Works of Grant Allen

by Grant Allen

  “Faithfully yours, “Hugh Massinger.”

  As he rose from the desk, he glanced half involuntarily out of the study window. It pointed south. The moon was shining full on the water. That hateful popfcr stared him straight in the face, as tall and gaunt and immovable as ever. On its roots, a woman in a white dress was standing, looking out over the angry sea, as Elsie had stood, for the twinkling of an eye, on that terrible evening when he lost her forever. One second, the sight sent a shiver through his frame, then he laughed to himself, the next, for his groundless terror. How childish! How infantile! It was the gardener’s wife, in her light print frock, looking out to sea for her boy’s smack, overdue, no doubt for Charlie was a fisherman. But it was intolerable that he, the Squire of Whitestrand, should be subjected to such horrible turns as these. He shook his fist angrily at the offending tree. “You shall pay for it, my friend,” he muttered low but hoarse between his clenched teeth. “You shan’t have many more chances of frightening me!”

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN.

  During the whole of the next week, the Squire and a strange artisan, whom he had specially imported by rail from London, went much about together by day and night through the grounds at Whitestrand. A certain air of mystery hung over their joint proceedings. The strange artisan was a skilled workman in the engineering line, he told the people at the Fisherman’s Rest, where he had taken a bed for his stay in the village; and indeed sundry books in his kit bore out the statement weird books of a scientific and diagrammatic character, chockfull of formulae in Greek lettering, which seemed not unlikely to be connected with hydrostatics, dynamics, trigonometry, and mechanics, or any other equally abstruse and uncanny subject, not wholly alien to necromancy and witchcraft It was held at Whitestrand by those best able to form an opinion in such dark questions, that the new importation was “summat in the electric way;” and it was certainly matter of pfain fact, patent to all observers equally, that he did in very truth fix up an elaborate lightning-conductor of the latest pattern to the newly-thrown-out gable-end at what had once been Elsie’s window. It was Elsie’s window still to Hugh: let him twist it and turn it and alter it as he would, he feared it would never, never cease to be Elsie’s window.

  But in the domain at large, the intelligent artisan with the engineering air, who was surmised to be “summat in the electric way,” carefully examined, under Hugh’s directions, many parts of the grounds of Whitestrand. Squire was going to lay out the garden and terrace afresh, the servants conjectured in their own society: one or two of them, exceedingly modern in their views, even opined in an off-hand fashion that he must be bent on laying electric lights on. Conservative in most things to the backbone, the servants bestowed the meed of their hearty approval on the electric light: it saves so much in trimming and cleaning. Lamps are the bug-bear of big country houses: electricity, on the other hand, needs no tending. It was near the poplar that Squire was going to put his installation, as they call the arrangement in our latterday jargon; and he was going to drive it, rumor remarked, by a tidal outfall. What a tidal outfall might be, or how it could work in lighting the Hall, nobody knew; but the intelligent artisan had let the words drop casually in the course of conversation; and the Fisherman’s Rest snapped them up at once, and retailed them freely with profound gusto to all after-comers.

  Still, it was a curious fact in its own way that the installation appeared to progress most easily when nobody happened to be looking on, and that the skilled workman in the engineering line generally stood with his hands in his pockets, surveying his handicraft with languid interest, whenever anybody from the village or the Hall lounged up by his side to inspect or wonder at it.

  More curious still was another small fact, known to nobody but the skilled workman in propria persona, that four small casks of petroleum from a London store were stowed away, by Hugh Massinger’s orders, under the very roots of the big poplar; and that by their side lay a queer apparatus, connected apparently in some remote way with electric lighting.

  The Squire himself, however, made no secret of his own personal and private intentions to the London workman.

  He paid the man well, and he exacted silence. That was all. But he explained precisely in plain terms what it was that he wanted done. The tree was an eyesore to him, he said, with his usual frankness Hugh was always frank whenever possible but his wife, for sentimental reasons, had a special fancy for it. He wanted to get rid of it, therefore, in the least obtrusive way he could easily manage. This was the least obtrusive way. So this was what he required done with it. The London workman nodded his head, pocketed his pay, looked unconcerned, and held his tongue with trained fidelity. It was none of his business to pry into any employer’s motives. Enough for him to take his orders and to carry them out faithfully to the very letter. The job was odd: an odd job is always interesting. He hoped the experiment might prove successful.

  The Whitestrand laborers, who passed by the poplar and the London workman, time and again, with a jerky nod and their pipes turned downward, never noticed a certain slender unobtrusive copper wire which the strange artisan fastened one evening, in the gray dusk, right up the stem and boles of the big tree to a round knob on the very summit. The wire, however, as its fixer knew, ran down to a large deal box well buried in the ground, which bore outside a green label, “Ruhmkorff Induction Coil, Elliott’s Patent.” The wire and coil terminated in a pile close to the four petroleum barrels. When the London workman had securely laid the entire apparatus, undisturbed by loungers, he reported adversely, with great solemnity, on the tidal outfall and electric light scheme to Hugh Massinger. No sufficient power for the purpose existed in the river. This adverse report was orally delivered in the front vestibule of Whitestrand Hall; a’nd it was also delivered with sedulous care as per orders received in Mrs. Massinger’s own presence. When the London workman went out again after making his carefully worded statement, he went out clinking a coin of the realm or two in his trousers’ pocket, and with his tongue stuck, somewhat unbecomingly, in his right cheek, as who should pride himself on the successful outwitting of an innocent fellow-creature. He had done the work he was paid for, and he had done it well. But he thought to himself, as he went his way rejoicing, that the Squire of Whitestrand must be very well held in hand indeed by that small pale lady, if he had to take so many cunning precautions in secret beforehand when he wanted to get rid of a single tree that offended his eye in his own gardens.

  The plot was all well laid now. Hugh had nothing further left to do but to possess his soul in patience against the next thunderstorm. He had not very long to wait. Before the month was out a thunderstorm did indeed burst in full force over Whitestrand and its neighborhood one of those terrible and destructive east coast electric displays which invariably leave their broad mark behind them. For along the low, flat, monotonous East Anglian shore, where hills are unknown and big trees rare, the lightning almost inevitably singles out for its onslaught some aspiring piece of man’s handiwork some church steeple, some castle keep, the turrets on some tall and isolated manorhouse, the vane above some ancient castellated gateway.

  The reason for this is not far to seek. In hilly countries the hills and trees act as natural lightning conductors, or rather as decoys to draw aside the fine from heaven from the towns or farmhouses that nestle far below among the glens and valleys. But in wide level plaias, where all alike is flat and low-lying, human architecture forms for the most part the one salient point in the landscape for lightning to attack: every church or tower with its battlements and lanterns stands in the place of the polished knobs on an electric machine, and draws down upon itself with unerring certainty the destructive bolt from the overcharged clouds. Owing to this cause, the thunderstorms of East Anglian are the most appalling and destructive in their concrete results of any in England. The laden clouds, big with electric energy, hang low and dark above one’s very head, and let loose their accumulated store of vivid flashes in the exac
t midst of towns and villages.

  This particular thunderstorm, as chance would have it, came late at night, after three sultry days of close weather, when big black masses were just beginning to gather in vast battalions over the German Ocean; and it let loose at last its fierce artillery in terrible volleys right ever the village and the grounds of Whitestrand. Hugh Massinger was the first at the Hall to observe from afar the distant flash, before the thunder had made itself audible in their ears. A pale light to westward, in the direction of Snade, attracted, as he read, his passing attention. “By Jove!” he cried, rising with a yawn from his chair, and laying down the manuscript of “A Life’s Philosophy,” which he was languidly correcting in its later stanzas, “that’s something like lightning, Winifred! Over Snade way, apparently. I wonder if it’s going to drift toward us? Whew what a clap! It’s precious near. I expect we shall catch it ourselves shortly.”

  The clouds rolled up with extraordinary rapidity, and the claps came fast and thick and nearer. Winifred cowered down on the sofa in terror. She dreaded thunder; but she was too proud to confess what she would nevertheless have given worlds to do hide her frightened little head with sobs and tears in its old place upon Hugh’s shoulder. “It’s coming this way,” she cried nervously after a while. “That last flash must have been awfully near us.”

  Even as she spoke a terrific volley seemed to burst all at once right over their heads and shake the house with its irresistible majesty. Winifred buried her face deep in the cushions. “Oh, Hugh,” she cried in a terrified tone, “this is awful awful!”

  Much as he longed to look out of the window, Hugh could not resist that unspoken appeal. He drew up the blind hastily to its full height, so that he might see out to watch the success of his deep-laid stratagem; then he hurried over with real tenderness to Winifred’s side. He drew his arm round her and soothed her with his hand, and laid her poor throbbing aching head with a lover’s caress upon his own broad bosom. Winifred nestled close to him with a sigh of relief. The nearness of danger, real or imagined, rouses all the most ingrained and profound of our virile feelings. The instinct of protection for the woman and the child comes over even bad men at such moments of doubt with irresistible might and majesty. Small differences or tiffs are forgotten and forgiven: the woman clings naturally in her feminine weakness to the strong man in his primary aspect as comforter and protector. Between Hugh and Winifred the estrangement as yet was but vague and unacknowledged. Had it yawned far wider, had it sunk far deeper, the awe and terror of that supreme moment would amply have sufficed to bridge it over, at least while the orgy of the thunderstorm lasted.

  For next instant a sheet of liquid flame seemed to surround and engulf the whole house at once in its white embrace. The world became for the twinkling of an eye one surging flood of vivid fire, one roar and crash and sea of deafening tumult. Winifred buried her face deeper than ever on Hugh’s shoulder, and put up both her small hands to her tingling ears, to crush if possible the hideous roar out. But the light and sound seemed to penetrate everything: she was aware of them keenly through her very bones and nerves and marrow; her entire being appeared as if pervaded and overwhelmed with the horror of the lightning. In another moment all was over, and she was conscious only of an abiding awe, a deep-seated afterglow of alarm and terror. But Hugh had started up from the sofa now, both his hands clasped hard in front of his breast, and was gazing wildly out of the big bow-window, and lifting up his voice in a paroxysm of excitement. “It’s hit the poplar!” he cried. “It’s hit the poplar! It must be terribly near, Winnie! It’s hit the poplar!”

  Winifred opened her eyes with an effort, and saw him standing there, as if spellbound, by the window. She dared not go up and come any nearer the front of the room, but raising her eyes, she saw from where she sat, or rather crouched, that the poplar stood out, one living mass of rampant flame, a flaring beacon, from top to bottom. The petroleum, ignited and raised to flashing-point by the fire which the induction coil had drawn down from heaven, gave off its blazing vapor in huge rolling sheets and forked tongues of flame, which licked up the crackling branches of the dry old tree from base to summit like so much touchwood. The poplar rose now one solid column of crimson fire. The red glow deepened and widened from moment to moment. Even the drenching rain that followed the thunder-clap seemed powerless to check that frantic onslaught. The fire leaped and danced through the tall straight boughs with mad exultation, hissing out its defiance to the big round drops which burst off into tiny balls of steam before they could reach the red-hot trunk and snapping branches. Even left to itself, the poplar, once ignited, would have burnt to the ground with startling rapidity; for its core was dry and light as tinder, its wood was eaten through by innumerable worm-holes, and the hollow center of moldering dry-rot, where children had loved to play at hide and seek, acted now like a roaring chimney flue, with a fierce draught that carried up the circling eddies of smoke and flame in mad career to the topmost branches. But the fumes of the petroleum, rendered instantly gaseous by the electric heat, made the work of destruction still more instantaneous, terrible, and complete than it would have proved if left to unaided nature. The very atmosphere resolved itself into one rolling pillar of fluid flame. The tree seemed enveloped in a shroud of fire. All human effort must be powerless to resist it. The poplar dissolved almost as if by magic with a wild rapidity into its prime elements.

  A man must be a man come what may. Hugh leaped toward the window and flung it open wildly. “I must go!” he cried. “Ring the bell for the servants.” The savage glee in his voice was well repressed. His enemy was low, laid prone at his feet, but he would at least pretend to some spark of magnanimity. “We must get out the hose!” he exclaimed. “We must try to save it!” Winifred clung to his arm in horror. “Let it burn down, Hugh!” she cried. “Who cares for the poplar? I’d sooner ten thousand poplars burned to the ground than that you should venture out on such an evening!”

  Her hand on his arm thrilled through him with horror. Her words stung him with a sense of his meanness. Something very like a touch of remorse came over his spirit. He stooped down and kissed her tenderly. The next flash struck over toward the sandhills. The thunder was rolling gradually seaward.

  Hugh slept but little that eventful night; his mind addressed itself with feverish eagerness to so many hard and doubtful questions. He tossed and turned and asked himself ten thousand times over was the tree burnt through burnt down to the ground? Were the roots and trunk consumed beyond hope or rather beyond fear of ultimate recovery? Was the hateful poplar really done for? Would any trace remain of the barrels that had held the tell-tale petroleum? any relic be left of the Ruhmkorff Induction Coil? What jot or tittle of the evidence of design would now survive to betray and convict him? What ground for reasonable suspicion would Winifred see that the fire was not wholly the result of accident?

  But when next morning’s light dawned and the sun arose upon the scene of conflagration, Hugh saw at a glance that all his fears had indeed been wholly and utterly groundless. The poplar was as though it had never existed. A bare black patch by the mouth of the Char, covered with ash and dust and cinder, alone marked the spot where the famous tree had once stood. The very roots were burned deep into the ground. The petroleum had done its duty bravely. Not a trace of design could be observed anywhere. The Ruhmkorff Induction Coil had melted into air. Nobody ever so much as dreamed that human handicraft had art or part in the burning of the celebrated Whitestrand poplar. The “Times” gave it a line of passing regret; and the Trinity House deleted it with pains as a lost landmark from their sailing directions.

  Hugh set his workmen instantly to stub up the roots. And Winifred, gazing mournfully next day at the ruins, observed with a sigh: “You never liked the dear old tree, Hugh; and it seems as if fate had interposed in your favor to destroy it. I’m sorry it’s gone; but I’d sacrifice a hundred such trees any day to have you as kind to me as you were last evening.”

  The saying sm
ote Hugh’s heart sore. He played nervously with the button of his coat. “I wish you could have kept it, Winnie,” he said not unkindly. “But it’s not my fault. And I bear no malice. I’ll even forgive you for telling me I’d never make a poet; though that, you’ll admit, was a hard saying. I think, my child, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask Hatherley down next week to visit us. There’s nothing like adverse opinion to improve one’s work. Hatherley’s opinion is more than adverse. I’d like his criticism on ‘A Life’s Philosophy’ before I rush into print at last with the greatest and deepest work of my lifetime.”

  That same evening, as it was growing dusk, Warren Relf and Potts, navigating the “Mud-Turtle” around by sea from Yarmouth Roads, put in for the night to the Char at Whitestrand. They meant to lie by for a Sunday in the estuary, and walk across the fields, if the day proved fine, to service at Snade. As they approached the mouth they looked about in vain for the familiar landmark. At first they could hardly believe their eyes: to men who knew the east coast well, the disappearance of the Whitestrand poplar from the world seemed almost as incredible as the sudden removal of the Bass Rock or the Pillars of Hercules. Nobody would ever dream of cutting down that glory of Suffolk, that time-honored sea-mark. But as they strained their eyes through the deepening gloom, the stern logic of facts left them at last no further room for syllogistic reasoning or a priori scepticism. The Whitestrand poplar was really gone. Not a stump even remained as its relic or its monument.

  They drove the yawl close under the shore. The current was setting out stronger than ever, and eddying back against the base of the roots with a fierce and eager swirling movement. Warren Relf looked over the bank in doubt at the charred and blackened soil beside it. He knew in a second exactly what had happened. “Massinger has burned down the poplar, Potts,” he cried aloud. He did not add, “because it stood upon the very spot where Elsie Challoner threw herself over.” But he knew it was so. They turned the yawl up stream once more. Then Warren Relf murmured in a low voice, more than half to himself, but in solemn accents: “So much the worse in the end for Whitestrand.”