forward to the centre of the
tent and fell on his knees. He uttered Arabic words, which Dr. Porhoët
translated to the others.

“O viper, I adjure you, by the great God who is all-powerful, to come
forth. You are but a snake, and God is greater than all snakes. Obey my
call and come.”

A tremor went through the goatskin bag, and in a moment a head was
protruded. A lithe body wriggled out. It was a snake of light grey
colour, and over each eye was a horn. It lay slightly curled.

“Do you recognize it?” said Oliver in a low voice to the doctor.

“I do.”

The charmer sat motionless, and the woman in the dim background ceased
her weird rubbing of the drum. Haddo seized the snake and opened its
mouth. Immediately it fastened on his hand, and the reptile teeth went
deep into his flesh. Arthur watched him for signs of pain, but he did
not wince. The writhing snake dangled from his hand. He repeated a
sentence in Arabic, and, with the peculiar suddenness of a drop of
water falling from a roof, the snake fell to the ground. The blood
flowed freely. Haddo spat upon the bleeding place three times,
muttering words they could not hear, and three times he rubbed the
wound with his fingers. The bleeding stopped. He stretched out his hand
for Arthur to look at.

“That surely is what a surgeon would call healing by first intention,”
he said.

Burdon was astonished, but he was irritated, too, and would not allow
that there was anything strange in the cessation of the flowing blood.

“You haven’t yet shown that the snake was poisonous.”

“I have not finished yet,” smiled Haddo.

He spoke again to the Egyptian, who gave an order to his wife. Without
a word she rose to her feet and from a box took a white rabbit. She
lifted it up by the ears, and it struggled with its four quaint legs.
Haddo put it in front of the horned viper. Before anyone could have
moved, the snake darted forward, and like a flash of lightning struck
the rabbit. The wretched little beast gave a slight scream, a shudder
went through it, and it fell dead.

Margaret sprang up with a cry.

“Oh, how cruel! How hatefully cruel!”

“Are you convinced now?” asked Haddo coolly.

The two women hurried to the doorway. They were frightened and
disgusted. Oliver Haddo was left alone with the snake-charmer.




Chapter V


Dr Porhoët had asked Arthur to bring Margaret and Miss Boyd to see him
on Sunday at his apartment in the Île Saint Louis; and the lovers
arranged to spend an hour on their way at the Louvre. Susie, invited to
accompany them, preferred independence and her own reflections.

To avoid the crowd which throngs the picture galleries on holidays,
they went to that part of the museum where ancient sculpture is kept.
It was comparatively empty, and the long halls had the singular
restfulness of places where works of art are gathered together.
Margaret was filled with a genuine emotion; and though she could not
analyse it, as Susie, who loved to dissect her state of mind, would
have done, it strangely exhilarated her. Her heart was uplifted from
the sordidness of earth, and she had a sensation of freedom which was
as delightful as it was indescribable. Arthur had never troubled
himself with art till Margaret’s enthusiasm taught him that there was a
side of life he did not realize. Though beauty meant little to his
practical nature, he sought, in his great love for Margaret, to
appreciate the works which excited her to such charming ecstasy. He
walked by her side with docility and listened, not without deference,
to her outbursts. He admired the correctness of Greek anatomy, and
there was one statue of an athlete which attracted his prolonged
attention, because the muscles were indicated with the precision of a
plate in a surgical textbook. When Margaret talked of the Greeks’
divine repose and of their blitheness, he thought it very clever
because she said it; but in a man it would have aroused his impatience.

Yet there was one piece, the charming statue known as _La Diane de
Gabies_, which moved him differently, and to this presently he insisted
on going. With a laugh Margaret remonstrated, but secretly she was not
displeased. She was aware that his passion for this figure was due, not
to its intrinsic beauty, but to a likeness he had discovered in it to
herself.

It stood in that fair wide gallery where is the mocking faun, with his
inhuman savour of fellowship with the earth which is divine, and the
sightless Homer. The goddess had not the arrogance of the huntress who
loved Endymion, nor the majesty of the cold mistress of the skies. She
was in the likeness of a young girl, and with collected gesture
fastened her cloak. There was nothing divine in her save a sweet
strange spirit of virginity. A lover in ancient Greece, who offered
sacrifice before this fair image, might forget easily that it was a
goddess to whom he knelt, and see only an earthly maid fresh with youth
and chastity and loveliness. In Arthur’s eyes Margaret had all the
exquisite grace of the statue, and the same unconscious composure; and
in her also breathed the spring odours of ineffable purity. Her
features were chiselled with the clear and divine perfection of this
Greek girl’s; her ears were as delicate and as finely wrought. The
colour of her skin was so tender that it reminded you vaguely of all
beautiful soft things, the radiance of sunset and the darkness of the
night, the heart of roses and the depth of running water. The goddess’s
hand was raised to her right shoulder, and Margaret’s hand was as
small, as dainty, and as white.

“Don’t be so foolish,” said she, as Arthur looked silently at the
statue.

He turned his eyes slowly, and they rested upon her. She saw that they
were veiled with tears.

“What on earth’s the matter?”

“I wish you weren’t so beautiful,” he answered, awkwardly, as though he
could scarcely bring himself to say such foolish things. “I’m so afraid
that something will happen to prevent us from being happy. It seems too
much to expect that I should enjoy such extraordinarily good luck.”

She had the imagination to see that it meant much for the practical man
so to express himself. Love of her drew him out of his character, and,
though he could not resist, he resented the effect it had on him. She
found nothing to reply, but she took his hand.

“Everything has gone pretty well with me so far,” he said, speaking
almost to himself. “Whenever I’ve really wanted anything, I’ve managed
to get it. I don’t see why things should go against me now.”

He was trying to reassure himself against an instinctive suspicion of
the malice of circumstances. But he shook himself and straightened his
back.

“It’s stupid to be so morbid as that,” he muttered.

Margaret laughed. They walked out of the gallery and turned to the
quay. By crossing the bridge and following the river, they must come
eventually to Dr. Porhoët’s house.

Meanwhile Susie wandered down the Boulevard Saint Michel, alert with
the Sunday crowd, to that part of Paris which was dearest to her heart.
L’Île Saint Louis to her mind offered a synthesis of the French spirit,
and it pleased her far more than the garish boulevards in which the
English as a rule seek for the country’s fascination. Its position on
an island in the Seine gave it a compact charm. The narrow streets,
with their array of dainty comestibles, had the look of streets in a
provincial town. They had a quaintness which appealed to the fancy, and
they were very restful. The names of the streets recalled the monarchy
that passed away in bloodshed, and in _poudre de riz_. The very plane
trees had a greater sobriety than elsewhere, as though conscious they
stood in a Paris where progress was not. In front was the turbid Seine,
and below, the twin towers of Notre Dame. Susie could have kissed the
hard paving stones of the quay. Her good-natured, plain face lit up as
she realized the delight of the scene upon which her eyes rested; and
it was with a little pang, her mind aglow with characters and events
from history and from fiction, that she turned away to enter Dr
Porhoët’s house.

She was pleased that the approach did not clash with her fantasies. She
mounted a broad staircase, dark but roomy, and, at the command of the
_concierge_, rang a tinkling bell at one of the doorways that faced
her. Dr Porhoët opened in person.

“Arthur and Mademoiselle are already here,” he said, as he led her in.

They went through a prim French dining-room, with much woodwork and
heavy scarlet hangings, to the library. This was a large room, but the
bookcases that lined the walls, and a large writing-table heaped up
with books, much diminished its size. There were books everywhere. They
were stacked on the floor and piled on every chair. There was hardly
space to move. Susie gave a cry of delight.

“Now you mustn’t talk to me. I want to look at all your books.”

“You could not please me more,” said Dr Porhoët, “but I am afraid they
will disappoint you. They are of many sorts, but I fear there are few
that will interest an English young lady.”

He looked about his writing-table till he found a packet of cigarettes.
He gravely offered one to each of his guests. Susie was enchanted with
the strange musty smell of the old books, and she took a first glance
at them in general. For the most part they were in paper bindings, some
of them neat enough, but more with broken backs and dingy edges; they
were set along the shelves in serried rows, untidily, without method or
plan. There were many older ones also in bindings of calf and pigskin,
treasure from half the bookshops in Europe; and there were huge folios
like Prussian grenadiers; and tiny Elzevirs, which had been read by
patrician ladies in Venice. Just as Arthur was a different man in the
operating theatre, Dr Porhoët was changed among his books. Though he
preserved the amiable serenity which made him always so attractive, he
had there a diverting brusqueness of demeanour which contrasted
quaintly with his usual calm.

“I was telling these young people, when you came in, of an ancient
Korân which I was given in Alexandria by a learned man whom I operated
upon for cataract.” He showed her a beautifully-written Arabic work,
with wonderful capitals and headlines in gold. “You know that it is
almost impossible for an infidel to acquire the holy book, and this is
a particularly rare copy, for it was written by Kaït Bey, the greatest
of the Mameluke Sultans.”

He handled the delicate pages as a lover of flowers would handle
rose-leaves.

“And have you much literature on the occult sciences?” asked Susie.

Dr Porhoët smiled.

“I venture to think that no private library contains so complete a
collection, but I dare not show it to you in the presence of our friend
Arthur. He is too polite to accuse me of foolishness, but his sarcastic
smile would betray him.”

Susie went to the shelves to which he vaguely waved, and looked with a
peculiar excitement at the mysterious array. She ran her eyes along the
names. It seemed to her that she was entering upon an unknown region of
romance. She felt like an adventurous princess who rode on her palfrey
into a forest of great bare trees and mystic silences, where wan,
unearthly shapes pressed upon her way.

“I thought once of writing a life of that fantastic and grandiloquent
creature, Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Paracelsus Bombast von
Hohenheim,” said Dr Porhoët, “and I have collected many of his books.”

He took down a slim volume in duodecimo, printed in the seventeenth
century, with queer plates, on which were all manner of cabbalistic
signs. The pages had a peculiar, musty odour. They were stained with
iron-mould.

“Here is one of the most interesting works concerning the black art. It
is the _Grimoire of Honorius_, and is the principal text-book of all
those who deal in the darkest ways of the science.”

Then he pointed out the _Hexameron_ of Torquemada and the _Tableau de
l’Inconstance des Démons_, by Delancre; he drew his finger down the
leather back of Delrio’s _Disquisitiones Magicae_ and set upright the
_Pseudomonarchia Daemonorum_ of Wierus; his eyes rested for an instant
on Hauber’s _Acta et Scripta Magica_, and he blew the dust carefully
off the most famous, the most infamous, of them all, Sprenger’s
_Malleus Malefikorum_.

“Here is one of my greatest treasures. It is the _Clavicula Salomonis_;
and I have much reason to believe that it is the identical copy which
belonged to the greatest adventurer of the eighteenth century, Jacques
Casanova. You will see that the owner’s name had been cut out, but
enough remains to indicate the bottom of the letters; and these
correspond exactly with the signature of Casanova which I have found at
the Bibliothéque Nationale. He relates in his memoirs that a copy of
this book was seized among his effects when he was arrested in Venice
for traffic in the black arts; and it was there, on one of my journeys
from Alexandria, that I picked it up.”

He replaced the precious work, and his eye fell on a stout volume bound
in vellum.

“I had almost forgotten the most wonderful, the most mysterious, of all
the books that treat of occult science. You have heard of the Kabbalah,
but I doubt if it is more than a name to you.”

“I know nothing about it at all,” laughed Susie, “except that it’s all
very romantic and extraordinary and ridiculous.”

“This, then, is its history. Moses, who was learned in all the wisdom
of Egypt, was first initiated into the Kabbalah in the land of his
birth; but became most proficient in it during his wanderings in the
wilderness. Here he not only devoted the leisure hours of forty years
to this mysterious science, but received lessons in it from an obliging
angel. By aid of it he was able to solve the difficulties which arose
during his management of the Israelites, notwithstanding the
pilgrimages, wars, and miseries of that most unruly nation. He covertly
laid down the principles of the doctrine in the first four books of the
Pentateuch, but withheld them from Deuteronomy. Moses also initiated
the Seventy Elders into these secrets, and they in turn transmitted
them from hand to hand. Of all who formed the unbroken line of
tradition, David and Solomon were the most deeply learned in the
Kabbalah. No one, however, dared to write it down till Schimeon ben
Jochai, who lived in the time of the destruction of Jerusalem; and
after his death the Rabbi Eleazar, his son, and the Rabbi Abba, his
secretary, collected his manuscripts and from them composed the
celebrated treatise called _Zohar_.”

“And how much do you believe of this marvellous story?” asked Arthur
Burdon.

“Not a word,” answered Dr Porhoët, with a smile. “Criticism has shown
that _Zohar_ is of modern origin. With singular effrontery, it cites an
author who is known to have lived during the eleventh century, mentions
the Crusades, and records events which occurred in the year of Our Lord
1264. It was some time before 1291 that copies of _Zohar_ began to be
circulated by a Spanish Jew named Moses de Leon, who claimed to possess
an autograph manuscript by the reputed author Schimeon ben Jochai. But
when Moses de Leon was gathered to the bosom of his father Abraham, a
wealthy Hebrew, Joseph de Avila, promised the scribe’s widow, who had
been left destitute, that his son should marry her daughter, to whom he
would pay a handsome dowry, if she would give him the original
manuscript from which these copies were made. But the widow (one can
imagine with what gnashing of teeth) was obliged to confess that she
had no such manuscript, for Moses de Leon had composed _Zohar_ out of
his own head, and written it with his own right hand.”

Arthur got up to stretch his legs. He gave a laugh.

“I never know how much you really believe of all these things you tell
us. You speak with such gravity that we are all taken in, and then it
turns out that you’ve been laughing at us.”

“My dear friend, I never know myself how much I believe,” returned Dr
Porhoët.

“I wonder if it is for the same reason that Mr Haddo puzzles us so
much,” said Susie.

“Ah, there you have a case that is really interesting,” replied the
doctor. “I assure you that, though I know him fairly intimately, I have
never been able to make up my mind whether he is an elaborate practical
joker, or whether he is really convinced he has the wonderful powers to
which he lays claim.”

“We certainly saw things last night that were not quite normal,” said
Susie. “Why had that serpent no effect on him though it was able to
kill the rabbit instantaneously? And how are you going to explain the
violent trembling of that horse, Mr. Burdon?”

“I can’t explain it,” answered Arthur, irritably, “but I’m not inclined
to attribute to the supernatural everything that I can’t immediately
understand.”

“I don’t know what there is about him that excites in me a sort of
horror,” said Margaret. “I’ve never taken such a sudden dislike to
anyone.”

She was too reticent to say all she felt, but she had been strangely
affected last night by the recollection of Haddo’s words and of his
acts. She had awakened more than once from a nightmare in which he
assumed fantastic and ghastly shapes. His mocking voice rang in her
ears, and she seemed still to see that vast bulk and the savage,
sensual face. It was like a spirit of evil in her path, and she was
curiously alarmed. Only her reliance on Arthur’s common sense prevented
her from giving way to ridiculous terrors.

“I’ve written to Frank Hurrell and asked him to tell me all he knows
about him,” said Arthur. “I should get an answer very soon.”

“I wish we’d never come across him,” cried Margaret vehemently. “I feel
that he will bring us misfortune.”

“You’re all of you absurdly prejudiced,” answered Susie gaily. “He
interests me enormously, and I mean to ask him to tea at the studio.”

“I’m sure I shall be delighted to come.”

Margaret cried out, for she recognized Oliver Haddo’s deep bantering
tones; and she turned round quickly. They were all so taken aback that
for a moment no one spoke. They were gathered round the window and had
not heard him come in. They wondered guiltily how long he had been
there and how much he had heard.

“How on earth did you get here?” cried Susie lightly, recovering
herself first.

“No well-bred sorcerer is so dead to the finer feelings as to enter a
room by the door,” he answered, with his puzzling smile. “You were
standing round the window, and I thought it would startle you if I
chose that mode of ingress, so I descended with incredible skill down
the chimney.”

“I see a little soot on your left elbow,” returned Susie. “I hope you
weren’t at all burned.”

“Not at all, thanks,” he answered, gravely brushing his coat.

“In whatever way you came, you are very welcome,” said Dr Porhoët,
genially holding out his hand.

But Arthur impatiently turned to his host.

“I wish I knew what made you engage upon these studies,” he said. “I
should have thought your medical profession protected you from any
tenderness towards superstition.”

Dr Porhoët shrugged his shoulders.

“I have always been interested in the oddities of mankind. At one time
I read a good deal of philosophy and a good deal of science, and I
learned in that way that nothing was certain. Some people, by the
pursuit of science, are impressed with the dignity of man, but I was
only made conscious of his insignificance. The greatest questions of
all have been threshed out since he acquired the beginnings of
civilization and he is as far from a solution as ever. Man can know
nothing, for his senses are his only means of knowledge, and they can
give no certainty. There is only one subject upon which the individual
can speak with authority, and that is his own mind, but even here he is
surrounded with darkness. I believe that we shall always be ignorant of
the matters which it most behoves us to know, and therefore I cannot
occupy myself with them. I prefer to set them all aside, and, since
knowledge is unattainable, to occupy myself only with folly.”

“It is a point of view I do not sympathize with,” said Arthur.

“Yet I cannot be sure that it is all folly,” pursued the Frenchman
reflectively. He looked at Arthur with a certain ironic gravity. “Do
you believe that I should lie to you when I promised to speak the
truth?”

“Certainly not.”

“I should like to tell you of an experience that I once had in
Alexandria. So far as I can see, it can be explained by none of the
principles known to science. I ask you only to believe that I am not
consciously deceiving you.”

He spoke with a seriousness which gave authority to his words. It was
plain, even to Arthur, that he narrated the event exactly as it
occurred.

“I had heard frequently of a certain shiekh who was able by means of a
magic mirror to show the inquirer persons who were absent or dead, and
a native friend of mine had often begged me to see him. I had never
thought it worth while, but at last a time came when I was greatly
troubled in my mind. My poor mother was an old woman, a widow, and I
had received no news of her for many weeks. Though I wrote repeatedly,
no answer reached me. I was very anxious and very unhappy. I thought no
harm could come if I sent for the sorcerer, and perhaps after all he
had the power which was attributed to him. My friend, who was
interpreter to the French Consulate, brought him to me one evening. He
was a fine man, tall and stout, of a fair complexion, but with a dark
brown beard. He was shabbily dressed, and, being a descendant of the
Prophet, wore a green turban. In his conversation he was affable and
unaffected. I asked him what persons could see in the magic mirror, and
he said they were a boy not arrived at puberty, a virgin, a black
female slave, and a pregnant woman. In order to make sure that there
was no collusion, I despatched my servant to an intimate friend and
asked him to send me his son. While we waited, I prepared by the
magician’s direction frankincense and coriander-seed, and a
chafing-dish with live charcoal. Meanwhile, he wrote forms of
invocation on six strips of paper. When the boy arrived, the sorcerer
threw incense and one of the paper strips into the chafing-dish, then
took the boy’s right hand and drew a square and certain mystical marks
on the palm. In the centre of the square he poured a little ink. This
formed the magic mirror. He desired the boy to look steadily into it
without raising his head. The fumes of the incense filled the room with
smoke. The sorcerer muttered Arabic words, indistinctly, and this he
continued to do all the time except when he asked the boy a question.

“‘Do you see anything in the ink?’ he said.

“‘No,’ the boy answered.

“But a minute later, he began to tremble and seemed very much
frightened.

“‘I see a man sweeping the ground,’ he said.

“‘When he has done sweeping, tell me,’ said the sheikh.

“‘He has done,’ said the boy.

“The sorcerer turned to me and asked who it was that I wished the boy
should see.

“‘I desire to see the widow Jeanne-Marie Porhoët.’

“The magician put the second and third of the small strips of paper
into the chafing-dish, and fresh frankincense was added. The fumes were
painful to my eyes. The boy began to speak.

“‘I see an old woman lying on a bed. She has a black dress, and on her
head is a little white cap. She has a wrinkled face and her eyes are
closed. There is a band tied round her chin. The bed is in a sort of
hole, in the wall, and there are shutters to it.’

The boy was describing a Breton bed, and the white cap was the _coiffe_
that my mother wore. And if she lay there in her black dress, with a
band about her chin, I knew that it could mean but one thing.

“‘What else does he see?’ I asked the sorcerer.

“He repeated my question, and presently the boy spoke again.

“‘I see four men come in with a long box. And there are women crying.
They all wear little white caps and black dresses. And I see a man in a
white surplice, with a large cross in his hands, and a little boy in a
long red gown. And the men take off their hats. And now everyone is
kneeling down.’

“‘I will hear no more,’ I said. ‘It is enough.’

“I knew that my mother was dead.

“In a little while, I received a letter from the priest of the village
in which she lived. They had buried her on the very day upon which the
boy had seen this sight in the mirror of ink.”

Dr Porhoët passed his hand across his eyes, and for a little while
there was silence.

“What have you to say to that?” asked Oliver Haddo, at last.

“Nothing,” answered Arthur.

Haddo looked at him for a minute with those queer eyes of his which
seemed to stare at the wall behind.

“Have you ever heard of Eliphas Levi?” he inquired. “He is the most
celebrated occultist of recent years. He is thought to have known more
of the mysteries than any adept since the divine Paracelsus.”

“I met him once,” interrupted Dr Porhoët. “You never saw a man who
looked less like a magician. His face beamed with good-nature, and he
wore a long grey beard, which covered nearly the whole of his breast.
He was of a short and very corpulent figure.”

“The practice of black arts evidently disposes to obesity,” said
Arthur, icily.

Susie noticed that this time Oliver Haddo made no sign that the taunt
moved him. His unwinking, straight eyes remained upon Arthur without
expression.

“Levi’s real name was Alphonse-Louis Constant, but he adopted that
under which he is generally known for reasons that are plain to the
romantic mind. His father was a bootmaker. He was destined for the
priesthood, but fell in love with a damsel fair and married her. The
union was unhappy. A fate befell him which has been the lot of greater
men than he, and his wife presently abandoned the marital roof with her
lover. To console himself he began to make serious researches in the
occult, and in due course published a vast number of mystical works
dealing with magic in all its branches.”

“I’m sure Mr Haddo was going to tell us something very interesting
about him,” said Susie.

“I wished merely to give you his account of how he raised the spirit of
Apollonius of Tyana in London.”

Susie settled herself more comfortably in her chair and lit a
cigarette.

“He went there in the spring of 1856 to escape from internal
disquietude and to devote himself without distraction to his studies.
He had letters of introduction to various persons of distinction who
concerned themselves with the supernatural, but, finding them trivial
and indifferent, he immersed himself in the study of the supreme
Kabbalah. One day, on returning to his hotel, he found a note in his
room. It contained half a card, transversely divided, on which he at
once recognized the character of Solomon’s Seal, and a tiny slip of
paper on which was written in pencil: _The other half of this card will
be given you at three o’clock tomorrow in front of Westminster Abbey_.
Next day, going to the appointed spot, with his portion of the card in
his hand, he found a baronial equipage waiting for him. A footman
approached, and, making a sign to him, opened the carriage door. Within
was a lady in black satin, whose face was concealed by a thick veil.
She motioned him to a seat beside her, and at the same time displayed
the other part of the card he had received. The door was shut, and the
carriage rolled away. When the lady raised her veil, Eliphas Levi saw
that she was of mature age; and beneath her grey eyebrows were bright
black eyes of preternatural fixity.”

Susie Boyd clapped her hands with delight.

“I think it’s delicious, and I’m sure every word of it is true,” she
cried. “I’m enchanted with the mysterious meeting at Westminster Abbey
in the Mid-Victorian era. Can’t you see the elderly lady in a huge
crinoline and a black poke bonnet, and the wizard in a ridiculous hat,
a bottle-green frock-coat, and a flowing tie of black silk?”

“Eliphas remarks that the lady spoke French with a marked English
accent,” pursued Haddo imperturbably. “She addressed him as follows:
‘Sir, I am aware that the law of secrecy is rigorous among adepts; and
I know that you have been asked for phenomena, but have declined to
gratify a frivolous curiosity. It is possible that you do not possess
the necessary materials. I can show you a complete magical cabinet, but
I must require of you first the most inviolable silence. If you do not
guarantee this on your honour, I will give the order for you to be
driven home.’”

Oliver Haddo told his story not ineffectively, but with a comic gravity
that prevented one from knowing exactly how to take it.

“Having given the required promise Eliphas Levi was shown a collection
of vestments and of magical instruments. The lady lent him certain
books of which he was in need; and at last, as a result of many
conversations, determined him to attempt at her house the experience of
a complete evocation. He prepared himself for twenty-one days,
scrupulously observing the rules laid down by the Ritual. At length
everything was ready. It was proposed to call forth the phantom of the
divine Apollonius, and to question it upon two matters, one of which
concerned Eliphas Levi and the other, the lady of the crinoline. She
had at first counted on assisting at the evocation with a trustworthy
person, but at the last moment her friend drew back; and as the triad
or unity is rigorously prescribed in magical rites, Eliphas was left
alone. The cabinet prepared for the experiment was situated in a
turret. Four concave mirrors were hung within it, and there was an
altar of white marble, surrounded by a chain of magnetic iron. On it
was engraved the sign of the Pentagram, and this symbol was drawn on
the new, white sheepskin which was stretched beneath. A copper brazier
stood on the altar, with charcoal of alder and of laurel wood, and in
front a second brazier was placed upon a tripod. Eliphas Levi was
clothed in a white robe, longer and more ample than the surplice of a
priest, and he wore upon his head a chaplet of vervain leaves entwined
about a golden chain. In one hand he held a new sword and in the other
the Ritual.”

Susie’s passion for caricature at once asserted itself, and she laughed
as she saw in fancy the portly little Frenchman, with his round, red
face, thus wonderfully attired.

“He set alight the two fires with the prepared materials, and began, at
first in a low voice, but rising by degrees, the invocations of the
Ritual. The flames invested every object with a wavering light.
Presently they went out. He set more twigs and perfumes on the brazier,
and when the flame started up once more, he saw distinctly before the
altar a human figure larger than life, which dissolved and disappeared.
He began the invocations again and placed himself in a circle, which he
had already traced between the altar and the tripod. Then the depth of
the mirror which was in front of him grew brighter by degrees, and a
pale form arose, and it seemed gradually to approach. He closed his
eyes, and called three times upon Apollonius. When he opened them, a
man stood before him, wholly enveloped in a winding sheet, which seemed
more grey than black. His form was lean, melancholy, and beardless.
Eliphas felt an intense cold, and when he sought to ask his questions
found it impossible to speak. Thereupon, he placed his hand on the
Pentagram, and directed the point of his sword toward the figure,
adjuring it mentally by that sign not to terrify, but to obey him. The
form suddenly grew indistinct and soon it strangely vanished. He
commanded it to return, and then felt, as it were, an air pass by him;
and, something having touched the hand which held the sword, his arm
was immediately benumbed as far as the shoulder. He supposed that the
weapon displeased the spirit, and set it down within the circle. The
human figure at once reappeared, but Eliphas experienced such a sudden
exhaustion in all his limbs that he was obliged to sit down. He fell
into a deep coma, and dreamed strange dreams. But of these, when he
recovered, only a vague memory remained to him. His arm continued for
several days to be numb and painful. The figure had not spoken, but it
seemed to Eliphas Levi that the questions were answered in his own
mind. For to each an inner voice replied with one grim word: dead.”

“Your friend seems to have had as little fear of spooks as you have of
lions,” said Burdon. “To my thinking it is plain that all these
preparations, and the perfumes, the mirrors, the pentagrams, must have
the greatest effect on the imagination. My only surprise is that your
magician saw no more.”

“Eliphas Levi talked to me himself of this evocation,” said Dr Porhoët.
“He told me that its influence on him was very great. He was no longer
the same man, for it seemed to him that something from the world beyond
had passed into his soul.”

“I am astonished that you should never have tried such an interesting
experiment yourself,” said Arthur to Oliver Haddo.

“I have,” answered the other calmly. “My father lost his power of
speech shortly before he died, and it was plain that he sought with all
his might to tell me something. A year after his death, I called up his
phantom from the grave so that I might learn what I took to be a dying
wish. The circumstances of the apparition are so similar to those I
have just told you that it would only bore you if I repeated them. The
only difference was that my father actually spoke.”

“What did he say?” asked Susie.

“He said solemnly: ‘_Buy Ashantis, they are bound to go up._’

“I did as he told me; but my father was always unlucky in speculation,
and they went down steadily. I sold out at considerable loss, and
concluded that in the world beyond they are as ignorant of the tendency
of the Stock Exchange as we are in this vale of sorrow.”

Susie could not help laughing. But Arthur shrugged his shoulders
impatiently. It disturbed his practical mind never to be certain if
Haddo was serious, or if, as now, he was plainly making game of them.




Chapter VI


Two days later, Arthur received Frank Hurrell’s answer to his letter.
It was characteristic of Frank that he should take such pains to reply
at length to the inquiry, and it was clear that he had lost none of his
old interest in odd personalities. He analysed Oliver Haddo’s character
with the patience of a scientific man studying a new species in which
he is passionately concerned.

My dear Burdon:

It is singular that you should write just now to ask what I know of
Oliver Haddo, since by chance I met the other night at dinner at Queen
Anne’s Gate a man who had much to tell me of him. I am curious to know
why he excites your interest, for I am sure his peculiarities make him
repugnant to a person of your robust common sense. I can with
difficulty imagine two men less capable of getting on together. Though
I have not seen Haddo now for years, I can tell you, in one way and
another, a good deal about him. He erred when he described me as his
intimate friend. It is true that at one time I saw much of him, but I
never ceased cordially to dislike him. He came up to Oxford from Eton
with a reputation for athletics and eccentricity. But you know that
there is nothing that arouses the ill-will of boys more than the
latter, and he achieved an unpopularity which was remarkable. It turned
out that he played football admirably, and except for his rather
scornful indolence he might easily have got his blue. He sneered at the
popular enthusiasm for games, and was used to say that cricket was all
very well for boys but not fit for the pastime of men. (He was then
eighteen!) He talked grandiloquently of big-game shooting and of
mountain climbing as sports which demanded courage and self-reliance.
He seemed, indeed, to like football, but he played it with a brutal
savagery which the other persons concerned naturally resented. It
became current opinion in other pursuits that he did not play the game.
He did nothing that was manifestly unfair, but was capable of taking
advantages which most people would have thought mean; and he made
defeat more hard to bear because he exulted over the vanquished with
the coarse banter that youths find so difficult to endure.

What you would hardly believe is that, when he first came up, he was a
person of great physical attractions. He is now grown fat, but in those
days was extremely handsome. He reminded one of those colossal statues
of Apollo in which the god is represented with a feminine roundness and
delicacy. He was very tall and had a magnificent figure. It was so
well-formed for his age that one might have foretold his precious
corpulence. He held himself with a dashing erectness. Many called it an
insolent swagger. His features were regular and fine. He had a great
quantity of curling hair, which was worn long, with a sort of poetic
grace: I am told that now he is very bald; and I can imagine that this
must be a great blow to him, for he was always exceedingly vain. I
remember a peculiarity of his eyes, which could scarcely have been
natural, but how it was acquired I do not know. The eyes of most people
converge upon the object at which they look, but his remained parallel.
It gave them a singular expression, as though he were scrutinising the
inmost thought of the person with whom he talked. He was notorious also
for the extravagance of his costume, but, unlike the aesthetes of that
day, who clothed themselves with artistic carelessness, he had a taste
for outrageous colours. Sometimes, by a queer freak, he dressed himself
at unseasonable moments with excessive formality. He is the only
undergraduate I have ever seen walk down the High in a tall hat and a
closely-buttoned frock-coat.

I have told you he was very unpopular, but it was not an unpopularity
of the sort which ignores a man and leaves him chiefly to his own
society. Haddo knew everybody and was to be found in the most unlikely
places. Though people disliked him, they showed a curious pleasure in
his company, and he was probably entertained more than any man in
Oxford. I never saw him but he was surrounded by a little crowd, who
abused him behind his back, but could not resist his fascination.

I often tried to analyse this, for I felt it as much as anyone, and
though I honestly could not bear him, I could never resist going to see
him whenever opportunity arose. I suppose he offered the charm of the
unexpected to that mass of undergraduates who, for all their
matter-of-fact breeziness, are curiously alive to the romantic. It was
impossible to tell what he would do or say next, and you were kept
perpetually on the alert. He was certainly not witty, but he had a
coarse humour which excited the rather gross sense of the ludicrous
possessed by the young. He had a gift for caricature which was really
diverting, and an imperturbable assurance. He had also an ingenious
talent for profanity, and his inventiveness in this particular was a
power among youths whose imaginations stopped at the commoner sorts of
bad language. I have heard him preach a sermon of the most blasphemous
sort in the very accents of the late Dean of Christ Church, which
outraged and at the same time irresistibly amused everyone who heard
it. He had a more varied knowledge than the greater part of
undergraduates, and, having at the same time a retentive memory and
considerable quickness, he was able to assume an attitude of
omniscience which was as impressive as it was irritating. I have never
heard him confess that he had not read a book. Often, when I tried to
catch him, he confounded me by quoting the identical words of a passage
in some work which I could have sworn he had never set eyes on. I
daresay it was due only to some juggling, like the conjuror’s sleight
of hand that apparently lets you choose a card, but in fact forces one
on you; and he brought the conversation round cleverly to a point when
it was obvious I should mention a definite book. He talked very well,
with an entertaining flow of rather pompous language which made the
amusing things he said particularly funny. His passion for euphuism
contrasted strikingly with the simple speech of those with whom he
consorted. It certainly added authority to what he said. He was proud
of his family and never hesitated to tell the curious of his
distinguished descent. Unless he has much altered, you will already
have heard of his relationship with various noble houses. He is, in
fact, nearly connected with persons of importance, and his ancestry is
no less distinguished than he asserts. His father is dead, and he owns
a place in Staffordshire which is almost historic. I have seen
photographs of it, and it is certainly very fine. His forebears have
been noted in the history of England since the days of the courtier who
accompanied Anne of Denmark to Scotland, and, if he is proud of his
stock, it is not without cause. So he passed his time at Oxford,
cordially disliked, at the same time respected and mistrusted; he had
the reputation of a liar and a rogue, but it could not be denied that
he had considerable influence over others. He amused, angered,
irritated, and interested everyone with whom he came in contact. There
was always something mysterious about him, and he loved to wrap himself
in a romantic impenetrability. Though he knew so many people, no one
knew him, and to the end he remained a stranger in our midst. A legend
grew up around him, which he fostered sedulously, and it was reported
that he had secret vices which could only be whispered with bated
breath. He was said to intoxicate himself with Oriental drugs, and to
haunt the vilest opium-dens in the East of London. He kept the greatest
surprise for the last, since, though he was never seen to work, he
managed, to the universal surprise, to get a first. He went down, and
to the best of my belief was never seen in Oxford again.

I have heard vaguely that he was travelling over the world, and, when I
met in town now and then some of the fellows who had known him at the
“Varsity, weird rumours reached me. One told me that he was tramping
across America, earning his living as he went; another asserted that he
had been seen in a monastry in India; a third assured me that he had
married a ballet-girl in Milan; and someone else was positive that he
had taken to drink. One opinion, however, was common to all my
informants, and this was that he did something out of the common. It
was clear that he was not the man to settle down to the tame life of a
country gentleman which his position and fortune indicated. At last I
met him one day in Piccadilly, and we dined together at the Savoy. I
hardly recognized him, for he was become enormously stout, and his hair
had already grown thin. Though he could not have been more than
twenty-five, he looked considerably older. I tried to find out what he
had been up to, but, with the air of mystery he affects, he would go
into no details. He gave me to understand that he had sojourned in
lands where the white man had never been before, and had learnt
esoteric secrets which overthrew the foundations of modern science. It
seemed to me that he had coarsened in mind as well as in appearance. I
do not know if it was due to my own development since the old days at
Oxford, and to my greater knowledge of the world, but he did not seem
to me so brilliant as I remembered. His facile banter was rather
stupid. In fact he bored me. The pose which had seemed amusing in a lad
fresh from Eton now was intolerable, and I was glad to leave him. It
was characteristic that, after asking me to dinner, he left me in a
lordly way to pay the bill.

Then I heard nothing of him till the other day, when our friend Miss
Ley asked me to meet at dinner the German explorer Burkhardt. I dare
say you remember that Burkhardt brought out a book a little while ago
on his adventures in Central Asia. I knew that Oliver Haddo was his
companion in that journey and had meant to read it on this account,
but, having been excessively busy, had omitted to do so. I took the
opportunity to ask the German about our common acquaintance, and we had
a long talk. Burkhardt had met him by chance at Mombasa in East Africa,
where he was arranging an expedition after big game, and they agreed to
go together. He told me that Haddo was a marvellous shot and a hunter
of exceptional ability. Burkhardt had been rather suspicious of a man
who boasted so much of his attainments, but was obliged soon to confess
that he boasted of nothing unjustly. Haddo has had an extraordinary
experience, the truth of which Burkhardt can vouch for. He went out
alone one night on the trail of three lions and killed them all before
morning with one shot each. I know nothing of these things, but from
the way in which Burkhardt spoke, I judge it must be a unique
occurrence. But, characteristically enough, no one was more conscious
than Haddo of the singularity of his feat, and he made life almost
insufferable for his fellow-traveller in consequence. Burkhardt assures
me that Haddo is really remarkable in pursuit of big game. He has a
sort of instinct which leads him to the most unlikely places, and a
wonderful feeling for country, whereby he can cut across, and head off
animals whose spoor he has noticed. His courage is very great. To
follow a wounded lion into thick cover is the most dangerous proceeding
in the world, and demands the utmost coolness. The animal invariably
sees the sportsman before he sees it, and in most cases charges. But
Haddo never hesitated on these occasions, and Burkhardt could only
express entire admiration for his pluck. It appears that he is not what
is called a good sportsman. He kills wantonly, when there can be no
possible excuse, for the mere pleasure of it; and to Burkhardt’s
indignation frequently shot beasts whose skins and horns they did not
even trouble to take. When antelope were so far off that it was
impossible to kill them, and the approach of night made it useless to
follow, he would often shoot, and leave a wretched wounded beast to die
by inches. His selfishness was extreme, and he never shared any
information with his friend that might rob him of an uninterrupted
pursuit of game. But notwithstanding all this, Burkhardt had so high an
opinion of Haddo’s general capacity and of his resourcefulness that,
when he was arranging his journey in Asia, he asked him to come also.
Haddo consented, and it appears that Burkhardt’s book gives further
proof, if it is needed, of the man’s extraordinary qualities. The
German confessed that on more than one occasion he owed his life to
Haddo’s rare power of seizing opportunities. But they quarrelled at
last through Haddo’s over-bearing treatment of the natives. Burkhardt
had vaguely suspected him of cruelty, but at length it was clear that
he used them in a manner which could not be defended. Finally he had a
desperate quarrel with one of the camp servants, as a result of which
the man was shot dead. Haddo swore that he fired in self-defence, but
his action caused a general desertion, and the travellers found
themselves in a very dangerous predicament. Burkhardt thought that
Haddo was clearly to blame and refused to have anything more to do with
him. They separated. Burkhardt returned to England; and Haddo, pursued
by the friends of the murdered man, had great difficulty in escaping
with his life. Nothing has been heard of him since till I got your
letter.

Altogether, an extraordinary man. I confess that I can make nothing of
him. I shall never be surprised to hear anything in connexion with him.
I recommend you to avoid him like the plague. He can be no one’s
friend. As an acquaintance he is treacherous and insincere; as an
enemy, I can well imagine that he would be as merciless as he is
unscrupulous.

An immensely long letter!

Goodbye, my son. I hope that your studies in French methods of surgery
will have added to your wisdom. Your industry edifies me, and I am sure
that you will eventually be a baronet and the President of the Royal
College of Surgeons; and you shall relieve royal persons of their,
vermiform appendix.

Yours ever,
FRANK HURRELL


Arthur, having read this letter twice, put it in an envelope and left
it without comment for Miss Boyd. Her answer came within a couple of
hours:

“I’ve asked him to tea on Wednesday, and I can’t put him off. You must
come and help us; but please be as polite to him as if, like most of
us, he had only taken mental liberties with the Ten Commandments.”




Chapter VII


On the morning of the day upon which they had asked him to tea, Oliver
Haddo left at Margaret’s door vast masses of chrysanthemums. There were
so many that the austere studio was changed in aspect. It gained an
ephemeral brightness that Margaret, notwithstanding pieces of silk hung
here and there on the walls, had never been able to give it. When
Arthur arrived, he was dismayed that the thought had not occurred to
him.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “You must think me very inconsiderate.”

Margaret smiled and held his hand.

“I think I like you because you don’t trouble about the common little
attentions of lovers.”

“Margaret’s a wise girl,” smiled Susie. “She knows that when a man
sends flowers it is a sign that he has admired more women than one.”

“I don’t suppose that these were sent particularly to me.”

Arthur Burdon sat down and observed with pleasure the cheerful fire.
The drawn curtains and the lamps gave the place a nice cosiness, and
there was the peculiar air of romance which is always in a studio.
There is a sense of freedom about it that disposes the mind to
diverting speculations. In such an atmosphere it is possible to be
serious without pompousness and flippant without inanity.

In the few days of their acquaintance Arthur and Susie had arrived at
terms of pleasant familiarity. Susie, from her superior standpoint of
an unmarried woman no longer young, used him with the good-natured
banter which she affected. To her, he was a foolish young thing in
love, and she marvelled that even the cleverest man in that condition
could behave like a perfect idiot. But Margaret knew that, if her
friend chaffed him, it was because she completely approved of him. As
their intimacy increased, Susie learnt to appreciate his solid
character. She admired his capacity in dealing with matters that were
in his province, and the simplicity with which he left alone those of
which he was ignorant. There was no pose in him. She was touched also
by an ingenuous candour which gave a persuasive charm to his
abruptness. And, though she set a plain woman’s value on good looks,
his appearance, rough hewn like a statue in porphyry, pleased her
singularly. It was an index of his character. The look of him gave you
the whole man, strong yet gentle, honest and simple, neither very
imaginative nor very brilliant, but immensely reliable and trustworthy
to the bottom of his soul. He was seated now with Margaret’s terrier on
his knees, stroking its ears, and Susie, looking at him, wondered with
a little pang why no man like that had even cared for her. It was
evident that he would make a perfect companion, and his love, once won,
was of the sort that did not alter.

Dr Porhoët came in and sat down with the modest quietness which was one
of his charms. He was not a great talker and loved most to listen in
silence to the chatter of young people. The dog jumped down from
Arthur’s knee, went up to the doctor, and rubbed itself in friendly
fashion against his legs. They began to talk in the soft light and had
forgotten almost that another guest was expected. Margaret hoped
fervently that he would not come. She had never looked more lovely than
on this afternoon, and she busied herself with the preparations for tea
with a housewifely grace that added a peculiar delicacy to her
comeliness. The dignity which encompassed the perfection of her beauty
was delightfully softened, so that you were reminded of those sweet
domestic saints who lighten here and there the passionate records of
the Golden Book.

“_C’est tellement intime ici_,” smiled Dr Porhoët, breaking into French
in the impossibility of expressing in English the exact feeling which
that scene gave him.

It might have been a picture by some master of _genre_. It seemed
hardly by chance that the colours arranged themselves in such agreeable
tones, or that the lines of the wall and the seated persons achieved
such a graceful decoration. The atmosphere was extraordinarily
peaceful.

There was a knock at the door, and Arthur got up to open. The terrier
followed at his heels. Oliver Haddo entered. Susie watched to see what
the dog would do and was by this time not surprised to see a change
come over it. With its tail between its legs, the friendly little beast
slunk along the wall to the furthermost corner. It turned a suspicious,
frightened eye upon Haddo and then hid its head. The visitor, intent
upon his greetings, had not noticed even that there was an animal in
the room. He accepted with a simple courtesy they hardly expected from
him the young woman’s thanks for his flowers. His behaviour surprised
them. He put aside his poses. He seemed genuinely to admire the cosy
little studio. He asked Margaret to show him her sketches and looked at
them with unassumed interest. His observations were pointed and showed
a certain knowledge of what he spoke about. He described himself as an
amateur, that object of a painter’s derision: the man “who knows what
he likes”; but his criticism, though generous, showed that he was no
fool. The two women were impressed. Putting the sketches aside, he
began to talk, of the many places he had seen. It was evident that he
sought to please. Susie began to understand how it was that,
notwithstanding his affectations, he had acquired so great an influence
over the undergraduates of Oxford. There was romance and laughter in
his conversation; and though, as Frank Hurrell had said, lacking in
wit, he made up for it with a diverting pleasantry that might very well
have passed for humour. But Susie, though amused, felt that this was
not the purpose for which she had asked him to come. Dr Porhoët had
lent her his entertaining work on the old alchemists, and this gave her
a chance to bring their conversation to matters on which Haddo was
expert. She had read the book with delight and, her mind all aflame
with those strange histories wherein fact and fancy were so wonderfully
mingled, she was eager to know more. The long toil in which so many had
engaged, always to lose their fortunes, often to suffer persecution and
torture, interested her no less than the accounts, almost
authenticated, of those who had succeeded in their extraordinary quest.

She turned to Dr Porhoët.

“You are a bold man to assert that now and then the old alchemists
actually did make gold,” she said.

“I have not gone quite so far as that,” he smiled. “I assert merely
that, if evidence as conclusive were offered of any other historical
event, it would be credited beyond doubt. We can disbelieve these
circumstantial details only by coming to the conclusion beforehand that
it is impossible they should be true.”

“I wish you would write that life of Paracelsus which you suggest in
your preface.”

Dr Porhoët, smiling shook his head.

“I don’t think I shall ever do that now,” he said. “Yet he is the most
interesting of all the alchemists, for he offers the fascinating
problem of an immensely complex character. It is impossible to know to
what extent he was a charlatan and to what a man of serious science.”

Susie glanced at Oliver Haddo, who sat in silence, his heavy face in
shadow, his eyes fixed steadily on the speaker. The immobility of that
vast bulk was peculiar.

“His name is not so ridiculous as later associations have made it
seem,” proceeded the doctor, “for he belonged to the celebrated family
of Bombast, and they were called Hohenheim after their ancient
residence, which was a castle near Stuttgart in Würtemberg. The most
interesting part of his life is that which the absence of documents
makes it impossible accurately to describe. He travelled in Germany,
Italy, France, the Netherlands, in Denmark, Sweden, and Russia. He went
even to India. He was taken prisoner by the Tartars, and brought to the
Great Khan, whose son he afterwards accompanied to Constantinople. The
mind must be dull indeed that is not thrilled by the thought of this
wandering genius traversing the lands of the earth at the most eventful
date of the world’s history. It was at Constantinople that, according
to a certain _aureum vellus_ printed at Rorschach in the sixteenth
century, he received the philosopher’s stone from Solomon Trismosinus.
This person possessed also the _Universal Panacea_, and it is asserted
that he was seen still alive by a French traveller at the end of the
seventeenth century. Paracelsus then passed through the countries that
border the Danube, and so reached Italy, where he served as a surgeon
in the imperial army. I see no reason why he should not have been
present at the battle of Pavia. He collected information from
physicians, surgeons and alchemists; from executioners, barbers,
shepherds, Jews, gipsies, midwives, and fortune-tellers; from high and
low, from learned and vulgar. In the sketch I have given of his career
in that volume you hold, I have copied out a few words of his upon the
acquirement of knowledge which affect me with a singular emotion.”

Dr Porhoët took his book from Miss Boyd and opened it thoughtfully. He
read out the fine passage from the preface of the _Paragranum_:

“I went in search of my art, often incurring danger of life. I have not
been ashamed to learn that which seemed useful to me even from
vagabonds, hangmen, and barbers. We know that a lover will go far to
meet the woman he adores; how much more will the lover of Wisdom be
tempted to go in search of his divine mistress.”

He turned the page to find a few more lines further on:

“We should look for knowledge where we may expect to find it, and why
should a man be despised who goes in search of it? Those who remain at
home may grow richer and live more comfortably than those who wander;
but I desire neither to live comfortably nor to grow rich.”

“By Jove, those are fine words,” said Arthur, rising to his feet.

Their brave simplicity moved him as no rhetoric could have done, and
they made him more eager still to devote his own life to the difficult
acquisition of knowledge. Dr Porhoët gave him his ironic smile.

“Yet the man who could write that was in many ways a mere buffoon, who
praised his wares with the vulgar glibness of a quack. He was vain and
ostentatious, intemperate and boastful. Listen:

“After me, O Avicenna, Galen, Rhases and Montagnana! After me, not I
after you, ye men of Paris, Montpellier, Meissen, and Cologne; all you
that come from the countries along the Danube and the Rhine, and you
that come from the islands of the sea. It is not for me to follow you,
because mine is the lordship. The time will come when none of you shall
remain in his dark corner who will not be an object of contempt to the
world, because I shall be the King, and the Monarchy will be mine.”

Dr Porhoët closed the book.

“Did you ever hear such gibberish in your life? Yet he did a bold
thing. He wrote in German instead of in Latin, and so, by weakening the
old belief in authority, brought about the beginning of free thought in
science. He continued to travel from place to place, followed by a
crowd of disciples, some times attracted to a wealthy city by hope of
gain, sometimes journeying to a petty court at the invitation of a
prince. His folly and the malice of his rivals prevented him from
remaining anywhere for long. He wrought many wonderful cures. The
physicians of Nuremberg denounced him as a quack, a charlatan, and an
impostor. To refute them he asked the city council to put under his
care patients that had been pronounced incurable. They sent him several
cases of elephantiasis, and he cured them: testimonials to that effect
may still be found in the archives of Nuremberg. He died as the result
of a tavern brawl and was buried at Salzburg. Tradition says that, his
astral body having already during physical existence become
self-conscious, he is now a living adept, residing with others of his
sort in a certain place in Asia. From there he still influences the
minds of his followers and at times even appears to them in visible and
tangible substance.”

“But look here,” said Arthur, “didn’t Paracelsus, like most of these
old fellows, in the course of his researches make any practical
discoveries?”

“I prefer those which were not practical,” confessed the doctor, with a
smile. “Consider for example the _Tinctura Physicorum_, which neither
Pope nor Emperor could buy with all his wealth. It was one of the
greatest alchemical mysteries, and, though mentioned under the name of
_The Red Lion_ in many occult works, was actually known to few before
Paracelsus, except Hermes Trismegistus and Albertus Magnus. Its
preparation was extremely difficult, for the presence was needed of two
perfectly harmonious persons whose skill was equal. It was said to be a
red ethereal fluid. The least wonderful of its many properties was its
power to transmute all inferior metals into gold. There is an old
church in the south of Bavaria where the tincture is said to be still
buried in the ground. In the year 1698 some of it penetrated through
the soil, and the phenomenon was witnessed by many people, who believed
it to be a miracle. The church which was thereupon erected is still a
well-known place for pilgrimage. Paracelsus concludes his directions
for its manufacture with the words: _But if this be incomprehensible to
you, remember that only he who desires with his whole heart will find,
and to him only who knocks vehemently shall the door be opened_.”

“I shall never try to make it,” smiled Arthur.

“Then there was the _Electrum Magicum_, of which the wise made mirrors
wherein they were able to see not only the events of the past and of
the present, but the doings of men in daytime and at night. They might
see anything that had been written or spoken, and the person who said
it, and the causes that made him say it. But I like best the _Primum
Ens Melissæ_. An elaborate prescription is given for its manufacture.
It was a remedy to prolong life, and not only Paracelsus, but his
predecessors Galen, Arnold of Villanova, and Raymond Lulli, had
laboured studiously to discover it.”

“Will it make me eighteen again?” cried Susie.

“It is guaranteed to do so,” answered Dr Porhoët gravely. “Lesebren, a
physician to Louis XIV, gives an account of certain experiments
witnessed by himself. It appears that one of his friends prepared the
remedy, and his curiosity would not let him rest until he had seen with
his own eyes the effect of it.”

“That is the true scientific attitude,” laughed Arthur.

“He took every morning at sunrise a glass of white wine tinctured with
this preparation; and after using it for fourteen days his nails began
to fall out, without, however, causing him any pain. His courage failed
him at this point, and he gave the same dose to an old female servant.
She regained at least one of the characteristics of youth, much to her
astonishment, for she did not know that she had been taking a medicine,
and, becoming frightened, refused to continue. The experimenter then
took some grain, soaked it in the tincture, and gave it to an aged hen.
On the sixth day the bird began to lose its feathers, and kept on
losing them till it was naked as a newborn babe; but before two weeks
had passed other feathers grew, and these were more beautifully
coloured than any that fortunate hen had possessed in her youth. Her
comb stood up, and she began again to lay eggs.”

Arthur laughed heartily.

“I confess I like that story much better than the others. The _Primum
Ens Melissæ_ at least offers a less puerile benefit than most magical
secrets.”

“Do you call the search for gold puerile?” asked Haddo, who had been
sitting for a long time in complete silence.

“I venture to call it sordid.”

“You are very superior.”

“Because I think the aims of mystical persons invariably gross or
trivial? To my plain mind, it is inane to raise the dead in order to
hear from their phantom lips nothing but commonplaces. And I really
cannot see that the alchemist who spent his life in the attempted
manufacture of gold was a more respectable object than the outside
jobber of modern civilization.”

“But if he sought for gold it was for the power it gave him, and it was
power he aimed at when he brooded night and day over dim secrets. Power
was the subject of all his dreams, but not a paltry, limited dominion
over this or that; power over the whole world, power over all created
things, power over the very elements, power over God Himself. His lust
was so vast that he could not rest till the stars in their courses were
obedient to his will.”

For once Haddo lost his enigmatic manner. It was plain now that his
words intoxicated him, and his face assumed a new, a strange,
expression. A peculiar arrogance flashed in his shining eyes.

“And what else is it that men seek in life but power? If they want
money, it is but for the power that attends it, and it is power again
that they strive for in all the knowledge they acquire. Fools and sots
aim at happiness, but men aim only at power. The magus, the sorcerer,
the alchemist, are seized with fascination of the unknown; and they
desire a greatness that is inaccessible to mankind. They think by the
science they study so patiently, but endurance and strength, by force
of will and by imagination, for these are the great weapons of the
magician, they may achieve at last a power with which they can face the
God of Heaven Himself.”

Oliver Haddo lifted his huge bulk from the low chair in which he had
been sitting. He began to walk up and down the studio. It was curious
to see this heavy man, whose seriousness was always problematical,
caught up by a curious excitement.

“You’ve been talking of Paracelsus,” he said. “There is one of his
experiments which the doctor has withheld from you. You will find it
neither mean nor mercenary, but it is very terrible. I do not know
whether the account of it is true, but it would be of extraordinary
interest to test it for oneself.”

He looked round at the four persons who watched him intently. There was
a singular agitation in his manner, as though the thing of which he
spoke was very near his heart.

“The old alchemists believed in the possibility of spontaneous
generation. By the combination of psychical powers and of strange
essences, they claim to have created forms in which life became
manifest. Of these, the most marvellous were those strange beings, male
and female, which were called _homunculi_. The old philosophers doubted
the possibility of this operation, but Paracelsus asserts positively
that it can be done. I picked up once for a song on a barrow at London
Bridge a little book in German. It was dirty and thumbed, many of the
pages were torn, and the binding scarcely held the leaves together. It
was called _Die Sphinx_ and was edited by a certain Dr Emil Besetzny.
It contained the most extraordinary account I have ever read of certain
spirits generated by Johann-Ferdinand, Count von Küffstein, in the
Tyrol, in 1775. The sources from which this account is taken consist of
masonic manuscripts, but more especially of a diary kept by a certain
James Kammerer, who acted in the capacity of butler and famulus to the
Count. The evidence is ten times stronger than any upon which men
believe the articles of their religion. If it related to less wonderful
subjects, you would not hesitate to believe implicitly every word you
read. There were ten _homunculi_—James Kammerer calls them prophesying
spirits—kept in strong bottles, such as are used to preserve fruit, and
these were filled with water. They were made in five weeks, by the
Count von Küffstein and an Italian mystic and rosicrucian, the Abbé
Geloni. The bottles were closed with a magic seal. The spirits were
about a span long, and the Count was anxious that they should grow.
They were therefore buried under two cartloads of manure, and the pile
daily sprinkled with a certain liquor prepared with great trouble by
the adepts. The pile after such sprinklings began to ferment and steam,
as if heated by a subterranean fire. When the bottles were removed, it
was found that the spirits had grown to about a span and a half each;
the male _homunculi_ were come into possession of heavy beards, and the
nails of the fingers had grown. In two of the bottles there was nothing
to be seen save clear water, but when the Abbé knocked thrice at the
seal upon the mouth, uttering at the same time certain Hebrew words,
the water turned a mysterious colour, and the spirits showed their
faces, very small at first, but growing in size till they attained that
of a human countenance. And this countenance was horrible and
fiendish.”

Haddo spoke in a low voice that was hardly steady, and it was plain
that he was much moved. It appeared as if his story affected him so
that he could scarcely preserve his composure. He went on.

“These beings were fed every three days by the Count with a
rose-coloured substance which was kept in a silver box. Once a week the
bottles were emptied and filled again with pure rain-water. The change
had to be made rapidly, because while the _homunculi_ were exposed to
the air they closed their eyes and seemed to grow weak and unconscious,
as though they were about to die. But with the spirits that were
invisible, at certain intervals blood was poured into the water; and it
disappeared at once, inexplicably, without colouring or troubling it.
By some accident one of the bottles fell one day and was broken. The
_homunculus_ within died after a few painful respirations in spite of
all efforts to save him, and the body was buried in the garden. An
attempt to generate another, made by the Count without the assistance
of the Abbé, who had left, failed; it produced only a small thing like
a leech, which had little vitality and soon died.”

Haddo ceased speaking, and Arthur looked at him with amazement. “But
taking for granted that the thing is possible, what on earth is the use
of manufacturing these strange beasts?” he exclaimed.

“Use!” cried Haddo passionately. “What do you think would be man’s
sensations when he had solved the great mystery of existence, when he
saw living before him the substance which was dead? These _homunculi_
were seen by historical persons, by Count Max Lemberg, by Count
Franz-Josef von Thun, and by many others. I have no doubt that they
were actually generated. But with our modern appliances, with our
greater skill, what might it not be possible to do now if we had the
courage? There are chemists toiling away in their laboratories to
create the primitive protoplasm from matter which is dead, the organic
from the inorganic. I have studied their experiments. I know all that
they know. Why shouldn’t one work on a larger scale, joining to the
knowledge of the old adepts the scientific discovery of the moderns? I
don’t know what would be the result. It might be very strange and very
wonderful. Sometimes my mind is verily haunted by the desire to see a
lifeless substance move under my spells, by the desire to be as God.”

He gave a low weird laugh, half cruel, half voluptuous. It made
Margaret shudder with sudden fright. He had thrown himself down in the
chair, and he sat in complete shadow. By a singular effect his eyes
appeared blood-red, and they stared into space, strangely parallel,
with an intensity that was terrifying. Arthur started a little and gave
him a searching glance. The laugh and that uncanny glance, the
unaccountable emotion, were extraordinarily significant. The whole
thing was explained if Oliver Haddo was mad.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Haddo’s words were out of tune with
the rest of the conversation. Dr Porhoët had spoken of magical things
with a sceptical irony that gave a certain humour to the subject, and
Susie was resolutely flippant. But Haddo’s vehemence put these
incredulous people out of countenance. Dr Porhoët got up to go. He
shook hands with Susie and with Margaret. Arthur opened the door for
him. The kindly scholar looked round for Margaret’s terrier…

“I must bid my farewells to your little dog.”

He had been so quiet that they had forgotten his presence.

“Come here, Copper,” said Margaret.

The dog slowly slunk up to them, and with a terrified expression
crouched at Margaret’s feet.

“What on earth’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“He’s frightened of me,” said Haddo, with that harsh laugh of his,
which gave such an unpleasant impression.

“Nonsense!”

Dr Porhoët bent down, stroked the dog’s back, and shook its paw.
Margaret lifted it up and set it on a table.

“Now, be good,” she said, with lifted finger.

Dr Porhoët with a smile went out, and Arthur shut the door behind him.
Suddenly, as though evil had entered into it, the terrier sprang at
Oliver Haddo and fixed its teeth in his hand. Haddo uttered a cry, and,
shaking it off, gave it a savage kick. The dog rolled over with a loud
bark that was almost a scream of pain, and lay still for a moment as if
it were desperately hurt. Margaret cried out with horror and
indignation. A fierce rage on a sudden seized Arthur so that he
scarcely knew what he was about. The wretched brute’s suffering,
Margaret’s terror, his own instinctive hatred of the man, were joined
together in frenzied passion.

“You brute,” he muttered.

He hit Haddo in the face with his clenched fist. The man collapsed
bulkily to the floor, and Arthur, furiously seizing his collar, began
to kick him with all his might. He shook him as a dog would shake a rat
and then violently flung him down. For some reason Haddo made no
resistance. He remained where he fell in utter helplessness. Arthur
turned to Margaret. She was holding the poor hurt dog in her hands,
crying over it, and trying to comfort it in its pain. Very gently he
examined it to see if Haddo’s brutal kick had broken a bone. They sat
down beside the fire. Susie, to steady her nerves, lit a cigarette. She
was horribly, acutely conscious of that man who lay in a mass on the
floor behind them. She wondered what he would do. She wondered why he
did not go. And she was ashamed of his humiliation. Then her heart
stood still; for she realized that he was raising himself to his feet,
slowly, with the difficulty of a very fat person. He leaned against the
wall and stared at them. He remained there quite motionless. His
stillness got on her nerves, and she could have screamed as she felt
him look at them, look with those unnatural eyes, whose expression now
she dared not even imagine.

At last she could no longer resist the temptation to turn round just
enough to see him. Haddo’s eyes were fixed upon Margaret so intently
that he did not see he was himself observed. His face, distorted by
passion, was horrible to look upon. That vast mass of flesh had a
malignancy that was inhuman, and it was terrible to see the satanic
hatred which hideously deformed it. But it changed. The redness gave
way to a ghastly pallor. The revengeful scowl disappeared; and a torpid
smile spread over the features, a smile that was even more terrifying
than the frown of malice. What did it mean? Susie could have cried out,
but her tongue cleaved to her throat. The smile passed away, and the
face became once more impassive. It seemed that Margaret and Arthur
realized at last the power of those inhuman eyes, and they became quite
still. The dog ceased its sobbing. The silence was so great that each
one heard the beating of his heart. It was intolerable.

Then Oliver Haddo moved. He came forward slowly.

“I want to ask you to forgive me for what I did,” he said.

“The pain of the dog’s bite was so keen that I lost my temper. I deeply
regret that I kicked it. Mr Burdon was very right to thrash me. I feel
that I deserved no less.”

He spoke in a low voice, but with great distinctness. Susie was
astounded. An abject apology was the last thing she expected.

He paused for Margaret’s answer. But she could not bear to look at him.
When she spoke, her words were scarcely audible. She did not know why
his request to be forgiven made him seem more detestable.

“I think, if you don’t mind, you had better go away.”

Haddo bowed slightly. He looked at Burdon.

“I wish to tell you that I bear no malice for what you did. I recognize
the justice of your anger.”

Arthur did not answer at all. Haddo hesitated a moment, while his eyes
rested on them quietly. To Susie it seemed that they flickered with the
shadow of a smile. She watched him with bewildered astonishment.

He reached for his hat, bowed again, and went.




Chapter VIII


Susie could not persuade herself that Haddo’s regret was sincere. The
humility of it aroused her suspicion. She could not get out of her mind
the ugly slyness of that smile which succeeded on his face the first
passionate look of deadly hatred. Her fancy suggested various dark
means whereby Oliver Haddo might take vengeance on his enemy, and she
was at pains to warn Arthur. But he only laughed.

“The man’s a funk,” he said. “Do you think if he’d had anything in him
at all he would have let me kick him without trying to defend himself?”

Haddo’s cowardice increased the disgust with which Arthur regarded him.
He was amused by Susie’s trepidation.

“What on earth do you suppose he can do? He can’t drop a brickbat on my
head. If he shoots me he’ll get his head cut off, and he won’t be such
an ass as to risk that!”

Margaret was glad that the incident had relieved them of Oliver’s
society. She met him in the street a couple of days later, and since he
took off his hat in the French fashion without waiting for her to
acknowledge him, she was able to make her cut more pointed.

She began to discuss with Arthur the date of their marriage. It seemed
to her that she had got out of Paris all it could give her, and she
wished to begin a new life. Her love for Arthur appeared on a sudden
more urgent, and she was filled with delight at the thought of the
happiness she would give him.

A day or two later Susie received a telegram. It ran as follows:

Please meet me at the Gare du Nord, 2:40.


Nancy Clerk


It was an old friend, who was apparently arriving in Paris that
afternoon. A photograph of her, with a bold signature, stood on the
chimney-piece, and Susie gave it an inquisitive glance. She had not
seen Nancy for so long that it surprised her to receive this urgent
message.

“What a bore it is!” she said. “I suppose I must go.”

They meant to have tea on the other side of the river, but the journey
to the station was so long that it would not be worth Susie’s while to
come back in the interval; and they arranged therefore to meet at the
house to which they were invited. Susie started a little before two.

Margaret had a class that afternoon and set out two or three minutes
later. As she walked through the courtyard she started nervously, for
Oliver Haddo passed slowly by. He did not seem to see her. Suddenly he
stopped, put his hand to his heart, and fell heavily to the ground. The
_concierge_, the only person at hand, ran forward with a cry. She knelt
down and, looking round with terror, caught sight of Margaret.

“_Oh, mademoiselle, venez vite!_” she cried.

Margaret was obliged to go. Her heart beat horribly. She looked down at
Oliver, and he seemed to be dead. She forgot that she loathed him.
Instinctively she knelt down by his side and loosened his collar. He
opened his eyes. An expression of terrible anguish came into his face.

“For the love of God, take me in for one moment,” he sobbed. “I shall
die in the street.”

Her heart was moved towards him. He could not go into the poky den,
evil-smelling and airless, of the _concierge_. But with her help
Margaret raised him to his feet, and together they brought him to the
studio. He sank painfully into a chair.

“Shall I fetch you some water?” asked Margaret.

“Can you get a pastille out of my pocket?”

He swallowed a white tabloid, which she took out of a case attached to
his watch-chain.

“I’m very sorry to cause you this trouble,” he gasped. “I suffer from a
disease of the heart, and sometimes I am very near death.”

“I’m glad that I was able to help you,” she said.

He seemed able to breathe more easily. She left him to himself for a
while, so that he might regain his strength. She took up a book and
began to read. Presently, without moving from his chair, he spoke.

“You must hate me for intruding on you.”

His voice was stronger, and her pity waned as he seemed to recover. She
answered with freezing indifference.

“I couldn’t do any less for you than I did. I would have brought a dog
into my room if it seemed hurt.”

“I see that you wish me to go.”

He got up and moved towards the door, but he staggered and with a groan
tumbled to his knees. Margaret sprang forward to help him. She
reproached herself bitterly for those scornful words. The man had
barely escaped death, and she was merciless.

“Oh, please stay as long as you like,” she cried. “I’m sorry, I didn’t
mean to hurt you.”

He dragged himself with difficulty back to the chair, and she,
conscience-stricken, stood over him helplessly. She poured out a glass
of water, but he motioned it away as though he would not be beholden to
her even for that.

“Is there nothing I can do for you at all?” she exclaimed, painfully.

“Nothing, except allow me to sit in this chair,” he gasped.

“I hope you’ll remain as long as you choose.”

He did not reply. She sat down again and pretended to read. In a little
while he began to speak. His voice reached her as if from a long way
off.

“Will you never forgive me for what I did the other day?”

She answered without looking at him, her back still turned.

“Can it matter to you if I forgive or not?”

“You have not pity. I told you then how sorry I was that a sudden
uncontrollable pain drove me to do a thing which immediately I bitterly
regretted. Don’t you think it must have been hard for me, under the
actual circumstances, to confess my fault?”

“I wish you not to speak of it. I don’t want to think of that horrible
scene.”

“If you knew how lonely I was and how unhappy, you would have a little
mercy.”

His voice was strangely moved. She could not doubt now that he was
sincere.

“You think me a charlatan because I aim at things that are unknown to
you. You won’t try to understand. You won’t give me any credit for
striving with all my soul to a very great end.”

She made no reply, and for a time there was silence. His voice was
different now and curiously seductive.

“You look upon me with disgust and scorn. You almost persuaded yourself
to let me die in the street rather than stretch out to me a helping
hand. And if you hadn’t been merciful then, almost against your will, I
should have died.”

“It can make no difference to you how I regard you,” she whispered.

She did not know why his soft, low tones mysteriously wrung her
heartstrings. Her pulse began to beat more quickly.

“It makes all the difference in the world. It is horrible to think of
your contempt. I feel your goodness and your purity. I can hardly bear
my own unworthiness. You turn your eyes away from me as though I were
unclean.”

She turned her chair a little and looked at him. She was astonished at
the change in his appearance. His hideous obesity seemed no longer
repellent, for his eyes wore a new expression; they were incredibly
tender now, and they were moist with tears. His mouth was tortured by a
passionate distress. Margaret had never seen so much unhappiness on a
man’s face, and an overwhelming remorse seized her.

“I don’t want to be unkind to you,” she said.

“I will go. That is how I can best repay you for what you have done.”

The words were so bitter, so humiliated, that the colour rose to her
cheeks.

“I ask you to stay. But let us talk of other things.”

For a moment he kept silence. He seemed no longer to see Margaret, and
she watched him thoughtfully. His eyes rested on a print of _La
Gioconda_ which hung on the wall. Suddenly he began to speak. He
recited the honeyed words with which Walter Pater expressed his
admiration for that consummate picture.

“Hers is the head upon which all the ends of the world are come, and
the eyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from within
upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts
and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions. Set it for a moment
beside one of those white Greek goddesses or beautiful women of
antiquity, and how would they be troubled by this beauty, into which
the soul with all its maladies has passed. All the thoughts and
experience of the world have etched and moulded there, in that which
they have of power to refine and make expressive the outward form, the
animalism of Greece, the lust of Rome, the mysticism of the Middle
Ages, with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return of
the Pagan world, the sins of the Borgias.”

His voice, poignant and musical, blended with the suave music of the
words so that Margaret felt she had never before known their divine
significance. She was intoxicated with their beauty. She wished him to
continue, but had not the strength to speak. As if he guessed her
thought, he went on, and now his voice had a richness in it as of an
organ heard afar off. It was like an overwhelming fragrance and she
could hardly bear it.

“She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire,
she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and
has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her;
and trafficked for strange evils with Eastern merchants; and, as Leda,
was the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as Saint Anne, the mother of
Mary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and
flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the
changing lineaments, and tinged the eyelids and the hands.”

Oliver Haddo began then to speak of Leonardo da Vinci, mingling with
his own fantasies the perfect words of that essay which, so wonderful
was his memory, he seemed to know by heart. He found exotic fancies in
the likeness between Saint John the Baptist, with his soft flesh and
waving hair, and Bacchus, with his ambiguous smile. Seen through his
eyes, the seashore in the Saint Anne had the airless lethargy of some
damasked chapel in a Spanish nunnery, and over the landscapes brooded a
wan spirit of evil that was very troubling. He loved the mysterious
pictures in which the painter had sought to express something beyond
the limits of painting, something of unsatisfied desire and of longing
for unhuman passions. Oliver Haddo found this quality in unlikely
places, and his words gave a new meaning to paintings that Margaret had
passed thoughtlessly by. There was the portrait of a statuary by
Bronzino in the Long Gallery of the Louvre. The features were rather
large, the face rather broad. The expression was sombre, almost surly
in the repose of the painted canvas, and the eyes were brown,
almond-shaped like those of an Oriental; the red lips were exquisitely
modelled, and the sensuality was curiously disturbing; the dark,
chestnut hair, cut short, curled over the head with an infinite grace.
The skin was like ivory softened with a delicate carmine. There was in
that beautiful countenance more than beauty, for what most fascinated
the observer was a supreme and disdainful indifference to the passion
of others. It was a vicious face, except that beauty could never be
quite vicious; it was a cruel face, except that indolence could never
be quite cruel. It was a face that haunted you, and yet your admiration
was alloyed with an unreasoning terror. The hands were nervous and
adroit, with long fashioning fingers; and you felt that at their touch
the clay almost moulded itself into gracious forms. With Haddo’s subtle
words the character of that man rose before her, cruel yet indifferent,
indolent and passionate, cold yet sensual; unnatural secrets dwelt in
his mind, and mysterious crimes, and a lust for the knowledge that was
arcane. Oliver Haddo was attracted by all that was unusual, deformed,
and monstrous, by the pictures that represented the hideousness of man
or that reminded you of his mortality. He summoned before Margaret the
whole array of Ribera’s ghoulish dwarfs, with their cunning smile, the
insane light of their eyes, and their malice: he dwelt with a horrible
fascination upon their malformations, the humped backs, the club feet,
the hydrocephalic heads. He described the picture by Valdes Leal, in a
certain place at Seville, which represents a priest at the altar; and
the altar is sumptuous with gilt and florid carving. He wears a
magnificent cope and a surplice of exquisite lace, but he wears them as
though their weight was more than he could bear; and in the meagre
trembling hands, and in the white, ashen face, in the dark hollowness
of the eyes, there is a bodily corruption that is terrifying. He seems
to hold together with difficulty the bonds of the flesh, but with no
eager yearning of the soul to burst its prison, only with despair; it
is as if the Lord Almighty had forsaken him and the high heavens were
empty of their solace. All the beauty of life appears forgotten, and
there is nothing in the world but decay. A ghastly putrefaction has
attacked already the living man; the worms of the grave, the piteous
horror of mortality, and the darkness before him offer naught but fear.
Beyond, dark night is seen and a turbulent sea, the dark night of the
soul of which the mystics write, and the troublous sea of life whereon
there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at heart.

Then, as if in pursuance of a definite plan, he analysed with a
searching, vehement intensity the curious talent of the modern
Frenchman, Gustave Moreau. Margaret had lately visited the Luxembourg,
and his pictures were fresh in her memory. She had found in them little
save a decorative arrangement marred by faulty drawing; but Oliver
Haddo gave them at once a new, esoteric import. Those effects as of a
Florentine jewel, the clustered colours, emerald and ruby, the deep
blue of sapphires, the atmosphere of scented chambers, the mystic
persons who seem ever about secret, religious rites, combined in his
cunning phrases to create, as it were, a pattern on her soul of morbid
and mysterious intricacy. Those pictures were filled with a strange
sense of sin, and the mind that contemplated them was burdened with the
decadence of Rome and with the passionate vice of the Renaissance; and
it was tortured, too, by all the introspection of this later day.

Margaret listened, rather breathlessly, with the excitement of an
explorer before whom is spread the plain of an undiscovered continent.
The painters she knew spoke of their art technically, and this
imaginative appreciation was new to her. She was horribly fascinated by
the personality that imbued these elaborate sentences. Haddo’s eyes
were fixed upon hers, and she responded to his words like a delicate
instrument made for recording the beatings of the heart. She felt an
extraordinary languor. At last he stopped. Margaret neither moved nor
spoke. She might have been under a spell. It seemed to her that she had
no power in her limbs.

“I want to do something for you in return for what you have done for
me,” he said.

He stood up and went to the piano.

“Sit in this chair,” he said.

She did not dream of disobeying. He began to play. Margaret was hardly
surprised that he played marvellously. Yet it was almost incredible
that those fat, large hands should have such a tenderness of touch. His
fingers caressed the notes with a peculiar suavity, and he drew out of
the piano effects which she had scarcely thought possible. He seemed to
put into the notes a troubling, ambiguous passion, and the instrument
had the tremulous emotion of a human being. It was strange and
terrifying. She was vaguely familiar with the music to which she
listened; but there was in it, under his fingers, an exotic savour that
made it harmonious with all that he had said that afternoon. His memory
was indeed astonishing. He had an infinite tact to know the feeling
that occupied Margaret’s heart, and what he chose seemed to be exactly
that which at the moment she imperatively needed. Then he began to play
things she did not know. It was music the like of which she had never
heard, barbaric, with a plaintive weirdness that brought to her fancy
the moonlit nights of desert places, with palm trees mute in the
windless air, and tawny distances. She seemed to know tortuous narrow
streets, white houses of silence with strange moon-shadows, and the
glow of yellow light within, and the tinkling of uncouth instruments,
and the acrid scents of Eastern perfumes. It was like a procession
passing through her mind of persons who were not human, yet existed
mysteriously, with a life of vampires. Mona Lisa and Saint John the
Baptist, Bacchus and the mother of Mary, went with enigmatic motions.
But the daughter of Herodias raised her hands as though, engaged for
ever in a mystic rite, to invoke outlandish gods. Her face was very
pale, and her dark eyes were sleepless; the jewels of her girdle
gleamed with sombre fires; and her dress was of colours that have long
been lost. The smile, in which was all the sorrow of the world and all
its wickedness, beheld the wan head of the Saint, and with a voice that
was cold with the coldness of death she murmured the words of the poet:

“I am amorous of thy body, Iokanaan! Thy body is white like the lilies
of a field that the mower hath never mowed. Thy body is white like the
snows that lie on the mountains of Judea, and come down into the
valleys. The roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia are not so
white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden of the Queen of
Arabia, the garden of spices of the Queen of Arabia, nor the feet of
the dawn when they light on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when
she lies on the breast of the sea… There is nothing in the world so
white as thy body. Suffer me to touch thy body.”

Oliver Haddo ceased to play. Neither of them stirred. At last Margaret
sought by an effort to regain her self-control.

“I shall begin to think that you really are a magician,” she said,
lightly.

“I could show you strange things if you cared to see them,” he
answered, again raising his eyes to hers.

“I don’t think you will ever get me to believe in occult philosophy,”
she laughed.

“Yet it reigned in Persia with the magi, it endowed India with
wonderful traditions, it civilised Greece to the sounds of Orpheus’s
lyre.”

He stood before Margaret, towering over her in his huge bulk; and there
was a singular fascination in his gaze. It seemed that he spoke only to
conceal from her that he was putting forth now all the power that was
in him.

“It concealed the first principles of science in the calculations of
Pythagoras. It established empires by its oracles, and at its voice
tyrants grew pale upon their thrones. It governed the minds of some by
curiosity, and others it ruled by fear.”

His voice grew very low, and it was so seductive that Margaret’s brain
reeled. The sound of it was overpowering like too sweet a fragrance.

I tell you that for this art nothing is impossible. It commands the
elements, and knows the language of the stars, and directs the planets
in their courses. The moon at its bidding falls blood-red from the sky.
The dead rise up and form into ominous words the night wind that moans
through their skulls. Heaven and Hell are in its province; and all
forms, lovely and hideous; and love and hate. With Circe’s wand it can
change men into beasts of the field, and to them it can give a
monstrous humanity. Life and death are in the right hand and in the
left of him who knows its secrets. It confers wealth by the
transmutation of metals and immortality by its quintessence.”

Margaret could not hear what he said. A gradual lethargy seized her
under his baleful glance, and she had not even the strength to wish to
free herself. She seemed bound to him already by hidden chains.

“If you have powers, show them,” she whispered, hardly conscious that
she spoke.

Suddenly he released the enormous tension with which he held her. Like
a man who has exerted all his strength to some end, the victory won, he
loosened his muscles, with a faint sigh of exhaustion. Margaret did not
speak, but she knew that something horrible was about to happen. Her
heart beat like a prisoned bird, with helpless flutterings, but it
seemed too late now to draw back. Her words by a mystic influence had
settled something beyond possibility of recall.

On the stove was a small bowl of polished brass in which water was kept
in order to give a certain moisture to the air. Oliver Haddo put his
hand in his pocket and drew out a little silver box. He tapped it, with
a smile, as a man taps a snuff-box, and it opened. He took an
infinitesimal quantity of a blue powder that it contained and threw it
on the water in the brass bowl. Immediately a bright flame sprang up,
and Margaret gave a cry of alarm. Oliver looked at her quickly and
motioned her to remain still. She saw that the water was on fire. It
was burning as brilliantly, as hotly, as if it were common gas; and it
burned with the same dry, hoarse roar. Suddenly it was extinguished.
She leaned forward and saw that the bowl was empty.

The water had been consumed, as though it were straw, and not a drop
remained. She passed her hand absently across her forehead.

“But water cannot burn,” she muttered to herself.

It seemed that Haddo knew what she thought, for he smiled strangely.

“Do you know that nothing more destructive can be invented than this
blue powder, and I have enough to burn up all the water in Paris? Who
dreamt that water might burn like chaff?”

He paused, seeming to forget her presence. He looked thoughtfully at
the little silver box.

“But it can be made only in trivial quantities, at enormous expense and
with exceeding labour; it is so volatile that you cannot keep it for
three days. I have sometimes thought that with a little ingenuity I
might make it more stable, I might so modify it that, like radium, it
lost no strength as it burned; and then I should possess the greatest
secret that has ever been in the mind of man. For there would be no end
of it. It would continue to burn while there was a drop of water on the
earth, and the whole world would be consumed. But it would be a
frightful thing to have in one’s hands; for once it were cast upon the
waters, the doom of all that existed would be sealed beyond repeal.”

He took a long breath, and his eyes glittered with a devilish ardour.
His voice was hoarse with overwhelming emotion.

“Sometimes I am haunted by the wild desire to have seen the great and
final scene when the irrevocable flames poured down the river, hurrying
along the streams of the earth, searching out the moisture in all
growing things, tearing it even from the eternal rocks; when the flames
poured down like the rushing of the wind, and all that lived fled from
before them till they came to the sea; and the sea itself was consumed
in vehement fire.”

Margaret shuddered, but she did not think the man was mad. She had
ceased to judge him. He took one more particle of that atrocious powder
and put it in the bowl. Again he thrust his hand in his pocket and
brought out a handful of some crumbling substance that might have been
dried leaves, leaves of different sorts, broken and powdery. There was
a trace of moisture in them still, for a low flame sprang up
immediately at the bottom of the dish, and a thick vapour filled the
room. It had a singular and pungent odour that Margaret did not know.
It was difficult to breathe, and she coughed. She wanted to beg Oliver
to stop, but could not. He took the bowl in his hands and brought it to
her.

“Look,” he commanded.

She bent forward, and at the bottom saw a blue fire, of a peculiar
solidity, as though it consisted of molten metal. It was not still, but
writhed strangely, like serpents of fire tortured by their own
unearthly ardour.

“Breathe very deeply.”

She did as he told her. A sudden trembling came over her, and darkness
fell across her eyes. She tried to cry out, but could utter no sound.
Her brain reeled. It seemed to her that Haddo bade her cover her face.
She gasped for breath, and it was as if the earth spun under her feet.
She appeared to travel at an immeasurable speed. She made a slight
movement, and Haddo told her not to look round. An immense terror
seized her. She did not know whither she was borne, and still they went
quickly, quickly; and the hurricane itself would have lagged behind
them. At last their motion ceased; and Oliver was holding her arm.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Open your eyes and stand up.”

The night had fallen; but it was not the comfortable night that soothes
the troubled minds of mortal men; it was a night that agitated the soul
mysteriously so that each nerve in the body tingled. There was a lurid
darkness which displayed and yet distorted the objects that surrounded
them. No moon shone in the sky, but small stars appeared to dance on
the heather, vague night-fires like spirits of the damned. They stood
in a vast and troubled waste, with huge stony boulders and leafless
trees, rugged and gnarled like tortured souls in pain. It was as if
there had been a devastating storm, and the country reposed after the
flood of rain and the tempestuous wind and the lightning. All things
about them appeared dumbly to suffer, like a man racked by torments who
has not the strength even to realize that his agony has ceased.
Margaret heard the flight of monstrous birds, and they seemed to
whisper strange things on their passage. Oliver took her hand. He led
her steadily to a cross-road, and she did not know if they walked amid
rocks or tombs.

She heard the sound of a trumpet, and from all parts, strangely
appearing where before was nothing, a turbulent assembly surged about
her. That vast empty space was suddenly filled by shadowy forms, and
they swept along like the waves of the sea, crowding upon one another’s
heels. And it seemed that all the mighty dead appeared before her; and
she saw grim tyrants, and painted courtesans, and Roman emperors in
their purple, and sultans of the East. All those fierce evil women of
olden time passed by her side, and now it was Mona Lisa and now the
subtle daughter of Herodias. And Jezebel looked out upon her from
beneath her painted brows, and Cleopatra turned away a wan, lewd face;
and she saw the insatiable mouth and the wanton eyes of Messalina, and
Fustine was haggard with the eternal fires of lust. She saw cardinals
in their scarlet, and warriors in their steel, gay gentlemen in
periwigs, and ladies in powder and patch. And on a sudden, like leaves
by the wind, all these were driven before the silent throngs of the
oppressed; and they were innumerable as the sands of the sea. Their
thin faces were earthy with want and cavernous from disease, and their
eyes were dull with despair. They passed in their tattered motley, some
in the fantastic rags of the beggars of Albrecht Dürer and some in the
grey cerecloths of Le Nain; many wore the blouses and the caps of the
rabble in France, and many the dingy, smoke-grimed weeds of English
poor. And they surged onward like a riotous crowd in narrow streets
flying in terror before the mounted troops. It seemed as though all the
world were gathered there in strange confusion.

Then all again was void; and Margaret’s gaze was riveted upon a great,
ruined tree that stood in that waste place, alone, in ghastly
desolation; and though a dead thing, it seemed to suffer a more than
human pain. The lightning had torn it asunder, but the wind of
centuries had sought in vain to drag up its roots. The tortured
branches, bare of any twig, were like a Titan’s arms, convulsed with
intolerable anguish. And in a moment she grew sick with fear, for a
change came into the tree, and the tremulousness of life was in it; the
rough bark was changed into brutish flesh and the twisted branches into
human arms. It became a monstrous, goat-legged thing, more vast than
the creatures of nightmare. She saw the horns and the long beard, the
great hairy legs with their hoofs, and the man’s rapacious hands. The
face was horrible with lust and cruelty, and yet it was divine. It was
Pan, playing on his pipes, and the lecherous eyes caressed her with a
hideous tenderness. But even while she looked, as the mist of early
day, rising, discloses a fair country, the animal part of that ghoulish
creature seemed to fall away, and she saw a lovely youth, titanic but
sublime, leaning against a massive rock. He was more beautiful than the
Adam of Michelangelo who wakes into life at the call of the Almighty;
and, like him freshly created, he had the adorable languor of one who
feels still in his limbs the soft rain on the loose brown earth. Naked
and full of majesty he lay, the outcast son of the morning; and she
dared not look upon his face, for she knew it was impossible to bear
the undying pain that darkened it with ruthless shadows. Impelled by a
great curiosity, she sought to come nearer, but the vast figure seemed
strangely to dissolve into a cloud; and immediately she felt herself
again surrounded by a hurrying throng. Then came all legendary monsters
and foul beasts of a madman’s fancy; in the darkness she saw enormous
toads, with paws pressed to their flanks, and huge limping scarabs,
shelled creatures the like of which she had never seen, and noisome
brutes with horny scales and round crabs’ eyes, uncouth primeval
things, and winged serpents, and creeping animals begotten of the
slime. She heard shrill cries and peals of laughter and the terrifying
rattle of men at the point of death. Haggard women, dishevelled and
lewd, carried wine; and when they spilt it there were stains like the
stains of blood. And it seemed to Margaret that a fire burned in her
veins, and her soul fled from her body; but a new soul came in its
place, and suddenly she knew all that was obscene. She took part in
some festival of hideous lust, and the wickedness of the world was
patent to her eyes. She saw things so vile that she screamed in terror,
and she heard Oliver laugh in derision by her side. It was a scene of
indescribable horror, and she put her hands to her eyes so that she
might not see.

She felt Oliver Haddo take her hands. She would not let him drag them
away. Then she heard him speak.

“You need not be afraid.”

His voice was quite natural once more, and she realized with a start
that she was sitting quietly in the studio. She looked around her with
frightened eyes. Everything was exactly as it had been. The early night
of autumn was fallen, and the only light in the room came from the
fire. There was still that vague, acrid scent of the substance which
Haddo had burned.

“Shall I light the candles?” he said.

He struck a match and lit those which were on the piano. They threw a
strange light. Then Margaret suddenly remembered all that she had seen,
and she remembered that Haddo had stood by her side. Shame seized her,
intolerable shame, so that the colour, rising to her cheeks, seemed
actually to burn them. She hid her face in her hands and burst into
tears.

“Go away,” she said. “For God’s sake, go.”

He looked at her for a moment; and the smile came to his lips which
Susie had seen after his tussle with Arthur, when last he was in the
studio.

“When you want me you will find me in the Rue de Vaugiraud, number
209,” he said. “Knock at the second door on the left, on the third
floor.”

She did not answer. She could only think of her appalling shame.

“I’ll write it down for you in case you forget.”

He scribbled the address on a sheet of paper that he found on the
table. Margaret took no notice, but sobbed as though her heart would
break. Suddenly, looking up with a start, she saw that he was gone. She
had not heard him open the door or close it. She sank down on her knees
and prayed desperately, as though some terrible danger threatened her.

But when she heard Susie’s key in the door, Margaret sprang to her
feet. She stood with her back to the fireplace, her hands behind her,
in the attitude of a prisoner protesting his innocence. Susie was too
much annoyed to observe this agitation.

“Why on earth didn’t you come to tea?” she asked. “I couldn’t make out
what had become of you.”

“I had a dreadful headache,” answered Margaret, trying to control
herself.

Susie flung herself down wearily in a chair. Margaret forced herself to
speak.

“Had Nancy anything particular to say to you?” she asked.

“She never turned up,” answered Susie irritably. “I can’t understand
it. I waited till the train came in, but there was no sign of her. Then
I thought she might have hit upon that time by chance and was not
coming from England, so I walked about the station for half an hour.”

She went to the chimneypiece, on which had been left the telegram that
summoned her to the Gare du Nord, and read it again. She gave a little
cry of surprise.

“How stupid of me! I never noticed the postmark. It was sent from the
Rue Littré.”

This was less than ten minutes’ walk from the studio. Susie looked at
the message with perplexity.

“I wonder if someone has been playing a silly practical joke on me.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “But it’s too foolish. If I were a
suspicious woman,” she smiled, “I should think you had sent it yourself
to get me out of the way.”

The idea flashed through Margaret that Oliver Haddo was the author of
it. He might easily have seen Nancy’s name on the photograph during his
first visit to the studio. She had no time to think before she answered
lightly.

“If I wanted to get rid of you, I should have no hesitation in saying
so.”

“I suppose no one has been here?” asked Susie.

“No one.”

The lie slipped from Margaret’s lips before she had made up her mind to
tell it. Her heart gave a great beat against her chest. She felt
herself redden.

Susie got up to light a cigarette. She wished to rest her nerves. The
box was on the table and, as she helped herself, her eyes fell
carelessly on the address that Haddo had left. She picked it up and
read it aloud.

“Who on earth lives there?” she asked.

“I don’t know at all,” answered Margaret.

She braced herself for further questions, but Susie, without interest,
put down the sheet of paper and struck a match.

Margaret was ashamed. Her nature was singularly truthful, and it
troubled her extraordinarily that she had lied to her greatest friend.
Something stronger than herself seemed to impel her. She would have
given much to confess her two falsehoods, but had not the courage. She
could not bear that Susie’s implicit trust in her straightforwardness
should be destroyed; and the admission that Oliver Haddo had been there
would entail a further acknowledgment of the nameless horrors she had
witnessed. Susie would think her mad.

There was a knock at the door; and Margaret, her nerves shattered by
all that she had endured, could hardly restrain a cry of terror. She
feared that Haddo had returned. But it was Arthur Burdon. She greeted
him with a passionate relief that was unusual, for she was by nature a
woman of great self-possession. She felt excessively weak, physically
exhausted as though she had gone a long journey, and her mind was
highly wrought. Margaret remembered that her state had been the same on
her first arrival in Paris, when, in her eagerness to get a preliminary
glimpse of its marvels, she had hurried till her bones ached from one
celebrated monument to another. They began to speak of trivial things.
Margaret tried to join calmly in the conversation, but her voice
sounded unnatural, and she fancied that more than once Arthur gave her
a curious look. At length she could control herself no longer and burst
into a sudden flood of tears. In a moment, uncomprehending but
affectionate, he caught her in his arms. He asked tenderly what was the
matter. He sought to comfort her. She wept ungovernably, clinging to
him for protection.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she gasped. “I don’t know what is the matter with
me. I’m only nervous and frightened.”

Arthur had an idea that women were often afflicted with what he
described by the old-fashioned name of vapours, and was not disposed to
pay much attention to this vehement distress. He soothed her as he
would have done a child.

“Oh, take care of me, Arthur. I’m so afraid that some dreadful thing
will happen to me. I want all your strength. Promise that you’ll never
forsake me.”

He laughed, as he kissed away her tears, and she tried to smile.

“Why can’t we be married at once?” she asked. “I don’t want to wait any
longer. I shan’t feel safe till I’m actually your wife.”

He reasoned with her very gently. After all, they were to be married in
a few weeks. They could not easily hasten matters, for their house was
not yet ready, and she needed time to get her clothes. The date had
been fixed by her. She listened sullenly to his words. Their wisdom was
plain, and she did not see how she could possibly insist. Even if she
told him all that had passed he would not believe her; he would think
she was suffering from some trick of her morbid fancy.

“If anything happens to me,” she answered, with the dark, anguished
eyes of a hunted beast, “you will be to blame.”

“I promise you that nothing will happen.”




Chapter IX


Margaret’s night was disturbed, and next day she was unable to go about
her work with her usual tranquillity. She tried to reason herself into
a natural explanation of the events that had happened. The telegram
that Susie had received pointed to a definite scheme on Haddo’s part,
and suggested that his sudden illness was but a device to get into the
studio. Once there, he had used her natural sympathy as a means whereby
to exercise his hypnotic power, and all she had seen was merely the
creation of his own libidinous fancy. But though she sought to persuade
herself that, in playing a vile trick on her, he had taken a shameful
advantage of her pity, she could not look upon him with anger. Her
contempt for him, her utter loathing, were alloyed with a feeling that
aroused in her horror and dismay. She could not get the man out of her
thoughts. All that he had said, all that she had seen, seemed, as
though it possessed a power of material growth, unaccountably to absorb
her. It was as if a rank weed were planted in her heart and slid long
poisonous tentacles down every artery, so that each part of her body
was enmeshed. Work could not distract her, conversation, exercise, art,
left her listless; and between her and all the actions of life stood
the flamboyant, bulky form of Oliver Haddo. She was terrified of him
now as never before, but curiously had no longer the physical repulsion
which hitherto had mastered all other feelings. Although she repeated
to herself that she wanted never to see him again, Margaret could
scarcely resist an overwhelming desire to go to him. Her will had been
taken from her, and she was an automaton. She struggled, like a bird in
the fowler’s net with useless beating of the wings; but at the bottom
of her heart she was dimly conscious that she did not want to resist.
If he had given her that address, it was because he knew she would use
it. She did not know why she wanted to go to him; she had nothing to
say to him; she knew only that it was necessary to go. But a few days
before she had seen the _Phèdre_ of Racine, and she felt on a sudden
all the torments that wrung the heart of that unhappy queen; she, too,
struggled aimlessly to escape from the poison that the immortal gods
poured in her veins. She asked herself frantically whether a spell had
been cast over her, for now she was willing to believe that Haddo’s
power was all-embracing. Margaret knew that if she yielded to the
horrible temptation nothing could save her from destruction. She would
have cried for help to Arthur or to Susie, but something, she knew not
what, prevented her. At length, driven almost to distraction, she
thought that Dr Porhoët might do something for her. He, at least, would
understand her misery. There seemed not a moment to lose, and she
hastened to his house. They told her he was out. Her heart sank, for it
seemed that her last hope was gone. She was like a person drowning, who
clings to a rock; and the waves dash against him, and beat upon his
bleeding hands with a malice all too human, as if to tear them from
their refuge.

Instead of going to the sketch-class, which was held at six in the
evening, she hurried to the address that Oliver Haddo had given her.
She went along the crowded street stealthily, as though afraid that
someone would see her, and her heart was in a turmoil. She desired with
all her might not to go, and sought vehemently to prevent herself, and
yet withal she went. She ran up the stairs and knocked at the door. She
remembered his directions distinctly. In a moment Oliver Haddo stood
before her. He did not seem astonished that she was there. As she stood
on the landing, it occurred to her suddenly that she had no reason to
offer for her visit, but his words saved her from any need for
explanation.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

Haddo led her into a sitting-room. He had an apartment in a _maison
meublée_, and heavy hangings, the solid furniture of that sort of house
in Paris, was unexpected in connexion with him. The surroundings were
so commonplace that they seemed to emphasise his singularity. There was
a peculiar lack of comfort, which suggested that he was indifferent to
material things. The room was large, but so cumbered that it gave a
cramped impression. Haddo dwelt there as if he were apart from any
habitation that might be his. He moved cautiously among the heavy
furniture, and his great obesity was somehow more remarkable. There was
the acrid perfume which Margaret remembered a few days before in her
vision of an Eastern city.

Asking her to sit down, he began to talk as if they were old
acquaintances between whom nothing of moment had occurred. At last she
took her courage in both hands.

“Why did you make me come here?” she asked suddenly,

“You give me credit now for very marvellous powers,” he smiled.

“You knew I should come.”

“I knew.”

“What have I done to you that you should make me so unhappy? I want you
to leave me alone.”

“I shall not prevent you from going out if you choose to go. No harm
has come to you. The door is open.”

Her heart beat quickly, painfully almost, and she remained silent. She
knew that she did not want to go. There was something that drew her
strangely to him, and she was ceasing to resist. A strange feeling
began to take hold of her, creeping stealthily through her limbs; and
she was terrified, but unaccountably elated.

He began to talk with that low voice of his that thrilled her with a
curious magic. He spoke not of pictures now, nor of books, but of life.
He told her of strange Eastern places where no infidel had been, and
her sensitive fancy was aflame with the honeyed fervour of his phrase.
He spoke of the dawn upon sleeping desolate cities, and the moonlit
nights of the desert, of the sunsets with their splendour, and of the
crowded streets at noon. The beauty of the East rose before her. He
told her of many-coloured webs and of silken carpets, the glittering
steel of armour damascened, and of barbaric, priceless gems. The
splendour of the East blinded her eyes. He spoke of frankincense and
myrrh and aloes, of heavy perfumes of the scent-merchants, and drowsy
odours of the Syrian gardens. The fragrance of the East filled her
nostrils. And all these things were transformed by the power of his
words till life itself seemed offered to her, a life of infinite
vivacity, a life of freedom, a life of supernatural knowledge. It
seemed to her that a comparison was drawn for her attention between the
narrow round which awaited her as Arthur’s wife and this fair, full
existence. She shuddered to think of the dull house in Harley Street
and the insignificance of its humdrum duties. But it was possible for
her also to enjoy the wonder of the world. Her soul yearned for a
beauty that the commonalty of men did not know. And what devil
suggested, a warp as it were in the woof of Oliver’s speech, that her
exquisite loveliness gave her the right to devote herself to the great
art of living? She felt a sudden desire for perilous adventures. As
though fire passed through her, she sprang to her feet and stood with
panting bosom, her flashing eyes bright with the multi-coloured
pictures that his magic presented.

Oliver Haddo stood too, and they faced one another. Then, on a sudden,
she knew what the passion was that consumed her. With a quick movement,
his eyes more than ever strangely staring, he took her in his arms, and
he kissed her lips. She surrendered herself to him voluptuously. Her
whole body burned with the ecstasy of his embrace.

“I think I love you,” she said, hoarsely.

She looked at him. She did not feel ashamed.

“Now you must go,” he said.

He opened the door, and, without another word, she went. She walked
through the streets as if nothing at all had happened. She felt neither
remorse nor revulsion.

Then Margaret felt every day that uncontrollable desire to go to him;
and, though she tried to persuade herself not to yield, she knew that
her effort was only a pretence: she did not want anything to prevent
her. When it seemed that some accident would do so, she could scarcely
control her irritation. There was always that violent hunger of the
soul which called her to him, and the only happy hours she had were
those spent in his company. Day after day she felt that complete
ecstasy when he took her in his huge arms, and kissed her with his
heavy, sensual lips. But the ecstasy was extraordinarily mingled with
loathing, and her physical attraction was allied with physical
abhorrence.

Yet when he looked at her with those pale blue eyes, and threw into his
voice those troubling accents, she forgot everything. He spoke of
unhallowed things. Sometimes, as it were, he lifted a corner of the
veil, and she caught a glimpse of terrible secrets. She understood how
men had bartered their souls for infinite knowledge. She seemed to
stand upon a pinnacle of the temple, and spiritual kingdoms of
darkness, principalities of the unknown, were spread before her eyes to
lure her to destruction. But of Haddo himself she learned nothing. She
did not know if he loved her. She did not know if he had ever loved. He
appeared to stand apart from human kind. Margaret discovered by chance
that his mother lived, but he would not speak of her.

“Some day you shall see her,” he said.

“When?”

“Very soon.”

Meanwhile her life proceeded with all outward regularity. She found it
easy to deceive her friends, because it occurred to neither that her
frequent absence was not due to the plausible reasons she gave. The
lies which at first seemed intolerable now tripped glibly off her
tongue. But though they were so natural, she was seized often with a
panic of fear lest they should be discovered; and sometimes, suffering
agonies of remorse, she would lie in bed at night and think with utter
shame of the way she was using Arthur. But things had gone too far now,
and she must let them take their course. She scarcely knew why her
feelings towards him had so completely changed. Oliver Haddo had
scarcely mentioned his name and yet had poisoned her mind. The
comparison between the two was to Arthur’s disadvantage. She thought
him a little dull now, and his commonplace way of looking at life
contrasted with Haddo’s fascinating boldness. She reproached Arthur in
her heart because he had never understood what was in her. He narrowed
her mind. And gradually she began to hate him because her debt of
gratitude was so great. It seemed unfair that he should have done so
much for her. He forced her to marry him by his beneficence. Yet
Margaret continued to discuss with him the arrangement of their house
in Harley Street. It had been her wish to furnish the drawing-room in
the style of Louis XV; and together they made long excursions to buy
chairs or old pieces of silk with which to cover them. Everything
should be perfect in its kind. The date of their marriage was fixed,
and all the details were settled. Arthur was ridiculously happy.
Margaret made no sign. She did not think of the future, and she spoke
of it only to ward off suspicion. She was inwardly convinced now that
the marriage would never take place, but what was to prevent it she did
not know. She watched Susie and Arthur cunningly. But though she
watched in order to conceal her own secret, it was another’s that she
discovered. Suddenly Margaret became aware that Susie was deeply in
love with Arthur Burdon. The discovery was so astounding that at first
it seemed absurd.

“You’ve never done that caricature of Arthur for me that you promised,”
she said, suddenly.

“I’ve tried, but he doesn’t lend himself to it,” laughed Susie.

“With that long nose and the gaunt figure I should have thought you
could make something screamingly funny.”

“How oddly you talk of him! Somehow I can only see his beautiful, kind
eyes and his tender mouth. I would as soon do a caricature of him as
write a parody on a poem I loved.”

Margaret took the portfolio in which Susie kept her sketches. She
caught the look of alarm that crossed her friend’s face, but Susie had
not the courage to prevent her from looking. She turned the drawings
carelessly and presently came to a sheet upon which, in a more or less
finished state, were half a dozen heads of Arthur. Pretending not to
see it, she went on to the end. When she closed the portfolio Susie
gave a sigh of relief.

“I wish you worked harder,” said Margaret, as she put the sketches
down. “I wonder you don’t do a head of Arthur as you can’t do a
caricature.”

“My dear, you mustn’t expect everyone to take such an overpowering
interest in that young man as you do.”

The answer added a last certainty to Margaret’s suspicion. She told
herself bitterly that Susie was no less a liar than she. Next day, when
the other was out, Margaret looked through the portfolio once more, but
the sketches of Arthur had disappeared. She was seized on a sudden with
anger because Susie dared to love the man who loved her.

The web in which Oliver Haddo enmeshed her was woven with skilful
intricacy. He took each part of her character separately and fortified
with consummate art his influence over her. There was something satanic
in his deliberation, yet in actual time it was almost incredible that
he could have changed the old abhorrence with which she regarded him
into that hungry passion. Margaret could not now realize her life apart
from his. At length he thought the time was ripe for the final step.

“It may interest you to know that I’m leaving Paris on Thursday,” he
said casually, one afternoon.

She started to her feet and stared at him with bewildered eyes.

“But what is to become of me?”

“You will marry the excellent Mr Burdon.”

“You know I cannot live without you. How can you be so cruel?”

“Then the only alternative is that you should accompany me.”

Her blood ran cold, and her heart seemed pressed in an iron vice.

“What do you mean?”

“There is no need to be agitated. I am making you an eminently
desirable offer of marriage.”

She sank helplessly into her chair. Because she had refused to think of
the future, it had never struck her that the time must come when it
would be necessary to leave Haddo or to throw in her lot with his
definitely. She was seized with revulsion. Margaret realized that,
though an odious attraction bound her to the man, she loathed and
feared him. The scales fell from her eyes. She remembered on a sudden
Arthur’s great love and all that he had done for her sake. She hated
herself. Like a bird at its last gasp beating frantically against the
bars of a cage, Margaret made a desperate effort to regain her freedom.
She sprang up.

“Let me go from here. I wish I’d never seen you. I don’t know what
you’ve done with me.”

“Go by all means if you choose,” he answered.

He opened the door, so that she might see he used no compulsion, and
stood lazily at the threshold, with a hateful smile on his face. There
was something terrible in his excessive bulk. Rolls of fat descended
from his chin and concealed his neck. His cheeks were huge, and the
lack of beard added to the hideous nakedness of his face. Margaret
stopped as she passed him, horribly repelled yet horribly fascinated.
She had an immense desire that he should take her again in his arms and
press her lips with that red voluptuous mouth. It was as though fiends
of hell were taking revenge upon her loveliness by inspiring in her a
passion for this monstrous creature. She trembled with the intensity of
her desire. His eyes were hard and cruel.

“Go,” he said.

She bent her head and fled from before him. To get home she passed
through the gardens of the Luxembourg, but her legs failed her, and in
exhaustion she sank upon a bench. The day was sultry. She tried to
collect herself. Margaret knew well the part in which she sat, for in
the enthusiastic days that seemed so long gone by she was accustomed to
come there for the sake of a certain tree upon which her eyes now
rested. It had all the slim delicacy of a Japanese print. The leaves
were slender and fragile, half gold with autumn, half green, but so
tenuous that the dark branches made a pattern of subtle beauty against
the sky. The hand of a draughtsman could not have fashioned it with a
more excellent skill. But now Margaret could take no pleasure in its
grace. She felt a heartrending pang to think that thenceforward the
consummate things of art would have no meaning for her. She had seen
Arthur the evening before, and remembered with an agony of shame the
lies to which she had been forced in order to explain why she could not
see him till late that day. He had proposed that they should go to
Versailles, and was bitterly disappointed when she told him they could
not, as usual on Sundays, spend the whole day together. He accepted her
excuse that she had to visit a sick friend. It would not have been so
intolerable if he had suspected her of deceit, and his reproaches would
have hardened her heart. It was his entire confidence which was so
difficult to bear.

“Oh, if I could only make a clean breast of it all,” she cried.

The bell of Saint Sulpice was ringing for vespers. Margaret walked
slowly to the church, and sat down in the seats reserved in the
transept for the needy. She hoped that the music she must hear there
would rest her soul, and perhaps she might be able to pray. Of late she
had not dared. There was a pleasant darkness in the place, and its
large simplicity was soothing. In her exhaustion, she watched
listlessly the people go to and fro. Behind her was a priest in the
confessional. A little peasant girl, in a Breton _coiffe_, perhaps a
maid-servant lately come from her native village to the great capital,
passed in and knelt down. Margaret could hear her muttered words, and
at intervals the deep voice of the priest. In three minutes she tripped
neatly away. She looked so fresh in her plain black dress, so healthy
and innocent, that Margaret could not restrain a sob of envy. The child
had so little to confess, a few puny errors which must excite a smile
on the lips of the gentle priest, and her candid spirit was like snow.
Margaret would have given anything to kneel down and whisper in those
passionless ears all that she suffered, but the priest’s faith and hers
were not the same. They spoke a different tongue, not of the lips only
but of the soul, and he would not listen to the words of an heretic.

A long procession of seminarists came in from the college which is
under the shadow of that great church, two by two, in black cassocks
and short white surplices. Many were tonsured already. Some were quite
young. Margaret watched their faces, wondering if they were tormented
by such agony as she. But they had a living faith to sustain them, and
if some, as was plain, were narrow and obtuse, they had at least a
fixed rule which prevented them from swerving into treacherous byways.
One of two had a wan ascetic look, such as the saints may have had when
the terror of life was known to them only in the imaginings of the
cloister. The canons of the church followed in their more gorgeous
vestments, and finally the officiating clergy.

The music was beautiful. There was about it a staid, sad dignity; and
it seemed to Margaret fit thus to adore God. But it did not move her.
She could not understand the words that the priests chanted; their
gestures, their movements to and fro, were strange to her. For her that
stately service had no meaning. And with a great cry in her heart she
said that God had forsaken her. She was alone in an alien land. Evil
was all about her, and in those ceremonies she could find no comfort.
What could she expect when the God of her fathers left her to her fate?
So that she might not weep in front of all those people, Margaret with
down-turned face walked to the door. She felt utterly lost. As she
walked along the interminable street that led to her own house, she was
shaken with sobs.

“God has forsaken me,” she repeated. “God has foresaken me.”

Next day, her eyes red with weeping, she dragged herself to Haddo’s
door. When he opened it, she went in without a word. She sat down, and
he watched her in silence.

“I am willing to marry you whenever you choose,” she said at last.

“I have made all the necessary arrangements.”

“You have spoken to me of your mother. Will you take me to her at
once.”

The shadow of a smile crossed his lips.

“If you wish it.”

Haddo told her that they could be married before the Consul early
enough on the Thursday morning to catch a train for England. She left
everything in his hands.

“I’m desperately unhappy,” she said dully.

Oliver laid his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

“Go home, and you will forget your tears. I command you to be happy.”

Then it seemed that the bitter struggle between the good and the evil
in her was done, and the evil had conquered. She felt on a sudden
curiously elated. It seemed no longer to matter that she deceived her
faithful friends. She gave a bitter laugh, as she thought how easy it
was to hoodwink them.

Wednesday happened to be Arthur’s birthday, and he asked her to dine
with him alone.

“We’ll do ourselves proud, and hang the expense,” he said.

They had arranged to eat at a fashionable restaurant on the other side
of the river, and soon after seven he fetched her. Margaret was dressed
with exceeding care. She stood in the middle of the room, waiting for
Arthur’s arrival, and surveyed herself in the glass. Susie thought she
had never been more beautiful.

“I think you’ve grown more pleasing to look upon than you ever were,”
she said. “I don’t know what it is that has come over you of late, but
there’s a depth in your eyes that is quite new. It gives you an odd
mysteriousness which is very attractive.”

Knowing Susie’s love for Arthur, she wondered whether her friend was
not heartbroken as she compared her own plainness with the radiant
beauty that was before her. Arthur came in, and Margaret did not move.
He stopped at the door to look at her. Their eyes met. His heart beat
quickly, and yet he was seized with awe. His good fortune was too great
to bear, when he thought that this priceless treasure was his. He could
have knelt down and worshipped as though a goddess of old Greece stood
before him. And to him also her eyes had changed. They had acquired a
burning passion which disturbed and yet enchanted him. It seemed that
the lovely girl was changed already into a lovely woman. An enigmatic
smile came to her lips.

“Are you pleased?” she asked.

Arthur came forward and Margaret put her hands on his shoulders.

“You have scent on,” he said.

He was surprised, for she had never used it before. It was a faint,
almost acrid perfume that he did not know. It reminded him vaguely of
those odours which he remembered in his childhood in the East. It was
remote and strange. It gave Margaret a new and troubling charm. There
had ever been something cold in her statuesque beauty, but this touch
somehow curiously emphasized her sex. Arthur’s lips twitched, and his
gaunt face grew pale with passion. His emotion was so great that it was
nearly pain. He was puzzled, for her eyes expressed things that he had
never seen in them before.

“Why don’t you kiss me?” she said.

She did not see Susie, but knew that a quick look of anguish crossed
her face. Margaret drew Arthur towards her. His hands began to tremble.
He had never ventured to express the passion that consumed him, and
when he kissed her it was with a restraint that was almost brotherly.
Now their lips met. Forgetting that anyone else was in the room, he
flung his arms around Margaret. She had never kissed him in that way
before, and the rapture was intolerable. Her lips were like living
fire. He could not take his own away. He forgot everything. All his
strength, all his self-control, deserted him. It crossed his mind that
at this moment he would willingly die. But the delight of it was so
great that he could scarcely withhold a cry of agony. At length Susie’s
voice reminded him of the world.

“You’d far better go out to dinner instead of behaving like a pair of
complete idiots.”

She tried to make her tone as flippant as the words, but her voice was
cut by a pang of agony. With a little laugh, Margaret withdrew from
Arthur’s embrace and lightly looked at her friend. Susie’s brave smile
died away as she caught this glance, for there was in it a malicious
hatred that startled her. It was so unexpected that she was terrified.
What had she done? She was afraid, dreadfully afraid, that Margaret had
guessed her secret. Arthur stood as if his senses had left him,
quivering still with the extremity of passion.

“Susie says we must go,” smiled Margaret.

He could not speak. He could not regain the conventional manner of
polite society. Very pale, like a man suddenly awaked from deep sleep,
he went out at Margaret’s side. They walked along the passage. Though
the door was closed behind them and they were out of earshot, Margaret
seemed not withstanding to hear Susie’s passionate sobbing. It gave her
a horrible delight.

The tavern to which they went was on the Boulevard des Italiens, and at
this date the most frequented in Paris. It was crowded, but Arthur had
reserved a table in the middle of the room. Her radiant loveliness made
people stare at Margaret as she passed, and her consciousness of the
admiration she excited increased her beauty. She was satisfied that
amid that throng of the best-dressed women in the world she had cause
to envy no one. The gaiety was charming. Shaded lights gave an opulent
cosiness to the scene, and there were flowers everywhere. Innumerable
mirrors reflected women of the world, admirably gowned, actresses of
renown, and fashionable courtesans. The noise was very great. A
Hungarian band played in a distant corner, but the music was drowned by
the loud talking of excited men and the boisterous laughter of women.
It was plain that people had come to spend their money with a lavish
hand. The vivacious crowd was given over with all its heart to the
pleasure of the fleeting moment. Everyone had put aside grave thoughts
and sorrow.

Margaret had never been in better spirits. The champagne went quickly
to her head, and she talked all manner of charming nonsense. Arthur was
enchanted. He was very proud, very pleased, and very happy. They talked
of all the things they would do when they were married. They talked of
the places they must go to, of their home and of the beautiful things
with which they would fill it. Margaret’s animation was extraordinary.
Arthur was amused at her delight with the brightness of the place, with
the good things they ate, and with the wine. Her laughter was like a
rippling brook. Everything tended to take him out of his usual reserve.
Life was very pleasing, at that moment, and he felt singularly joyful.

“Let us drink to the happiness of our life,” he said.

They touched glasses. He could not take his eyes away from her.

“You’re simply wonderful tonight,” he said. “I’m almost afraid of my
good fortune.”

“What is there to be afraid of?” she cried.

“I should like to lose something I valued in order to propitiate the
fates. I am too happy now. Everything goes too well with me.”

She gave a soft, low laugh and stretched out her hand on the table. No
sculptor could have modelled its exquisite delicacy. She wore only one
ring, a large emerald which Arthur had given her on their engagement.
He could not resist taking her hand.

“Would you like to go on anywhere?” he said, when they had finished
dinner and were drinking their coffee.

“No, let us stay here. I must go to bed early, as I have a tiring day
before me tomorrow.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Nothing of any importance,” she laughed.

Presently the diners began to go in little groups, and Margaret
suggested that they should saunter towards the Madeleine. The night was
fine, but rather cold, and the broad avenue was crowded. Margaret
watched the people. It was no less amusing than a play. In a little
while, they took a cab and drove through the streets, silent already,
that led to the quarter of the Montparnasse. They sat in silence, and
Margaret nestled close to Arthur. He put his arm around her waist. In
the shut cab that faint, oriental odour rose again to his nostrils, and
his head reeled as it had before dinner.

“You’ve made me very happy, Margaret,” he whispered. “I feel that,
however long I live, I shall never have a happier day than this.”

“Do you love me very much?” she asked, lightly.

He did not answer, but took her face in his hands and kissed her
passionately. They arrived at Margaret’s house, and she tripped up to
the door. She held out her hand to him, smiling.

“Goodnight.”

“It’s dreadful to think that I must spend a dozen hours without seeing
you. When may I come?”

“Not in the morning, because I shall be too busy. Come at twelve.”

She remembered that her train started exactly at that hour. The door
was opened, and with a little wave of the hand she disappeared.




Chapter X


Susie stared without comprehension at the note that announced
Margaret’s marriage. It was a _petit bleu_ sent off from the Gare du
Nord, and ran as follows:

When you receive this I shall be on my way to London. I was married to
Oliver Haddo this morning. I love him as I never loved Arthur. I have
acted in this manner because I thought I had gone too far with Arthur
to make an explanation possible. Please tell him.


MARGARET


Susie was filled with dismay. She did not know what to do nor what to
think. There was a knock at the door, and she knew it must be Arthur,
for he was expected at midday. She decided quickly that it was
impossible to break the news to him then and there. It was needful
first to find out all manner of things, and besides, it was incredible.
Making up her mind, she opened the door.

“Oh, I’m so sorry Margaret isn’t here,” she said. “A friend of hers is
ill and sent for her suddenly.”

“What a bore!” answered Arthur. “Mrs Bloomfield as usual, I suppose?”

“Oh, you know she’s been ill?”

“Margaret has spent nearly every afternoon with her for some days.”

Susie did not answer. This was the first she had heard of Mrs
Bloomfield’s illness, and it was news that Margaret was in the habit of
visiting her. But her chief object at this moment was to get rid of
Arthur.

“Won’t you come back at five o’clock?” she said.

“But, look here, why shouldn’t we lunch together, you and I?”

“I’m very sorry, but I’m expecting somebody in.”

“Oh, all right. Then I’ll come back at five.”

He nodded and went out. Susie read the brief note once more, and asked
herself if it could possibly be true. The callousness of it was
appalling. She went to Margaret’s room and saw that everything was in
its place. It did not look as if the owner had gone on a journey. But
then she noticed that a number of letters had been destroyed. She
opened a drawer and found that Margaret’s trinkets were gone. An idea
struck her. Margaret had bought lately a number of clothes, and these
she had insisted should be sent to her dressmaker, saying that it was
needless to cumber their little apartment with them. They could stay
there till she returned to England a few weeks later for her marriage,
and it would be simpler to despatch them all from one place. Susie went
out. At the door it occurred to her to ask the _concierge_ if she knew
where Margaret had gone that morning.

“_Parfaitement, Mademoiselle_,” answered the old woman. “I heard her
tell the coachman to go to the British Consulate.”

The last doubt was leaving Susie. She went to the dressmaker and there
discovered that by Margaret’s order the boxes containing her things had
gone on the previous day to the luggage office of the Gare du Nord.

“I hope you didn’t let them go till your bill was paid,” said Susie
lightly, as though in jest.

The dressmaker laughed.

“Mademoiselle paid for everything two or three days ago.”

With indignation, Susie realised that Margaret had not only taken away
the trousseau bought for her marriage with Arthur; but, since she was
herself penniless, had paid for it with the money which he had
generously given her. Susie drove then to Mrs Bloomfield, who at once
reproached her for not coming to see her.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been exceedingly busy, and I knew that Margaret
was looking after you.”

“I’ve not seen Margaret for three weeks,” said the invalid.

“Haven’t you? I thought she dropped in quite often.”

Susie spoke as though the matter were of no importance. She asked
herself now where Margaret could have spent those afternoons. By a
great effort she forced herself to speak of casual things with the
garrulous old lady long enough to make her visit seem natural. On
leaving her, she went to the Consulate, and her last doubt was
dissipated. Then nothing remained but to go home and wait for Arthur.
Her first impulse had been to see Dr Porhoët and ask for his advice;
but, even if he offered to come back with her to the studio, his
presence would be useless. She must see Arthur by himself. Her heart
was wrung as she thought of the man’s agony when he knew the truth. She
had confessed to herself long before that she loved him passionately,
and it seemed intolerable that she of all persons must bear him this
great blow.

She sat in the studio, counting the minutes, and thought with a bitter
smile that his eagerness to see Margaret would make him punctual. She
had eaten nothing since the _petit déjeuner_ of the morning, and she
was faint with hunger. But she had not the heart to make herself tea.
At last he came. He entered joyfully and looked around.

“Is Margaret not here yet?” he asked, with surprise.

“Won’t you sit down?”

He did not notice that her voice was strange, nor that she kept her
eyes averted.

“How lazy you are,” he cried. “You haven’t got the tea.”

“Mr Burdon, I have something to say to you. It will cause you very
great pain.”

He observed now the hoarseness of her tone. He sprang to his feet, and
a thousand fancies flashed across his brain. Something horrible had
happened to Margaret. She was ill. His terror was so great that he
could not speak. He put out his hands as does a blind man. Susie had to
make an effort to go on. But she could not. Her voice was choked, and
she began to cry. Arthur trembled as though he were seized with ague.
She gave him the letter.

“What does it mean?”

He looked at her vacantly. Then she told him all that she had done that
day and the places to which she had been.

“When you thought she was spending every afternoon with Mrs Bloomfield,
she was with that man. She made all the arrangements with the utmost
care. It was quite premeditated.”

Arthur sat down and leaned his head on his hand. He turned his back to
her, so that she should not see his face. They remained in perfect
silence. And it was so terrible that Susie began to cry quietly. She
knew that the man she loved was suffering an agony greater than the
agony of death, and she could not help him. Rage flared up in her
heart, and hatred for Margaret.

“Oh, it’s infamous!” she cried suddenly. “She’s lied to you, she’s been
odiously deceitful. She must be vile and heartless. She must be rotten
to the very soul.”

He turned round sharply, and his voice was hard.

“I forbid you to say anything against her.”

Susie gave a little gasp. He had never spoken to her before in anger.
She flashed out bitterly.

“Can you love her still, when she’s shown herself capable of such vile
treachery? For nearly a month this man must have been making love to
her, and she’s listened to all we said of him. She’s pretended to hate
the sight of him, I’ve seen her cut him in the street. She’s gone on
with all the preparations for your marriage. She must have lived in a
world of lies, and you never suspected anything because you had an
unalterable belief in her love and truthfulness. She owes everything to
you. For four years she’s lived on your charity. She was only able to
be here because you gave her money to carry out a foolish whim, and the
very clothes on her back were paid for by you.”

“I can’t help it if she didn’t love me,” he cried desperately.

“You know just as well as I do that she pretended to love you. Oh,
she’s behaved shamefully. There can be no excuse for her.”

He looked at Susie with haggard, miserable eyes.

“How can you be so cruel? For God’s sake don’t make it harder.”

There was an indescribable agony in his voice. And as if his own words
of pain overcame the last barrier of his self-control, he broke down.
He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. Susie was horribly
conscience-stricken.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to say such hateful
things. I didn’t mean to be unkind. I ought to have remembered how
passionately you love her.”

It was very painful to see the effort he made to regain his
self-command. Susie suffered as much as he did. Her impulse was to
throw herself on her knees, and kiss his hands, and comfort him; but
she knew that he was interested in her only because she was Margaret’s
friend. At last he got up and, taking his pipe from his pocket, filled
it silently. She was terrified at the look on his face. The first time
she had ever seen him, Susie wondered at the possibility of
self-torture which was in that rough-hewn countenance; but she had
never dreamed that it could express such unutterable suffering. Its
lines were suddenly changed, and it was terrible to look upon.

“I can’t believe it’s true,” he muttered. “I can’t believe it.”

There was a knock at the door, and Arthur gave a startled cry.

“Perhaps she’s come back.”

He opened it hurriedly, his face suddenly lit up by expectation; but it
was Dr Porhoët.

“How do you do?” said the Frenchman. “What is happening?”

He looked round and caught the dismay that was on the faces of Arthur
and Susie.

“Where is Miss Margaret? I thought you must be giving a party.”

There was something in his manner that made Susie ask why.

“I received a telegram from Mr Haddo this morning.”

He took it from his pocket and handed it to Susie. She read it and
passed it to Arthur. It said:

Come to the studio at five. High jinks.


Oliver Haddo


“Margaret was married to Mr Haddo this morning,” said Arthur, quietly.
“I understand they have gone to England.”

Susie quickly told the doctor the few facts they knew. He was as
surprised, as distressed, as they.

“But what is the explanation of it all?” he asked.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders wearily.

“She cared for Haddo more than she cared for me, I suppose. It is
natural enough that she should go away in this fashion rather than
offer explanations. I suppose she wanted to save herself a scene she
thought might be rather painful.”

“When did you see her last?”

“We spent yesterday evening together.”

“And did she not show in any way that she contemplated such a step?”

Arthur shook his head.

“You had no quarrel?”

“We’ve never quarrelled. She was in the best of spirits. I’ve never
seen her more gay. She talked the whole time of our house in London,
and of the places we must visit when we were married.”

Another contraction of pain passed over his face as he remembered that
she had been more affectionate than she had ever been before. The fire
of her kisses still burnt upon his lips. He had spent a night of almost
sleepless ecstasy because he had been certain for the first time that
the passion which consumed him burnt in her heart too. Words were
dragged out of him against his will.

“Oh, I’m sure she loved me.”

Meanwhile Susie’s eyes were fixed on Haddo’s cruel telegram. She seemed
to hear his mocking laughter.

“Margaret loathed Oliver Haddo with a hatred that was almost unnatural.
It was a physical repulsion like that which people sometimes have for
certain animals. What can have happened to change it into so great a
love that it has made her capable of such villainous acts?”

“We mustn’t be unfair to him,” said Arthur. “He put our backs up, and
we were probably unjust. He has done some very remarkable things in his
day, and he’s no fool. It’s possible that some people wouldn’t mind the
eccentricities which irritated us. He’s certainly of very good family
and he’s rich. In many ways it’s an excellent match for Margaret.”

He was trying with all his might to find excuses for her. It would not
make her treachery so intolerable if he could persuade himself that
Haddo had qualities which might explain her infatuation. But as his
enemy stood before his fancy, monstrously obese, vulgar, and
overbearing, a shudder passed through him. The thought of Margaret in
that man’s arms tortured him as though his flesh were torn with iron
hooks.

“Perhaps it’s not true. Perhaps she’ll return,” he cried.

“Would you take her back if she came to you?” asked Susie.

“Do you think anything she can do has the power to make me love her
less? There must be reasons of which we know nothing that caused her to
do all she has done. I daresay it was inevitable from the beginning.”

Dr Porhoët got up and walked across the room.

“If a woman had done me such an injury that I wanted to take some
horrible vengeance, I think I could devise nothing more subtly cruel
than to let her be married to Oliver Haddo.”

“Ah, poor thing, poor thing!” said Arthur. “If I could only suppose she
would be happy! The future terrifies me.”

“I wonder if she knew that Haddo had sent that telegram,” said Susie.

“What can it matter?”

She turned to Arthur gravely.

“Do you remember that day, in this studio, when he kicked Margaret’s
dog, and you thrashed him? Well, afterwards, when he thought no one saw
him, I happened to catch sight of his face. I never saw in my life such
malignant hatred. It was the face of a fiend of wickedness. And when he
tried to excuse himself, there was a cruel gleam in his eyes which
terrified me. I warned you; I told you that he had made up his mind to
revenge himself, but you laughed at me. And then he seemed to go out of
our lives and I thought no more about it. I wonder why he sent Dr
Porhoët here today. He must have known that the doctor would hear of
his humiliation, and he may have wished that he should be present at
his triumph. I think that very moment he made up his mind to be even
with you, and he devised this odious scheme.”

“How could he know that it was possible to carry out such a horrible
thing?” said Arthur.

“I wonder if Miss Boyd is right,” murmured the doctor. “After all, if
you come to think of it, he must have thought that he couldn’t hurt you
more. The whole thing is fiendish. He took away from you all your
happiness. He must have known that you wanted nothing in the world more
than to make Margaret your wife, and he has not only prevented that,
but he has married her himself. And he can only have done it by
poisoning her mind, by warping her very character. Her soul must be
horribly besmirched; he must have entirely changed her personality.”

“Ah, I feel that,” cried Arthur. “If Margaret has broken her word to
me, if she’s gone to him so callously, it’s because it’s not the
Margaret I know. Some devil must have taken possession of her body.”

“You use a figure of speech. I wonder if it can possibly be a reality.”

Arthur and Dr Porhoët looked at Susie with astonishment.

“I can’t believe that Margaret could have done such a thing,” she went
on. “The more I think of it, the more incredible it seems. I’ve known
Margaret for years, and she was incapable of deceit. She was very
kind-hearted. She was honest and truthful. In the first moment of
horror, I was only indignant, but I don’t want to think too badly of
her. There is only one way to excuse her, and that is by supposing she
acted under some strange compulsion.”

Arthur clenched his hands.

“I’m not sure if that doesn’t make it more awful than before. If he’s
married her, not because he cares, but in order to hurt me, what life
will she lead with him? We know how heartless he is, how vindictive,
how horribly cruel.”

“Dr Porhoët knows more about these things than we do,” said Susie. “Is
it possible that Haddo can have cast some spell upon her that would
make her unable to resist his will? Is it possible that he can have got
such an influence over her that her whole character was changed?”

“How can I tell?” cried the doctor helplessly. “I have heard that such
things may happen. I have read of them, but I have no proof. In these
matters all is obscurity. The adepts in magic make strange claims.
Arthur is a man of science, and he knows what the limits of hypnotism
are.”

“We know that Haddo had powers that other men have not,” answered
Susie. “Perhaps there was enough truth in his extravagant pretensions
to enable him to do something that we can hardly imagine.”

Arthur passed his hands wearily over his face.

“I’m so broken, so confused, that I cannot think sanely. At this moment
everything seems possible. My faith in all the truths that have
supported me is tottering.”

For a while they remained silent. Arthur’s eyes rested on the chair in
which Margaret had so often sat. An unfinished canvas still stood upon
the easel. It was Dr Porhoët who spoke at last.

“But even if there were some truth in Miss Boyd’s suppositions, I don’t
see how it can help you. You cannot do anything. You have no remedy,
legal or otherwise. Margaret is apparently a free agent, and she has
married this man. It is plain that many people will think she has done
much better in marrying a country gentleman than in marrying a young
surgeon. Her letter is perfectly lucid. There is no trace of
compulsion. To all intents and purposes she has married him of her own
free-will, and there is nothing to show that she desires to be released
from him or from the passion which we may suppose enslaves her.”

What he said was obviously true, and no reply was possible.

“The only thing is to grin and bear it,” said Arthur, rising.

“Where are you going?” said Susie.

“I think I want to get away from Paris. Here everything will remind me
of what I have lost. I must get back to my work.”

He had regained command over himself, and except for the hopeless woe
of his face, which he could not prevent from being visible, he was as
calm as ever. He held out his hand to Susie.

“I can only hope that you’ll forget,” she said.

“I don’t wish to forget,” he answered, shaking his head. “It’s possible
that you will hear from Margaret. She’ll want the things that she has
left here, and I daresay will write to you. I should like you to tell
her that I bear her no ill-will for anything she has done, and I will
never venture to reproach her. I don’t know if I shall be able to do
anything for her, but I wish her to know that in any case and always I
will do everything that she wants.”

“If she writes to me, I will see that she is told,” answered Susie
gravely.

“And now goodbye.”

“You can’t go to London till tomorrow. Shan’t I see you in the
morning?”

“I think if you don’t mind, I won’t come here again. The sight of all
this rather disturbs me.”

Again a contraction of pain passed across his eyes, and Susie saw that
he was using a superhuman effort to preserve the appearance of
composure. She hesitated a moment.

“Shall I never see you again?” she said. “I should be sorry to lose
sight of you entirely.”

“I should be sorry, too,” he answered. “I have learned how good and
kind you are, and I shall never forget that you are Margaret’s friend.
When you come to London, I hope that you will let me know.”

He went out. Dr Porhoët, his hands behind his back, began to walk up
and down the room. At last he turned to Susie.

“There is one thing that puzzles me,” he said. “Why did he marry her?”

“You heard what Arthur said,” answered Susie bitterly. “Whatever
happened, he would have taken her back. The other man knew that he
could only bind her to him securely by going through the ceremonies of
marriage.”

Dr Porhoët shrugged his shoulders, and presently he left her. When
Susie was alone she began to weep broken-heartedly, not for herself,
but because Arthur suffered an agony that was hardly endurable.




Chapter XI


Arthur went back to London next day.

Susie felt it impossible any longer to stay in the deserted studio, and
accepted a friend’s invitation to spend the winter in Italy. The good
Dr Porhoët remained in Paris with his books and his occult studies.

Susie travelled slowly through Tuscany and Umbria. Margaret had not
written to her, and Susie, on leaving Paris, had sent her friend’s
belongings to an address from which she knew they would eventually be
forwarded. She could not bring herself to write. In answer to a note
announcing her change of plans, Arthur wrote briefly that he had much
work to do and was delivering a new course of lectures at St. Luke’s;
he had lately been appointed visiting surgeon to another hospital, and
his private practice was increasing. He did not mention Margaret. His
letter was abrupt, formal, and constrained. Susie, reading it for the
tenth time, could make little of it. She saw that he wrote only from
civility, without interest; and there was nothing to indicate his state
of mind. Susie and her companion had made up their minds to pass some
weeks in Rome; and here, to her astonishment, Susie had news of Haddo
and his wife. It appeared that they had spent some time there, and the
little English circle was talking still of their eccentricities. They
travelled in some state, with a courier and a suite of servants; they
had taken a carriage and were in the habit of driving every afternoon
on the Pincio. Haddo had excited attention by the extravagance of his
costume, and Margaret by her beauty; she was to be seen in her box at
the opera every night, and her diamonds were the envy of all beholders.
Though people had laughed a good deal at Haddo’s pretentiousness, and
been exasperated by his arrogance, they could not fail to be impressed
by his obvious wealth. But finally the pair had disappeared suddenly
without saying a word to anybody. A good many bills remained unpaid,
but these, Susie learnt, had been settled later. It was reported that
they were now in Monte Carlo.

“Did they seem happy?” Susie asked the gossiping friend who gave her
this scanty information.

“I think so. After all, Mrs Haddo has almost everything that a woman
can want, riches, beauty, nice clothes, jewels. She would be very
unreasonable not to be happy.”

Susie had meant to pass the later spring on the Riviera, but when she
heard that the Haddos were there, she hesitated. She did not want to
run the risk of seeing them, and yet she had a keen desire to find out
exactly how things were going. Curiosity and distaste struggled in her
mind, but curiosity won; and she persuaded her friend to go to Monte
Carlo instead of to Beaulieu. At first Susie did not see the Haddos;
but rumour was already much occupied with them, and she had only to
keep her ears open. In that strange place, where all that is
extravagant and evil, all that is morbid, insane, and fantastic, is
gathered together, the Haddos were in fit company. They were notorious
for their assiduity at the tables and for their luck, for the dinners
and suppers they gave at places frequented by the very opulent, and for
their eccentric appearance. It was a complex picture that Susie put
together from the scraps of information she collected. After two or
three days she saw them at the tables, but they were so absorbed in
their game that she felt quite safe from discovery. Margaret was
playing, but Haddo stood behind her and directed her movements. Their
faces were extraordinarily intent. Susie fixed her attention on
Margaret, for in what she had heard of her she had been quite unable to
recognize the girl who had been her friend. And what struck her most
now was that there was in Margaret’s expression a singular likeness to
Haddo’s. Notwithstanding her exquisite beauty, she had a curiously
vicious look, which suggested that somehow she saw literally with
Oliver’s eyes. They had won great sums that evening, and many persons
watched them. It appeared that they played always in this fashion,
Margaret putting on the stakes and Haddo telling her what to do and
when to stop. Susie heard two Frenchmen talking of them. She listened
with all her ears. She flushed as she heard one of them make an
observation about Margaret which was more than coarse. The other
laughed.

“It is incredible,” he said.

“I assure you it’s true. They have been married six months, and she is
still only his wife in name. The superstitious through all the ages
have believed in the power of virginity, and the Church has made use of
the idea for its own ends. The man uses her simply as a mascot.”

The men laughed, and their conversation proceeded so grossly that
Susie’s cheeks burned. But what she had heard made her look at Margaret
more closely still. She was radiant. Susie could not deny that
something had come to her that gave a new, enigmatic savour to her
beauty. She was dressed more gorgeously than Susie’s fastidious taste
would have permitted; and her diamonds, splendid in themselves, were
too magnificent for the occasion. At last, sweeping up the money, Haddo
touched her on the shoulder, and she rose. Behind her was standing a
painted woman of notorious disreputability. Susie was astonished to see
Margaret smile and nod as she passed her.

Susie learnt that the Haddos had a suite of rooms at the most expensive
of the hotels. They lived in a whirl of gaiety. They knew few English
except those whose reputations were damaged, but seemed to prefer the
society of those foreigners whose wealth and eccentricities made them
the cynosure of that little world. Afterwards, she often saw them, in
company of Russian Grand-Dukes and their mistresses, of South American
women with prodigious diamonds, of noble gamblers and great ladies of
doubtful fame, of strange men overdressed and scented. Rumour was
increasingly busy with them. Margaret moved among all those queer
people with a cold mysteriousness that excited the curiosity of the
sated idlers. The suggestion which Susie overheard was repeated more
circumstantially. But to this was joined presently the report of orgies
that were enacted in the darkened sitting-room of the hotel, when all
that was noble and vicious in Monte Carlo was present. Oliver’s
eccentric imagination invented whimsical festivities. He had a passion
for disguise, and he gave a fancy-dress party of which fabulous stories
were told. He sought to revive the mystical ceremonies of old
religions, and it was reported that horrible rites had been performed
in the garden of the villa, under the shining moon, in imitation of
those he had seen in Eastern places. It was said that Haddo had magical
powers of extraordinary character, and the tired imagination of those
pleasure-seekers was tickled by his talk of black art. Some even
asserted that the blasphemous ceremonies of the Black Mass had been
celebrated in the house of a Polish Prince. People babbled of satanism
and of necromancy. Haddo was thought to be immersed in occult studies
for the performance of a magical operation; and some said that he was
occupied with the Magnum Opus, the greatest and most fantastic of
alchemical experiments. Gradually these stories were narrowed down to
the monstrous assertion that he was attempting to create living beings.
He had explained at length to somebody that magical receipts existed
for the manufacture of _homunculi_.

Haddo was known generally by the name he was pleased to give himself.
The Brother of the Shadow; but most people used it in derision, for it
contrasted absurdly with his astonishing bulk. They were amused or
outraged by his vanity, but they could not help talking about him, and
Susie knew well enough by now that nothing pleased him more. His
exploits as a lion-hunter were well known, and it was reported that
human blood was on his hands. It was soon discovered that he had a
queer power over animals, so that in his presence they were seized with
unaccountable terror. He succeeded in surrounding himself with an
atmosphere of the fabulous, and nothing that was told of him was too
extravagant for belief. But unpleasant stories were circulated also,
and someone related that he had been turned out of a club in Vienna for
cheating at cards. He played many games, but here, as at Oxford, it was
found that he was an unscrupulous opponent. And those old rumours
followed him that he took strange drugs. He was supposed to have odious
vices, and people whispered to one another of scandals that had been
with difficulty suppressed. No one quite understood on what terms he
was with his wife, and it was vaguely asserted that he was at times
brutally cruel to her. Susie’s heart sank when she heard this; but on
the few occasions upon which she caught sight of Margaret, she seemed
in the highest spirits. One story inexpressibly shocked her. After
lunching at some restaurant, Haddo gave a bad louis among the money
with which he paid the bill, and there was a disgraceful altercation
with the waiter. He refused to change the coin till a policeman was
brought in. His guests were furious, and several took the first
opportunity to cut him dead. One of those present narrated the scene to
Susie, and she was told that Margaret laughed unconcernedly with her
neighbour while the sordid quarrel was proceeding. The man’s blood was
as good as his fortune was substantial, but it seemed to please him to
behave like an adventurer. The incident was soon common property, and
gradually the Haddos found themselves cold-shouldered. The persons with
whom they mostly consorted had reputations too delicate to stand the
glare of publicity which shone upon all who were connected with him,
and the suggestion of police had thrown a shudder down many a spine.
What had happened in Rome happened here again: they suddenly
disappeared.

Susie had not been in London for some time, and as the spring advanced
she remembered that her friends would be glad to see her. It would be
charming to spend a few weeks there with an adequate income; for its
pleasures had hitherto been closed to her, and she looked forward to
her visit as if it were to a foreign city. But though she would not
confess it to herself, her desire to see Arthur was the strongest of
her motives. Time and absence had deadened a little the intensity of
her feelings, and she could afford to acknowledge that she regarded him
with very great affection. She knew that he would never care for her,
but she was content to be his friend. She could think of him without
pain.

Susie stayed in Paris for three weeks to buy some of the clothes which
she asserted were now her only pleasure in life, and then went to
London.

She wrote to Arthur, and he invited her at once to lunch with him at a
restaurant. She was vexed, for she felt they could have spoken more
freely in his own house; but as soon as she saw him, she realized that
he had chosen their meeting-place deliberately. The crowd of people
that surrounded them, the gaiety, the playing of the band, prevented
any intimacy of conversation. They were forced to talk of commonplaces.
Susie was positively terrified at the change that had taken place in
him. He looked ten years older; he had lost flesh, and his hair was
sprinkled with white. His face was extraordinarily drawn, and his eyes
were weary from lack of sleep. But what most struck her was the change
in his expression. The look of pain which she had seen on his face that
last evening in the studio was now become settled, so that it altered
the lines of his countenance. It was harrowing to look at him. He was
more silent than ever, and when he spoke it was in a strange low voice
that seemed to come from a long way off. To be with him made Susie
curiously uneasy, for there was a strenuousness in him which deprived
his manner of all repose. One of the things that had pleased her in him
formerly was the tranquillity which gave one the impression that here
was a man who could be relied on in difficulties. At first she could
not understand exactly what had happened, but in a moment saw that he
was making an unceasing effort at self-control. He was never free from
suffering and he was constantly on the alert to prevent anyone from
seeing it. The strain gave him a peculiar restlessness.

But he was gentler than he had ever been before. He seemed genuinely
glad to see her and asked about her travels with interest. Susie led
him to talk of himself, and he spoke willingly enough of his daily
round. He was earning a good deal of money, and his professional
reputation was making steady progress. He worked hard. Besides his
duties at the two hospitals with which he was now connected, his
teaching, and his private practice, he had read of late one or two
papers before scientific bodies, and was editing a large work on
surgery.

“How on earth can you find time to do so much?” asked Susie.

“I can do with less sleep than I used,” he answered. “It almost doubles
my working-day.”

He stopped abruptly and looked down. His remark had given accidentally
some hint at the inner life which he was striving to conceal. Susie
knew that her suspicion was well-founded. She thought of the long hours
he lay awake, trying in vain to drive from his mind the agony that
tortured him, and the short intervals of troubled sleep. She knew that
he delayed as long as possible the fatal moment of going to bed, and
welcomed the first light of day, which gave him an excuse for getting
up. And because he knew that he had divulged the truth he was
embarrassed. They sat in awkward silence. To Susie, the tragic figure
in front of her was singularly impressive amid that lighthearted
throng: all about them happy persons were enjoying the good things of
life, talking, laughing, and making merry. She wondered what refinement
of self-torture had driven him to choose that place to come to. He must
hate it.

When they finished luncheon, Susie took her courage in both hands.

“Won’t you come back to my rooms for half an hour? We can’t talk here.”

He made an instinctive motion of withdrawal, as though he sought to
escape. He did not answer immediately, and she insisted.

“You have nothing to do for an hour, and there are many things I want
to speak to you about”

“The only way to be strong is never to surrender to one’s weakness,” he
said, almost in a whisper, as though ashamed to talk so intimately.

“Then you won’t come?”

“No.”

It was not necessary to specify the matter which it was proposed to
discuss. Arthur knew perfectly that Susie wished to talk of Margaret,
and he was too straightforward to pretend otherwise. Susie paused for
one moment.

“I was never able to give Margaret your message. She did not write to
me.”

A certain wildness came into his eyes, as if the effort he made was
almost too much for him.

“I saw her in Monte Carlo,” said Susie. “I thought you might like to
hear about her.”

“I don’t see that it can do any good,” he answered.

Susie made a little hopeless gesture. She was beaten.

“Shall we go?” she said.

“You are not angry with me?” he asked. “I know you mean to be kind. I’m
very grateful to you.”

“I shall never be angry with you,” she smiled.

Arthur paid the bill, and they threaded their way among the tables. At
the door she held out her hand.

“I think you do wrong in shutting yourself away from all human
comradeship,” she said, with that good-humoured smile of hers. “You
must know that you will only grow absurdly morbid.”

“I go out a great deal,” he answered patiently, as though he reasoned
with a child. “I make a point of offering myself distractions from my
work. I go to the opera two or three times a week.”

“I thought you didn’t care for music.”

“I don’t think I did,” he answered. “But I find it rests me.”

He spoke with a weariness that was appalling. Susie had never beheld so
plainly the torment of a soul in pain.

“Won’t you let me come to the opera with you one night?” she asked. “Or
does it bore you to see me?”

“I should like it above all things,” he smiled, quite brightly. “You’re
like a wonderful tonic. They’re giving Tristan on Thursday. Shall we go
together?”

“I should enjoy it enormously.”

She shook hands with him and jumped into a cab.

“Oh, poor thing!” she murmured. “Poor thing! What can I do for him?”

She clenched, her hands when she thought of Margaret. It was monstrous
that she should have caused such havoc in that good, strong man.

“Oh, I hope she’ll suffer for it,” she whispered vindictively. “I hope
she’ll suffer all the agony that he has suffered.”

Susie dressed herself for Covent Garden as only she could do. Her gown
pleased her exceedingly, not only because it was admirably made, but
because it had cost far more than she could afford. To dress well was
her only extravagance. It was of taffeta silk, in that exquisite green
which the learned in such matters call _Eau de Nil_; and its beauty was
enhanced by the old lace which had formed not the least treasured part
of her inheritance. In her hair she wore an ornament of Spanish paste,
of exquisite workmanship, and round her neck a chain which had once
adorned that of a madonna in an Andalusian church. Her individuality
made even her plainness attractive. She smiled at herself in the glass
ruefully, because Arthur would never notice that she was perfectly
dressed.

When she tripped down the stairs and across the pavement to the cab
with which he fetched her, Susie held up her skirt with a grace she
flattered herself was quite Parisian. As they drove along, she flirted
a little with her Spanish fan and stole a glance at herself in the
glass. Her gloves were so long and so new and so expensive that she was
really indifferent to Arthur’s inattention.

Her joyous temperament expanded like a spring flower when she found
herself in the Opera House. She put up her glasses and examined the
women as they came into the boxes of the Grand Tier. Arthur pointed out
a number of persons whose names were familiar to her, but she felt the
effort he was making to be amiable. The weariness of his mouth that
evening was more noticeable because of the careless throng. But when
the music began he seemed to forget that any eye was upon him; he
relaxed the constant tension in which he held himself; and Susie,
watching him surreptitiously, saw the emotions chase one another across
his face. It was now very mobile. The passionate sounds ate into his
soul, mingling with his own love and his own sorrow, till he was taken
out of himself; and sometimes he panted strangely. Through the interval
he remained absorbed in his emotion. He sat as quietly as before and
did not speak a word. Susie understood why Arthur, notwithstanding his
old indifference, now showed such eager appreciation of music; it eased
the pain he suffered by transferring it to an ideal world, and his own
grievous sorrow made the music so real that it gave him an enjoyment of
extraordinary vehemence. When it was all over and Isolde had given her
last wail of sorrow, Arthur was so exhausted that he could hardly stir.

But they went out with the crowd, and while they were waiting in the
vestibule for space to move in, a common friend came up to them. This
was Arbuthnot, an eye-specialist, whom Susie had met on the Riviera and
who, she presently discovered, was a colleague of Arthur’s at St
Luke’s. He was a prosperous bachelor with grey hair and a red,
contented face, well-to-do, for his practice was large, and lavish with
his money. He had taken Susie out to luncheon once or twice in Monte
Carlo; for he liked women, pretty or plain, and she attracted him by
her good-humour. He rushed up to them now and wrung their hands. He
spoke in a jovial voice.

“The very people I wanted to see! Why haven’t you been to see me, you
wicked woman? I’m sure your eyes are in a deplorable condition.”

“Do you think I would let a bold, bad man like you stare into them with
an ophthalmoscope?” laughed Susie.

“Now look here, I want you both to do me a great favour. I’m giving a
supper party at the Savoy, and two of my people have suddenly failed
me. The table is ordered for eight, and you must come and take their
places.”

“I’m afraid I must get home,” said Arthur. “I have a deuce of a lot of
work to do.”

“Nonsense,” answered Arbuthnot. “You work much too hard, and a little
relaxation will do you good.” He turned to Susie: “I know you like
curiosities in human nature; I’m having a man and his wife who will
positively thrill you, they’re so queer, and a lovely actress, and an
awfully jolly American girl.”

“I should love to come,” said Susie, with an appealing look at Arthur,
“if only to show you how much more amusing I am than lovely actresses.”

Arthur, forcing himself to smile, accepted the invitation. The
specialist patted him cheerily on the back, and they agreed to meet at
the Savoy.

“It’s awfully good of you to come,” said Susie, as they drove along.
“Do you know, I’ve never been there in my life, and I’m palpitating
with excitement.”

“What a selfish brute I was to refuse!” he answered.

When Susie came out of the dressing-room, she found Arthur waiting for
her. She was in the best of spirits.

“Now you must say you like my frock. I’ve seen six women turn green
with envy at the sight of it. They think I must be French, and they’re
sure I’m not respectable.”

“That is evidently a great compliment,” he smiled.

At that moment Arbuthnot came up to them in his eager way and seized
their arms.

“Come along. We’re waiting for you. I’ll just introduce you all round,
and then we’ll go in to supper.”

They walked down the steps into the foyer, and he led them to a group
of people. They found themselves face to face with Oliver Haddo and
Margaret.

“Mr Arthur Burdon—Mrs Haddo. Mr Burdon is a colleague of mine at St
Luke’s; and he will cut out your appendix in a shorter time than any
man alive.”

Arbuthnot rattled on. He did not notice that Arthur had grown ghastly
pale and that Margaret was blank with consternation. Haddo, his heavy
face wreathed with smiles, stepped forward heartily. He seemed
thoroughly to enjoy the situation.

“Mr Burdon is an old friend of ours,” he said. “In fact, it was he who
introduced me to my wife. And Miss Boyd and I have discussed Art and
the Immortality of the Soul with the gravity due to such topics.”

He held out his hand, and Susie took it. She had a horror of scenes,
and, though this encounter was as unexpected as it was disagreeable,
she felt it needful to behave naturally. She shook hands with Margaret.

“How disappointing!” cried their host. “I was hoping to give Miss Boyd
something quite new in the way of magicians, and behold! she knows all
about him.”

“If she did, I’m quite sure she wouldn’t speak to me,” said Oliver,
with a bantering smile.

They went into the supper-room.

“Now, how shall we sit?” said Arbuthnot, glancing round the table.

Oliver looked at Arthur, and his eyes twinkled.

“You must really let my wife and Mr Burdon be together. They haven’t
seen one another for so long that I’m sure they have no end of things
to talk about.” He chuckled to himself. “And pray give me Miss Boyd, so
that she can abuse me to her heart’s content.”

This arrangement thoroughly suited the gay specialist, for he was able
to put the beautiful actress on one side of him and the charming
American on the other. He rubbed his hands.

“I feel that we’re going to have a delightful supper.”

Oliver laughed boisterously. He took, as was his habit, the whole
conversation upon himself, and Susie was obliged to confess that he was
at his best. There was a grotesque drollery about him that was very
diverting, and it was almost impossible to resist him. He ate and drank
with tremendous appetite. Susie thanked her stars at that moment that
she was a woman who knew by long practice how to conceal her feelings,
for Arthur, overcome with dismay at the meeting, sat in stony silence.
But she talked gaily. She chaffed Oliver as though he were an old
friend, and laughed vivaciously. She noticed meanwhile that Haddo, more
extravagantly dressed than usual, had managed to get an odd fantasy
into his evening clothes: he wore knee-breeches, which in itself was
enough to excite attention; but his frilled shirt, his velvet collar,
and oddly-cut satin waistcoat gave him the appearance of a comic
Frenchman. Now that she was able to examine him more closely, she saw
that in the last six months he was grown much balder; and the shiny
whiteness of his naked crown contrasted oddly with the redness of his
face. He was stouter, too, and the fat hung in heavy folds under his
chin; his paunch was preposterous. The vivacity of his movements made
his huge corpulence subtly alarming. He was growing indeed strangely
terrible in appearance. His eyes had still that fixed, parallel look,
but there was in them now at times a ferocious gleam. Margaret was as
beautiful as ever, but Susie noticed that his influence was apparent in
her dress; for there could be no doubt that it had crossed the line of
individuality and had degenerated into the eccentric. Her gown was much
too gorgeous. It told against the classical character of her beauty.
Susie shuddered a little, for it reminded her of a courtesan’s.

Margaret talked and laughed as much as her husband, but Susie could not
tell whether this animation was affected or due to an utter
callousness. Her voice seemed natural enough, yet it was inconceivable
that she should be so lighthearted. Perhaps she was trying to show that
she was happy. The supper proceeded, and the lights, the surrounding
gaiety, the champagne, made everyone more lively. Their host was in
uproarious spirits. He told a story or two at which everyone laughed.
Oliver Haddo had an amusing anecdote handy. It was a little risky, but
it was so funnily narrated that everyone roared but Arthur, who
remained in perfect silence. Margaret had been drinking glass after
glass of wine, and no sooner had her husband finished than she capped
his story with another. But whereas his was wittily immoral, hers was
simply gross. At first the other women could not understand to what she
was tending, but when they saw, they looked down awkwardly at their
plates. Arbuthnot, Haddo, and the other man who was there laughed very
heartily; but Arthur flushed to the roots of his hair. He felt horribly
uncomfortable. He was ashamed. He dared not look at Margaret. It was
inconceivable that from her exquisite mouth such indecency should
issue. Margaret, apparently quite unconscious of the effect she had
produced, went on talking and laughing.

Soon the lights were put out, and Arthur’s agony was ended. He wanted
to rush away, to hide his face, to forget the sight of her and her
gaiety, above all to forget that story. It was horrible, horrible.

She shook hands with him quite lightly.

“You must come and see us one day. We’ve got rooms at the Carlton.”

He bowed and did not answer. Susie had gone to the dressing-room to get
her cloak. She stood at the door when Margaret came out.

“Can we drop you anywhere?” said Margaret. “You must come and see us
when you have nothing better to do.”

Susie threw back her head. Arthur was standing just in front of them
looking down at the ground in complete abstraction.

“Do you see him?” she said, in a low voice quivering with indignation.
“That is what you have made him.”

He looked up at that moment and turned upon them his sunken, tormented
eyes. They saw his wan, pallid face with its look of hopeless woe.

“Do you know that he’s killing himself on your account? He can’t sleep
at night. He’s suffered the tortures of the damned. Oh, I hope you’ll
suffer as he’s suffered!”

“I wonder that you blame me,” said Margaret. “You ought to be rather
grateful.”

“Why?”

“You’re not going to deny that you’ve loved him passionately from the
first day you saw him? Do you think I didn’t see that you cared for him
in Paris? You care for him now more than ever.”

Susie felt suddenly sick at heart. She had never dreamt that her secret
was discovered. Margaret gave a bitter little laugh and walked past
her.




Chapter XII


Arthur Burdon spent two or three days in a state of utter uncertainty,
but at last the idea he had in mind grew so compelling as to overcome
all objections. He went to the Carlton and asked for Margaret. He had
learnt from the porter that Haddo was gone out and so counted on
finding her alone. A simple device enabled him to avoid sending up his
name. When he was shown into her private room Margaret was sitting
down. She neither read nor worked.

“You told me I might call upon you,” said Arthur.

She stood up without answering, and turned deathly pale.

“May I sit down?” he asked.

She bowed her head. For a moment they looked at one another in silence.
Arthur suddenly forgot all he had prepared to say. His intrusion seemed
intolerable.

“Why have you come?” she said hoarsely.

They both felt that it was useless to attempt the conventionality of
society. It was impossible to deal with the polite commonplaces that
ease an awkward situation.

“I thought that I might be able to help you,” he answered gravely.

“I want no help. I’m perfectly happy. I have nothing to say to you.”

She spoke hurriedly, with a certain nervousness, and her eyes were
fixed anxiously on the door as though she feared that someone would
come in.

“I feel that we have much to say to one another,” he insisted. “If it
is inconvenient for us to talk here, will you not come and see me?”

“He’d know,” she cried suddenly, as if the words were dragged out of
her. “D’you think anything can be hidden from him?”

Arthur glanced at her. He was horrified by the terror that was in her
eyes. In the full light of day a change was plain in her expression.
Her face was strangely drawn, and pinched, and there was in it a
constant look as of a person cowed. Arthur turned away.

“I want you to know that I do not blame you in the least for anything
you did. No action of yours can ever lessen my affection for you.”

“Oh, why did you come here? Why do you torture me by saying such
things?”

She burst on a sudden into a flood of tears, and walked excitedly up
and down the room.

“Oh, if you wanted me to be punished for the pain I’ve caused you, you
can triumph now. Susie said she hoped I’d suffer all the agony that
I’ve made you suffer. If she only knew!”

Margaret gave a hysterical laugh. She flung herself on her knees by
Arthur’s side and seized his hands.

“Did you think I didn’t see? My heart bled when I looked at your poor
wan face and your tortured eyes. Oh, you’ve changed. I could never have
believed that a man could change so much in so few months, and it’s I
who’ve caused it all. Oh, Arthur, Arthur, you must forgive me. And you
must pity me.”

“But there’s nothing to forgive, darling,” he cried.

She looked at him steadily. Her eyes now were shining with a hard
brightness.

“You say that, but you don’t really think it. And yet if you only knew,
all that I have endured is on your account.”

She made a great effort to be calm.

“What do you mean?” said Arthur.

“He never loved me, he would never have thought of me if he hadn’t
wanted to wound you in what you treasured most. He hated you, and he’s
made me what I am so that you might suffer. It isn’t I who did all
this, but a devil within me; it isn’t I who lied to you and left you
and caused you all this unhappiness.”

She rose to her feet and sighed deeply.

“Once, I thought he was dying, and I helped him. I took him into the
studio and gave him water. And he gained some dreadful power over me so
that I’ve been like wax in his hands. All my will has disappeared, and
I have to do his bidding. And if I try to resist …”

Her face twitched with pain and fear.

“I’ve found out everything since. I know that on that day when he
seemed to be at the point of death, he was merely playing a trick on
me, and he got Susie out of the way by sending a telegram from a girl
whose name he had seen on a photograph. I’ve heard him roar with
laughter at his cleverness.”

She stopped suddenly, and a look of frightful agony crossed her face.

“And at this very minute, for all I know, it may be by his influence
that I say this to you, so that he may cause you still greater
suffering by allowing me to tell you that he never cared for me. You
know now that my life is hell, and his vengeance is complete.”

“Vengeance for what?”

“Don’t you remember that you hit him once, and kicked him unmercifully?
I know him well now. He could have killed you, but he hated you too
much. It pleased him a thousand times more to devise this torture for
you and me.”

Margaret’s agitation was terrible to behold. This was the first time
that she had ever spoken to a soul of all these things, and now the
long restraint had burst as burst the waters of a dam. Arthur sought to
calm her.

“You’re ill and overwrought. You must try to compose yourself. After
all, Haddo is a human being like the rest of us.”

“Yes, you always laughed at his claims. You wouldn’t listen to the
things he said. But I know. Oh, I can’t explain it; I daresay common
sense and probability are all against it, but I’ve seen things with my
own eyes that pass all comprehension. I tell you, he has powers of the
most awful kind. That first day when I was alone with him, he seemed to
take me to some kind of sabbath. I don’t know what it was, but I saw
horrors, vile horrors, that rankled for ever after like poison in my
mind; and when we went up to his house in Staffordshire, I recognized
the scene; I recognized the arid rocks, and the trees, and the lie of
the land. I knew I’d been there before on that fatal afternoon. Oh, you
must believe me! Sometimes I think I shall go mad with the terror of it
all.”

Arthur did not speak. Her words caused a ghastly suspicion to flash
through his mind, and he could hardly contain himself. He thought that
some dreadful shock had turned her brain. She buried her face in her
hands.

“Look here,” he said, “you must come away at once. You can’t continue
to live with him. You must never go back to Skene.”

“I can’t leave him. We’re bound together inseparably.”

“But it’s monstrous. There can be nothing to keep you to him. Come back
to Susie. She’ll be very kind to you; she’ll help you to forget all
you’ve endured.”

“It’s no use. You can do nothing for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because, notwithstanding, I love him with all my soul.”

“Margaret!”

“I hate him. He fills me with repulsion. And yet I do not know what
there is in my blood that draws me to him against my will. My flesh
cries out for him.”

Arthur looked away in embarrassment. He could not help a slight,
instinctive movement of withdrawal.

“Do I disgust you?” she said.

He flushed slightly, but scarcely knew how to answer. He made a vague
gesture of denial.

“If you only knew,” she said.

There was something so extraordinary in her tone that he gave her a
quick glance of surprise. He saw that her cheeks were flaming. Her
bosom was panting as though she were again on the point of breaking
into a passion of tears.

“For God’s sake, don’t look at me!” she cried.

She turned away and hid her face. The words she uttered were in a
shamed, unnatural voice.

“If you’d been at Monte Carlo, you’d have heard them say, God knows how
they knew it, that it was only through me he had his luck at the
tables. He’s contented himself with filling my soul with vice. I have
no purity in me. I’m sullied through and through. He has made me into a
sink of iniquity, and I loathe myself. I cannot look at myself without
a shudder of disgust.”

A cold sweat came over Arthur, and he grew more pale than ever. He
realized now he was in the presence of a mystery that he could not
unravel. She went on feverishly.

“The other night, at supper, I told a story, and I saw you wince with
shame. It wasn’t I that told it. The impulse came from him, and I knew
it was vile, and yet I told it with gusto. I enjoyed the telling of it;
I enjoyed the pain I gave you, and the dismay of those women. There
seem to be two persons in me, and my real self, the old one that you
knew and loved, is growing weaker day by day, and soon she will be dead
entirely. And there will remain only the wanton soul in the virgin
body.”

Arthur tried to gather his wits together. He felt it an occasion on
which it was essential to hold on to the normal view of things.

“But for God’s sake leave him. What you’ve told me gives you every
ground for divorce. It’s all monstrous. The man must be so mad that he
ought to be put in a lunatic asylum.”

“You can do nothing for me,” she said.

“But if he doesn’t love you, what does he want you for?”

“I don’t know, but I’m beginning to suspect.”

She looked at Arthur steadily. She was now quite calm.

“I think he wishes to use me for a magical operation. I don’t know if
he’s mad or not. But I think he means to try some horrible experiment,
and I am needful for its success. That is my safeguard.”

“Your safeguard?”

“He won’t kill me because he needs me for that. Perhaps in the process
I shall regain my freedom.”

Arthur was shocked at the callousness with which she spoke. He went up
to her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Look here, you must pull yourself together, Margaret. This isn’t sane.
If you don’t take care, your mind will give way altogether. You must
come with me now. When you’re out of his hands, you’ll soon regain your
calmness of mind. You need never see him again. If you’re afraid, you
shall be hidden from him, and lawyers shall arrange everything between
you.”

“I daren’t.”

“But I promise you that you can come to no harm. Be reasonable. We’re
in London now, surrounded by people on every side. How do you think he
can touch you while we drive through the crowded streets? I’ll take you
straight to Susie. In a week you’ll laugh at the idle fears you had.”

“How do you know that he is not in the room at this moment, listening
to all you say?”

The question was so sudden, so unexpected, that Arthur was startled. He
looked round quickly.

“You must be mad. You see that the room is empty.”

“I tell you that you don’t know what powers he has. Have you ever heard
those old legends with which nurses used to frighten our childhood, of
men who could turn themselves into wolves, and who scoured the country
at night?” She looked at him with staring eyes. “Sometimes, when he’s
come in at Skene in the morning, with bloodshot eyes, exhausted with
fatigue and strangely discomposed, I’ve imagined that he too …” She
stopped and threw back her head. “You’re right, Arthur, I think I shall
go mad.”

He watched her helplessly. He did not know what to do. Margaret went
on, her voice quivering with anguish.

“When we were married, I reminded him that he’d promised to take me to
his mother. He would never speak of her, but I felt I must see her. And
one day, suddenly, he told me to get ready for a journey, and we went a
long way, to a place I did not know, and we drove into the country. We
seemed to go miles and miles, and we reached at last a large house,
surrounded by a high wall, and the windows were heavily barred. We were
shown into a great empty room. It was dismal and cold like the
waiting-room at a station. A man came in to us, a tall man, in a
frock-coat and gold spectacles. He was introduced to me as Dr Taylor,
and then, suddenly, I understood.”

Margaret spoke in hurried gasps, and her eyes were staring wide, as
though she saw still the scene which at the time had seemed the
crowning horror of her experience.

“I knew it was an asylum, and Oliver hadn’t told me a word. He took us
up a broad flight of stairs, through a large dormitory—oh, if you only
knew what I saw there! I was so horribly frightened, I’d never been in
such a place before—to a cell. And the walls and the floor were
padded.”

Margaret passed her hand across her forehead to chase away the
recollection of that awful sight.

“Oh, I see it still. I can never get it out of my mind.”

She remembered with a morbid vividness the vast misshapen mass which
she had seen heaped strangely in one corner. There was a slight
movement in it as they entered, and she perceived that it was a human
being. It was a woman, dressed in shapeless brown flannel; a woman of
great stature and of a revolting, excessive corpulence. She turned upon
them a huge, impassive face; and its unwrinkled smoothness gave it an
appearance of aborted childishness. The hair was dishevelled, grey, and
scanty. But what most terrified Margaret was that she saw in this
creature an appalling likeness to Oliver.

“He told me it was his mother, and she’d been there for five-and-twenty
years.”

Arthur could hardly bear the terror that was in Margaret’s eyes. He did
not know what to say to her. In a little while she began to speak
again, in a low voice and rapidly, as though to herself, and she wrung
her hands.

“Oh, you don’t know what I’ve endured! He used to spend long periods
away from me, and I remained alone at Skene from morning till night,
alone with my abject fear. Sometimes, it seemed that he was seized with
a devouring lust for the gutter, and he would go to Liverpool or
Manchester and throw himself among the very dregs of the people. He
used to pass long days, drinking in filthy pot-houses. While the bout
lasted, nothing was too depraved for him. He loved the company of all
that was criminal and low. He used to smoke opium in foetid dens—oh,
you have no conception of his passion to degrade himself—and at last he
would come back, dirty, with torn clothes, begrimed, sodden still with
his long debauch; and his mouth was hot with the kisses of the vile
women of the docks. Oh, he’s so cruel when the fit takes him that I
think he has a fiendish pleasure in the sight of suffering!”

It was more than Arthur could stand. His mind was made up to try a bold
course. He saw on the table a whisky bottle and glasses. He poured some
neat spirit into a tumbler and gave it to Margaret.

“Drink this,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Never mind! Drink it at once.”

Obediently she put it to her lips. He stood over her as she emptied the
glass. A sudden glow filled her.

“Now come with me.”

He took her arm and led her down the stairs. He passed through the hall
quickly. There was a cab just drawn up at the door, and he told her to
get in. One or two persons stared at seeing a woman come out of that
hotel in a teagown and without a hat. He directed the driver to the
house in which Susie lived and looked round at Margaret. She had
fainted immediately she got into the cab.

When they arrived, he carried Margaret upstairs and laid her on a sofa.
He told Susie what had happened and what he wanted of her. The dear
woman forgot everything except that Margaret was very ill, and promised
willingly to do all he wished.

For a week Margaret could not be moved. Arthur hired a little cottage
in Hampshire, opposite the Isle of Wight, hoping that amid the most
charming, restful scenery in England she would quickly regain her
strength; and as soon as it was possible Susie took her down. But she
was much altered. Her gaiety had disappeared and with it her
determination. Although her illness had been neither long nor serious,
she seemed as exhausted, physically and mentally, as if she had been
for months at the point of death. She took no interest in her
surroundings, and was indifferent to the shady lanes through which they
drove and to the gracious trees and the meadows. Her old passion for
beauty was gone, and she cared neither for the flowers which filled
their little garden nor for the birds that sang continually. But at
last it seemed necessary to discuss the future. Margaret acquiesced in
all that was suggested to her, and agreed willingly that the needful
steps should be taken to procure her release from Oliver Haddo. He made
apparently no effort to trace her, and nothing had been heard of him.
He did not know where Margaret was, but he might have guessed that
Arthur was responsible for her flight, and Arthur was easily to be
found. It made Susie vaguely uneasy that there was no sign of his
existence. She wished that Arthur were not kept by his work in London.

At last a suit for divorce was instituted.

Two days after this, when Arthur was in his consultingroom, Haddo’s
card was brought to him. Arthur’s jaw set more firmly.

“Show the gentleman in,” he ordered.

When Haddo entered, Arthur, standing with his back to the fireplace,
motioned him to sit down.

“What can I do for you?” he asked coldly.

“I have not come to avail myself of your surgical skill, my dear
Burdon,” smiled Haddo, as he fell ponderously into an armchair.

“So I imagined.”

“You perspicacity amazes me. I surmise that it is to you I owe this
amusing citation which was served on me yesterday.”

“I allowed you to come in so that I might tell you I will have no
communication with you except through my solicitors.”

“My dear fellow, why do you treat me with such discourtesy? It is true
that you have deprived me of the wife of my bosom, but you might at
least so far respect my marital rights as to use me civilly.”

“My patience is not as good as it was,” answered Arthur, “I venture to
remind you that once before I lost my temper with you, and the result
you must have found unpleasant.”

“I should have thought you regretted that incident by now, O Burdon,”
answered Haddo, entirely unabashed.

“My time is very short,” said Arthur.

“Then I will get to my business without delay. I thought it might
interest you to know that I propose to bring a counter-petition against
my wife, and I shall make you co-respondent.”

“You infamous blackguard!” cried Arthur furiously. “You know as well as
I do that your wife is above suspicion.”

“I know that she left my hotel in your company, and has been living
since under your protection.”

Arthur grew livid with rage. He could hardly restrain himself from
knocking the man down. He gave a short laugh.

“You can do what you like. I’m really not frightened.”

“The innocent are so very incautious. I assure you that I can make a
good enough story to ruin your career and force you to resign your
appointments at the various hospitals you honour with your attention.”

“You forget that the case will not be tried in open court,” said
Arthur.

Haddo looked at him steadily. He did not answer for a moment.

“You’re quite right,” he said at last, with a little smile. “I had
forgotten that.”

“Then I need not detain you longer.”

Oliver Haddo got up. He passed his hand reflectively over his huge
face. Arthur watched him with scornful eyes. He touched a bell, and the
servant at once appeared.

“Show this gentleman out.”

Not in the least disconcerted, Haddo strolled calmly to the door.

Arthur gave a sigh of relief, for he concluded that Haddo would not
show fight. His solicitor indeed had already assured him that Oliver
would not venture to defend the case.

Margaret seemed gradually to take more interest in the proceedings, and
she was full of eagerness to be set free. She did not shrink from the
unpleasant ordeal of a trial. She could talk of Haddo with composure.
Her friends were able to persuade themselves that in a little while she
would be her old self again, for she was growing stronger and more
cheerful; her charming laughter rang through the little house as it had
been used to do in the Paris studio. The case was to come on at the end
of July, before the long vacation, and Susie had agreed to take
Margaret abroad as soon as it was done.

But presently a change came over her. As the day of the trial drew
nearer, Margaret became excited and disturbed; her gaiety deserted her,
and she fell into long, moody silences. To some extent this was
comprehensible, for she would have to disclose to callous ears the most
intimate details of her married life; but at last her nervousness grew
so marked that Susie could no longer ascribe it to natural causes. She
thought it necessary to write to Arthur about it.

My Dear Arthur:

I don’t know what to make of Margaret, and I wish you would come down
and see her. The good-humour which I have noticed in her of late has
given way to a curious irritability. She is so restless that she cannot
keep still for a moment. Even when she is sitting down her body moves
in a manner that is almost convulsive. I am beginning to think that the
strain from which she suffered is bringing on some nervous disease, and
I am really alarmed. She walks about the house in a peculiarly aimless
manner, up and down the stairs, in and out of the garden. She has grown
suddenly much more silent, and the look has come back to her eyes which
they had when first we brought her down here. When I beg her to tell me
what is troubling her, she says: “I’m afraid that something is going to
happen.” She will not or cannot explain what she means. The last few
weeks have set my own nerves on edge, so that I do not know how much of
what I observe is real, and how much is due to my fancy; but I wish you
would come and put a little courage into me. The oddness of it all is
making me uneasy, and I am seized with preposterous terrors. I don’t
know what there is in Haddo that inspires me with this unaccountable
dread. He is always present to my thoughts. I seem to see his dreadful
eyes and his cold, sensual smile. I wake up at night, my heart beating
furiously, with the consciousness that something quite awful has
happened.

Oh, I wish the trial were over, and that we were happy in Germany.

Yours ever
SUSAN BOYD


Susie took a certain pride in her common sense, and it was humiliating
to find that her nerves could be so distraught. She was worried and
unhappy. It had not been easy to take Margaret back to her bosom as if
nothing had happened. Susie was human; and, though she did ten times
more than could be expected of her, she could not resist a feeling of
irritation that Arthur sacrificed her so calmly. He had no room for
other thoughts, and it seemed quite natural to him that she should
devote herself entirely to Margaret’s welfare.

Susie walked some way along the road to post this letter and then went
to her room. It was a wonderful night, starry and calm, and the silence
was like balm to her troubles. She sat at the window for a long time,
and at last, feeling more tranquil, went to bed. She slept more soundly
than she had done for many days. When she awoke the sun was streaming
into her room, and she gave a deep sigh of delight. She could see trees
from her bed, and blue sky. All her troubles seemed easy to bear when
the world was so beautiful, and she was ready to laugh at the fears
that had so affected her.

She got up, put on a dressing-gown, and went to Margaret’s room. It was
empty. The bed had not been slept in. On the pillow was a note.

It’s no good; I can’t help myself. I’ve gone back to him. Don’t trouble
about me any more. It’s quite hopeless and useless.

M


Susie gave a little gasp. Her first thought was for Arthur, and she
uttered a wail of sorrow because he must be cast again into the agony
of desolation. Once more she had to break the dreadful news. She
dressed hurriedly and ate some breakfast. There was no train till
nearly eleven, and she had to bear her impatience as best she could. At
last it was time to start, and she put on her gloves. At that moment
the door was opened, and Arthur came in.

She gave a cry of terror and turned pale.

“I was just coming to London to see you,” she faltered. “How did you
find out?”

“Haddo sent me a box of chocolates early this morning with a card on
which was written: _I think the odd trick is mine_.”

This cruel vindictiveness, joined with a schoolboy love of taunting the
vanquished foe, was very characteristic. Susie gave Arthur Burdon the
note which she had found in Margaret’s room. He read it and then
thought for a long time.

“I’m afraid she’s right,” he said at length. “It seems quite hopeless.
The man has some power over her which we can’t counteract.”

Susie wondered whether his strong scepticism was failing at last. She
could not withstand her own feeling that there was something
preternatural about the hold that Oliver had over Margaret. She had no
shadow of a doubt that he was able to affect his wife even at a
distance, and was convinced now that the restlessness of the last few
days was due to this mysterious power. He had been at work in some
strange way, and Margaret had been aware of it. At length she could not
resist and had gone to him instinctively: her will was as little
concerned as when a chip of steel flies to a magnet.

“I cannot find it in my heart now to blame her for anything she has
done,” said Susie. “I think she is the victim of a most lamentable
fate. I can’t help it. I must believe that he was able to cast a spell
on her; and to that is due all that has happened. I have only pity for
her great misfortunes.”

“Has it occurred to you what will happen when she is back in Haddo’s
hands?” cried Arthur. “You know as well as I do how revengeful he is
and how hatefully cruel. My heart bleeds when I think of the tortures,
sheer physical tortures, which she may suffer.”

He walked up and down in desperation.

“And yet there’s nothing whatever that one can do. One can’t go to the
police and say that a man has cast a magic spell on his wife.”

“Then you believe it too?” said Susie.

“I don’t know what I believe now,” he cried. “After all, we can’t do
anything if she chooses to go back to her husband. She’s apparently her
own mistress.” He wrung his hands. “And I’m imprisoned in London! I
can’t leave it for a day. I ought not to be here now, and I must get
back in a couple of hours. I can do nothing, and yet I’m convinced that
Margaret is utterly wretched.”

Susie paused for a minute or two. She wondered how he would accept the
suggestion that was in her mind.

“Do you know, it seems to me that common methods are useless. The only
chance is to fight him with his own weapons. Would you mind if I went
over to Paris to consult Dr Porhoët? You know that he is learned in
every branch of the occult, and perhaps he might help us.”

But Arthur pulled himself together.

“It’s absurd. We mustn’t give way to superstition. Haddo is merely a
scoundrel and a charlatan. He’s worked on our nerves as he’s worked on
poor Margaret’s. It’s impossible to suppose that he has any powers
greater than the common run of mankind.”

“Even after all you’ve seen with your own eyes?”

“If my eyes show me what all my training assures me is impossible, I
can only conclude that my eyes deceive me.”

“Well, I shall run over to Paris.”




Chapter XIII


Some weeks later Dr Porhoët was sitting among his books in the quiet,
low room that overlooked the Seine. He had given himself over to a
pleasing melancholy. The heat beat down upon the noisy streets of
Paris, and the din of the great city penetrated even to his fastness in
the Île Saint Louis. He remembered the cloud-laden sky of the country
where he was born, and the south-west wind that blew with a salt
freshness. The long streets of Brest, present to his fancy always in a
drizzle of rain, with the lights of _cafés_ reflected on the wet
pavements, had a familiar charm. Even in foul weather the sailor-men
who trudged along them gave one a curious sense of comfort. There was
delight in the smell of the sea and in the freedom of the great
Atlantic. And then he thought of the green lanes and of the waste
places with their scented heather, the fair broad roads that led from
one old sweet town to another, of the _Pardons_ and their gentle, sad
crowds. Dr Porhoët gave a sigh.

“It is good to be born in the land of Brittany,” he smiled.

But his _bonne_ showed Susie in, and he rose with a smile to greet her.
She had been in Paris for some time, and they had seen much of one
another. He basked in the gentle sympathy with which she interested
herself in all the abstruse, quaint matters on which he spent his time;
and, divining her love for Arthur, he admired the courage with which
she effaced herself. They had got into the habit of eating many of
their meals together in a quiet house opposite the Cluny called La
Reine Blanche, and here they had talked of so many things that their
acquaintance was grown into a charming friendship.

“I’m ashamed to come here so often,” said Susie, as she entered.
“Matilde is beginning to look at me with a suspicious eye.”

“It is very good of you to entertain a tiresome old man,” he smiled, as
he held her hand. “But I should have been disappointed if you had
forgotten your promise to come this afternoon, for I have much to tell
you.”

“Tell me at once,” she said, sitting down.

“I have discovered an MS. at the library of the Arsenal this morning
that no one knew anything about.”

He said this with an air of triumph, as though the achievement were of
national importance. Susie had a tenderness for his innocent mania;
and, though she knew the work in question was occult and
incomprehensible, congratulated him heartily.

“It is the original version of a book by Paracelsus. I have not read it
yet, for the writing is most difficult to decipher, but one point
caught my eye on turning over the pages. That is the gruesome fact that
Paracelsus fed the _homunculi_ he manufactured on human blood. One
wonders how he came by it.”

Susie gave a little start, which Dr Porhoët noticed.

“What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

He looked at her for a moment, then proceeded with the subject that
strangely fascinated him.

“You must let me take you one day to the library of the Arsenal. There
is no richer collection in the world of books dealing with the occult
sciences. And of course you know that it was at the Arsenal that the
tribunal sat, under the suggestive name of _chambre ardente_, to deal
with cases of sorcery and magic?”

“I didn’t,” smiled Susie.

“I always think that these manuscripts and queer old books, which are
the pride of our library, served in many an old trial. There are
volumes there of innocent appearance that have hanged wretched men and
sent others to the stake. You would not believe how many persons of
fortune, rank, and intelligence, during the great reign of Louis XIV,
immersed themselves in these satanic undertakings.”

Susie did not answer. She could not now deal with these matters in an
indifferent spirit. Everything she heard might have some bearing on the
circumstances which she had discussed with Dr Porhoët times out of
number. She had never been able to pin him down to an affirmation of
faith. Certain strange things had manifestly happened, but what the
explanation of them was, no man could say. He offered analogies from
his well-stored memory. He gave her books to read till she was
saturated with occult science. At one moment, she was inclined to throw
them all aside impatiently, and, at another, was ready to believe that
everything was possible.

Dr Porhoët stood up and stretched out a meditative finger. He spoke in
that agreeably academic manner which, at the beginning of their
acquaintance, had always entertained Susie, because it contrasted so
absurdly with his fantastic utterances.

“It was a strange dream that these wizards cherished. They sought to
make themselves beloved of those they cared for and to revenge
themselves on those they hated; but, above all, they sought to become
greater than the common run of men and to wield the power of the gods.
They hesitated at nothing to gain their ends. But Nature with
difficulty allows her secrets to be wrested from her. In vain they lit
their furnaces, and in vain they studied their crabbed books, called up
the dead, and conjured ghastly spirits. Their reward was disappointment
and wretchedness, poverty, the scorn of men, torture, imprisonment, and
shameful death. And yet, perhaps after all, there may be some particle
of truth hidden away in these dark places.”

“You never go further than the cautious perhaps,” said Susie. “You
never give me any definite opinion.”

“In these matters it is discreet to have no definite opinion,” he
smiled, with a shrug of the shoulders. “If a wise man studies the
science of the occult, his duty is not to laugh at everything, but to
seek patiently, slowly, perseveringly, the truth that may be concealed
in the night of these illusions.”

The words were hardly spoken when Matilde, the ancient _bonne_, opened
the door to let a visitor come in. It was Arthur Burdon. Susie gave a
cry of surprise, for she had received a brief note from him two days
before, and he had said nothing of crossing the Channel.

“I’m glad to find you both here,” said Arthur, as he shook hands with
them.

“Has anything happened?” cried Susie.

His manner was curiously distressing, and there was a nervousness about
his movements that was very unexpected in so restrained a person.

“I’ve seen Margaret again,” he said.

“Well?”

He seemed unable to go on, and yet both knew that he had something
important to tell them. He looked at them vacantly, as though all he
had to say was suddenly gone out of his mind.

“I’ve come straight here,” he said, in a dull, bewildered fashion. “I
went to your hotel, Susie, in the hope of finding you; but when they
told me you were out, I felt certain you would be here.”

“You seem worn out, _cher ami_,” said Dr Porhoët, looking at him. “Will
you let Matilde make you a cup of coffee?”

“I should like something,” he answered, with a look of utter weariness.

“Sit still for a minute or two, and you shall tell us what you want to
when you are a little rested.”

Dr Porhoët had not seen Arthur since that afternoon in the previous
year when, in answer to Haddo’s telegram, he had gone to the studio in
the Rue Campagne Première. He watched him anxiously while Arthur drank
his coffee. The change in him was extraordinary; there was a cadaverous
exhaustion about his face, and his eyes were sunken in their sockets.
But what alarmed the good doctor most was that Arthur’s personality
seemed thoroughly thrown out of gear. All that he had endured during
these nine months had robbed him of the strength of purpose, the
matter-of-fact sureness, which had distinguished him. He was now
unbalanced and neurotic.

Arthur did not speak. With his eyes fixed moodily on the ground, he
wondered how much he could bring himself to tell them. It revolted him
to disclose his inmost thoughts, yet he was come to the end of his
tether and needed the doctor’s advice. He found himself obliged to deal
with circumstances that might have existed in a world of nightmare, and
he was driven at last to take advantage of his friend’s peculiar
knowledge.

Returning to London after Margaret’s flight, Arthur Burdon had thrown
himself again into the work which for so long had been his only solace.
It had lost its savour; but he would not take this into account, and he
slaved away mechanically, by perpetual toil seeking to deaden his
anguish. But as the time passed he was seized on a sudden with a
curious feeling of foreboding, which he could in no way resist; it grew
in strength till it had all the power of an obsession, and he could not
reason himself out of it. He was sure that a great danger threatened
Margaret. He could not tell what it was, nor why the fear of it was so
persistent, but the idea was there always, night and day; it haunted
him like a shadow and pursued him like remorse. His anxiety increased
continually, and the vagueness of his terror made it more tormenting.
He felt quite certain that Margaret was in imminent peril, but he did
not know how to help her. Arthur supposed that Haddo had taken her back
to Skene; but, even if he went there, he had no chance of seeing her.
What made it more difficult still, was that his chief at St Luke’s was
away, and he was obliged to be in London in case he should be suddenly
called upon to do some operation. But he could think of nothing else.
He felt it urgently needful to see Margaret. Night after night he
dreamed that she was at the point of death, and heavy fetters prevented
him from stretching out a hand to help her. At last he could stand it
no more. He told a brother surgeon that private business forced him to
leave London, and put the work into his hands. With no plan in his
head, merely urged by an obscure impulse, he set out for the village of
Venning, which was about three miles from Skene.

It was a tiny place, with one public-house serving as a hotel to the
rare travellers who found it needful to stop there, and Arthur felt
that some explanation of his presence was necessary. Having seen at the
station an advertisement of a large farm to let, he told the
inquisitive landlady that he had come to see it. He arrived late at
night. Nothing could be done then, so he occupied the time by trying to
find out something about the Haddos.

Oliver was the local magnate, and his wealth would have made him an
easy topic of conversation even without his eccentricity. The landlady
roundly called him insane, and as an instance of his queerness told
Arthur, to his great dismay, that Haddo would have no servants to sleep
in the house: after dinner everyone was sent away to the various
cottages in the park, and he remained alone with his wife. It was an
awful thought that Margaret might be in the hands of a raving madman,
with not a soul to protect her. But if he learnt no more than this of
solid fact, Arthur heard much that was significant. To his amazement
the old fear of the wizard had grown up again in that lonely place, and
the garrulous woman gravely told him of Haddo’s evil influence on the
crops and cattle of farmers who had aroused his anger. He had had an
altercation with his bailiff, and the man had died within a year. A
small freeholder in the neighbourhood had refused to sell the land
which would have rounded off the estate of Skene, and a disease had
attacked every animal on his farm so that he was ruined. Arthur was
impressed because, though she reported these rumours with mock
scepticism as the stories of ignorant yokels and old women, the
innkeeper had evidently a terrified belief in their truth. No one could
deny that Haddo had got possession of the land he wanted; for, when it
was put up to auction, no one would bid against him, and he bought it
for a song.

As soon as he could do so naturally, Arthur asked after Margaret. The
woman shrugged her shoulders. No one knew anything about her. She never
came out of the park gates, but sometimes you could see her wandering
about inside by herself. She saw no one. Haddo had long since
quarrelled with the surrounding gentry; and though one old lady, the
mother of a neighbouring landowner, had called when Margaret first
came, she had not been admitted, and the visit was never returned.

“She’ll come to no good, poor lady,” said the hostess of the inn. “And
they do say she’s a perfect picture to look at.”

Arthur went to his room. He longed for the day to come. There was no
certain means of seeing Margaret. It was useless to go to the park
gates, since even the tradesmen were obliged to leave their goods at
the lodge; but it appeared that she walked alone, morning and
afternoon, and it might be possible to see her then. He decided to
climb into the park and wait till he came upon her in some spot where
they were not likely to be observed.

Next day the great heat of the last week was gone, and the melancholy
sky was dark with lowering clouds. Arthur inquired for the road which
led to Skene, and set out to walk the three miles which separated him
from it. The country was grey and barren. There was a broad waste of
heath, with gigantic boulders strewn as though in pre-historic times
Titans had waged there a mighty battle. Here and there were trees, but
they seemed hardly to withstand the fierce winds of winter; they were
old and bowed before the storm. One of them attracted his attention. It
had been struck by lightning and was riven asunder, leafless; but the
maimed branches were curiously set on the trunk so that they gave it
the appearance of a human being writhing in the torture of infernal
agony. The wind whistled strangely. Arthur’s heart sank as he walked
on. He had never seen a country so desolate.

He came to the park gates at last and stood for some time in front of
them. At the end of a long avenue, among the trees, he could see part
of a splendid house. He walked along the wooden palisade that
surrounded the park. Suddenly he came to a spot where a board had been
broken down. He looked up and down the road. No one was in sight. He
climbed up the low, steep bank, wrenched down a piece more of the
fence, and slipped in.

He found himself in a dense wood. There was no sign of a path, and he
advanced cautiously. The bracken was so thick and high that it easily
concealed him. Dead owners had plainly spent much care upon the place,
for here alone in the neighbourhood were trees in abundance; but of
late it had been utterly neglected. It had run so wild that there were
no traces now of its early formal arrangement; and it was so hard to
make one’s way, the vegetation was so thick, that it might almost have
been some remnant of primeval forest. But at last he came to a grassy
path and walked along it slowly. He stopped on a sudden, for he heard a
sound. But it was only a pheasant that flew heavily through the low
trees. He wondered what he should do if he came face to face with
Oliver. The innkeeper had assured him that the squire seldom came out,
but spent his days locked in the great attics at the top of the house.
Smoke came from the chimneys of them, even in the hottest days of
summer, and weird tales were told of the devilries there committed.

Arthur went on, hoping in the end to catch sight of Margaret, but he
saw no one. In that grey, chilly day the woods, notwithstanding their
greenery, were desolate and sad. A sombre mystery seemed to hang over
them. At last he came to a stone bench at a cross-way among the trees,
and, since it was the only resting-place he had seen, it struck him
that Margaret might come there to sit down. He hid himself in the
bracken. He had forgotten his watch and did not know how the time
passed; he seemed to be there for hours.

But at length his heart gave a great beat against his ribs, for all at
once, so silently that he had not heard her approach, Margaret came
into view. She sat on the stone bench. For a moment he dared not move
in case the sound frightened her. He could not tell how to make his
presence known. But it was necessary to do something to attract her
attention, and he could only hope that she would not cry out.

“Margaret,” he called softly.

She did not move, and he repeated her name more loudly. But still she
made no sign that she had heard. He came forward and stood in front of
her.

“Margaret.”

She looked at him quietly. He might have been someone she had never set
eyes on, and yet from her composure she might have expected him to be
standing there.

“Margaret, don’t you know me?”

“What do you want?” she answered placidly.

He was so taken aback that he did not know what to say. She kept gazing
at him steadfastly. On a sudden her calmness vanished, and she sprang
to her feet.

“Is it you really?” she cried, terribly agitated. “I thought it was
only a shape that mimicked you.”

“Margaret, what do you mean? What has come over you?”

She stretched out her hand and touched him.

“I’m flesh and blood all right,” he said, trying to smile.

She shut her eyes for a moment, as though in an effort to collect
herself.

“I’ve had hallucinations lately,” she muttered. “I thought it was some
trick played upon me.”

Suddenly she shook herself.

“But what are you doing here? You must go. How did you come? Oh, why
won’t you leave me alone?”

“I’ve been haunted by a feeling that something horrible was going to
happen to you. I was obliged to come.”

“For God’s sake, go. You can do me no good. If he finds out you’ve been
here—”

She stopped, and her eyes were dilated with terror. Arthur seized her
hands.

“Margaret, I can’t go—I can’t leave you like this. For Heaven’s sake,
tell me what is the matter. I’m so dreadfully frightened.”

He was aghast at the difference wrought in her during the two months
since he had seen her last. Her colour was gone, and her face had the
greyness of the dead. There were strange lines on her forehead, and her
eyes had an unnatural glitter. Her youth had suddenly left her. She
looked as if she were struck down by mortal illness.

“What is that matter with you?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She looked about her anxiously. “Oh, why don’t you go? How
can you be so cruel?”

“I must do something for you,” he insisted.

She shook her head.

“It’s too late. Nothing can help me now.” She paused; and when she
spoke again it was with a voice so ghastly that it might have come from
the lips of a corpse. “I’ve found out at last what he’s going to do
with me He wants me for his great experiment, and the time is growing
shorter.”

“What do you mean by saying he wants you?”

“He wants—my life.”

Arthur gave a cry of dismay, but she put up her hand.

“It’s no use resisting. It can’t do any good—I think I shall be glad
when the moment comes. I shall at least cease to suffer.”

“But you must be mad.”

“I don’t know. I know that he is.”

“But if your life is in danger, come away for God’s sake. After all,
you’re free. He can’t stop you.”

“I should have to go back to him, as I did last time,” she answered,
shaking her head. “I thought I was free then, but gradually I knew that
he was calling me. I tried to resist, but I couldn’t. I simply had to
go to him.”

“But it’s awful to think that you are alone with a man who’s
practically raving mad.”

“I’m safe for today,” she said quietly. “It can only be done in the
very hot weather. If there’s no more this year, I shall live till next
summer.”

“Oh, Margaret, for God’s sake don’t talk like that. I love you—I want
to have you with me always. Won’t you come away with me and let me take
care of you? I promise you that no harm shall come to you.”

“You don’t love me any more; you’re only sorry for me now.”

“It’s not true.”

“Oh yes it is. I saw it when we were in the country. Oh, I don’t blame
you. I’m a different woman from the one you loved. I’m not the Margaret
you knew.”

“I can never care for anyone but you.”

She put her hand on his arm.

“If you loved me, I implore you to go. You don’t know what you expose
me to. And when I’m dead you must marry Susie. She loves you with all
her heart, and she deserves your love.”

“Margaret, don’t go. Come with me.”

“And take care. He will never forgive you for what you did. If he can,
he will kill you.”

She started violently, as though she heard a sound. Her face was
convulsed with sudden fear.

“For God’s sake go, go!”

She turned from him quickly, and, before he could prevent her, had
vanished. With heavy heart he plunged again into the bracken.

When Arthur had given his friends some account of this meeting, he
stopped and looked at Dr Porhoët. The doctor went thoughtfully to his
bookcase.

“What is it you want me to tell you?” he asked.

“I think the man is mad,” said Arthur. “I found out at what asylum his
mother was, and by good luck was able to see the superintendent on my
way through London. He told me that he had grave doubts about Haddo’s
sanity, but it was impossible at present to take any steps. I came
straight here because I wanted your advice. Granting that the man is
out of his mind, is it possible that he may be trying some experiment
that entails a sacrifice of human life?”

“Nothing is more probable,” said Dr Porhoët gravely.

Susie shuddered. She remembered the rumour that had reached her ears in
Monte Carlo.

“They said there that he was attempting to make living creatures by a
magical operation.” She glanced at the doctor, but spoke to Arthur.
“Just before you came in, our friend was talking of that book of
Paracelsus in which he speaks of feeding the monsters he has made on
human blood.”

Arthur gave a horrified cry.

“The most significant thing to my mind is that fact about Margaret
which we are certain of,” said Dr Porhoët. “All works that deal with
the Black Arts are unanimous upon the supreme efficacy of the virginal
condition.”

“But what is to be done?” asked Arthur is desperation. “We can’t leave
her in the hands of a raving madman.” He turned on a sudden deathly
white. “For all we know she may be dead now.”

“Have you ever heard of Gilles de Rais?” said Dr Porhoët, continuing
his reflections. “That is the classic instance of human sacrifice. I
know the country in which he lived; and the peasants to this day dare
not pass at night in the neighbourhood of the ruined castle which was
the scene of his horrible crimes.”

“It’s awful to know that this dreadful danger hangs over her, and to be
able to do nothing.”

“We can only wait,” said Dr Porhoët.

“And if we wait too long, we may be faced by a terrible catastrophe.”

“Fortunately we live in a civilized age. Haddo has a great care of his
neck. I hope we are frightened unduly.”

It seemed to Susie that the chief thing was to distract Arthur, and she
turned over in her mind some means of directing his attention to other
matters.

“I was thinking of going down to Chartres for two days with Mrs
Bloomfield,” she said. “Won’t you come with me? It is the most lovely
cathedral in the world, and I think you will find it restful to wander
about it for a little while. You can do no good, here or in London.
Perhaps when you are calm, you will be able to think of something
practical.”

Dr Porhoët saw what her plan was, and joined his entreaties to hers
that Arthur should spend a day or two in a place that had no
associations for him. Arthur was too exhausted to argue, and from sheer
weariness consented. Next day Susie took him to Chartres. Mrs
Bloomfield was no trouble to them, and Susie induced him to linger for
a week in that pleasant, quiet town. They passed many hours in the
stately cathedral, and they wandered about the surrounding country.
Arthur was obliged to confess that the change had done him good, and a
certain apathy succeeded the agitation from which he had suffered so
long. Finally Susie persuaded him to spend three or four weeks in
Brittany with Dr Porhoët, who was proposing to revisit the scenes of
his childhood. They returned to Paris. When Arthur left her at the
station, promising to meet her again in an hour at the restaurant where
they were going to dine with Dr Porhoët, he thanked her for all she had
done.

“I was in an absurdly hysterical condition,” he said, holding her hand.
“You’ve been quite angelic. I knew that nothing could be done, and yet
I was tormented with the desire to do something. Now I’ve got myself in
hand once more. I think my common sense was deserting me, and I was on
the point of believing in the farrago of nonsense which they call
magic. After all, it’s absurd to think that Haddo is going to do any
harm to Margaret. As soon at I get back to London, I’ll see my lawyers,
and I daresay something can be done. If he’s really mad, we’ll have to
put him under restraint, and Margaret will be free. I shall never
forget your kindness.”

Susie smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

She was convinced that he would forget everything if Margaret came back
to him. But she chid herself for the bitterness of the thought. She
loved him, and she was glad to be able to do anything for him.

She returned to the hotel, changed her frock, and walked slowly to the
Chien Noir. It always exhilarated her to come back to Paris; and she
looked with happy, affectionate eyes at the plane trees, the yellow
trams that rumbled along incessantly, and the lounging people. When she
arrived, Dr Porhoët was waiting, and his delight at seeing her again
was flattering and pleasant. They talked of Arthur. They wondered why
he was late.

In a moment he came in. They saw at once that something quite
extraordinary had taken place.

“Thank God, I’ve found you at last!” he cried.

His face was moving strangely. They had never seen him so discomposed.

“I’ve been round to your hotel, but I just missed you. Oh, why did you
insist on my going away?”

“What on earth’s the matter?” cried Susie.

“Something awful has happened to Margaret.”

Susie started to her feet with a sudden cry of dismay.

“How do you know?” she asked quickly.

He looked at them for a moment and flushed. He kept his eyes upon them,
as though actually to force his listeners into believing what he was
about to say.

“I feel it,” he answered hoarsely.

“What do you mean?”

“It came upon me quite suddenly, I can’t explain why or how. I only
know that something has happened.”

He began again to walk up and down, prey to an agitation that was
frightful to behold. Susie and Dr Porhoët stared at him helplessly.
They tried to think of something to say that would calm him.

“Surely if anything had occurred, we should have been informed.”

He turned to Susie angrily.

“How do you suppose we could know anything? She was quite helpless. She
was imprisoned like a rat in a trap.”

“But, my dear friend, you mustn’t give way in this fashion,” said the
doctor. “What would you say of a patient who came to you with such a
story?”

Arthur answered the question with a shrug of the shoulders.

“I should say he was absurdly hysterical.”

“Well?”

“I can’t help it, the feeling’s there. If you try all night you’ll
never be able to argue me out of it. I feel it in every bone of my
body. I couldn’t be more certain if I saw Margaret lying dead in front
of me.”

Susie saw that it was indeed useless to reason with him. The only
course was to accept his conviction and make the best of it.

“What do you want us to do?” she asked.

“I want you both to come to England with me at once. If we start now we
can catch the evening train.”

Susie did not answer, but she got up. She touched the doctor on the
arm.

“Please come,” she whispered.

He nodded and untucked the napkin he had already arranged over his
waistcoat.

“I’ve got a cab at the door,” said Arthur.

“And what about clothes for Miss Susie?” said the doctor.

“Oh, we can’t wait for that,” cried Arthur. “For God’s sake, come
quickly.”

Susie knew that there was plenty of time to fetch a few necessary
things before the train started, but Arthur’s impatience was too great
to be withstood.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I can get all I want in England.”

He hurried them to the door and told the cabman to drive to the station
as quickly as ever he could.

“For Heaven’s sake, calm down a little,” said Susie. “You’ll be no good
to anyone in that state.”

“I feel certain we’re too late.”

“Nonsense! I’m convinced that you’ll find Margaret safe and sound.”

He did not answer. He gave a sigh of relief as they drove into the
courtyard of the station.




Chapter XIV


Susie never forgot the horror of that journey to England. They arrived
in London early in the morning and, without stopping, drove to Euston.
For three or four days there had been unusual heat, and even at that
hour the streets were sultry and airless. The train north was crowded,
and it seemed impossible to get a breath of air. Her head ached, but
she was obliged to keep a cheerful demeanour in the effort to allay
Arthur’s increasing anxiety. Dr Porhoët sat in front of her. After the
sleepless night his eyes were heavy and his face deeply lined. He was
exhausted. At length, after much tiresome changing, they reached
Venning. She had expected a greater coolness in that northern country;
but there was a hot blight over the place, and, as they walked to the
inn from the little station, they could hardly drag their limbs along.

Arthur had telegraphed from London that they must have rooms ready, and
the landlady expected them. She recognized Arthur. He passionately
desired to ask her whether anything had happened since he went away,
but forced himself to be silent for a while. He greeted her with
cheerfulness.

“Well, Mrs Smithers, what has been going on since I left you?” he
cried.

“Of course you wouldn’t have heard, sir,” she answered gravely.

He began to tremble, but with an almost superhuman effort controlled
his voice.

“Has the squire hanged himself?” he asked lightly.

“No sir—but the poor lady’s dead.”

He did not answer. He seemed turned to stone. He stared with ghastly
eyes.

“Poor thing!” said Susie, forcing herself to speak. “Was it—very
sudden?”

The woman turned to Susie, glad to have someone with whom to discuss
the event. She took no notice of Arthur’s agony.

“Yes, mum; no one expected it. She died quite sudden like. She was only
buried this morning.”

“What did she die of?” asked Susie, her eyes on Arthur.

She feared that he would faint. She wanted enormously to get him away,
but did not know how to manage it.

“They say it was heart disease,” answered the landlady. “Poor thing!
It’s a happy release for her.”

“Won’t you get us some tea, Mrs Smithers? We’re very tired, and we
should like something immediately.”

“Yes, miss. I’ll get it at once.”

The good woman bustled away. Susie quickly locked the door. She seized
Arthur’s arm.

“Arthur, Arthur.”

She expected him to break down. She looked with agony at Dr Porhoët,
who stood helplessly by.

“You couldn’t have done anything if you’d been here. You heard what the
woman said. If Margaret died of heart disease, your suspicions were
quite without ground.”

He shook her away, almost violently.

“For God’s sake, speak to us,” cried Susie.

His silence terrified her more than would have done any outburst of
grief. Dr Porhoët went up to him gently.

“Don’t try to be brave, my friend. You will not suffer as much if you
allow yourself a little weakness.”

“For Heaven’s sake leave me alone!” said Arthur, hoarsely.

They drew back and watched him silently. Susie heard their hostess come
along to the sitting-room with tea, and she unlocked the door. The
landlady brought in the things. She was on the point of leaving them
when Arthur stopped her.

“How do you know that Mrs Haddo died of heart disease?” he asked
suddenly.

His voice was hard and stern. He spoke with a peculiar abruptness that
made the poor woman look at him in amazement.

“Dr Richardson told me so.”

“Had he been attending her?”

“Yes, sir. Mr Haddo had called him in several times to see his lady.”

“Where does Dr Richardson live?”

“Why, sir, he lives at the white house near the station.”

She could not make out why Arthur asked these questions.

“Did Mr Haddo go to the funeral?”

“Oh yes, sir. I’ve never seen anyone so upset.”

“That’ll do. You can go.”

Susie poured out the tea and handed a cup to Arthur. To her surprise,
he drank the tea and ate some bread and butter. She could not
understand him. The expression of strain, and the restlessness which
had been so painful, were both gone from his face, and it was set now
to a look of grim determination. At last he spoke to them.

“I’m going to see this doctor. Margaret’s heart was as sound as mine.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Do?”

He turned on her with a peculiar fierceness.

“I’m going to put a rope round that man’s neck, and if the law won’t
help me, by God, I’ll kill him myself.”

“_Mais, mon ami, vous êtes fou_,” cried Dr Porhoët, springing up.

Arthur put out his hand angrily, as though to keep him back. The frown
on his face grew darker.

“You _must_ leave me alone. Good Heavens, the time has gone by for
tears and lamentation. After all I’ve gone through for months, I can’t
weep because Margaret is dead. My heart is dried up. But I know that
she didn’t die naturally, and I’ll never rest so long as that fellow
lives.”

He stretched out his hands and with clenched jaws prayed that one day
he might hold the man’s neck between them, and see his face turn livid
and purple as he died.

“I am going to this fool of a doctor, and then I shall go to Skene.”

“You must let us come with you,” said Susie.

“You need not be frightened,” he answered. “I shall not take any steps
of my own till I find the law is powerless.”

“I want to come with you all the same.”

“As you like.”

Susie went out and ordered a trap to be got ready. But since Arthur
would not wait, she arranged that it should be sent for them to the
doctor’s door. They went there at once, on foot.

Dr Richardson was a little man of five-and-fifty, with a fair beard
that was now nearly white, and prominent blue eyes. He spoke with a
broad Staffordshire accent. There was in him something of the farmer,
something of the well-to-do tradesman, and at the first glance his
intelligence did not impress one.

Arthur was shewn with his two friends into the consulting-room, and
after a short interval the doctor came in. He was dressed in flannels
and had an old-fashioned racket in his hand.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but Mrs Richardson has got a few
lady-friends to tea, and I was just in the middle of a set.”

His effusiveness jarred upon Arthur, whose manner by contrast became
more than usually abrupt.

“I have just learnt of the death of Mrs Haddo. I was her guardian and
her oldest friend. I came to you in the hope that you would be able to
tell me something about it.”

Dr Richardson gave him at once, the suspicious glance of a stupid man.

“I don’t know why you come to me instead of to her husband. He will be
able to tell you all that you wish to know.”

“I came to you as a fellow-practitioner,” answered Arthur. “I am at St
Luke’s Hospital.” He pointed to his card, which Dr Richardson still
held. “And my friend is Dr Porhoët, whose name will be familiar to you
with respect to his studies in Malta Fever.”

“I think I read an article of yours in the _B.M.J._” said the country
doctor.

His manner assumed a singular hostility. He had no sympathy with London
specialists, whose attitude towards the general practitioner he
resented. He was pleased to sneer at their pretensions to omniscience,
and quite willing to pit himself against them.

“What can I do for you, Mr Burdon?”

“I should be very much obliged if you would tell me as exactly as
possible how Mrs Haddo died.”

“It was a very simple case of endocarditis.”

“May I ask how long before death you were called in?”

The doctor hesitated. He reddened a little.

“I’m not inclined to be cross-examined,” he burst out, suddenly making
up his mind to be angry. “As a surgeon I daresay your knowledge of
cardiac diseases is neither extensive nor peculiar. But this was a very
simple case, and everything was done that was possible. I don’t think
there’s anything I can tell you.”

Arthur took no notice of the outburst.

“How many times did you see her?”

“Really, sir, I don’t understand your attitude. I can’t see that you
have any right to question me.”

“Did you have a post-mortem?”

“Certainly not. In the first place there was no need, as the cause of
death was perfectly clear, and secondly you must know as well as I do
that the relatives are very averse to anything of the sort. You
gentlemen in Harley Street don’t understand the conditions of private
practice. We haven’t the time to do post-mortems to gratify a needless
curiosity.”

Arthur was silent for a moment. The little man was evidently convinced
that there was nothing odd about Margaret’s death, but his foolishness
was as great as his obstinacy. It was clear that several motives would
induce him to put every obstacle in Arthur’s way, and chief of these
was the harm it would do him if it were discovered that he had given a
certificate of death carelessly. He would naturally do anything to
avoid social scandal. Still Arthur was obliged to speak.

“I think I’d better tell you frankly that I’m not satisfied, Dr
Richardson. I can’t persuade myself that this lady’s death was due to
natural causes.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” cried the other angrily. “I’ve been in practice
for hard upon thirty-five years, and I’m willing to stake my
professional reputation on it.”

“I have reason to think you are mistaken.”

“And to what do you ascribe death, pray?” asked the doctor.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Upon my soul, I think you must be out of your senses. Really, sir,
your behaviour is childish. You tell me that you are a surgeon of some
eminence …”

“I surely told you nothing of the sort.”

“Anyhow, you read papers before learned bodies and have them printed.
And you come with as silly a story as a Staffordshire peasant who
thinks someone has been trying to poison him because he’s got a
stomach-ache. You may be a very admirable surgeon, but I venture to
think I am more capable than you of judging in a case which I attended
and you know nothing about.”

“I mean to take the steps necessary to get an order for exhumation, Dr
Richardson, and I cannot help thinking it will be worth your while to
assist me in every possible way.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind. I think you very impertinent, sir.
There is no need for exhumation, and I shall do everything in my power
to prevent it. And I tell you as chairman of the board of magistrates,
my opinion will have as great value as any specialist’s in Harley
Street.”

He flounced to the door and held it open. Susie and Dr Porhoët walked
out; and Arthur, looking down thoughtfully, followed on their heels. Dr
Richardson slammed the street-door angrily.

Dr Porhoët slipped his arm in Arthur’s.

“You must be reasonable, my friend,” he said. “From his own point of
view this doctor has all the rights on his side. You have nothing to
justify your demands. It is monstrous to expect that for a vague
suspicion you will be able to get an order for exhumation.”

Arthur did not answer. The trap was waiting for them.

“Why do you want to see Haddo?” insisted the doctor. “You will do no
more good than you have with Dr Richardson.”

“I have made up my mind to see him,” answered Arthur shortly. “But
there is no need that either of you should accompany me.”

“If you go, we will come with you,” said Susie.

Without a word Arthur jumped into the dog-cart, and Susie took a seat
by his side. Dr Porhoët, with a shrug of the shoulders, mounted behind.
Arthur whipped up the pony, and at a smart trot they traversed the
three miles across the barren heath that lay between Venning and Skene.

When they reached the park gates, the lodgekeeper, as luck would have
it, was standing just inside, and she held one of them open for her
little boy to come in. He was playing in the road and showed no
inclination to do so. Arthur jumped down.

“I want to see Mr Haddo,” he said.

“Mr Haddo’s not in,” she answered roughly.

She tried to close the gate, but Arthur quickly put his foot inside.

“Nonsense! I have to see him on a matter of great importance.”

“Mr Haddo’s orders are that no one is to be admitted.”

“I can’t help that, I’m proposing to come in, all the same.”

Susie and Dr Porhoët came forward. They promised the small boy a
shilling to hold their horse.

“Now then, get out of here,” cried the woman. “You’re not coming in,
whatever you say.”

She tried to push the gate to, but Arthur’s foot prevented her. Paying
no heed to her angry expostulations, he forced his way in. He walked
quickly up the drive. The lodge-keeper accompanied him, with shrill
abuse. The gate was left unguarded, and the others were able to follow
without difficulty.

“You can go to the door, but you won’t see Mr Haddo,” the woman cried
angrily. “You’ll get me sacked for letting you come.”

Susie saw the house. It was a fine old building in the Elizabethan
style, but much in need of repair; and it had the desolate look of a
place that has been uninhabited. The garden that surrounded it had been
allowed to run wild, and the avenue up which they walked was green with
rank weeds. Here and there a fallen tree, which none had troubled to
remove, marked the owner’s negligence. Arthur went to the door and rang
a bell. They heard it clang through the house as though not a soul
lived there. A man came to the door, and as soon as he opened it,
Arthur, expecting to be refused admission, pushed in. The fellow was as
angry as the virago, his wife, who explained noisily how the three
strangers had got into the park.

“You can’t see the squire, so you’d better be off. He’s up in the
attics, and no one’s allowed to go to him.”

The man tried to push Arthur away.

“Be off with you, or I’ll send for the police.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Arthur. “I mean to find Mr Haddo.”

The housekeeper and his wife broke out with abuse, to which Arthur
listened in silence. Susie and Dr Porhoët stood by anxiously. They did
not know what to do. Suddenly a voice at their elbows made them start,
and the two servants were immediately silent.

“What can I do for you?”

Oliver Haddo was standing motionless behind them. It startled Susie
that he should have come upon them so suddenly, without a sound. Dr
Porhoët, who had not seen him for some time, was astounded at the
change which had taken place in him. The corpulence which had been his
before was become now a positive disease. He was enormous. His chin was
a mass of heavy folds distended with fat, and his cheeks were puffed up
so that his eyes were preternaturally small. He peered at you from
between the swollen lids. All his features had sunk into that hideous
obesity. His ears were horribly bloated, and the lobes were large and
swelled. He had apparently a difficulty in breathing, for his large
mouth, with its scarlet, shining lips, was constantly open. He had
grown much balder and now there was only a crescent of long hair
stretching across the back of his head from ear to ear. There was
something terrible about that great shining scalp. His paunch was huge;
he was a very tall man and held himself erect, so that it protruded
like a vast barrel. His hands were infinitely repulsive; they were red
and soft and moist. He was sweating freely, and beads of perspiration
stood on his forehead and on his shaven lip.

For a moment they all looked at one another in silence. Then Haddo
turned to his servants.

“Go,” he said.

As though frightened out of their wits, they made for the door and with
a bustling hurry flung themselves out. A torpid smile crossed his face
as he watched them go. Then he moved a step nearer his visitors. His
manner had still the insolent urbanity which was customary to him.

“And now, my friends, will you tell me how I can be of service to you?”

“I have come about Margaret’s death,” said Arthur.

Haddo, as was his habit, did not immediately answer. He looked slowly
from Arthur to Dr Porhoët, and from Dr Porhoët to Susie. His eyes
rested on her hat, and she felt uncomfortably that he was inventing
some gibe about it.

“I should have thought this hardly the moment to intrude upon my
sorrow,” he said at last. “If you have condolences to offer, I venture
to suggest that you might conveniently send them by means of the penny
post.”

Arthur frowned.

“Why did you not let me know that she was ill?” he asked.

“Strange as it may seem to you, my worthy friend, it never occurred to
me that my wife’s health could be any business of yours.”

A faint smile flickered once more on Haddo’s lips, but his eyes had
still the peculiar hardness which was so uncanny. Arthur looked at him
steadily.

“I have every reason to believe that you killed her,” he said.

Haddo’s face did not for an instant change its expression.

“And have you communicated your suspicions to the police?”

“I propose to.”

“And, if I am not indiscreet, may I inquire upon what you base them?”

“I saw Margaret three weeks ago, and she told me that she went in
terror of her life.”

“Poor Margaret! She had always the romantic temperament. I think it was
that which first brought us together.”

“You damned scoundrel!” cried Arthur.

“My dear fellow, pray moderate your language. This is surely not an
occasion when you should give way to your lamentable taste for abuse.
You outrage all Miss Boyd’s susceptibilities.” He turned to her with an
airy wave of his fat hand. “You must forgive me if I do not offer you
the hospitality of Skene, but the loss I have so lately sustained does
not permit me to indulge in the levity of entertaining.”

He gave her an ironical, low bow; then looked once more at Arthur.

“If I can be of no further use to you, perhaps you would leave me to my
own reflections. The lodgekeeper will give you the exact address of the
village constable.”

Arthur did not answer. He stared into vacancy, as if he were turning
over things in his mind. Then he turned sharply on his heel and walked
towards the gate. Susie and Dr Porhoët, taken completely aback, did not
know what to do; and Haddo’s little eyes twinkled as he watched their
discomfiture.

“I always thought that your friend had deplorable manners,” he
murmured.

Susie, feeling very ridiculous, flushed, and Dr Porhoët awkwardly took
off his hat. As they walked away, they felt Haddo’s mocking gaze fixed
upon them, and they were heartily thankful to reach the gate. They
found Arthur waiting for them.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I forgot that I was not alone.”

The three of them drove slowly back to the inn.

“What are you going to do now?” asked Susie.

For a long time Arthur made no reply, and Susie thought he could not
have heard her. At last he broke the silence.

“I see that I can do nothing by ordinary methods. I realize that it is
useless to make a public outcry. There is only my own conviction that
Margaret came to a violent end, and I cannot expect anyone to pay heed
to that.”

“After all, it’s just possible that she really died of heart disease.”

Arthur gave Susie a long look. He seemed to consider her words
deliberately.

“Perhaps there are means to decide that conclusively,” he replied at
length, thoughtfully, as though he were talking to himself.

“What are they?”

Arthur did not answer. When they came to the door of the inn, he
stopped.

“Will you go in? I wish to take a walk by myself,” he said.

Susie looked at him anxiously.

“You’re not going to do anything rash?”

“I will do nothing till I have made quite sure that Margaret was foully
murdered.”

He turned on his heel and walked quickly away. It was late now, and
they found a frugal meal waiting for them in the little sitting-room.
It seemed no use to delay it till Arthur came back, and silently,
sorrowfully, they ate. Afterwards, the doctor smoked cigarettes, while
Susie sat at the open window and looked at the stars. She thought of
Margaret, of her beauty and her charming frankness, of her fall and of
her miserable end; and she began to cry quietly. She knew enough of the
facts now to be aware that the wretched girl was not to blame for
anything that had happened. A cruel fate had fallen upon her, and she
had been as powerless as in the old tales Phaedra, the daughter of
Minos, or Myrrha of the beautiful hair. The hours passed, and still
Arthur did not return. Susie thought now only of him, and she was
frightfully anxious.

But at last he came in. The night was far advanced. He put down his hat
and sat down. For a long while he looked silently at Dr. Porhoët.

“What is it, my friend?” asked the good doctor at length.

“Do you remember that you told us once of an experiment you made in
Alexandria?” he said, after some hesitation.

He spoke in a curious voice.

“You told us that you took a boy, and when he looked in a magic mirror,
he saw things which he could not possibly have known.”

“I remember very well,” said the doctor.

“I was much inclined to laugh at you at the time. I was convinced that
the boy was a knave who deceived you.”

“Yes?”

“Of late I’ve thought of that story often. Some hidden recess of my
memory has been opened, and I seem to remember strange things. Was I
the boy who looked in the ink?”

“Yes,” said the doctor quietly.

Arthur did not say anything. A profound silence fell upon them, while
Susie and the doctor watched him intently. They wondered what was in
his mind.

“There is a side of my character which I did not know till lately,”
Arthur said at last. “When first it dawned upon me, I fought against
it. I said to myself that deep down in all of us, a relic from the long
past, is the remains of the superstition that blinded our fathers; and
it is needful for the man of science to fight against it with all his
might. And yet it was stronger than I. Perhaps my birth, my early
years, in those Eastern lands where everyone believes in the
supernatural, affected me although I did not know it. I began to
remember vague, mysterious things, which I never knew had been part of
my knowledge. And at last one day it seemed that a new window was
opened on to my soul, and I saw with extraordinary clearness the
incident which you had described. I knew suddenly it was part of my own
experience. I saw you take me by the hand and pour the ink on my palm
and bid me look at it. I felt again the strange glow that thrilled me,
and with an indescribable bitterness I saw things in the mirror which
were not there before. I saw people whom I had never seen. I saw them
perform certain actions. And some force I knew not, obliged me to
speak. And at length everything grew dim, and I was as exhausted as if
I had not eaten all day.”

He went over to the open window and looked out. Neither of the others
spoke. The look on Arthur’s face, curiously outlined by the light of
the lamp, was very stern. He seemed to undergo some mental struggle of
extraordinary violence. He breath came quickly. At last he turned and
faced them. He spoke hoarsely, quickly.

“I must see Margaret again.”

“Arthur, you’re mad!” cried Susie.

He went up to Dr Porhoët and, putting his hands on his shoulders,
looked fixedly into his eyes.

“You have studied this science. You know all that can be known of it. I
want you to show her to me.”

The doctor gave an exclamation of alarm.

“My dear fellow, how can I? I have read many books, but I have never
practised anything. I have only studied these matters for my
amusement.”

“Do you believe it can be done?”

“I don’t understand what you want.”

“I want you to bring her to me so that I may speak with her, so that I
may find out the truth.”

“Do you think I am God that I can raise men from the dead?”

Arthur’s hands pressed him down in the chair from which he sought to
rise. His fingers were clenched on the old man’s shoulders so that he
could hardly bear the pain.

“You told us how once Eliphas Levi raised a spirit. Do you believe that
was true?”

“I don’t know. I have always kept an open mind. There was much to be
said on both sides.”

“Well, now you must believe. You must do what he did.”

“You must be mad, Arthur.”

“I want you to come to that spot where I saw her last. If her spirit
can be brought back anywhere, it must be in that place where she sat
and wept. You know all the ceremonies and all the words that are
necessary.”

But Susie came forward and laid her hand on his arm. He looked at her
with a frown.

“Arthur, you know in your heart that nothing can come of it. You’re
only increasing your unhappiness. And even if you could bring her from
the grave for a moment, why can you not let her troubled soul rest in
peace?”

“If she died a natural death we shall have no power over her, but if
her death was violent perhaps her spirit is earthbound still. I tell
you I must be certain. I want to see her once more, and afterwards I
shall know what to do.”

“I cannot, I cannot,” said the doctor.

“Give me the books and I will do it alone.”

“You know that I have nothing here.”

“Then you must help me,” said Arthur. “After all, why should you mind?
We perform a certain operation, and if nothing happens we are no worse
off then before. On the other hand, if we succeed…. Oh, for God’s sake,
help me! If you have any care for my happiness do this one thing for
me.”

He stepped back and looked at the doctor. The Frenchman’s eyes were
fixed upon the ground.

“It’s madness,” he muttered.

He was intensely moved by Arthur’s appeal. At last he shrugged his
shoulders.

“After all, if it is but a foolish mummery it can do no harm.”

“You will help me?” cried Arthur.

“If it can give you any peace or any satisfaction, I am willing to do
what I can. But I warn you to be prepared for a great disappointment.”




Chapter XV


Arthur wished to set about the invocation then and there, but Dr
Porhoët said it was impossible. They were all exhausted after the long
journey, and it was necessary to get certain things together without
which nothing could be done. In his heart he thought that a night’s
rest would bring Arthur to a more reasonable mind. When the light of
day shone upon the earth he would be ashamed of the desire which ran
counter to all his prepossessions. But Arthur remembered that on the
next day it would be exactly a week since Margaret’s death, and it
seemed to him that then their spells might have a greater efficacy.

When they came down in the morning and greeted one another, it was
plain that none of them had slept.

“Are you still of the same purpose as last night?” asked Dr Porhoët
gravely.

“I am.”

The doctor hesitated nervously.

“It will be necessary, if you wish to follow out the rules of the old
necromancers, to fast through the whole day.”

“I am ready to do anything.”

“It will be no hardship to me,” said Susie, with a little hysterical
laugh. “I feel I couldn’t eat a thing if I tried.”

“I think the whole affair is sheer folly,” said Dr Porhoët.

“You promised me you would try.”

The day, the long summer day, passed slowly. There was a hard
brilliancy in the sky that reminded the Frenchman of those Egyptian
heavens when the earth seemed crushed beneath a bowl of molten fire.
Arthur was too restless to remain indoors and left the others to their
own devices. He walked without aim, as fast as he could go; he felt no
weariness. The burning sun beat down upon him, but he did not know it.
The hours passed with lagging feet. Susie lay on her bed and tried to
read. Her nerves were so taut that, when there was a sound in the
courtyard of a pail falling on the cobbles, she cried out in terror.
The sun rose, and presently her window was flooded with quivering rays
of gold. It was midday. The day passed, and it was afternoon. The
evening came, but it brought no freshness. Meanwhile Dr Porhoët sat in
the little parlour, with his head between his hands, trying by a great
mental effort to bring back to his memory all that he had read. His
heart began to beat more quickly. Then the night fell, and one by one
the stars shone out. There was no wind. The air was heavy. Susie came
downstairs and began to talk with Dr Porhoët. But they spoke in a low
tone, as if they were afraid that someone would overhear. They were
faint now with want of food. The hours went one by one, and the
striking of a clock filled them each time with a mysterious
apprehension. The lights in the village were put out little by little,
and everybody slept. Susie had lighted the lamp, and they watched
beside it. A cold shiver passed through her.

“I feel as though someone were lying dead in the room,” she said.

“Why does not Arthur come?”

They spoke inconsequently, and neither heeded what the other said. The
window was wide open, but the air was difficult to breathe. And now the
silence was so unusual that Susie grew strangely nervous. She tried to
think of the noisy streets in Paris, the constant roar of traffic, and
the shuffling of the crowds toward evening as the work people returned
to their homes. She stood up.

“There’s no air tonight. Look at the trees. Not a leaf is moving.”

“Why does not Arthur come?” repeated the doctor.

“There’s no moon tonight. It will be very dark at Skene.”

“He’s walked all day. He should be here by now.”

Susie felt an extraordinary oppression, and she panted for breath. At
last they heard a step on the road outside, and Arthur stood at the
window.

“Are you ready to come?” he said.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

They joined him, bringing the few things that Dr Porhoët had said were
necessary, and they walked along the solitary road that led to Skene.
On each side the heather stretched into the dark night, and there was a
blackness about it that was ominous. There was no sound save that of
their own steps. Dimly, under the stars, they saw the desolation with
which they were surrounded. The way seemed very long. They were utterly
exhausted, and they could hardly drag one foot after the other.

“You must let me rest for a minute,” said Susie.

They did not answer, but stopped, and she sat on a boulder by the
wayside. They stood motionless in front of her, waiting patiently till
she was ready. After a little while she forced herself to get up.

“Now I can go,” she said.

Still they did not speak, but walked on. They moved like figures in a
dream, with a stealthy directness, as though they acted under the
influence of another’s will. Suddenly the road stopped, and they found
themselves at the gates of Skene.

“Follow me very closely,” said Arthur.

He turned on one side, and they followed a paling. Susie could feel
that they walked along a narrow path. She could see hardly two steps in
front of her. At last he stood still.

“I came here earlier in the night and made the opening easier to get
through.”

He turned back a broken piece of railing and slipped in. Susie
followed, and Dr Porhoët entered after her.

“I can see nothing,” said Susie.

“Give my your hand, and I will lead you.”

They walked with difficulty through the tangled bracken, among closely
planted trees. They stumbled, and once Dr Porhoët fell. It seemed that
they went a long way. Susie’s heart beat fast with anxiety. All her
weariness was forgotten.

Then Arthur stopped them, and he pointed in front of him. Through an
opening in the trees, they saw the house. All the windows were dark
except those just under the roof, and from them came bright lights.

“Those are the attics which he uses as a laboratory. You see, he is
working now. There is no one else in the house.”

Susie was curiously fascinated by the flaming lights. There was an
awful mystery in those unknown labours which absorbed Oliver Haddo
night after night till the sun rose. What horrible things were done
there, hidden from the eyes of men? By himself in that vast house the
madman performed ghastly experiments; and who could tell what dark
secrets he trafficked in?

“There is no danger that he will come out,” said Arthur. “He remains
there till the break of day.”

He took her hand again and led her on. Back they went among the trees,
and presently they were on a pathway. They walked along with greater
safety.

“Are you all right, Porhoët?” asked Arthur.

“Yes.”

But the trees grew thicker and the night more sombre. Now the stars
were shut out, and they could hardly see in front of them.

“Here we are,” said Arthur.

They stopped, and found that there was in front of them a green space
formed by four cross-ways. In the middle a stone bench gleamed vaguely
against the darkness.

“This is where Margaret sat when last I saw her.”

“I can see to do nothing here,” said the doctor.

They had brought two flat bowls of brass to serve as censers, and these
Arthur gave to Dr Porhoët. He stood by Susie’s side while the doctor
busied himself with his preparations. They saw him move to and fro.
They saw him bend to the ground. Presently there was a crackling of
wood, and from the brazen bowls red flames shot up. They did not know
what he burnt, but there were heavy clouds of smoke, and a strong,
aromatic odour filled the air. Now and again the doctor was sharply
silhouetted against the light. His slight, bowed figure was singularly
mysterious. When Susie caught sight of his face, she saw that it was
touched with a strong emotion. The work he was at affected him so that
his doubts, his fears, had vanished. He looked like some old alchemist
busied with unnatural things. Susie’s heart began to beat painfully.
She was growing desperately frightened and stretched out her hand so
that she might touch Arthur. Silently he put his arm through hers. And
now the doctor was tracing strange signs upon the ground. The flames
died down and only a glow remained, but he seemed to have no difficulty
in seeing what he was about. Susie could not discern what figures he
drew. Then he put more twigs upon the braziers, and the flames sprang
up once more, cutting the darkness sharply as with a sword.

“Now come,” he said.

But, inexplicably, a sudden terror seized Susie. She felt that the
hairs of her head stood up, and a cold sweat broke out on her body. Her
limbs had grown on an instant inconceivably heavy so that she could not
move. A panic such as she had never known came upon her, and, except
that her legs would not carry her, she would have fled blindly. She
began to tremble. She tried to speak, but her tongue clave to her
throat.

“I can’t, I’m afraid,” she muttered hoarsely.

“You must. Without you we can do nothing,” said Arthur.

She could not reason with herself. She had forgotten everything except
that she was frightened to death. Her heart was beating so quickly that
she almost fainted. And now Arthur held her, so firmly that she winced.

“Let me go,” she whispered. “I won’t help you. I’m afraid.”

“You must,” he said. “You must.”

“No.”

“I tell you, you must come.”

“Why?”

Her deadly fear expressed itself in a passion of sudden anger.

“Because you love me, and it’s the only way to give me peace.”

She uttered a low wail of pain, and her terror gave way to shame. She
blushed to the roots of her hair because he too knew her secret. And
then she was seized again with anger because he had the cruelty to
taunt her with it. She had recovered her courage now, and she stepped
forward. Dr. Porhoët told her where to stand. Arthur took his place in
front of her.

“You must not move till I give you leave. If you go outside the figure
I have drawn, I cannot protect you.”

For a moment Dr Porhoët stood in perfect silence. Then he began to
recite strange words in Latin. Susie heard him but vaguely. She did not
know the sense, and his voice was so low that she could not have
distinguished the words. But his intonation had lost that gentle irony
which was habitual to him, and he spoke with a trembling gravity that
was extraordinarily impressive. Arthur stood immobile as a rock. The
flames died away, and they saw one another only by the glow of the
ashes, dimly, like persons in a vision of death. There was silence.
Then the necromancer spoke again, and now his voice was louder. He
seemed to utter weird invocations, but they were in a tongue that the
others knew not. And while he spoke the light from the burning cinders
on a sudden went out.

It did not die, but was sharply extinguished, as though by invisible
hands. And now the darkness was more sombre than that of the blackest
night. The trees that surrounded them were hidden from their eyes, and
the whiteness of the stone bench was seen no longer. They stood but a
little way one from the other, but each might have stood alone. Susie
strained her eyes, but she could see nothing. She looked up quickly;
the stars were gone out, and she could see no further over her head
than round about. The darkness was terrifying. And from it, Dr
Porhoët’s voice had a ghastly effect. It seemed to come, wonderfully
changed, from the void of bottomless chaos. Susie clenched her hands so
that she might not faint.

All at once she started, for the old man’s voice was cut by a sudden
gust of wind. A moment before, the utter silence had been almost
intolerable, and now a storm seemed to have fallen upon them. The trees
all around them rocked in the wind; they heard the branches creak; and
they heard the hissing of the leaves. They were in the midst of a
hurricane. And they felt the earth sway as it resisted the straining
roots of great trees, which seemed to be dragged up by the force of the
furious gale. Whistling and roaring, the wind stormed all about them,
and the doctor, raising his voice, tried in vain to command it. But the
strangest thing of all was that, where they stood, there was no sign of
the raging blast. The air immediately about them was as still as it had
been before, and not a hair on Susie’s head was moved. And it was
terrible to hear the tumult, and yet to be in a calm that was almost
unnatural.

On a sudden, Dr Porhoët raised his voice, and with a sternness they had
never heard in it before, cried out in that unknown language. Then he
called upon Margaret. He called her name three times. In the uproar
Susie could scarcely hear. Terror had seized her again, but in her
confusion she remembered his command, and she dared not move.

“Margaret, Margaret, Margaret.”

Without a pause between, as quickly as a stone falls to the ground, the
din which was all about them ceased. There was no gradual diminution.
But at one moment there was a roaring hurricane and at the next a
silence so complete that it might have been the silence of death.

And then, seeming to come out of nothingness, extraordinarily, they
heard with a curious distinctness the sound of a woman weeping. Susie’s
heart stood still. They heard the sound of a woman weeping, and they
recognized the voice of Margaret. A groan of anguish burst from
Arthur’s lips, and he was on the point of starting forward. But quickly
Dr Porhoët put out his hand to prevent him. The sound was heartrending,
the sobbing of a woman who had lost all hope, the sobbing of a woman
terrified. If Susie had been able to stir, she would have put her hands
to her ears to shut out the ghastly agony of it.

And in a moment, notwithstanding the heavy darkness of the starless
night, Arthur saw her. She was seated on the stone bench as when last
he had spoken with her. In her anguish she sought not to hide her face.
She looked at the ground, and the tears fell down her cheeks. Her bosom
heaved with the pain of her weeping.

Then Arthur knew that all his suspicions were justified.




Chapter XVI


Arthur would not leave the little village of Venning. Neither Susie nor
the doctor could get him to make any decision. None of them spoke of
the night which they had spent in the woods of Skene; but it coloured
all their thoughts, and they were not free for a single moment from the
ghastly memory of it. They seemed still to hear the sound of that
passionate weeping. Arthur was moody. When he was with them, he spoke
little; he opposed a stubborn resistance to their efforts at diverting
his mind. He spent long hours by himself, in the country, and they had
no idea what he did. Susie was terribly anxious. He had lost his
balance so completely that she was prepared for any rashness. She
divined that his hatred of Haddo was no longer within the bounds of
reason. The desire for vengeance filled him entirely, so that he was
capable of any violence.

Several days went by.

At last, in concert with Dr Porhoët, she determined to make one more
attempt. It was late at night, and they sat with open windows in the
sitting-room of the inn. There was a singular oppressiveness in the air
which suggested that a thunderstorm was at hand. Susie prayed for it;
for she ascribed to the peculiar heat of the last few days much of
Arthur’s sullen irritability.

“Arthur, you _must_ tell us what you are going to do,” she said. “It is
useless to stay here. We are all so ill and nervous that we cannot
consider anything rationally. We want you to come away with us
tomorrow.”

“You can go if you choose,” he said. “I shall remain till that man is
dead.”

“It is madness to talk like that. You can do nothing. You are only
making yourself worse by staying here.”

“I have quite made up my mind.”

“The law can offer you no help, and what else can you do?”

She asked the question, meaning if possible to get from him some hint
of his intentions; but the grimness of his answer, though it only
confirmed her vague suspicions, startled her.

“If I can do nothing else, I shall shoot him like a dog.”

She could think of nothing to say, and for a while they remained in
silence. Then he got up.

“I think I should prefer it if you went,” he said. “You can only hamper
me.”

“I shall stay here as long as you do.”

“Why?”

“Because if you do anything, I shall be compromised. I may be arrested.
I think the fear of that may restrain you.”

He looked at her steadily. She met his eyes with a calmness which
showed that she meant exactly what she said, and he turned uneasily
away. A silence even greater than before fell upon them. They did not
move. It was so still in the room that it might have been empty. The
breathlessness of the air increased, so that it was horribly
oppressive. Suddenly there was a loud rattle of thunder, and a flash of
lightning tore across the heavy clouds. Susie thanked Heaven for the
storm which would give presently a welcome freshness. She felt
excessively ill at ease, and it was a relief to ascribe her sensation
to a state of the atmosphere. Again the thunder rolled. It was so loud
that it seemed to be immediately above their heads. And the wind rose
suddenly and swept with a long moan through the trees that surrounded
the house. It was a sound so human that it might have come from the
souls of dead men suffering hopeless torments of regret.

The lamp went out, so suddenly that Susie was vaguely frightened. It
gave one flicker, and they were in total darkness. It seemed as though
someone had leaned over the chimney and blown it out. The night was
very black, and they could not see the window which opened on to the
country. The darkness was so peculiar that for a moment no one stirred.

Then Susie heard Dr Porhoët slip his hand across the table to find
matches, but it seemed that they were not there. Again a loud peal of
thunder startled them, but the rain would not fall. They panted for
fresh air. On a sudden Susie’s heart gave a bound, and she sprang up.

“There’s someone in the room.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she heard Arthur fling
himself upon the intruder. She knew at once, with the certainty of an
intuition, that it was Haddo. But how had he come in? What did he want?
She tried to cry out, but no sound came from her throat. Dr Porhoët
seemed bound to his chair. He did not move. He made no sound. She knew
that an awful struggle was proceeding. It was a struggle to the death
between two men who hated one another, but the most terrible part of it
was that nothing was heard. They were perfectly noiseless. She tried to
do something, but she could not stir. And Arthur’s heart exulted, for
his enemy was in his grasp, under his hands, and he would not let him
go while life was in him. He clenched his teeth and tightened his
straining muscles. Susie heard his laboured breathing, but she only
heard the breathing of one man. She wondered in abject terror what that
could mean. They struggled silently, hand to hand, and Arthur knew that
his strength was greater. He had made up his mind what to do and
directed all his energy to a definite end. His enemy was
extraordinarily powerful, but Arthur appeared to create some strength
from the sheer force of his will. It seemed for hours that they
struggled. He could not bear him down.

Suddenly, he knew that the other was frightened and sought to escape
from him. Arthur tightened his grasp; for nothing in the world now
would he ever loosen his hold. He took a deep, quick breath, and then
put out all his strength in a tremendous effort. They swayed from side
to side. Arthur felt as if his muscles were being torn from the bones,
he could not continue for more than a moment longer; but the agony that
flashed across his mind at the thought of failure braced him to a
sudden angry jerk. All at once Haddo collapsed, and they fell heavily
to the ground. Arthur was breathing more quickly now. He thought that
if he could keep on for one instant longer, he would be safe. He threw
all his weight on the form that rolled beneath him, and bore down
furiously on the man’s arm. He twisted it sharply, with all his might,
and felt it give way. He gave a low cry of triumph; the arm was broken.
And now his enemy was seized with panic; he struggled madly, he wanted
only to get away from those long hands that were killing him. They
seemed to be of iron. Arthur seized the huge bullock throat and dug his
fingers into it, and they sunk into the heavy rolls of fat; and he
flung the whole weight of his body into them. He exulted, for he knew
that his enemy was in his power at last; he was strangling him,
strangling the life out of him. He wanted light so that he might see
the horror of that vast face, and the deadly fear, and the staring
eyes. And still he pressed with those iron hands. And now the movements
were strangely convulsive. His victim writhed in the agony of death.
His struggles were desperate, but the avenging hands held him as in a
vice. And then the movements grew spasmodic, and then they grew weaker.
Still the hands pressed upon the gigantic throat, and Arthur forgot
everything. He was mad with rage and fury and hate and sorrow. He
thought of Margaret’s anguish and of her fiendish torture, and he
wished the man had ten lives so that he might take them one by one. And
at last all was still, and that vast mass of flesh was motionless, and
he knew that his enemy was dead. He loosened his grasp and slipped one
hand over the heart. It would never beat again. The man was stone dead.
Arthur got up and straightened himself. The darkness was intense still,
and he could see nothing. Susie heard him, and at length she was able
to speak.

“Arthur, what have you done?”

“I’ve killed him,” he said hoarsely.

“O God, what shall we do?”

Arthur began to laugh aloud, hysterically, and in the darkness his
hilarity was terrifying.

“For God’s sake let us have some light.”

“I’ve found the matches,” said Dr Porhoët.

He seemed to awake suddenly from his long stupor. He struck one, and it
would not light. He struck another, and Susie took off the globe and
the chimney as he kindled the wick. Then he held up the lamp, and they
saw Arthur looking at them. His face was ghastly. The sweat ran off his
forehead in great beads, and his eyes were bloodshot. He trembled in
every limb. Then Dr Porhoët advanced with the lamp and held it forward.
They looked down on the floor for the man who lay there dead. Susie
gave a sudden cry of horror.

There was no one there.

Arthur stepped back in terrified surprise. There was no one in the
room, living or dead, but the three friends. The ground sank under
Susie’s feet, she felt horribly ill, and she fainted. When she awoke,
seeming difficultly to emerge from an eternal night, Arthur was holding
down her head.

“Bend down,” he said. “Bend down.”

All that had happened came back to her, and she burst into tears. Her
self-control deserted her, and, clinging to him for protection, she
sobbed as though her heart would break. She was shaking from head to
foot. The strangeness of this last horror had overcome her, and she
could have shrieked with fright.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You need not be afraid.”

“Oh, what does it mean?”

“You must pluck up courage. We’re going now to Skene.”

She sprang to her feet, as though to get away from him; her heart beat
wildly.

“No, I can’t; I’m frightened.”

“We must see what it means. We have no time to lose, or the morning
will be upon us before we get back.”

Then she sought to prevent him.

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t go, Arthur. Something awful may await you
there. Don’t risk your life.”

“There is no danger. I tell you the man is dead.”

“If anything happened to you …”

She stopped, trying to restrain her sobs; she dared not go on. But he
seemed to know what was in her mind.

“I will take no risks, because of you. I know that whether I live or
die is not a—matter of indifference to you.”

She looked up and saw that his eyes were fixed upon her gravely. She
reddened. A curious feeling came into her heart.

“I will go with you wherever you choose,” she said humbly.

“Come, then.”

They stepped out into the night. And now, without rain, the storm had
passed away, and the stars were shining. They walked quickly. Arthur
went in front of them. Dr Porhoët and Susie followed him, side by side,
and they had to hasten their steps in order not to be left behind. It
seemed to them that the horror of the night was passed, and there was a
fragrancy in the air which was wonderfully refreshing. The sky was
beautiful. And at last they came to Skene. Arthur led them again to the
opening in the palisade, and he took Susie’s hand. Presently they stood
in the place from which a few days before they had seen the house. As
then, it stood in massive blackness against the night and, as then, the
attic windows shone out with brilliant lights. Susie started, for she
had expected that the whole place would be in darkness.

“There is no danger, I promise you,” said Arthur gently. “We are going
to find out the meaning of all this mystery.”

He began to walk towards the house.

“Have you a weapon of some sort?” asked the doctor.

Arthur handed him a revolver.

“Take this. It will reassure you, but you will have no need of it. I
bought it the other day when—I had other plans.”

Susie gave a little shudder. They reached the drive and walked to the
great portico which adorned the facade of the house. Arthur tried the
handle, but it would not open.

“Will you wait here?” he said. “I can get through one of the windows,
and I will let you in.”

He left them. They stood quietly there, with anxious hearts; they could
not guess what they would see. They were afraid that something would
happen to Arthur, and Susie regretted that she had not insisted on
going with him. Suddenly she remembered that awful moment when the
light of the lamp had been thrown where all expected to see a body, and
there was nothing.

“What do you think it meant?” she cried suddenly. “What is the
explanation?”

“Perhaps we shall see now,” answered the doctor.

Arthur still lingered, and she could not imagine what had become of
him. All sorts of horrible fancies passed through her mind, and she
dreaded she knew not what. At last they heard a footstep inside the
house, and the door was opened.

“I was convinced that nobody slept here, but I was obliged to make
sure. I had some difficulty in getting in.”

Susie hesitated to enter. She did not know what horrors awaited her,
and the darkness was terrifying.

“I cannot see,” she said.

“I’ve brought a torch,” said Arthur.

He pressed a button, and a narrow ray of bright light was cast upon the
floor. Dr Porhoët and Susie went in. Arthur carefully closed the door,
and flashed the light of his torch all round them. They stood in a
large hall, the floor of which was scattered with the skins of lions
that Haddo on his celebrated expedition had killed in Africa. There
were perhaps a dozen, and their number gave a wild, barbaric note. A
great oak staircase led to the upper floors.

“We must go through all the rooms,” said Arthur.

He did not expect to find Haddo till they came to the lighted attics,
but it seemed needful nevertheless to pass right through the house on
their way. A flash of his torch had shown him that the walls of the
hall were decorated with all manner of armour, ancient swords of
Eastern handiwork, barbaric weapons from central Africa, savage
implements of medieval warfare; and an idea came to him. He took down a
huge battle-axe and swung it in his hand.

“Now come.”

Silently, holding their breath as though they feared to wake the dead,
they went into the first room. They saw it difficultly with their scant
light, since the thin shaft of brilliancy, emphasising acutely the
surrounding darkness, revealed it only piece by piece. It was a large
room, evidently unused, for the furniture was covered with holland, and
there was a mustiness about it which suggested that the windows were
seldom opened. As in many old houses, the rooms led not from a passage
but into one another, and they walked through many till they came back
into the hall. They had all a desolate, uninhabited air. Their
sombreness was increased by the oak with which they were panelled.
There was panelling in the hall too, and on the stairs that led broadly
to the top of the house. As they ascended, Arthur stopped for one
moment and passed his hand over the polished wood.

“It would burn like tinder,” he said.

They went through the rooms on the first floor, and they were as empty
and as cheerless. Presently they came to that which had been
Margaret’s. In a bowl were dead flowers. Her brushes were still on the
toilet table. But it was a gloomy chamber, with its dark oak, and, so
comfortless that Susie shuddered. Arthur stood for a time and looked at
it, but he said nothing. They found themselves again on the stairs and
they went to the second storey. But here they seemed to be at the top
of the house.

“How does one get up to the attics?” said Arthur, looking about him
with surprise.

He paused for a while to think. Then he nodded his head.

“There must be some steps leading out of one of the rooms.”

They went on. And now the ceilings were much lower, with heavy beams,
and there was no furniture at all. The emptiness seemed to make
everything more terrifying. They felt that they were on the threshold
of a great mystery, and Susie’s heart began to beat fast. Arthur
conducted his examination with the greatest method; he walked round
each room carefully, looking for a door that might lead to a staircase;
but there was no sign of one.

“What will you do if you can’t find the way up?” asked Susie.

“I shall find the way up,” he answered.

They came to the staircase once more and had discovered nothing. They
looked at one another helplessly.

“It’s quite clear there is a way,” said Arthur, with impatience. “There
must be something in the nature of a hidden door somewhere or other.”

He leaned against the balustrade and meditated. The light of his
lantern threw a narrow ray upon the opposite wall.

“I feel certain it must be in one of the rooms at the end of the house.
That seems the most natural place to put a means of ascent to the
attics.”

They went back, and again he examined the panelling of a small room
that had outside walls on three sides of it. It was the only room that
did not lead into another.

“It must be here,” he said.

Presently he gave a little laugh, for he saw that a small door was
concealed by the woodwork. He pressed it where he thought there might
be a spring, and it flew open. Their torch showed them a narrow wooden
staircase. They walked up and found themselves in front of a door.
Arthur tried it, but it was locked. He smiled grimly.

“Will you get back a little,” he said.

He lifted his axe and swung it down upon the latch. The handle was
shattered, but the lock did not yield. He shook his head. As he paused
for a moment, an there was a complete silence, Susie distinctly heard a
slight noise. She put her hand on Arthur’s arm to call his attention to
it, and with strained ears they listened. There was something alive on
the other side of the door. They heard its curious sound: it was not
that of a human voice, it was not the crying of an animal, it was
extraordinary.

It was the sort of gibber, hoarse and rapid, and it filled them with an
icy terror because it was so weird and so unnatural.

“Come away, Arthur,” said Susie. “Come away.”

“There’s some living thing in there,” he answered.

He did not know why the sound horrified him. The sweat broke out on his
forehead.

“Something awful will happen to us,” whispered Susie, shaking with
uncontrollable fear.

“The only thing is to break the door down.”

The horrid gibbering was drowned by the noise he made. Quickly, without
pausing, he began to hack at the oak door with all his might. In rapid
succession his heavy blows rained down, and the sound echoed through
the empty house. There was a crash, and the door swung back. They had
been so long in almost total darkness that they were blinded for an
instant by the dazzling light. And then instinctively they started
back, for, as the door opened, a wave of heat came out upon them so
that they could hardly breathe. The place was like an oven.

They entered. It was lit by enormous lamps, the light of which was
increased by reflectors, and warmed by a great furnace. They could not
understand why so intense a heat was necessary. The narrow windows were
closed. Dr Porhoët caught sight of a thermometer and was astounded at
the temperature it indicated. The room was used evidently as a
laboratory. On broad tables were test-tubes, basins and baths of white
porcelain, measuring-glasses, and utensils of all sorts; but the
surprising thing was the great scale upon which everything was. Neither
Arthur nor Dr Porhoët had ever seen such gigantic measures nor such
large test-tubes. There were rows of bottles, like those in the
dispensary of a hospital, each containing great quantities of a
different chemical. The three friends stood in silence. The emptiness
of the room contrasted so oddly with its appearance of being in
immediate use that it was uncanny. Susie felt that he who worked there
was in the midst of his labours, and might return at any moment; he
could have only gone for an instant into another chamber in order to
see the progress of some experiment. It was quite silent. Whatever had
made those vague, unearthly noises was hushed by their approach.

The door was closed between this room and the next. Arthur opened it,
and they found themselves in a long, low attic, ceiled with great
rafters, as brilliantly lit and as hot as the first. Here too were
broad tables laden with retorts, instruments for heating, huge
test-tubes, and all manner of vessels. The furnace that warmed it gave
a steady heat. Arthur’s gaze travelled slowly from table to table, and
he wondered what Haddo’s experiments had really been. The air was heavy
with an extraordinary odour: it was not musty, like that of the closed
rooms through which they had passed, but singularly pungent,
disagreeable and sickly. He asked himself what it could spring from.
Then his eyes fell upon a huge receptacle that stood on the table
nearest to the furnace. It was covered with a white cloth. He took it
off. The vessel was about four feet high, round, and shaped somewhat
like a washing tub, but it was made of glass more than an inch thick.
In it a spherical mass, a little larger than a football, of a peculiar,
livid colour. The surface was smooth, but rather coarsely grained, and
over it ran a dense system of blood-vessels. It reminded the two
medical men of those huge tumours which are preserved in spirit in
hospital museums. Susie looked at it with an incomprehensible disgust.
Suddenly she gave a cry.

“Good God, it’s moving!”

Arthur put his hand on her arm quickly to quieten her and bent down
with irresistible curiosity. They saw that it was a mass of flesh
unlike that of any human being; and it pulsated regularly. The movement
was quite distinct, up and down, like the delicate heaving of a woman’s
breast when she is asleep. Arthur touched the thing with one finger and
it shrank slightly.

“Its quite warm,” he said.

He turned it over, and it remained in the position in which he had
placed it, as if there were neither top nor bottom to it. But they
could see now, irregularly placed on one side, a few short hairs. They
were just like human hairs.

“Is it alive?” whispered Susie, struck with horror and amazement.

“Yes!”

Arthur seemed fascinated. He could not take his eyes off the loathsome
thing. He watched it slowly heave with even motion.

“What can it mean?” he asked.

He looked at Dr Porhoët with pale startled face. A thought was coming
to him, but a thought so unnatural, extravagant, and terrible that he
pushed it from him with a movement of both hands, as though it were a
material thing. Then all three turned around abruptly with a start, for
they heard again the wild gibbering which had first shocked their ears.
In the wonder of this revolting object they had forgotten all the rest.
The sound seemed extraordinarily near, and Susie drew back
instinctively, for it appeared to come from her very side.

“There’s nothing here,” said Arthur. “It must be in the next room.”

“Oh, Arthur, let us go,” cried Susie. “I’m afraid to see what may be in
store for us. It is nothing to us; and what we see may poison our sleep
for ever.”

She looked appealingly at Dr Porhoët. He was white and anxious. The
heat of that place had made the sweat break out on his forehead.

“I have seen enough. I want to see no more,” he said.

“Then you may go, both of you,” answered Arthur. “I do not wish to
force you to see anything. But I shall go on. Whatever it is, I wish to
find out.”

“But Haddo? Supposing he is there, waiting? Perhaps you are only
walking into a trap that he has set for you.”

“I am convinced that Haddo is dead.”

Again that unintelligible jargon, unhuman and shrill, fell upon their
ears, and Arthur stepped forward. Susie did not hesitate. She was
prepared to follow him anywhere. He opened the door, and there was a
sudden quiet. Whatever made those sounds was there. It was a larger
room than any on the others and much higher, for it ran along the whole
front of the house. The powerful lamps showed every corner of it at
once, but, above, the beams of the open ceiling were dark with shadow.
And here the nauseous odour, which had struck them before, was so
overpowering that for a while they could not go in. It was
indescribably foul. Even Arthur thought it would make him sick, and he
looked at the windows to see if it was possible to open them; but it
seemed they were hermetically closed. The extreme warmth made the air
more overpowering. There were four furnaces here, and they were all
alight. In order to give out more heat and to burn slowly, the fronts
of them were open, and one could see that they were filled with glowing
coke.

The room was furnished no differently from the others, but to the
various instruments for chemical operations on a large scale were added
all manner of electrical appliances. Several books were lying about,
and one had been left open face downwards on the edge of a table. But
what immediately attracted their attention was a row of those large
glass vessels like that which they had seen in the adjoining room. Each
was covered with a white cloth. They hesitated a moment, for they knew
that here they were face to face with the great enigma. At last Arthur
pulled away the cloth from one. None of them spoke. They stared with
astonished eyes. For here, too, was a strange mass of flesh, almost as
large as a new-born child, but there was in it the beginnings of
something ghastly human. It was shaped vaguely like an infant, but the
legs were joined together so that it looked like a mummy rolled up in
its coverings. There were neither feet nor knees. The trunk was
formless, but there was a curious thickening on each side; it was as if
a modeller had meant to make a figure with the arms loosely bent, but
had left the work unfinished so that they were still one with the body.
There was something that resembled a human head, covered with long
golden hair, but it was horrible; it was an uncouth mass, without eyes
or nose or mouth. The colour was a kind of sickly pink, and it was
almost transparent. There was a very slight movement in it, rhythmical
and slow. It was living too.

Then quickly Arthur removed the covering from all the other jars but
one; and in a flash of the eyes they saw abominations so awful that
Susie had to clench her fists in order not to scream. There was one
monstrous thing in which the limbs approached nearly to the human. It
was extraordinarily heaped up, with fat tiny arms, little bloated legs,
and an absurd squat body, so that it looked like a Chinese mandarin in
porcelain. In another the trunk was almost like that of a human child,
except that it was patched strangely with red and grey. But the terror
of it was that at the neck it branched hideously, and there were two
distinct heads, monstrously large, but duly provided with all their
features. The features were a caricature of humanity so shameful that
one could hardly bear to look. And as the light fell on it, the eyes of
each head opened slowly. They had no pigment in them, but were pink,
like the eyes of white rabbits; and they stared for a moment with an
odd, unseeing glance. Then they were shut again, and what was curiously
terrifying was that the movements were not quite simultaneous; the
eyelids of one head fell slowly just before those of the other. And in
another place was a ghastly monster in which it seemed that two bodies
had been dreadfully entangled with one another. It was a creature of
nightmare, with four arms and four legs, and this one actually moved.
With a peculiar motion it crawled along the bottom of the great
receptacle in which it was kept, towards the three persons who looked
at it. It seemed to wonder what they did. Susie started back with
fright, as it raised itself on its four legs and tried to reach up to
them.

Susie turned away and hid her face. She could not look at those ghastly
counterfeits of humanity. She was terrified and ashamed.

“Do you understand what this means?” said Dr Porhoët to Arthur, in an
awed voice. “It means that he has discovered the secret of life.”

“Was it for these vile monstrosities that Margaret was sacrificed in
all her loveliness?”

The two men looked at one another with sad, wondering eyes.

“Don’t you remember that he talked of the manufacture of human beings?
It’s these misshapen things that he’s succeeding in producing,” said
the doctor.

“There is one more that we haven’t seen,” said Arthur.

He pointed to the covering which still hid the largest of the vases. He
had a feeling that it contained the most fearful of all these monsters;
and it was not without an effort that he drew the cloth away. But no
sooner had he done this than something sprang up, so that instinctively
he started back, and it began to gibber in piercing tones. These were
the unearthly sounds that they had heard. It was not a voice, it was a
kind of raucous crying, hoarse yet shrill, uneven like the barking of a
dog, and appalling. The sounds came forth in rapid succession, angrily,
as though the being that uttered them sought to express itself in
furious words. It was mad with passion and beat against the glass walls
of its prison with clenched fists. For the hands were human hands, and
the body, though much larger, was of the shape of a new-born child. The
creature must have stood about four feet high. The head was horribly
misshapen. The skull was enormous, smooth and distended like that of a
hydrocephalic, and the forehead protruded over the face hideously. The
features were almost unformed, preternaturally small under the great,
overhanging brow; and they had an expression of fiendish malignity.

The tiny, misshapen countenance writhed with convulsive fury, and from
the mouth poured out a foaming spume. It raised its voice higher and
higher, shrieking senseless gibberish in its rage. Then it began to
hurl its whole body madly against the glass walls and to beat its head.
It appeared to have a sudden incomprehensible hatred for the three
strangers. It was trying to fly at them. The toothless gums moved
spasmodically, and it threw its face into horrible grimaces. That
nameless, loathsome abortion was the nearest that Oliver Haddo had come
to the human form.

“Come away,” said Arthur. “We must not look at this.”

He quickly flung the covering over the jar.

“Yes, for God’s sake let us go,” said Susie.

“We haven’t done yet,” answered Arthur. “We haven’t found the author of
all this.”

He looked at the room in which they were, but there was no door except
that by which they had entered. Then he uttered a startled cry, and
stepping forward fell on his knee.

On the other side of the long tables heaped up with instruments, hidden
so that at first they had not seen him, Oliver Haddo lay on the floor,
dead. His blue eyes were staring wide, and they seemed larger than they
had ever been. They kept still the expression of terror which they had
worn in the moment of his agony, and his heavy face was distorted with
deadly fear. It was purple and dark, and the eyes were injected with
blood.

“He died of suffocation,” whispered Dr Porhoët.

Arthur pointed to the neck. There could be seen on it distinctly the
marks of the avenging fingers that had strangled the life out of him.
It was impossible to hesitate.

“I told you that I had killed him,” said Arthur.

Then he remembered something more. He took hold of the right arm. He
was convinced that it had been broken during that desperate struggle in
the darkness. He felt it carefully and listened. He heard plainly the
two parts of the bone rub against one another. The dead man’s arm was
broken just in the place where he had broken it. Arthur stood up. He
took one last look at his enemy. That vast mass of flesh lay heaped up
on the floor in horrible disorder.

“Now that you have seen, will you come away?” said Susie, interrupting
him.

The words seemed to bring him suddenly to himself.

“Yes, we must go quickly.”

They turned away and with hurried steps walked through those bright
attics till they came to the stairs.

“Now go down and wait for me at the door,” said Arthur. “I will follow
you immediately.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Susie.

“Never mind. Do as I tell you. I have not finished here yet.”

They went down the great oak staircase and waited in the hall. They
wondered what Arthur was about. Presently he came running down.

“Be quick!” he cried. “We have no time to lose.”

“What have you done, Arthur?”

There’s no time to tell you now.”

He hurried them out and slammed the door behind him. He took Susie’s
hand.

“Now we must run. Come.”

She did not know what his haste signified, but her heart beat
furiously. He dragged her along. Dr Porhoët hurried on behind them.
Arthur plunged into the wood. He would not leave them time to breathe.

“You must be quick,” he said.

At last they came to the opening in the fence, and he helped them to
get through. Then he carefully replaced the wooden paling and, taking
Susie’s arm began to walk rapidly towards their inn.

“I’m frightfully tired,” she said. “I simply can’t go so fast.”

“You must. Presently you can rest as long as you like.”

They walked very quickly for a while. Now and then Arthur looked back.
The night was still quite dark, and the stars shone out in their
myriads. At last he slackened their pace.

“Now you can go more slowly,” he said.

Susie saw the smiling glance that he gave her. His eyes were full of
tenderness. He put his arm affectionately round her shoulders to
support her.

“I’m afraid you’re quite exhausted, poor thing,” he said. “I’m sorry to
have had to hustle you so much.”

“It doesn’t matter at all.”

She leaned against him comfortably. With that protecting arm about her,
she felt capable of any fatigue. Dr Porhoët stopped.

“You must really let me roll myself a cigarette,” he said.

“You may do whatever you like,” answered Arthur.

There was a different ring in his voice now, and it was soft with a
good-humour that they had not heard in it for many months. He appeared
singularly relieved. Susie was ready to forget the terrible past and
give herself over to the happiness that seemed at last in store for
her. They began to saunter slowly on. And now they could take pleasure
in the exquisite night. The air was very suave, odorous with the
heather that was all about them, and there was an enchanting peace in
that scene which wonderfully soothed their weariness. It was dark
still, but they knew the dawn was at hand, and Susie rejoiced in the
approaching day. In the east the azure of the night began to thin away
into pale amethyst, and the trees seemed gradually to stand out from
the darkness in a ghostly beauty. Suddenly birds began to sing all
around them in a splendid chorus. From their feet a lark sprang up with
a rustle of wings and, mounting proudly upon the air, chanted blithe
canticles to greet the morning. They stood upon a little hill.

“Let us wait here and see the sun rise,” said Susie.

“As you will.”

They stood all three of them, and Susie took in deep, joyful breaths of
the sweet air of dawn. The whole land, spread at her feet, was clothed
in the purple dimness that heralds day, and she exulted in its beauty.
But she noticed that Arthur, unlike herself and Dr Porhoët, did not
look toward the east. His eyes were fixed steadily upon the place from
which they had come. What did he look for in the darkness of the west?
She turned round, and a cry broke from her lips, for the shadows there
were lurid with a deep red glow.

“It looks like a fire,” she said.

“It is. Skene is burning like tinder.”

And as he spoke it seemed that the roof fell in, for suddenly vast
flames sprang up, rising high into the still night air; and they saw
that the house they had just left was blazing furiously. It was a
magnificent sight from the distant hill on which they stood to watch
the fire as it soared and sank, as it shot scarlet tongues along like
strange Titanic monsters, as it raged from room to room. Skene was
burning. It was beyond the reach of human help. In a little while there
would be no trace of all those crimes and all those horrors. Now it was
one mass of flame. It looked like some primeval furnace, where the gods
might work unheard-of miracles.

“Arthur, what have you done?” asked Susie, in a tone that was hardly
audible.

He did not answer directly. He put his arm about her shoulder again, so
that she was obliged to turn round.

“Look, the sun is rising.”

In the east, a long ray of light climbed up the sky, and the sun,
yellow and round, appeared upon the face of the earth.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14257 ***