"These are the imaginings of a disturbed brain, Krantz; that I am destined to suffering may be true; but why Amine should suffer, or why you, young, in full health and vigour should not pass your days in peace, and live to a good old age, there is no cause for believing. You will be better tomorrow."
"Perhaps so," replied Krantz; "but still you must yield to my whim, and take the gold. If I am wrong, and we do arrive safe, you know, Philip, you can let me have it back," observed Krantz, with a faint smile---"but you forget, our water is nearly out, and we must look out for a rill on the coast to obtain a fresh supply."
"I was thinking of that when you commenced this unwelcome topic. We had better look out for the water before dark, and as soon as we have replenished our jars, we will make sail again."
At the time that this conversation took place, they were on the eastern side of the strait, about forty miles to the northward. The interior of the coast was rocky and mountainous; but it slowly descended to low land of alternate forest and jungles, which continued to the beach: the country appeared to be uninhabited. Keeping close in to the shore, they discovered, after two hours' run, a fresh stream which burst in a cascade from the mountains, and swept its devious course through the jungle, until it poured its tribute into the waters of the strait.
They ran close in to the mouth of the stream, lowered the sails, and pulled the peroqua against the current, until they had advanced far enough to assure them that the water was quite fresh. The jars were soon filled, and they were again thinking of pushing off; when, enticed by the beauty of the spot, the coolness of the fresh water, and wearied with their long confinement on board of the peroqua, they proposed to bathe---a luxury hardly to be appreciated by those who have not been in a similar situation. They threw off their Mussulman dresses, and plunged into the stream, where they remained fur some time. Krantz was the first to get out: he complained of feeling chilled, and he walked on to the banks where their clothes had been laid. Philip also approached nearer to the beach, intending to follow him.
"And now, Philip," said Krantz, "this will be a good opportunity for me to give you the money. I will open my sash and pour it out, and you can put it into your own before you put it on."
Philip was standing in the water, which was about level with his waist.
"Well, Krantz," said he, "I suppose if it must be so, it must---but it appears to me an idea so ridiculous---however, you shall have your own way."
Philip quitted the run, and sat down by Krantz, who was already busy in shaking the doubloons out of the folds of his sash---at last he said--
"I believe, Philip, you have got them all now?---I feel satisfied."
"What danger there can be to you, which I am not equally exposed to, I cannot conceive," replied Philip; "however--"
Hardly had he said these words, when there was a tremendous roar---a rush like a mighty wind through the air---a blow which threw him on his back---a loud cry---and a contention. Philip recovered himself, and perceived the naked form of Krantz carried off with the speed of an arrow by an enormous tiger through the jungle. He watched with distended eyeballs; in a few seconds the animal and Krantz had disappeared!
"God of Heaven! would that thou hadst spared me this," cried Philip, throwing himself down in agony on his face. "Oh! Krantz, my friend---my brother---too sure was your presentiment. Merciful God! have pity---but thy will be done;" and Philip burst into a flood of tears.
For more than an hour did he remain fixed upon the spot, careless and indifferent to the danger by which he was surrounded. At last, somewhat recovered, he rose, dressed himself, and then again sat down---his eyes fixed upon the clothes of Krantz, and the gold which still lay on the sand.
"He would give me that gold. He foretold his doom. Yes! yes! it was his destiny, and it has been fulfilled. His bones will bleach in the wilderness, and the spirit-hunter and his wolfish daughter are avenged."
The shades of evening now set in, and the low growling of the beasts of the forest recalled Philip to a sense of his own danger. He thought of Amine; and hastily making the clothes of Krantz and the doubloons into a package, he stepped into the peroqua, with difficulty shoved it off, and with a melancholy heart, and in silence, hoisted the sail, and pursued his course.
"Yes, Amine," thought Philip, as he watched the stars twinkling and coruscating; "yes, you are right, when you assert that the destinies of men are foreknown, and may by some be read. My destiny is, alas! that I should be severed from all I value upon earth, and die friendless and alone. Then welcome death, if such is to be the case; welcome---a thousand welcomes! what a relief wilt thou be to me! what joy to find myself summoned to where the weary are at rest! I have my task to fulfil. God grant that it may soon be accomplished, and let not my life be embittered by any more trials such as this."
Again did Philip weep, for Krantz had been his long-tried, valued friend, his partner in all his dangers and privations, from the period that they had met when the Dutch fleet attempted the passage round Cape Horn.
After seven days of painful watching and brooding over bitter thoughts, Philip arrived at Pulo Penang, where he found a vessel about to sail for the city to which he was destined. He ran his peroqua alongside of her, and found that she was a brig under the Portuguese flag, having, however, but two Portuguese on board, the rest of the crew being natives. Representing himself as am Englishman in the Portuguese service, who had been wrecked, and offering to pay for his passage, he was willingly received, and in a few days the vessel sailed.
Their voyage was prosperous; in six weeks they anchored in the roads of Goa; the next day they went up the river. The Portuguese captain informed Philip where he might obtain lodging; and passing him off as one of his crew, there was no difficulty raised as to his landing. Having located himself at his new lodging, Philip commenced some inquiries of his host relative to Amine, designating her merely as a young woman who had arrived there in a vessel some weeks before, but he could obtain no information concerning her. "Signor," said the host, "to-morrow is the grand auto-da-fe; we can do nothing until that is over; afterwards, I will put you in the way to find out what you wish. In the mean time, you can walk about the town; to-morrow I will take you to where you can behold the grand procession, and then we will try what we can do to assist you in your search."
Philip went out, procured a suit of clothes, removed his beard, and then walked about the town, looking up at every window to see if he could perceive Amine. At a corner of one of the streets, he thought he recognised Father Mathias, and ran up to him; but the monk had drawn his cowl over his head, and when addressed by that name, made no reply.
"I was deceived," thought Philip; "but I really thought it was him." And Philip was right; it was Father Mathias, who thus screened himself from Philip's recognition.
Tired, at last he returned to his hotel, just before it was dark. The company there were numerous; everybody for miles distant had come to Goa to witness the auto-da-fe,---and everybody was discussing the ceremony.
"I will see this grand procession," said Philip to himself, as he threw himself on his bed. "It will drive thought from me for a time; and God knows how painful my thoughts have now become. Amine, dear Amine, may angels guard thee!"
Roger Pater: A Porta Inferi
from MYSTIC VOICES
Burns, Oates and Washbourne, 1923
***
Professor Aufrecht returned to London next day and I went with him as far as the junction, where I had some shopping to do, so I saw nothing of the squire and the old Dominican Father until the evening. After dinner we were talking in the library when Avison came in and removed the coffee cups.
‘I’m always a little afraid of Avison,’ remarked Father Bertrand confidently, as the butler disappeared with his tray, ‘he makes me feel as if I must be on my best behaviour, like a schoolboy when the Headmaster is present.’
’I know what you mean,’ answered the squire, ‘I used to feel much the same with old Wilson, Avison’s p
redecessor. But then, you see, Wilson once caught me in the pantry, eating the dessert, when I was supposed to be safely in bed in the nursery; and even after I became a priest and his master I felt that he half suspected I should be up to the same trick again, if he wasn’t on his guard ! Now with Avison it is different; you see, he has only been here about thirty years, whereas Wilson was butler before I was born.’
‘Is it really thirty years since Wilson died?’ asked Father Bertrand - ‘but yes, I suppose it must be. He was a splendid old man. I always used to think of him as a retainer, “servant” was much too undignified a term for him. On my first visit here I remember feeling that he was taking stock of me, and that, if I didn’t pass muster, he would not allow you to ask me down again. Was it all my imagination, Philip, or did he exercise a veto on your visiting list?’
‘Oh no,’ laughed the squire, ‘Wilson would never have taken such a liberty, but I must admit he contrived to let me know what he thought of my friends. Don’t be afraid, Bertrand, you passed with honours on the very first occasion. “Quite a gentle man, sir, the young Dominican Father,” was his verdict. Dear old Wilson, I can hear him say it now.’
‘Doesn’t Thackeray say somewhere that to win the approval of a butler is the highest test of good breeding?’ I asked.
‘I don’t remember that,’ answered the squire, ‘though I think he says that to look like a butler is the safest thing for a political leader, as it always suggests respectability. All the same, I came to trust Wilson’s judgement, and it often stood me in good stead as a young man. But it is strange we should have got upon the subject tonight, for the only time I ever came near a quarrel with him was about his opinion of my friend the spiritualist, whose story I told you yesterday. The old butler took a strong dislike to him during his first visit here, and after he left we had quite a little scene. Wilson literally begged me not to make an intimate of him, and I remember getting annoyed with the old man and telling him sharply to mind his own business. He took th~ rebuke like a lamb and begged my pardon for venturing to speak in such a way to me. “But you can’t tell, Mr Philip,” he added, “what it means to me to see a man like that among your friends.” ’
‘I meant to ask you what became of the spiritualist,’ said Father Bertrand, ‘but it slipped my memory. Was the incident you told us the only thing of the kind, or did you come across any other examples of his faculty ? ’
‘Well,’ answered the squire, with a little hesitation, ‘perhaps you’ll laugh at me, but old Wilson’s opinion impressed me more than I cared to admit to him, and not long afterwards some facts came to my knowledge which went a long way to confirm it. In consequence I let our intimacy cool, and soon afterwards the man left England altogether and I only met him once again, quite by accident, many years later.’ He paused for a moment, and then continued. ‘If you like I will tell you what happened on that occasion. The whole affair was over in a few hours, but while it lasted it was so startling that I have often thanked God since that I followed Wilson’s advice and did not allow our former intimacy to develop.
‘The incident I told you last night must have occurred about the year 1858, and the man passed out of my life within a year or so after that. Still, I never saw the Cellini fountain without it bringing him back to my mind, and I often wondered idly what had happened to him. I never heard a word about him, however, and in time I came to think he must be dead.
‘More than twenty years later I was supplying at a mission on the outskirts of a large manufacturing town in the North. The place was not more than two or three miles from the heart of the city, but it was practically in the country, and the only exceptional feature about my work was the fact that I had to visit a large lunatic asylum which stood within the parish. The building had originally been the mansion of a county family, but they had died out, and when the property came into the market it was bought by the Corporation, and the mansion itself had been added to and adapted to serve its new purpose. There were a few Catholics among the inmates, and I found that one of the doctors was a Catholic too, so we soon became very good friends. One afternoon, as I was leaving the asylum, he asked me to go and have tea in his rooms. These were in a wing of the original building, where I had never been before, and his windows looked out on an old formal garden.
‘“Why,” I exclaimed, “I thought I had seen all the grounds, but this part is quite new to me.”
‘“Yes, it would be,” he replied. “You see, we have to keep the more serious cases separate from the others, and this part of the grounds is in their enclosure. If you like we will go round the old garden after tea; there probably won’t be more than one or two patients in it, and it will be all right if I go with you.”
‘To tell the truth I was always a little uneasy when I went among the patients, even the harmless ones, but my glimpse of the garden made me long to see it all; so I accepted the offer, and when tea was over we walked down on to the terrace beneath. The place had been laid out with great skill in the eighteenth century, and the paved walks with their old stone parapets and vases made an exquisite setting to the beds of bright flowers, relieved here and there by yew trees, clipped into fantastic shapes. There was not a soul about, and I quite forgot my uneasiness until we passed through an opening in a tall hedge at the bottom of the slope and came out on to a lawn beyond. At one end of this was a little pool, and my heart gave a great thump as I looked at it, for kneeling by the side, so that his profile was turned towards us, was a man whose face was perfectly familiar. It was my former friend the spiritualist, and, except that his shoulders were bent and his hair absolutely white, his appearance had scarcely changed in all the years, so that I recognized him in an instant. But it was not the surprise of meeting him thus unexpectedly which made me catch my breath and held me speechless. What sent the blood back to my heart, and then made it surge to the brain in a great wave of pity, was his occupation; for carefully, with earnest gaze and rapt attention, he knelt there building castles in the mud! The doctor must have noticed that I was upset, for he took my arm, as if to lead me back again, when I stopped him.
‘“No, no, Doctor,” I whispered, “I’m not frightened; it isn’t that. But the man kneeling there, I used to know him well, I am certain of it.’
‘“Indeed,” he whispered back, “he is the most curious case we have here - quite a mystery, in fact. I must get you to tell me what you know about him.”
‘“Yes, certainly,” I answered, “but I want to speak to him. He may turn and recognize me at any moment, and I do not want him to think I have come to spy upon him.”
‘“You are right,” he replied, “and if you can only gain his confidence it may be of great importance, for he is a case of lost identity, and your old friendship may perhaps revive his memory, and reconnect him with the vanished past.” With this he led me up to where the man was kneeling, but he never turned nor seemed to notice our presence, until the doctor addressed him in a loud voice.
‘“Come now, Lushington,” he said, “I’ve brought an old friend to see you. Look up and see if you don’t recognize him.” Very slowly, as if with an effort, the kneeling figure raised its head and turned towards us; but slow as the movement was, it barely gave me time to recover from my surprise, for the doctor had addressed him by a name that was utterly unlike the one he had formerly borne, and yet here he was answering to it, as if it were his own!
‘“I wonder if you can recognize me after all these years?” I t asked him, when he had gazed at me in silence for some moments I without the smallest sign of recognition.
‘“Recognize yer? No, I’m shot if I do,” he said at length; and I got another surprise, for the words were spoken in a hard, vulgar voice, totally different from the quiet, refined speech of my former friend.
‘“Think again, Lushington,” said the doctor, “for this gentle man is quite right, he used to know you well many years ago.” With a scowl the man turned upon him angrily:
‘“What the blazes do you know
about it, you little body-snatcher?” he snarled. “I’ll trouble you to mind your own business. As if you knew anything about me and what I was ‘many I years ago’. I wouldn’t have spoken to you then, and wouldn’t now, but that you’ve got me locked in this infernal prison of yours.”
‘“It must be fully twenty years since last you saw me,” I said gently, for I wanted to calm him down if possible, “and I was a layman then, so my dress has changed as well as my appearance; but I hoped you might recollect my face.”
‘“I don’t, anyhow,” said he, though with less confidence thought, as if some faint glimmer of memory were returning; “but you says you’re sure you know me, eh? Dick Lushington?”
‘“Quite sure of it,” I answered. “But I must admit one thing. When I knew you, twenty years ago, you were not called Dick Lushington, but ...’ and I spoke the man’s real name, which I had known him by. The effect was instantaneous and almost terrifying. No sooner had the words passed my lips than he leaped to his feet, shaking with passion. His face became livid with rage, he foamed at the mouth, and I thought he was going to have a fit.
‘“Liar, liar, liar!” he shrieked in my face. “How dare you say it? It isn’t true - by Hell, I swear it isn’t! He’s dead, the blackguard that you say I am - I won’t soil my lips by repeating his filthy name - and now you’ll be saying I killed him. You devil, why don’t you say it? It’s a lie, of course, but so’s what you said before - lies, lies, lies everywhere!” and the madman dropped to his knees again and drove his fingers deep into the mud. I noticed now that there was a warder standing behind us, and saw the doctor make a sign to him.
‘“Come away, Father,” he whispered to me, “we must give him time to calm down. The warder will look after him, and he will recover more quickly if we go away;” and taking my arm again he led me back towards the mansion. When we had passed through the hedge and were well out of earshot, the doctor began to speak again.
THE SUPERNATURAL OMNIBUS Page 70
