Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  They were returning together from a scramble in the gravel-pit which they pretended was a secret entrance to the centre of the world; and they were tired. Mànya walked a little in front, as her habit was, so that she could turn and see him ‘opposite’ at a moment’s notice when he said an interesting thing. Her red tam-o’-shanter, with the top-knot off, she carried in her hand, swinging it to and fro. From time to time she flicked it out sideways, as though to keep flies away. But there were no flies, for it was chilly and growing dark. The pines were thickly planted here, with sudden open spaces. Their footsteps fell soft and dead upon the needles. And sometimes she flung her arm out with an imperious, sudden gesture of defiance that made him feel suspicious and look over his shoulder. For it was like signing to some one who came close, some one he could not see, but whose presence was very real to her. The unwelcome conviction grew upon him. Some one, in the world she knew apart from him, accompanied them. A few minutes before she had been wild and romping, playing at ‘mushrooms’ with laughter and excitement. She loved doing this — whirling round on her toes till her skirts were horizontal, then sinking with them ballooning round her to the ground, the tam-o’-shanter pulled down over her entire face so that she looked like a giant toadstool with a crimson top. But now she had turned suddenly grave and silent.

  ‘Uncle!’ she exclaimed abruptly, turning sharply to face him, and using the hushed tone that was always prelude to some startling question, ‘tell me one thing, please. What would you do if—’

  She broke off suddenly and sprang swiftly to one side.

  ‘Mànya! if what?’ He did not like the movement; it was so obviously done to avoid something that stood in her way — between them — very close. He almost jumped too. ‘I can’t tell you anything while you’re darting about like a deer-fly. What d’you want to know?’ he added with involuntary sharpness.

  She stood facing him with her legs astride the path. She stared straight into his eyes. The dusk played tricks with her height, always delusive. It magnified her. She seemed to stand over him, towering up.

  ‘If some one kept walking close beside you under an umbrella,’ she whispered earnestly, ‘so that the face was hidden and you could never see it — what would you do?’

  ‘Child! But what a question!’ The carelessness in his tone was not quite natural. A shiver ran down his back.

  She moved closer, so that he felt her breath and saw the gleam of her big, wide-opened eyes.

  ‘Would you knock up the umbrella with a bang,’ she whispered, as though afraid she might be overheard, ‘or just suddenly stoop and look beneath — catching it that way?’

  He stepped aside to pass her, but the child stepped with him, barring his movement of escape. She meant to have her answer.

  ‘Take it by surprise like that, I mean. Would you, Uncle?’

  He stared blankly at her; the conviction in her voice and manner was disquieting.

  ‘Depends what kind of thing,’ he said, seeing his mistake. He tried to banter, and yet at the same time seem serious. But to joke with Mànya in this mood was never very successful. She resented it. And above all he did not want to lose her confidence.

  ‘Depends,’ he said slowly, ‘whether I felt it friendly or unfriendly; but I think — er — I should prefer to knock the brolly up.’

  For a moment she appeared to weigh the wisdom of his judgment, then instantly rejecting it.

  ‘I shouldn’t!’ she answered like a flash. ‘I should suddenly run up and stoop to see. I should catch it that way!’

  And, before he could add a word or make a movement to go on, she darted from beside him with a leap like a deer, flew forwards several yards among the trees, stooped suddenly down, then turned her head and face up sideways as though to peer beneath something that spread close to the ground. Her skirts ballooned about her like the mushroom, one hand supporting her on the earth, while the other, holding the tam-o’-shanter, shaded her eyes.

  ‘Oh! oh!’ she cried the next instant, standing bolt upright again, ‘it’s a whole lot! And they’ve all gone like lightning — gone off there!’ She pointed all about her — into the sky, towards the moors, back to the forest, even down into the earth — a curious sweeping gesture; then hid her face behind both hands and came slowly to his side again.

  ‘It wasn’t one, Uncle. It was a lot!’ she whispered through her fingers. Then she dropped her hands as a new explanation flashed into her. ‘But p’raps, after all, it was only one! Oh, Uncle, I do believe it was only one. Just fancy — how awfully splendid! I wonder!’

  Neither the hour nor the place seemed to him suitable for such a discussion. He put his arm round her and hurried out of the wood. He put the woods behind them, like a protective barrier; for his sake as well as hers; that much he clearly realised. He somehow made a shield of them.

  In the garden, with the stars peeping through thin clouds, and the lights of the windows beckoning in front, he turned and said laughing, quickening his pace at the same time:

  ‘Rabbits, Mànya, rabbits! All the rabbits here use brollies, and the bunnies too.’ It was the best thing he could think of at the moment. Rather neat he thought it. But her instant answer took the wind out of his sham sails.

  ‘That’s just the name for them!’ she cried, clapping her hands softly with delight. ‘Now they needn’t hide like that any more. We’ll just pretend they’re bunnies, and they’ll feel disguised enough.’ They went into the house, and it was comforting to see the figure of Mother Coove filling the entire hall. At least there was no disguising her. But on the steps Mànya halted a moment and gazed up in his face. She stood in front of him, deaf to Mrs. Coove’s statements from the rear about wet boots. Her eyes, though shining with excitement, held a puzzled, wild expression.

  ‘Uncle,’ she whispered, with sly laughter, standing on tiptoe to kiss him, ‘I wonder — !’ then flew upstairs to change before he could find a suitable reply.

  But he wondered too, wondered what it was the child had seen. For certainly she had seen something.

  Yet the thought that finally stayed with him — as after all the other queer adventures they had together — was this unpleasant one, that his so willing acceptance of the little intruder involved the disapproval, even the resentment, of — another. It haunted him. He never could get quite free of it. Another watched, another listened, another — waited. And Mànya knew.

  IX

  AUTUMN passed into winter, and spring at last came round. The dream-estate was a garden of delight and loveliness, fresh green upon the larches and heather all abloom. The routine of the little household was established, and seemed as if it could never have been otherwise. The relationship between the elderly uncle and his little charge was perfect now, like that between a father and his only daughter, spoilt daughter, perhaps a little, who, knowing her power, yet never took advantage of it. He loved her as his own child; and that evasive ‘something’ in her which had won his respect from the first still continued to elude him. He never caught it up. It had increased, too, in the long, dark months. Now, with the lengthening days, it came still more to the front, grown bolder, as though ‘spring’s sweet trouble in the ground’ summoned it forth. This sympathy between her being and the Place had strengthened underground. The disentangling had gone on apace. With the first warm softness of the April days he woke abruptly to the fact, and faced it. The older memories had been replaced. It seemed to him almost as though his hold upon the Place had weakened. He loved it still, but loved it in some new way. And his conscience pricked him, for conscience had become identified with the trust of guardianship thus self-imposed. He had let something in, and though it was not the taint of outside country she had said would ‘dirty’ it, it yet was alien. It was somehow hostile to the conditions of his original Deed of Trust.

  Then, into this little world, dropping like some stray bullet from a distant battle, came with a bang the person of John C. Murdoch. He came for a self-proposed visit of one day, being too ‘rushed�
� to stay an hour longer. Chance had put him ‘on the trail’ of his old-time ‘pard of a hundred camps,’ and he couldn’t miss looking him up, not ‘for all the money you could shake a stick at.’ More like a shell than mere bullet he came — explosively and with a kind of tempestuous energy. For his vitality and speed of action were terrific, and he was making money now ‘dead easy’ — so easy, in fact, that it was ‘like picking it up in the street.’

  ‘Then you’ve done well for yourself since those old days in Arizona,’ said Eliot, really pleased to see him, for a truer ‘partner’ in difficult times he had never known; ‘and I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘That’s so, Boss’ — he had always called the ‘Englisher’ thus because of his refined speech and manners— ‘God ain’t forgot me, and I’ve got grubstakes now all over Yurrup. Just raking it in, and if you want a bit, why, name the figger and it’s yours.’ He glanced round at the modest old-fashioned establishment, judging it evidence of unsuccess.

  ‘What line?’ asked Eliot, dropping into the long-forgotten lingo.

  ‘Why, patents, bless your heart,’ was the reply. ‘They come to me as easy as mother’s milk to baby, and if the heart don’t wither in me first, I’ll patent everything in sight. I’ll patent the earth itself before I’m done.’

  And for a whole hour, smoking one strong green cigar upon another,. he gave brief and picturesque descriptions of his various enterprises, with such energy and gusto, moreover, that there woke in Eliot something of the lust of battle he had known in the wild, early days, something of his zest for making a fortune, something too of the old bitter grievance — in a word, the spirit of action, eager strife and keen achievement, which never had quite gone to sleep....

  ‘And now,’ said Murdoch at length, ‘tell me about yerself. You look fit and lively. You’ve had enough of my chin-music. Made yer pile and retired too? Isn’t that it? Only you still like things kind o’ modest and camp-like. Is that so?’

  But Eliot found it difficult to tell. This side of him that life in England had revived, to the almost complete burial of the other, was one that Murdoch would not understand. For one thing, Murdoch had never seen it in his friend; the Arizona days had kept it deeply hidden. He listened with a kind of tolerant pity, while Eliot found himself giving the desired information almost in a tone of apology.

  ‘Every man to his liking,’ the Westerner cut him short when he had heard less than half of the stammering tale, ‘and your line ain’t mine, I see. I’m no shadow-chaser — never was. You’ve changed a lot. Why’ — looking round at the little pine-clad valley— ‘I should think you’d rot to death in this place. There’s not room to pitch a camp or feed a horse. I’d choke for want of air.’ And he lit another cigar and spat neatly across ten feet of lawn.

  John Casanova Murdoch — in the West he was called ‘John Cass,’ or just ‘John C.,’ but had resurrected the middle name for the benefit of Yurrup — was a man of parts and character, tried courage, and unfailing in his friendship. ‘Straight as you make ‘em’ was the verdict of the primitive country where a man’s essential qualities are soon recognised, ‘and without no frills.’ And Eliot, whatever he may have thought, felt no resentment. He remembered the rough man’s kindness to him when he had been a tenderfoot in more than one awkward place. John C. might ‘rot to death’ in this place, and might think the vulgar country round it ‘great stuff,’ but for all that his host liked to see and hear him. He remembered his skill as a mining prospector and an engineer; he was not surprised that he had at last ‘struck oil.’

  They talked of many things, but the visitor always brought the conversations round to his two great healthy ambitions, now on the way to full satisfaction: money and power. Upon some chance mention of religion, he waved his hand impatiently with enough vigour to knock a man down, and said, ‘Religion! Hell! I only discuss facts.’ And his definition of a ‘fact’ would no doubt have been a dollar bill, a mining ‘proposition,’ or a food-problem — some scheme by which John C. could make a bit. Yet though he placed religion among the fantasies, he lived it in his way. He ranked the Pope with Barnum, each of them ‘biggest in his own line of goods,’ and ‘Shakespeare was right enough, but might have made it shorter.’

  And Eliot, listening, felt the buried portion of his nature waken and revive. It caused him acute discomfort.

  ‘Now show me round the little hole a bit,’ said Murdoch just before he left. ‘I’d like to see the damage, just for old times’ sake. It won’t take above ten minutes if we hustle along.’

  They hustled along. Eliot led the way with a curious deep uneasiness he could not quite explain. His heart sank within him. Gladly he would have escaped the painful duty, but Murdoch’s vigorous energy constrained him. The whole way he felt ashamed, yet would have felt still more ashamed to have refused. He faced the music’ as John Casanova Murdoch phrased it, and while doing so, that other music of his visitor’s villainous nasal twang cut across the deep-noted murmur of the wind and water like a buzz-saw with a bit of wire trailing against its teeth.

  The entire journey occupied but half an hour, for Eliot made short-cuts, instinctively avoiding certain places, and the whole time Murdoch talked. His business, practical soul expanded with good nature. ‘The place ain’t so bad, if you worked it up a bit,’ he said, striking a match on the wall of the mill, and spitting into the clear water, ‘but it’s not much bigger than a chicken-run at present. If I was you, Boss, I’d have it cleaned up first.’ Again he offered a cheque, thinking the unkempt appearance due to want of means. His uninvited opinions were freely offered, as willingly as he would have given money if his old ‘pard’ had needed it; given kindly too, without the least desire to wound. He picked out the prettiest ‘building sites,’ and explained where an artificial lake could be made ‘as easy as rolling off a log.’ His patent wire would fence the gardens off ‘and no one ever see it’; and his special concrete paving, from waste material that yielded a hundred per cent profit, would make paths ‘so neat and pretty you could dance to heaven on ‘em.’ The place might be developed so as to ‘knock the stuffing’ out of the country round about, and the estate become a ‘puffect picture-book.’

  ‘You’ve got a gold mine here, and God never meant a gold mine to lie unnoticed like a roadside ditch. Only you’ll need to gladden it up a bit first. You could make it hum as a picnic or amusement resort for the town people. Take it from me, Boss. It’s so.’

  And the effect upon Eliot as he listened was curious; it was twofold. For while at first the chatter wounded him like insults aimed directly at the dead, at the same time, to his deep disgust, it stirred all his former love of practical, energetic action. The old lust and fever to be up and doing, helping the world go round, making money and worldly position, woke more and more, as Murdoch’s vigorous, crude personality stung his will, stung also desires he thought for ever dead. It made him angry to find that they were not dead, and yet he felt that he was feeble not to resent the gross invasion, even cowardly not to resist the coarse attack and kick the vulgar intruder out. It was like a breach of trust to take it all so meekly without protesting, or at least without stating forcibly his position, as though he were not sufficiently sure of himself to protect his memories and his dead. But this was the truth: he was not sure of himself. The blinding light of this simple fellow’s mind showed’ up the hidden inequalities to himself. Another discovered his essential instability to himself. This other side of him had existed all the time; and his attachment to the Place was partly artificial, built up largely by the vigorous assertion of the departed. His love had coloured it wonderfully all these years, but — it was a love that had undergone a change. It had not faded, but grown otherwise. Another kind of love had to some extent replaced and weakened it. He felt mortified, ashamed, but more, he felt uneasy too.

  The wrench was pain. ‘If only she were here and I could explain it to her,’ ran his thought over and over again, followed by the feeling that perhaps she was there, listenin
g to it all — and judging him.

  Behind the trees, a little distance away, he saw the flitting figure of Mànya, watching them as they passed noisily along the pathways of her secret playground. Her attitude even at this distance expressed resentment. He imagined her indignant eyes. But, closer than that, another watched and followed, listened and disapproved — that other whom she knew yet never spoke about, who was in league with her, and seemed more and more to him, like a phantom risen from the dead.

  With difficulty, and with an uneasiness growing every minute now, he gave his attention to his talkative, well-meaning, though almost offensive guest, at once insufferable yet welcome. One moment he saw him in his camping-kit of twenty years ago, with big sombrero and pistols in his belt, and the next as he was to-day, reeking of luxury and money, in a London black tail-coat, white Homburg hat, diamonds shining on his fingers and in his gaudy speckled tie, his pointed patent-leather boots gleaming insolently through the bracken and heather.

  And through his silence crashed a noise of battle that he thought the entire Place must hear. But clear issue to the battle there was none. The opposing sides were matched with such deadly equality. Which was his real self lay in the balance, until at the last John Casanova unwittingly turned the scales.

  It came about so quickly, with such calculated precision, as it were, that Eliot almost felt it had all been prepared beforehand and Murdoch had come down on purpose. It was like a sudden flank attack that swept him from his last defences. Help that could not reach him in the form of Mànya signalled from the distance with her shining eyes, her red tam-o’-shanter the banner of reinforcements that arrived too late. For John C. stood triumphantly before him, a conqueror in his last dismantled fortress. His face alight with enthusiasm that was all excitement, he held his hands out towards him, cup-wise.

  ‘See here,’ he said with excitement, but in a hard, dry tone that reminded Eliot of prospecting days in Arizona, ‘Boss, will you take a look at this, please?’