by Lamb, Hugh;
‘Yes,’ said Guerdon meditatively, ‘that doesn’t sound improbable. But why did your great-grandfather have the wolves painted out?’
IV
Saturday morning was fine, but very hot and sultry. After breakfast, when Sir Edric had driven off to Challonsea, Andrew Guerdon settled himself in a comfortable chair in the smoking-room. The contents of the corner cupboard were piled up on a table by his side. He lit his pipe and began to go through the papers and put them in order. He had been at work almost a quarter of an hour when the butler entered rather abruptly, looking pale and disturbed.
‘In Sir Edric’s absence, sir, it was thought that I had better come to you for advice. There’s been an awful thing happened.’
‘Well?’
‘They’ve found a corpse in Hal’s Planting about half an hour ago. It’s the body of an old man, John Marsh, who used to live in the village. He seems to have died in some kind of a fit. They were bringing it here, but I had it taken down to the village where his cottage is. Then I sent to the police and to a doctor.’
There was a moment or two’s silence before Guerdon answered.
‘This is a terrible thing. I don’t know of anything else that you could do. Stop; if the police want to see the spot where the body was found, I think that Sir Edric would like them to have every facility.’
‘Quite so, sir.’
‘And no one else must be allowed there.’
‘No, sir. Thank you.’
The butler withdrew.
Guerdon arose from his chair and began to pace up and down the room.
‘What an impressive thing a coincidence is!’ he thought to himself. ‘Last night the whole of the Hal’s Planting story seemed to me not worth consideration. But this second death there – it can be only coincidence. What else could it be?’
The question would not leave him. What else could it be? Had that dead man seen something there and died in sheer terror of it? Had Sir Edric really heard something when he spent that night there alone? He returned to his work, but he found that he got on with it but slowly. Every now and then his mind wandered back to the subject of Hal’s Planting. His doubts annoyed him. It was unscientific and unmodern of him to feel any perplexity, because a natural and rational explanation was possible; he was annoyed with himself for being perplexed.
After luncheon he strolled round the grounds and smoked a cigar. He noticed that a thick bank of dark, slate-coloured clouds was gathering in the west. The air was very still. In a remote corner of the garden a big heap of weeds was burning; the smoke went up perfectly straight. On the top of the heap light flames danced; they were like the ghosts of flames in the strange light. A few big drops of rain fell. The small shower did not last for five seconds. Guerdon glanced at his watch. Sir Edric would be back in an hour, and he wanted to finish his work with the papers before Sir Edric’s return, so he went back into the house once more.
He picked up the first document that came to hand. As he did so, another, smaller, and written on parchment, which had been folded in with it, dropped out. He began to read the parchment; it was written in faded ink, and the parchment itself was yellow and in many places stained. It was the confession of the third baronet – he could tell that by the date upon it. It told the story of that night when he and Dr. Dennison went together carrying a burden through the long garden out into the orchard that skirts the north side of the park, and then across a field to a small, dark plantation. It told how he made a vow to God and did not keep it. These were the last words of the confession:
‘Already upon me has the punishment fallen, and the devil’s wolves do seem to hunt me in my sleep nightly. But I know that there is worse to come. The thing that I took to Hal’s Planting is dead. Yet it will come back again to the Hall, and then will the Vanquerests be at an end. This writing I have committed to chance, neither showing it nor hiding it, and leaving it to chance if any man shall read it.’
Underneath there was a line written in darker ink, and in quite a different handwriting. It was dated fifteen years later, and the initials R.D. were appended to it:
‘It is not dead. I do not think that it will ever die.’
When Andrew Guerdon had finished reading this document, he looked slowly round the room. The subject had got on his nerves, and he was almost expecting to see something. Then he did his best to pull himself together. The first question he put to himself was this: ‘Has Ted ever seen this?’ Obviously he had not. If he had, he could not have taken the tradition of Hal’s Planting so lightly, nor have spoken of it so freely. Besides, he would either have mentioned the document to Guerdon, or he would have kept it carefully concealed. He would not have allowed him to come across it casually in that way. ‘Ted must never see it,’ thought Guerdon to himself. He then remembered the pile of weeds he had seen burning in the garden. He put the parchment in his pocket, and hurried out. There was no one about. He spread the parchment on the top of the pile, and waited until it was entirely consumed. Then he went back to the smoking-room; he felt easier now.
‘Yes,’ thought Guerdon, ‘if Ted had first of all heard of the finding of that body, and then had read that document, I believe that he would have gone mad. Things that come near us affect us deeply.’
Guerdon himself was much moved. He clung steadily to reason; he felt himself able to give a natural explanation all through, and yet he was nervous. The net of coincidence had closed in around him; the mention of Sir Edric’s confession of the prophecy which had subsequently become traditional in the village alarmed him. And what did that last line mean? He supposed that R.D. must be the initials of Dr. Dennison. What did he mean by saying that the thing was not dead? Did he mean that it had been gifted with some preternatural strength and vitality and had survived, though Sir Edric did not know it? He recalled what he had said about the prolongation of the lives of such things. If it still survived, why had it never been seen? Had it joined to the wild hardiness of the beast a cunning that was human – or more than human? How could it have lived? There was water in the caves, he reflected, and food could have been secured – a wild beast’s food. Or did Dr. Dennison mean that though the thing itself was dead, its wraith survived and haunted the place? He wondered how the doctor had found Sir Edric’s confession, and why he had written that line at the end of it. As he sat thinking, a low rumble of thunder in the distance startled him. He felt a touch of panic – a sudden impulse to leave Mansteth at once and, if possible, to take Ted with him. Ray could never live there. He went over the whole thing in his mind again and again, at one time calm and argumentative about it, and at another shaken by blind horror.
Sir Edric, on his return from Challonsea a few minutes afterwards, came straight to the smoking-room where Guerdon was. He looked tired and depressed. He began to speak at once:
‘You needn’t tell me about it – about John Marsh. I heard about it in the village.’
‘Did you? It’s a painful occurrence, although, of course – ’
‘Stop. Don’t go into it. Anything can be explained – I know that.’
‘I went through those papers and account-books while you were away. Most of them may just as well be destroyed; but there are a few – I put them aside there – which might be kept. There was nothing of any interest.’
‘Thanks; I’m much obliged to you.’
‘Oh, and look here, I’ve got an idea. I’ve been examining the plans of the house, and I’m coming round to your opinion. There are some alterations which should be made, and yet I’m afraid that they’d make the place look patched and renovated. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to know what Ray thought about it.’
‘That’s impossible. The workmen come on Monday, and we can’t consult her before then. Besides, I have a general notion what she would like.’
‘We could catch the night express to town at Challonsea, and – ’
Sir Edric rose from his seat angrily and hit the table.
‘Good God! don’t sit there hunting up excuse
s to cover my cowardice, and making it easy for me to bolt. What do you suppose the villagers would say, and what would my own servants say, if I ran away tonight? I am a coward – I know it. I’m horribly afraid. But I’m not going to act like a coward if I can help it.’
‘Now, my dear chap, don’t excite yourself. If you are going to care at all – to care as much as the conventional damn – for what people say, you’ll have no peace in life. And I don’t believe you’re afraid. What are you afraid of?’
Sir Edric paced once or twice up and down the room, and then sat down again before replying.
‘Look here, Andrew, I’ll make a clean breast of it. I’ve always laughed at the tradition; I forced myself, as it seemed at least, to disprove it by spending a night in Hal’s Planting; I took the pains even to make a theory which would account for its origin. All the time I had a sneaking, stifled belief in it. With the help of my reason I crushed that; but now my reason has thrown up the job, and I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the Undying Thing that is in Hal’s Planting. I heard it last night. John Marsh saw it last night – they took me to see the body, and the face was awful; and I believe that one day it will come from Hal’s Planting – ’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Guerdon, ‘I know. And at present I believe as much. Last night we laughed at the whole thing, and we shall live to laugh at it again, and be ashamed of ourselves for a couple of superstitious old women. I fancy that beliefs are affected by weather – there’s thunder in the air.’
‘No,’ said Sir Edric, ‘my belief has come to stay.’
‘And what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to test it. On Monday I can begin to get to work, and then I’ll blow up Hal’s Planting with dynamite. After that we shan’t need to believe – we shall know. And now let’s dismiss the subject. Come down into the billiard-room and have a game. Until Monday I won’t think of the thing again.’
Long before dinner, Sir Edric’s depression seemed to have completely vanished. At dinner he was boisterous and amused. Afterwards he told stories and was interesting.
It was late at night; the terrific storm that was raging outside had awoke Guerdon from sleep. Hopeless of getting to sleep again, he had arisen and dressed, and now sat in the window-seat watching the storm. He had never seen anything like it before; and every now and then the sky seemed to be torn across as if by hands of white fire. Suddenly he heard a tap at his door, and looked round. Sir Edric had already entered; he also had dressed. He spoke in a curious, subdued voice.
‘I thought you wouldn’t be able to sleep through this. Do you remember that I shut and fastened the dining-room window?’.
‘Yes, I remember it.’
‘Well, come in here.’
Sir Edric led the way to his room, which was immediately over the dining-room. By leaning out of the window they could see that the dining-room window was open wide.
‘Burglar,’ said Guerdon meditatively.
‘No,’ Sir Edric answered, still speaking in a hushed voice. ‘It is the Undying Thing – it has come for me.’
He snatched up the candle, and made towards the staircase; Guerdon caught up the loaded revolver which always lay on the table beside Sir Edric’s bed and followed him. Both men ran down the staircase as though there were not another moment to lose. Sir Edric rushed at the dining-room door, opened it a little, and looked in. Then he turned to Guerdon, who was just behind him.
‘Go back to your room,’ he said authoritatively.
‘I won’t,’ said Guerdon. ‘Why? What is it?’
Suddenly the comers of Sir Edric’s mouth shot outward into the hideous grin of terror.
‘It’s there! It’s there!’ he gasped.
‘Then I come in with you.’
‘Go back!’
With a sudden movement, Sir Edric thrust Guerdon away from the door, and then, quick as light, darted in, and locked the door behind him.
Guerdon bent down and listened. He heard Sir Edric say in a firm voice:
‘Who are you? What are you?’
Then followed a heavy, snorting breathing, a low, vibrating growl, an awful cry, a scuffle.
Then Guerdon flung himself at the door. He kicked at the lock, but it would not give way. At last he fired his revolver at it. Then he managed to force his way into the room. It was perfectly empty. Overhead he could hear footsteps; the noise had awakened the servants; they were standing, tremulous, on the upper landing.
Through the open window access to the garden was easy. Guerdon did not wait to get help; and in all probability none of the servants could have been persuaded to come with him. He climbed out alone, and, as if by some blind impulse, started to run as hard as he could in the direction of Hal’s Planting. He knew that Sir Edric would be found there.
But when he got within a hundred yards of the plantation, he stopped. There had been a great flash of lightning, and he saw that it had struck one of the trees. Flames darted about the plantation as the dry bracken caught. Suddenly, in the light of another flash, he saw the whole of the trees fling their heads upwards; then came a deafening crash, and the ground slipped under him, and he was flung forward on his face. The plantation had collapsed, fallen through into the caves beneath it. Guerdon slowly regained his feet; he was surprised to find that he was unhurt. He walked on a few steps, and then fell again; this time he had fainted away.
The Serpent’s Head
LADY DILKE
‘The fates which dog the heels of men through life, and bring them to the gates of hell, most often twist some trivial mistake of ours into the scourge they bear in their avenging hands.’ Thus Lady Dilke (1840-1904) introduced her first book of short stories THE SHRINE OF DEATH (1886). An ironic statement, perhaps carrying more than its superficial meaning in Lady Dilke’s case, for she was involved in one of Victorian society’s most notorious scandals.
In 1861, Emilia Strong married the clergyman Mark Pattison. He died in 1884 and the following year she met and fell in love with the Liberal statesman Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke. He was deputy leader of his party, a member of Gladstone’s Cabinet, and regarded by no less an observer than Disraeli as a future Prime Minister. His relationship with Emilia led to a sensational divorce case and the ruin of his political career.
In the same year that THE SHRINE OF DEATH appeared, Emilia married Sir Charles Dilke and this obviously sparked off an interest in politics in her own writing. Such books as TRADE UNIONISM AMONG WOMEN (1893) and ART IN THE MODERN STATE (1888) followed, and her volume of reminiscences and philosophy THE BOOK OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE appeared posthumously in 1905.
The tales in THE SHRINE OF DEATH are strange stories indeed. ‘The Serpent’s Head’ repays close reading; it is a florid drama of passion and madness wherein a lonely castle is the setting for Lady Dilke’s ‘gates of hell’.
In a castle by the Northern Sea two women, a girl and her mother, dwelt alone; nor, had they wished for friends and neighbours, were there any to find in that desolate country. All the space which was not covered by water was spread with sand, for the hills near the coast, mined by the stealthy advances of the sea, were for ever falling over and strewing the shore with ruin. The only feature of this mournful landscape was a black reef of rocks to the north, the position of which was marked, even at the highest tides, by a crag called ‘The Serpent’s Head.’
The castle itself, which was on an eminence completely isolated from the surrounding country, showed but the scanty remains of its ancient glories; the great tower yet stood on the north proudly intact within the inner series of fortifications, but facing it on the south and east were nought but ruins, whilst on the west a disused building called ‘The Chamber on the Wall’ presented a gloomy and deserted aspect. Such life as yet lingered within a fortress meant to contain a thousand men was apparently confined to the tower, and centred on the existence of two women.
In a vast and vaulted chamber, the sides of which were riddled with strange closets, and mantled with books, the mother c
onstantly sat; but her gaze was more often on the deserted courts below than on the pages before her, and oftenest of all her eyes would seek the black reef on the north, and spy out the antics of her daughter, diving and swimming about the Serpent’s Head.
The girl, in her childish days, had been content, finding infinite amusement, as the fisher children did, in the wonders of the sands; in the hollows of the great drifts she had built for herself many a fairy chamber; but as she grew older these sports were all outworn, and of all her delights one only remained to her, for she was a fearless swimmer, and to dive into the deep waters off the Serpent’s Head was ever a pleasure to her.
There, too, she would sit for hours gazing seawards. No tiniest speck of sail that crossed the waters could escape her watchful eyes, and as she watched she dreamed that some day one of these distant sails should bear down towards her, and one should come, in whose hand she would lay her own, and they two would flee to the far East. But as the changeless years went by and brought him not, the girl grew sullen, and a sense of wrong possessed her, for the older she grew, the clearer became her consciousness of a world beyond her, and the greater her longing to seek it.
So the sea, with its journeying ships, appeared to her as the path of deliverance, and the way of escape, and the castle in which she dwelt was a prison to her; and sometimes sudden fits of gusty passion would overtake her, for weariness grew to hate, and hate to wrath, and rising to her feet she would clench and shake her impotent hands at the grey walls above her, frowning motionless at the ever-moving sea. Then her mother, if by chance she saw these demoniacal gestures, would smile a bitter smile, and when they met her eyes would have a challenge in them, so that the girl’s passion, which the moment before had risen high with questioning, fell before her gaze, nor did it ever seem possible to her to speak her thoughts, and there was never any confidence between them.
