by Sax Rohmer
XI
Jules Thessaly, like the Indian rope trick, was a kind of phenomenon twice removed. In every capital throughout the world one heard of him; of his wealth, of his art collection, of his financial interests; but one rarely met a man who actually claimed to know him although every second man one met knew another who did.
When he acquired Babylon Hall, for so long vacant, the county was stirred from end to end. Lower Charleswood, which lacked a celebrity, felt assured at last of its place in history and ceased to cast envious glances toward that coy hamlet of the hills which enshrined the cottage of George Meredith. The Vicar of High Fielding, who contributed occasional “Turn-overs” to the Globe, investigated the published genealogy of the great man, and caused it to be known that Jules Thessaly was a French Levantine who had studied at Oxford and Göttingen, a millionaire, an accomplished musician, and an amateur of art who had exhibited a picture in the Paris Salon. He was a member (according to this authority) of five clubs, had other country seats, as well as a house in Park Lane, was director of numberless companies — and was unmarried. Miss Kingsbury called upon the reverend gentleman for further particulars.
But when at last Jules Thessaly actually arrived, Lower Charleswood experienced a grievous disappointment. He brought no “introductions,” he paid no courtesy calls, and those who sought him at Babylon Hall almost invariably were informed that Mr. Thessaly was abroad. When he entertained, his guests arrived from whence no one knew, but usually in opulent cars, and thereby departed no one knew whither. Lower Charleswood was patient, for great men are eccentric; but in time Lower Charleswood to its intense astonishment and mortification realised that Jules Thessaly was not interested in “the county.” Lower Charleswood beheld itself snubbed, but preferred to hide its wounds from the world, and therefore sent Jules Thessaly ceremoniously to Coventry. He was voted a vulgar plutocrat and utterly impossible. When it leaked out that Lady James knew him well and that Sir Jacques frequently dined at Babylon Hall, Miss Kingsbury said, “Lady James? Well, of course” — And Sir Jacques, as the only eligible substitute for a real notability, was permitted a certain license. He was “peculiar,” no doubt, but he had built a charming church and was a bachelor.
Urged to the task by Miss Kingsbury, the Vicar of High Fielding made further and exhaustive enquiries. He discovered that it was impossible to trace Jules Thessaly’s year at Oxford for the same reason that it was impossible to trace anything else in his history. One man knew another man whose brother was at Oriel with Thessaly; a second man had heard of a third man who distinctly remembered him at Magdalen. The vicar’s cousin, a stockbroker, said that Thessaly’s father had been a Greek adventurer. Miss Kingsbury’s agent — who sometimes succeeded in disposing of her pictures — assured Miss Kingsbury that Jules Thessaly was a Jew. When war began all the county whispered that Jules Thessaly was a big shareholder in Krupps.
The constitution of his establishment at Babylon Hall was attacked in the local press. Babylon Hall was full of dangerous aliens. Strains of music had been heard proceeding from the Hall at most unseemly hours — by the village innkeeper. Orgies were held there. But Jules Thessaly remained silent, unmoved, invisible. So that at the time of Sir Jacques’ death Lower Charleswood had passed through three phases: pique, wonder, apathy. One or two folks had met Thessaly — but always by accident; had acclaimed him a wonderful man possessing the reserve of true genius. Finally, Miss Kingsbury had met him — in Lower Charleswood post office, and by noon of the following day, all “the county” knew that he was “a charming recluse with the soul of a poet.”
And this was the man with whom Paul Mario paced along the green aisles toward the point where they crossed that Pilgrim’s Way which linking town to village, village to hamlet, lies upon the hills like a rosary on a nun’s bosom.
“My car is waiting below,” said Jules Thessaly. “You will probably prefer to drive back?”
Paul assented. He was breathing deeply of the sweet humid air, pungent with a thousand fresh scents and the intoxicating fragrance of rain-kissed loam. The sound of greedily drinking plant things arose from the hillside. Beyond the purple heath hung the midnight curtain, embroidered fitfully with silver, and he removed his hat that the cool breeze might touch him. Hatless he was magnificently picturesque; Antinöus spared to maturity; the nature-worshipper within him stirred to quickness by magic perfumes arising from the breast of Mother Earth, he resembled that wonderful statue of the Bithynian which shows him as Dionysus the Twice-born, son of the raincloud, lover of the verdure.
“The world,” said Jules Thessaly, “is waiting for you.”
Through his abstract Orphic dreams the words reached Paul’s mind; and they were oddly familiar. Who had spoken them — now, and once before? He awoke, and remembered. Don had said that the world awaited him. He turned and glanced at his companion. Jules Thessaly was regarding him fixedly.
“You spoke,” said Paul. “Pardon my abstraction; but what did you say?”
“I said that when Nature endows a man at once with the genius of Dante and the appearance of a Greek god, that man holds the world in the hollow of his hand. He was born with a purpose. He dares not seek to evade his destiny.”
Paul met the glance of the golden, prominent eyes, and it held him enthralled. “I do not seek to evade it,” he replied slowly. “I accept it; but I am afraid.”
A low-pitched powerful French car stood at the foot of the slope, the chauffeur in his seat and a footman standing beside the open door. Poised ethereally betwixt solid earth and some sphere remote peopled by Greek nature-myths, Paul found himself beside Jules Thessaly, and being borne swiftly, strongly upward to the hills. At the gap beyond the toll-gate, where one may view a prospect unique in all the county, the car stopped, perhaps in obedience to a summons of the master. From the open window Paul looked out over the valley; and a rainbow linked the crescent of the hills, point to point. Backed by the murk of the moving storm, Babylon Hall looked like a giant sarcophagus behind which Titan hands had draped a sable curtain; and it seemed to Paul as he looked, wondering, that the arc of heaven-born colours which no brush may reproduce, rested upon the hidden roof of Dovelands Cottage, crossed Babylon Hall, and swept down to the rain mist of the horizon, down to the distant sea. The palette of the gods began to fade from view, and Paul turned impulsively to his companion.
Jules Thessaly, his elbows resting upon his knees, was staring down, apparently at the flat-crowned black hat which he held in his hands. The car had resumed its smooth progress.
“An omen!” cried Paul. “The world is not past redemption!”
He spoke wildly, emotionally, not choosing his words, scarce knowing what he desired to convey. Jules Thessaly glanced aside at him.
“The world desires redemption,” he said. “It is for you to gratify the world’s desire.”
XII
The mystery which steals out from the woods, creeps down from the hills, and lurks beneath the shadowed hedgerows at beckoning of dusk, was abroad and potent when Paul Mario that evening walked up Babylon Lane towards the Hall. Elemental forces, which the ancients clothed in semi-human shape and named and feared, moved beside him and breathed strange counsels in his ear. The storm had released uneasy spirits from their bondage in crannies of primeval hills, and it was on such a night as this that many a child has glimpsed the Folk tripping lightly around those fairy-rings which science would have us believe due to other causes than the mystic dance. The Pipes of Pan were calling, and up in the aisles of the hills moonbeams slyly sought and found bare-limbed dryads darting from the eagerness of wooing fauns. Progress has banished those Pandean spirits from the woodlands, but the moon is the mother of magic, and her children steal out, furtive, half fearful, when she raises her lamp as of old.
Between prescience and imagination the borderline is ill defined. Although Dovelands Cottage was seemingly sleeping, or deserted, Paul pictured Flamby standing by the stile beyond, where the orchard path began. And when,
nearing it, he paused, looking to the right, there was she, a figure belonging to the elfin world of which he dreamed, and seemingly on the point of climbing over the stile.
“Flamby!” he cried.
She turned, descended, and came forward slowly, a wild-haired nymph; and that odd shyness which sat so ill upon her was manifest in her manner. She had expected Paul; had really been waiting for him — and she felt that he knew it.
“Were you dreaming in the twilight?” he asked, merrily.
Flamby stood a little apart from him, staring down at the dusty road. “No,” she replied. “I was scared, so I came out.”
“Scared? Of what?”
“Don’t know. Just scared. Mother is over at Mrs. Fawkes’, and it’s not likely I was going with her.”
“Why not?”
“She hates me,” explained Flamby, with brief simplicity.
“But why should she hate you?”
“Don’t know,” said Flamby, busily burrowing a little hole in the road with the heel of her left shoe. Her shoes were new ones, and boasted impudently high heels. She had been proud of her arched instep when first she had worn the new shoes, and had been anxious that Paul, who hitherto had seen her shod in the clumsy boots which she called her “workers,” should learn that she possessed small feet and slim ankles. Now, perceiving his glance to be attracted to the burrowing operation, she flushed from brow to neck, convinced that he believed her to have worn the shoes for his particular admiration — which was true; and to have deliberately drawn his attention to them — which was untrue. She had been longing to hear Paul’s voice again, and now that he stood before her she told herself that he must be comparing her with the hundreds of really pretty girls known to him, and thinking what an odd-looking, ignorant little fool she was. Gladly would Flamby have fled, but she lacked the courage to do so.
“So you were afraid,” said Paul, smiling; “but not, on this occasion, of my late uncle, I hope?”
Flamby had half expected the question, but nevertheless it startled her. A Latin tag entered her mind immediately. “O,” she began — and her strange shyness overwhelming her anew, said no more.
Paul assumed that he had misunderstood her. “Pardon me,” he prompted, “but I’m afraid I failed to catch what you said.”
“I said ‘no,’” declared Flamby untruthfully, and silently blessed the dusk which veiled her flaming cheeks. Paul Mario abashed her. She delighted to be with him, and, with him, longed to run away. She had been conscious of her imperfections from the very moment that she had seen him in Bluebell Hollow, had hesitated to speak, doubting her command of English, had ceased to joy in her beauty, and had wondered if she appeared to Paul as a weird little gnome. Now, she was resolved never to see him again — to hide away from him, to forget him — or to try.
“You are a true artist, Flamby,” he said; “a creature of moods. Perhaps to-night the fairy gates have opened for you as they have opened for me. Titania has summoned you out into the woods, and you are half afraid. But the artist lives very near to Nature, and has nothing to fear from her. Surely you love these nights of the early moon?”
And as he spoke Flamby’s resolution became as naught, and she knew that to hear him and to share his dreams was worth any sacrifice of self-esteem. Never since her father’s death had she had a confidant to whom she might speak of her imaginings, from whom she might hope for sympathy and understanding. She forgot her shyness, forgot her new shoes.
“I have always loved the moon,” she confessed. “Perhaps I thought of her as Isis once long ago.”
Now it was Paul who hesitated and wondered, his respect for Flamby and for the complex personality who had tutored her growing apace.
“But in London they must hate the moon,” she added, and the tone betokened one of her swift changes of mood.
“Yes,” said Paul, raising his eyes, “the old goddess of the Nile seems to have transferred her allegiance to the Rhine.” He glanced at the luminous disc of his watch. “I fear I am late. I shall call upon your mother to-morrow, if I may, and see if we can arrange something definite about your studies.”
“Oh!” cried Flamby— “what time will you come?”
“May I come in the morning?”
“Of course.”
“In the morning, then, about eleven o’clock. I must hurry, or Mr. Thessaly will be waiting. What do you think of your new and wonderful neighbour?”
“I have heard that he is a clever man and very rich; but I have never seen him.”
“Never seen him? And Babylon Hall is only a few hundred yards away.”
“I know. But I have never seen Mr. Thessaly.”
“How very queer,” said Paul. “Well, good night, Flamby.”
He took off his soft grey hat and extended his hand. All Flamby’s shyness descended upon her like the golden shower on Danae, and barely touching the outstretched hand she whispered, “Good night, Mr. Mario,” turned and very resolutely walked away, never once looking back.
At the gate of the cottage she began to limp, and upon the instant of entering the sitting-room, where Mrs. Duveen, returned from her visit, was lighting a large brass table lamp, Flamby dropped cross-legged upon the floor and tenderly removed her left shoe. Having got it free of her foot, she hurled it violently into the kitchen.
“Hell!” she said, succinctly.
“Flamby!” cried her mother, in a tone of mild reproval. “How can you swear like that!”
Flamby began to remove her stocking. “You’d swear if you had a damn great nail sticking in your heel!” she retorted.
XIII
Paul arrived at Babylon Hall exactly eight minutes late for his appointment. In the wonderful dusk unknown to the tropics, when sun contests with moon, disputing the reign of night, he walked up the long avenue past the silent lodge, and was shown into a small room adjoining the entrance hall. Of the latter he derived no very definite impression, except that it was queerly furnished. Wherein this queerness was manifested he found himself unable to decide on subsequent reflection. But the ante-room was markedly Eastern, having Arabesque mosaics, rugs and low tables of the Orient, and being lighted by a brass mosque-lamp. The footman who had opened the door for him was a foreigner of some kind, apparently a Greek.
He wondered at his reception; for the servant merely bowed and departed, without relieving him of hat and coat. Indeterminate, he stood, vaguely conscious of misgiving and questioning the stillness of the great house. But almost immediately a young man entered whose face expressed the utmost concern. He was clean-shaven, except for those frustrated whiskers once sacred to stage butlers, but latterly adopted as the sigil of the New Bohemia. He had pleasing dark brown hair, and if nature had not determined otherwise, might have been counted a handsome brunette. His morning-dress was worthy of Vesta Tilley’s tailor. Paul detected the secretary even before the new arrival proclaimed his office.
“You have missed Mr. Thessaly by less than three minutes,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I am his secretary, and upon me devolves the very delicate task of explaining his departure. In the absence of a hostess — this is a bachelor establishment — the position is peculiarly unfortunate—”
“Pray say no more, Mr. — —”
“My name is Caspar.”
“I beg you to offer no apologies, Mr. Caspar. Believe me, I quite understand and sympathise. Mr. Thessaly has been called away at the last moment by affairs of urgent importance.”
“Exactly. I am indebted to you, Mr. Mario. The news — of a distressing nature — only reached us over the telephone five minutes ago. A groom was despatched immediately to Hatton Towers, but he seems to have missed you.”
“Nothing of a family nature, I trust.”
“Not exactly, Mr. Mario; but a matter of such urgency that there was no time for hesitation. Mr. Thessaly is already upon his way to London. He will write you a full explanation, and for that purpose took writing materials in the car. His letter should reach you by the fi
rst post in the morning. You will readily understand that the hospitality of Babylon Hall — —”
Paul interrupted him. “My dear Mr. Caspar, I could not think of intruding at a time of such distress and uncertainty. I can return to Hatton Towers in less than twenty minutes and the larder is quite capable of satisfying my modest requirements. Please say no more. Directly you are able to communicate with him express to Mr. Thessaly my sincere condolence.”
“A car is at your service, Mr. Mario.”
“I appreciate the kindness fully, but I should much prefer to walk. Please banish from your mind any idea that you have inconvenienced me. Good night, Mr. Caspar.”
The several extraordinary features of the incident he did not come to consider until later, but as he walked contemplative along Babylon Lane he detected sounds of distant gunfire, distinct from the more remote rumbling which was the voice of the battle front. He stood still — listening. An air raid on London was in progress.
“Thank God that Yvonne is out of it,” he said earnestly— “and may He be with every poor soul to-night who needs Him.”
Jules Thessaly and Babylon Hall were banished from his mind, although the raid on London might very well prove to be the explanation of Thessaly’s sudden departure. From the stricken area his imagination recoiled, and in spirit he stood in a quaintly rambling village street of Devon before a rose-smothered cottage, looking up to an open casement window. It was there that Yvonne was, perhaps already sleeping — Yvonne, his wife. And all the old fear visited him as he contemplated their happiness, their immunity from the horrors, the sacrifices of an anguished world. Why was he spared when others, seemingly more worthy, suffered? True, he had suffered in spirit, which is the keenest torture of all; but he had emerged to a greater happiness, to a reunion with Yvonne which had been like a second and sweeter honeymoon. It could only be that he was spared for a great purpose, that he might perform a giant task. He was permitted, untrammelled, to view the conflict, the sorrow and the agony of mankind from an Olympic height, serene and personally untouched, only in order that he might heal the wounds laid bare before him. “The world is waiting for you,” Don had said. Paul silently prayed that the world might not wait in vain.
