Devil's Tor

by David Lindsay

  He stared abstractedly at the flint, then closed his hand on it again, to recall that miracle of her likeness, and nature, and coming. …

  Her face had so transcended womanly beauty—yet upon its own road—that she was not even to be thought of as belonging to the world; nor had any living woman ever been as tall. If her eyes had rested on him, he must probably have died at once. …

  He placed the flint on top of the chest of drawers, quietly undressed, then, having blown out the candle and thrown up the window-blind, found his bed. … Exhausted though he was by another day's nervous rack, sleep still refused to come.

  Again and again he beheld the weird ancient stairs going down, the pitchy passage and caverns, the table of death, and always following, the dim silvery image of the dead woman, awful and beautiful as Nyx herself—swiftly changing to erectness and unnatural stature in the upper air. An earthquake rocked the bed he lay on. Strange globes of fearful electricity flitted about the room. … Or now he was walking through the snows and rocks of the Himalayas, and voices were calling to him from behind that he was immediately to die. Then the day vanished, and he was underneath a black night-sky of torn clouds and mystic constellations. … He never knew which part was dream, and which, sick waking fancy. At some time after midnight, he fell, worn out at last, into dreamless sleep.

  How much later it was he could not tell, but he thought his eyes reopened to remark a bright mist in the act of ascending from the flint on the chest of drawers. … It rose and spread like a coloured gas dissipating in the air, till the upper half of the room was phosphorescent. Then, almost fiercely, it concentrated over his bed, seeming to draw down all the light from above, so that the whole chamber was black once more, save that luminous patch. Its lustre became the face, bosom and arms of a woman—but she was a spirit. … Then she disappeared suddenly, and the room was all dark again. …

  An ineffable peace entered his soul. Surely she had seemed to bend over him, as though to smooth his brow—but that touch must have been his last knowledge of the world. And because he had known the same instinct during the day, he was assured that it had been she. …

  He rose. Experiencing that immeasurable calm, he went to the window and there stood gazing up to the stars, which were as jewels in the sky—blue, yellow, ruddy, flashing white.

  So often had she appeared to him. Doubtless it was his recompense for this sacrifice of his life. Somehow, his journey from India had served; now he was to be discarded. Since boyhood he had walked in innocence—he conceived not what other worth was in him, so to be chosen for the purposes of the High. Nor was it wise to attempt an understanding of such matters. With human wits only was he equipped, whereas elsewhere not only thoughts and willings, but the very meaning and basic nature of life should be different. …

  He continued standing before the window until the first lightening of the sky announced another day.

  Chapter XIII

  HENRY SALTFLEET

  In the middle of the morning of the next day, which was Thursday, Helga while engaged in writing letters in her room was interrupted by a housemaid, who handed her a card.

  "A gentleman to see Mr. Drapier, madam."

  "He is out, isn't he?"

  "Yes, madam. He went out immediately after breakfast."

  Meanwhile Helga had hurriedly glanced at the pasteboard in her hand, and was coldly shocked by the printed name thereon. It read, HENRY SALTFLEET. … She had really not expected that they would be after poor Hugh so soon; or that it would be he. …

  She stood in long hesitation, then instructed the girl to inform the visitor that she would see him, and to show him into the drawing-room.

  No, she would not change her dress for this man. She was quite presentable, and would not have him believe that she had changed on his account. She was in a dark, well-shaped house-frock without ornaments, except her rings. So, after another long pause of thought, she merely rearranged her hair before the glass; and at once went out.

  The caller stood in the middle of the room to which he had been ushered, erect and expectant, facing the door. He was big of build, clothed on reticent lines in well-cut, well-worn tweeds, and was unmistakably a gentleman, which his photograph had not certainly established. His grave countenance displayed a naturally florid skin, browned by travel. The forehead was noticeably wide, the features were strong, masculine, severe, the grey eyes direct and uncompromising. He was clean-shaved, and the set of his mouth fascinated Helga instantly by its expressive virility. She seemed not to have known before how a man's mouth could be at once so grim and beautiful. … No doubt it arose from the striving with realities—the realities of Nature. Instead of figures, markets, competitors, and labour troubles; things like precipices, storms and floods! ... He looked so altogether different from other men. There was this open-air formidableness in his still, tranquil, menacing manner of holding himself. His composure, his bottled vigour—he seemed much maturer than his apparent thirty-four or five. He must be well-used to depend on himself in all circumstances, and force a way through. Who were his people? He should belong to a very good circle—at least, must have much money, so to be able to turn his back on trade and the professions, in order to indulge this hobby of expensive mountaineering.

  During the electric seconds that elapsed between her coming into the room and Saltfleet's tardy first speech (for he, on his side, seemed soberly to be reviewing her as a new factor in the situation, before confiding to her any part of his business) such was the character of the thoughts that sped through Helga's head, leaving behind them a mere broad wake of blurred feeling, the main constituents of which were astonishment, attraction, and fear. Now, indeed, that it had come to the actual impossible moment, she had no idea in the world what she was to say to him, or how she was to say it. Should she help him to meet Hugh, or should she do what she could to stop their meeting? Where had he now arrived from? Was he putting up in the village or neighbourhood, or had he a waiting car?

  She could suggest his writing, only a postponement would be so unsatisfactory, so futile. Before coming in to him at all, she ought to have prepared herself better. First, of course, she must know what attitude he was taking—but that too was only to put it off for a minute. These men were not importuning Hugh for a joke. They wanted what they did want very badly indeed. Really, all she had to decide—quickly—was whether she would be acting in Hugh's own best interests in hinting to this person standing up in front of her that there was likely to be a hitch in his business—or whether, rather, she ought not to fend him off merely for a time, until she could prepare Hugh for his inevitable second call. Everything was so exactly balanced in her mind, that she seemed to have no volition at all. …

  In broad daylight, and standing face-to-face with him, she no longer possessed the folly to dream of captivating this man. …

  Then she noticed his hands. They were unusually long, and muscular and nervous, but very quietly held. Yet he should be of an impatient temperament; and so their stillness implied the unceasing will to stillness, demanding in him an equally constant presence of mind. Such active natures she could respect.

  And while his opening tones, very gratefully to her (for she had dreaded she knew not what brusqueness), were courteous and conversational, nearly the first uttered word did in fact display to her the controlled impatience of his temper.

  "I must ask your pardon for troubling you," was what he said, while she remained standing a little way from him, just inside the room,"—especially so early in the day; but actually I came to see Mr. Drapier, and your servant has informed me that he is out. May I inquire the most promising time for getting him?"

  Despite her persistent inward intimidation, Helga was still the mistress of her manner, and could return him one of her tranquil gazes.

  "Yes, I am told he is out. I am his cousin, Mrs. Fleming, and will gladly give him a message, if you care to suggest anything. Are you staying near here?"

  "I am at the 'Bell', for the tim
e being. Please tell him merely that I have called—and perhaps it would simplify matters if he could give me a look up on his return. I will wait in. He won't be out all day?"

  "He should not be. I could possibly find out more definitely from my daughter."

  "Don't bother. If you know of nothing, he will probably be back. So will you be so good as to pass him that message?"

  "With pleasure."

  But then, as he was moving, she felt that to let him go so, without the least effort on her part to use this happy chance of his visit during Hugh’s absence, was sheer cowardice; and she added quickly, to detain him while she could still find eleventh-hour inspiration:

  "He is expecting you, I know."

  Saltfleet stopped short, in a kind of surprise.

  "He is expecting me?"

  "You or Mr. … Arsinal. He thought you might call on him here..."

  "So you are in his confidence in this business?"

  "I understand it concerns something he holds in trust for you."

  "You know what it is?"

  "Yes."

  "Then perhaps you can tell me—Drapier was called home suddenly, I take it?"

  "Yes," she replied again, more faintly.

  "Well, every man is entitled to put his own affairs first. But I trust he still has the thing?"

  "Yes, he still has it."

  "And—you may think it an extraordinary question to ask, but really he has treated us rather mysteriously... there is to be no trouble over our getting it back at once?"

  "Won't you sit?"

  Saltfleet complied a little reluctantly, while Helga took a stiff and nervous place on the edge of the couch facing him. The door was shut. His interrogation, which she might have expected and which she herself had brought on by admitting her acquaintance with the affair, was confusing her utterly—she must keep him there, and turn the blow, and temporise, her instinct was. For if she returned him a lie, or professed ignorance, that would not be serving Hugh, but if she told him the truth straight out, it would be too lowering. Hugh was her cousin, and his shame was her shame. She began to be angry with him for having put her in such a degrading position.

  Could she without singularity invite Mr. Saltfleet to dine with them this evening, to meet Hugh? Yes, she did not think he ought to find the proposition strange, and it would be bringing the two together more amicably. Things could be discussed at ease; she could be present. The only strangeness would consist in this person's being introduced to the family circle. Yet no; he was just a friend of Hugh's, whom he had met abroad. … Meanwhile she could have it out seriously with Hugh. His attitude seemed quite intenable and wicked to her, now that the right claimant had turned up in flesh and blood. True, they had stolen it themselves; but somehow theirs was not a theft, and somehow Hugh's would be. …

  "I hope this does not point to a difficulty?" inquired Saltfleet bluntly, interrupting her vacillations. "You say you know what the article is—a fragment of stone, with a tradition attached. He still holds it. Then nothing is to interfere with his returning it?"

  "Mr. Saltfleet, my trouble is that, though I do know something about the matter, I have not been authorised to speak. Who is the principal, you or Mr. Arsinal? Or are you jointly concerned?"

  "Arsinal is the principal."

  "Where is he now?"

  "At Oxford; consulting some documents at the Bodleian. I am deputising."

  "As one friend for another, no doubt."

  "Well, I have never taken pay from any man yet."

  "The concern is purely antiquarian? Not financial?"

  "The stone has no money value that I am aware of. … I'll explain my part in the transaction, if that is worrying you. I am not in any way interested in archæology personally, but chanced to run across Arsinal in Crete a year or so ago, where we struck up an intimacy; and when he had occasion for this trip to Tibet, I put my experience of the country at his disposal, in exchange for the amusement of the adventure. It was at my suggestion that our prize was passed to Drapier for holding during an awkward time; accordingly I am responsible for its recovery. It is to recover it, that I have called here this morning."

  "But weren't you rash to entrust it to a stranger?"

  "We had little choice."

  "Still, you would have done better to bear in mind that the nature of a romantic enterprise is to run eccentrically to the very end. You should have taken nothing for granted; and now, really, I must give it as my opinion that in case of any obstruction, at least half the fault has been your own."

  Helga had no idea why after all she was taking it upon herself to prepare him for Hugh's ugly stroke to come. She thought that she had decided to speak to Hugh first. There was no sense in getting this man angry beforehand; he would not want his property any the less because she could show them to have acted imprudently. … Either it was that his dominating personality was obliging her to declare the whole truth... or else surely there must be some fatality about it, that was working by means of a second will within her, over which she had no control. …

  He was staring at her for her remark, but she still had time to feel that it must be so—that the automatism of her tongue owed itself to a deeper necessity which was not appearing. What actually was at the bottom of the feeling, she seemed to be aware, was that as he sat there opposite to her a perfect representative of the great outside world, his manners were so correct, distant and alien—he was creating for himself in her mind a distinct atmosphere—of... of being here to change things, for everyone. … Hugh, of course, primarily; but somehow the household was never to go back to its old tranquil peace, which it had known before Hugh's coming. … It was another angle of her tea-time presentiment yesterday, of a general advancing evil. The caller was focussing it in his own person, and so, since a man was less than fate, it could not seem so dreadful; but this, perhaps was why she could make no stand of circumspection against him. …

  "Pray, what obstruction do you refer to?" he demanded after what could be nothing but an ominous interval; and yet his voice was no more than a little sharpened.

  "The word escaped me, I fear. No doubt, I had better leave you to talk to Hugh Drapier himself."

  "I would like to know at once, if you can any way get over your difficulty of being without authorisation. I fancy I am entitled to hear if the affair is in order."

  "But that is just what I can't tell you, Mr. Saltfleet. Supposing I see Hugh before you do, I am going to speak to him again about—your call here. Until then, however, I candidly do not know what his last intentions are to be. … It must sound alarming to you, and I was silly to say what I did. I can only offer you the hint. You and your friend appear to have made a very troublesome and out-of-the-way journey for the sole purpose of purloining this stone. Well then, seeing that it is worth so much to yourselves, why should not it be coveted equally by some other man? And if it were, wouldn't it be perfectly easy and natural for such a man to say to himself, 'It's no more theirs than mine'?"

  Her heart was hurrying, and she dared no longer look at him, though fearfully conscious of his wide eyes. Too well she realised that now there could be no recalling of her speech, but that she had definitely committed herself, and Hugh also. How was he to take it? Had she merely done what had to be, or might she indeed with far more wisdom have held her peace? ...

  "The appeal is not to nature, but to honour," Saltfleet answered her, bending forward in his seat. "I can't understand, moreover, why Drapier should want to possess it. In any case, we could not allow it, or listen to any proposals towards it."

  "Since, however, we have gone so far, I would like to hear what your attitude—and Mr. Arsinal's—would be to, let me say, an offer on his part."

  "I believe it will be best to assume only friendly relations for the present. I repeat, it is an affair of honour; and your cousin impressed me immediately as being a man of honour."

  Helga felt herself to be painfully feeble and daunted in the face of his rising indignation. In her
daze, she fell back upon meannesses of logic which were the last she could ever have wished to use.

  "You keep insisting on the word honour, Mr. Saltfleet; but is it really legitimate in any discussion of the case?"

  "You mean, we stole the thing first, and therefore have no status. But that action concerns our consciences only. Drapier's obligation is to us."

  "His previous consent was neither sought nor given."

  "The question of honour would not touch his consent."

  "Surely it must! ... Imagine a pickpocket rushing by you in the street, followed by a hot pursuit, and slipping a gold watch into your hand. …"

  "I should pass it to the first policeman; but that Drapier hasn't done. Nor are we pickpockets. When we shear a sheep, we don't call the confiscation of wool a robbery; and with no greater accuracy can you style it that, when a high-minded English scientist of international standing takes for his own service a financially-valueless object from a dying heathen temple in an unpopulated land, where for long years it has been lodged absolutely neglected. Drapier himself, I am convinced, would be the last man on earth to entertain any pettifogging scruples about it. He is familiar with the monks of Tibet, and he has met Arsinal. He knew what we were going after, and manifested no righteous horror at all. Permit me to say, Mrs. Fleming, that I can’t in the least grasp what you are driving at with these contentions. If they are to excuse your cousin's repudiation of his plain duty, I would rather have it out with the man himself."