Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Have you got in somebody to help?” I asked.

  “No,” Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.

  “There’s somebody upstairs, Jack,” I said. “Don’t you hear footsteps?”

  “It’s the wind, captain,” Jack answered; but I could see he was trembling.

  “That isn’t any wind, Jack,” I said; “it’s still and foggy. I’m sure there’s somebody upstairs.”

  “If you are so sure of it, you’d better go and see for yourself, captain,” Jack answered, almost angrily.

  He was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the fireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that could make me believe I hadn’t heard a man’s footsteps overhead. I knew there was somebody there. But there wasn’t. I went into the bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was streaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on the landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for a servant-girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that the door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had locked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was a room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had shutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of old gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with sea-chests, and that there were oilskins and such stuff piled on the bed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I went in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four walls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked looking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody there. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and turned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I had turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door inside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went downstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to look behind them on board the Helen B.

  Jack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea that he didn’t like to stay inside alone.

  “Well?” he asked, trying to seem careless.

  “I didn’t find anybody,” I answered, “but I heard somebody moving about.”

  “I told you it was the wind,” said Jack contemptuously. “I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.”

  There was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down toward the beach. Jack said there wasn’t any hurry, as it would take Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we strolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the tide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she rose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes. I felt that Jack didn’t like my having heard that noise, so I talked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and before long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.

  I haven’t been at many weddings in my life, and I don’t suppose you have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was pretty near over; and then, I don’t know whether it was part of the ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie’s and held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was still speaking.

  Mamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn’t a loud scream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were half frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her what was the matter, and the family gathered round.

  “Your hand’s like ice,” said Mamie to Jack, “and it’s all wet!”

  She kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.

  “It don’t feel cold to me,” said Jack, and he held the back of his hand against his cheek. “Try it again.”

  Mamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at first, and then took hold of it.

  “Why, that’s funny,” she said.

  “She’s been as nervous as a witch all day,” said Mrs. Brewster severely.

  “It is natural,” said the parson, “that young Mrs. Benton should experience a little agitation at such a moment.”

  Most of the bride’s relations lived at a distance, and were busy people, so it had been arranged that the dinner we’d had in the middle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards, and that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over, and then that everybody should go home, and the young couple would walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I could see the light burning brightly in Jack’s cottage, a quarter of a mile away. I said I didn’t think I could get any train to take me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me to stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to take off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put on something white with a wreath that was very pretty, and she couldn’t walk home like that, could she?

  So when we had all had a little supper the party began to break up, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went upstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza to have a smoke, as the old lady didn’t like tobacco in the house.

  The full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked down toward Jack’s cottage, so that everything was clear and white, and there was only the light burning in the window. The fog had rolled down to the water’s edge, and a little beyond, for the tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last reach of sand within fifty feet of the beach road.

  Jack didn’t say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for coming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy, and so I did. I daresay both of us were thinking of those footsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn’t seem so lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie’s voice talking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was ready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the morning.

  Well, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the day’s excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that path alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them good-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with them by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the station by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed to me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed her mother good-night, I just looked the other way, and knocked my ashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the straight path to Jack’s cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs. Brewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They walked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack put his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left and I saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the moonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie’s right was broad and black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening with the unevenness of the ground beside the path.

  I thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she was a hard New England woman, her voice trembled a little as she answered, but being a sensible person, she went in and shut the door behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the couple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the road, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps I stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something queer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again, and it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at what I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was just the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head taller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and round hat, and the other man on her right — well, he was a sailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on the water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had settled where the flap of his sou’wester was turned up behind: and one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie’s waist, just above Jack’s. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a minute I thought I was crazy. We’d had nothing but some cider for dinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I’d have thought something had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my life. It was more like a bad dream after that.

  I
was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn’t help following the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would happen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just melt away into the moonshine. But he didn’t.

  I moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the grass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might hear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five minutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an hour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She didn’t seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by little they got near the cottage, and I wasn’t a hundred yards from them when they reached the door. Something made me stand still then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that happened just as I see you now.

  Mamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward, I saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack’s, and Jack didn’t move to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all three stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then — I heard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a steam-crane — and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.

  I tried to jump forward, but I couldn’t move, and I felt my hair rising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and swung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to walk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight down that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the moonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the gate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where the tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for them across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled across the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two were at the water’s edge; and when I reached the water they were far out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton’s head had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp beside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his death. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was white beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and steadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to their shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of Jack’s hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went straight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was just a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.

  It has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a chance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I thought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that’s what I always thought. It wasn’t Jim that went overboard; it was Jack, and Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then Jim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If that’s what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the next day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and that her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned himself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if they’d known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen, for they wouldn’t have believed me. I just let them think I had come too late.

  When I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving mad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her head again.

  Oh, you want to know if they found Jack’s body? I don’t know whether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port where I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore in a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked together, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.

  FOR THE BLOOD IS THE LIFE

  WE HAD DINED at sunset on the broad roof of the old tower, because it was cooler there during the great heat of summer. Besides, the little kitchen was built at one corner of the great square platform, which made it more convenient than if the dishes had to be carried down the steep stone steps, broken in places and everywhere worn with age. The tower was one of those built all down the west coast of Calabria by the Emperor Charles V. early in the sixteenth century, to keep off the Barbary pirates, when the unbelievers were allied with Francis I. against the Emperor and the Church. They have gone to ruin, a few still stand intact, and mine is one of the largest. How it came into my possession ten years ago, and why I spend a part of each year in it, are matters which do not concern this tale. The tower stands in one of the loneliest spots in Southern Italy, at the extremity of a curving rocky promontory, which forms a small but safe natural harbour at the southern extremity of the Gulf of Policastro, and just north of Cape Scalea, the birthplace of Judas Iscariot, according to the old local legend. The tower stands alone on this hooked spur of the rock, and there is not a house to be seen within three miles of it. When I go there I take a couple of sailors, one of whom is a fair cook, and when I am away it is in charge of a gnome-like little being who was once a miner and who attached himself to me long ago.

  My friend, who sometimes visits me in my summer solitude, is an artist by profession, a Scandinavian by birth, and a cosmopolitan by force of circumstances. We had dined at sunset; the sunset glow had reddened and faded again, and the evening purple steeped the vast chain of the mountains that embrace the deep gulf to eastward and rear themselves higher and higher toward the south. It was hot, and we sat at the landward corner of the platform, waiting for the night breeze to come down from the lower hills. The colour sank out of the air, there was a little interval of deep-grey twilight, and a lamp sent a yellow streak from the open door of the kitchen, where the men were getting their supper.

  Then the moon rose suddenly above the crest of the promontory, flooding the platform and lighting up every little spur of rock and knoll of grass below us, down to the edge of the motionless water. My friend lighted his pipe and sat looking at a spot on the hillside. I knew that he was looking at it, and for a long time past I had wondered whether he would ever see anything there that would fix his attention. I knew that spot well. It was clear that he was interested at last, though it was a long time before he spoke. Like most painters, he trusts to his own eyesight, as a lion trusts his strength and a stag his speed, and he is always disturbed when he cannot reconcile what he sees with what he believes that he ought to see.

  “It’s strange,” he said. “Do you see that little mound just on this side of the boulder?”

  “Yes,” I said, and I guessed what was coming.

  “It looks like a grave,” observed Holger.

  “Very true. It does look like a grave.”

  “Yes,” continued my friend, his eyes still fixed on the spot. “But the strange thing is that I see the body lying on the top of it. Of course,” continued Holger, turning his head on one side as artists do, “it must be an effect of light. In the first place, it is not a grave at all. Secondly, if it were, the body would be inside and not outside. Therefore, it’s an effect of the moonlight. Don’t you see it?”

  “Perfectly; I always see it on moonlight nights.”

  “It doesn’t seem to interest you much,” said Holger.

  “On the contrary, it does interest me, though I am used to it. You’re not so far wrong, either. The mound is really a grave.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Holger, incredulously. “I suppose you’ll tell me what I see lying on it is really a corpse!”

  “No,” I answered, “it’s not. I know, because I have taken the trouble to go down and see.”

  “Then what is it?” asked Holger.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You mean that it’s an effect of light, I suppose?”

  “Perhaps it is. But the inexplicable part of the matter is that it makes no difference whether the moon is rising or setting, or waxing or waning. If there’s any moonlight at all, from east or west or overhead, so long as it shines on the grave you can see the outline of the body on top.”

  Holger stirred up his pipe with the point of his knife, and then used his finger for a stopper. When the tobacco burned well he rose from his chair.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll go down and take a look at it.”

  He left me, crossed
the roof, and disappeared down the dark steps. I did not move, but sat looking down until he came out of the tower below. I heard him humming an old Danish song as he crossed the open space in the bright moonlight, going straight to the mysterious mound. When he was ten paces from it, Holger stopped short, made two steps forward, and then three or four backward, and then stopped again. I know what that meant. He had reached the spot where the Thing ceased to be visible — where, as he would have said, the effect of light changed.

  Then he went on till he reached the mound and stood upon it. I could see the Thing still, but it was no longer lying down; it was on its knees now, winding its white arms round Holger’s body and looking up into his face. A cool breeze stirred my hair at that moment, as the night wind began to come down from the hills, but it felt like a breath from another world.

  The Thing seemed to be trying to climb to its feet, helping itself up by Holger’s body while he stood upright, quite unconscious of it and apparently looking toward the tower, which is very picturesque when the moonlight falls upon it on that side.

  “Come along!” I shouted. “Don’t stay there all night!”

  It seemed to me that he moved reluctantly as he stepped from the mound, or else with difficulty. That was it. The Thing’s arms were still round his waist, but its feet could not leave the grave. As he came slowly forward it was drawn and lengthened like a wreath of mist, thin and white, till I saw distinctly that Holger shook himself, as a man does who feels a chill. At the same instant a little wail of pain came to me on the breeze — it might have been the cry of the small owl that lives among the rocks — and the misty presence floated swiftly back from Holger’s advancing figure and lay once more at its length upon the mound.