by John Buchan
I could see that Medina was shaken at last. ‘You may damage me with your lies,’ he said slowly, ‘but I will be even with you. You will find me hard to beat.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ was Sandy’s answer. ‘I and my friends do not want victory, we want success. We want David Warcliff.’
There was no answer, and Sandy went on.
‘We make you a proposal. The three of us will keep what we know to ourselves. We will pledge ourselves never to breathe a word of it – if you like we will sign a document to say that we acknowledge our mistake. So far as we are concerned you may go on and become Prime Minister of Britain or Archbishop of Canterbury, or anything you jolly well like. We don’t exactly love you, but we will not interfere with the adoration of others. I’ll take myself off again to the East with Lavater, and Dick will bury himself in Oxfordshire mud. And in return we ask that you hand over to us David Warcliff in his right mind.’
There was no answer.
Then Sandy made a mistake in tactics. ‘I believe you are attached to your mother,’ he said. ‘If you accept our offer she will be safe from annoyance. Otherwise – well, she is an important witness.’
The man’s pride was stung to the quick. His mother must have been for him an inner sanctuary, a thing apart from and holier than his fiercest ambitions, the very core and shrine of his monstrous vanity. That she should be used as a bargaining counter stirred something deep and primeval in him, something – let me say it – higher and better than I had imagined. A new and a human fury burned the mask off him like tissue paper.
‘You fools!’ he cried, and his voice was harsh with rage. ‘You perfect fools! You will sweat blood for that insult.’
‘It’s a fair offer,’ said Sandy, never moving a muscle. ‘Do I understand that you refuse?’
Medina stood on the hearthrug like an animal at bay, and upon my soul I couldn’t but admire him. The flame in his face would have scorched most people into abject fear.
‘Go to hell, the pack of you! Out of this house! You will never hear a word from me till you are bleating for mercy. Get out…’
His eyes must have been dimmed by his rage, for he did not see Mary enter. She had advanced right up to Sandy’s chair before even I noticed her. She was carrying something in her arms, something which she held close as a mother holds a child.
It was the queer little girl from the house in Palmyra Square. Her hair had grown longer and fell in wisps over her brow and her pale tear-stained cheeks. A most piteous little object she was with dull blind eyes which seemed to struggle with perpetual terror. She still wore the absurd linen smock, her skinny little legs and arms were bare, and her thin fingers clutched at Mary’s gown.
Then Medina saw her, and Sandy ceased to exist for him. He stared for a second uncomprehendingly, till the passion in his face turned to alarm. ‘What have you done with her?’ he barked, and flung himself forward.
I thought he was going to attack Mary, so I tripped him up. He sprawled on the floor, and since he seemed to have lost all command of himself I reckoned that I had better keep him there. I looked towards Mary, who nodded. ‘Please tie him up,’ she said, and passed me the turban cloth of the late Kharáma.
He fought like a tiger, but Lavater and I with a little help from Sandy managed to truss him fairly tight, supplementing the turban with one of the curtain cords. We laid him in an armchair.
‘What have you done with her?’ he kept on, screwing his head round to look at Mary.
I could not understand his maniacal concern for the little girl, till Mary answered, and I saw what he meant by ‘her’.
‘No one has touched your mother. She is in the house in Palmyra Square.’
Then Mary laid the child down very gently in the chair where Sandy had been sitting and stood erect before Medina.
‘I want you to bring back this little boy’s mind,’ she said.
I suppose I should have been astonished, but I wasn’t – at least not at her words, though I had not had an inkling beforehand of the truth. All the astonishment I was capable of was reserved for Mary. She stood there looking down on the bound man, her face very pale, her eyes quite gentle, her lips parted as if in explanation. And yet there was something about her so formidable, so implacable, that the other three of us fell into the background. Her presence dominated everything, and the very grace of her body and the mild sadness of her eyes seemed to make her the more terrifying. I know now how Joan of Arc must have looked when she led her troops into battle.
‘Do you hear me?’ she repeated. ‘You took away his soul and you can give it back again. That is all I ask of you.’
He choked before he replied. ‘What boy? I tell you I know nothing. You are all mad.’
‘I mean David Warcliff. The others are free now, and he must be free tonight. Free, and in his right mind, as when you carried him off. Surely you understand.’
There was no answer.
‘That is all I ask. It is such a little thing. Then we will go away.’
I broke in. ‘Our offer holds. Do as she asks, and we will never open our mouths about tonight’s work.’
He was not listening to me, nor was she. It was a duel between the two of them, and as she looked at him, his face seemed to grow more dogged and stone-like. If ever he had felt hatred it was for this woman, for it was a conflict between two opposite poles of life, two worlds eternally at war.
‘I tell you I know nothing of the brat…’
She stopped him with lifted hand. ‘Oh, do not let us waste time, please. It is far too late for arguing. If you do what I ask we will go away, and you will never be troubled with us again. I promise – we all promise. If you do not, of course we must ruin you.’
I think it was the confidence in her tone which stung him.
‘I refuse,’ he almost screamed. ‘I do not know what you mean… I defy you… You can proclaim your lies to the world… You will not crush me. I am too strong for you.’
There was no mistaking the finality of that defiance. I thought it put the lid on everything. We could blast the fellow’s reputation, no doubt, and win victory; but we had failed, for we were left with that poor little mindless waif.
Mary’s face did not change.
‘If you refuse, I must try another way’; her voice was as gentle as a mother’s. ‘I must give David Warcliff back to his father… Dick,’ she turned to me, ‘will you light the fire.’
I obeyed, not knowing what she meant, and in a minute the dry faggots were roaring up the chimney, lighting up our five faces and the mazed child in the chair.
‘You have destroyed a soul,’ she said, ‘and you refuse to repair the wrong. I am going to destroy your body, and nothing will ever repair it.’
Then I saw her meaning, and both Sandy and I cried out. Neither of us had led the kind of life which makes a man squeamish, but this was too much for us. But our protests died half-born, after one glance at Mary’s face. She was my own wedded wife, but in that moment I could no more have opposed her than could the poor bemused child. Her spirit seemed to transcend us all and radiate an inexorable command. She stood easily and gracefully, a figure of motherhood and pity rather than of awe. But all the same I did not recognize her; it was a stranger that stood there, a stern goddess that wielded the lightnings. Beyond doubt she meant every word she said, and her quiet voice seemed to deliver judgement as aloof and impersonal as Fate. I could see creeping over Medina’s sullenness the shadow of terror.
‘You are a desperate man,’ she was saying. ‘But I am far more desperate. There is nothing on earth that can stand between me and the saving of this child. You know that, don’t you? A body for a soul – a soul for a body – which shall it be?’
The light was reflected from the steel fire-irons, and Medina saw it and shivered.
‘You may live a long time, but you will have to live in seclusion. No woman will ever cast eyes on you except to shudder. People will point at you and say, “There goes the man who was maimed b
y a woman – because of the soul of a child.” You will carry your story written on your face for the world to read and laugh and revile.’
She had got at the central nerve of his vanity for I think that he was ambitious less of achievement than of the personal glory that attends it. I dared not look at her, but I could look at him, and I saw all the passions of hell chase each other over his face. He tried to speak, but only choked. He seemed to bend his whole soul to look at her, and to shiver at what he saw.
She turned her head to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘You must decide before the quarter strikes,’ she said. ‘After that there will be no place for repentance. A body for a soul – a soul for a body.’
Then from her black silk reticule she took a little oddly-shaped green bottle. She held it in her hand as if it had been a jewel and I gulped in horror.
‘This is the elixir of death – of death in life, Mr Medina. It makes comeliness a mockery. It will burn flesh and bone into shapes of hideousness, but it does not kill. Oh no – it does not kill. A body for a soul – a soul for a body.’
It was that, I think which finished him. The threefold chime which announced the quarter had begun when out of his dry throat came a sound like a clucking hen’s. ‘I agree,’ a voice croaked, seeming to come from without, so queer and far away it was.
‘Thank you,’ she said, as if someone had opened a door for her. ‘Dick, will you please make Mr Medina more comfortable…’
The fire was not replenished, so the quick-burning faggots soon died down. Again the room was shadowy, except for the single lamp that glowed behind Medina’s head.
I cannot describe that last scene, for I do not think my sight was clear, and I know that my head was spinning. The child sat on Mary’s lap, with its eyes held by the glow of light. ‘You are Gerda… you are sleepy… now you sleep’ – I did not heed the patter, for I was trying to think of homely things which would keep my wits anchored. I thought chiefly of Peter John.
Sandy was crouched on a stool by the hearth. I noticed that he had his hands on his knees, and that from one of them protruded something round and dark, like the point of a pistol barrel. He was taking no chances, but the thing was folly, for we were in the presence of far more potent weapons. Never since the world began was there a scene of such utter humiliation. I shivered at the indecency of it. Medina performed his sinister ritual, but on us spectators it had no more effect than a charade. Mary especially sat watching it with the detachment with which one watches a kindergarten play. The man had suddenly become a mountebank under those fearless eyes.
The voices droned on, the man asking question, the child answering in a weak unnatural voice. ‘You are David Warcliff… you lost your way coming from school… you have been ill and have forgotten… You are better now… you remember Haverham and the redshanks down by the river… You are sleepy… I think you would like to sleep again.’
Medina spoke. ‘You can wake him now. Do it carefully.’
I got up and switched on the rest of the lights. The child was peacefully asleep in Mary’s arms, and she bent and kissed him. ‘Speak to him, Dick,’ she said.
‘Davie,’ I said loudly. ‘Davie, it’s about time for us to get home.’
He opened his eyes and sat up. When he found himself on Mary’s knee, he began to clamber down. He was not accustomed to a woman’s lap, and felt a little ashamed.
‘Davie,’ I repeated. ‘Your father will be getting tired waiting for us. Don’t you think we should go home?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and put his hand in mine.
To my dying day I shall not forget my last sight of that library – the blazing lights which made the books, which I had never seen before except in shadow, gleam like a silk tapestry, the wood-fire dying on the hearth, and the man sunk in the chair. It may sound odd after all that had happened, but my chief feeling was pity. Yes, pity! He seemed the loneliest thing on God’s earth. You see he had never any friends except himself, and his ambitions had made a barrier between him and all humanity. Now that they were gone he was stripped naked, and left cold and shivering in the arctic wilderness of his broken dreams.
Mary leaned back in the car.
‘I hope I’m not going to faint,’ she said. ‘Give me the green bottle, please.’
‘For Heaven’s sake!’ I cried.
‘Silly!’ she said. ‘It’s only eau-de-cologne.’
She laughed, and the laugh seemed to restore her a little though she still looked deadly pale. She fumbled in her reticule, and drew out a robust pair of scissors.
‘I’m going to cut Davie’s hair. I can’t change his clothes, but at any rate I can make his head like a boy’s again, so that his father won’t be shocked.’
‘Does he know we are coming?’
‘Yes. I telephoned to him after dinner, but of course I said nothing about Davie.’
She clipped assiduously, and by the time we came to the Pimlico square where Sir Arthur Warcliff lived she had got rid of the long locks, and the head was now that of a pallid and thin but wonderfully composed little boy. ‘Am I going back to Dad?’ he had asked, and seemed content.
I refused to go in – I was not fit for any more shocks – so I sat in the car while Mary and David entered the little house. In about three minutes Mary returned. She was crying, and yet smiling too.
‘I made Davie wait in the hall, and went into Sir Arthur’s study alone. He looked ill – and oh, so old and worn. I said: “I have brought Davie. Never mind his clothes. He’s all right!” Then I fetched him in. Oh, Dick, it was a miracle. That old darling seemed to come back to life. The two didn’t run into each other’s arms… they shook hands… and the little boy bowed his head and Sir Arthur kissed the top of it, and said “Dear Mousehead, you’ve come back to me.”… And then I slipped away.’
There was another scene that night in which I played a part, for we finished at Carlton House Terrace. Of what happened there I have only a confused recollection. I remember Julius Victor kissing Mary’s hand, and the Duke shaking mine as if he would never stop. I remember Mercot, who looked uncommonly fit and handsome, toasting me in champagne, and Adela Victor sitting at a piano and singing to us divinely. But my chief memory is of a French nobleman whirling a distinguished German engineer into an extemporized dance of joy.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Machray
A week later, after much consultation with Sandy, I wrote Medina a letter. The papers said he had gone abroad for a short rest, and I could imagine the kind of mental purgatory he was enduring in some Mediterranean bay. We had made up our mind to be content with success. Victory meant a long campaign in the courts and the Press, in which no doubt we should have won, but for which I at any rate had no stomach. The whole business was a nightmare which I longed to shut the door on; we had drawn his fangs, and for all I cared he might go on with his politics and dazzle the world with his gifts, provided he kept his hands out of crime. I wrote and told him that; told him that the three people who knew everything would hold their tongues, but that they reserved the right to speak if he ever showed any sign of running crooked. I had no reply and did not expect one. I had lost all my hate for the man, and, so strangely are we made, what I mostly felt was compassion. We are all, even the best of us, egotists and self-deceivers, and without a little comfortable make-believe to clothe us we should freeze in the outer winds. I shuddered when I thought of the poor devil with his palace of cards about his ears and his naked soul. I felt that further triumph would be an offence against humanity.
He must have got my message, for in July he was back at his work, and made a speech at a big political demonstration which was highly commended in the papers. Whether he went about in society I do not know, for Sandy was in Scotland and I was at Fosse, and not inclined to leave it… Meantime Macgillivray’s business was going on, and the Press was full of strange cases, which no one seemed to think of connecting. I gathered from Macgillivray that though the syndicate wa
s smashed to little bits he had failed to make the complete bag of malefactors that he had hoped. In England there were three big financial exposures followed by long sentences; in Paris there was a first-rate political scandal and a crop of convictions; a labour agitator and a copper magnate in the Middle West went to gaol for life, and there was the famous rounding-up of the murder gang in Turin. But Macgillivray and his colleagues, like me, had success rather than victory; indeed in this world I don’t think you can get both at once – you must make your choice.
We saw Mercot at the ‘House’ Ball at Oxford, none the worse for his adventures, but rather the better, for he was a man now and not a light-witted boy. Early in July Mary and I went to Paris for Adela Victor’s wedding, the most gorgeous show I have ever witnessed, when I had the privilege of kissing the bride and being kissed by the bridegroom. Sir Arthur Warcliff brought David to pay us a visit at Fosse, where the boy fished from dawn to dusk, and began to get some flesh on his bones. Archie Roylance arrived and the pair took such a fancy to each other that the three of them went off to Norway to have a look at the birds on Flacksholm.
I was busy during those weeks making up arrears of time at Fosse, for my long absence had put out the whole summer programme. One day, as I was down in the Home Meadow, planning a new outlet for one of the ponds, Sandy turned up, announcing that he must have a talk with me and could only spare twenty minutes.
