Scene I.--COMEDY

Drink, be merry! Life is mortal, short is the time on earth.--_Amphis_.

It so happened that the exit of Henry Reed made no stir beyond being the wonder of a week in the neighbourhood of Kingsmore. An inquest was held at the Load of Mischief, a wayside beer-house standing before an unworked chalk-pit at the entrance to Thorlund parish; the customary verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown had been returned; and there the matter appeared to end, so far as the inhabitants were concerned. Officials whose duty it became to detect the criminal made a thorough investigation. They searched the house and grounds--the Strath being in its sunniest mood--and the entire district for material upon which to work, but not a particle of success crowned their efforts. The medical evidence clearly showed that the unfortunate man had been strangled by a strong pair of hands; the locals testified that no stranger had entered the valley; the principal witness, Dr. Berry, declared that he was the only resident who had been in the habit of using the garden. He admitted, in answer to a question by the foreman, that he had spent very much of his time beside the lonely house; and so soon as he had spoken the coroner inquired whether he had been upon good terms with the deceased.

“When in his garden we had no difficulty in agreeing,” the scholar replied. “When in mine we differed, but without quarrelling.”

“How do you account for that?”

“I attribute it to the influence of the Strath.”

“The influence of your garden is then less elevating?”

“My garden is in the commonplace world,” said Dr. Berry, speaking what was in his mind, and shrinking when he perceived the half-pitying smile with which his answer was received.

It was not until his housekeeper had given evidence that her master had not left the rectory during the evening that Dr. Berry realised, with a thrill of horror, that distrust had certainly rested, if only for a few moments, upon himself. And yet he was the only man upon whom suspicion could fall. The sensitive scholar was exceedingly pained that he should have been questioned at all. He could not remember ever having purposely deprived a living thing of life; he had refrained from digging in his garden after having inadvertently severed a worm with his spade; and he had passed a troubled week deciding how he might act without cruelty when a lazy cuckoo had deposited her egg in a favourite hedge-sparrow’s nest.

Days passed, and already grass was flourishing upon a fresh mound beside the churchyard wall where rested the shell of the stubborn little man who had fought against the Strath and had died in the attempt. The master of the manor had quitted the scene unmourned. The sun went on shining in the valley, the old house settled back into a triumphant silence, the church bell jangled its summons on Sunday, and the incumbent soared in rhetorical flights above the souls of his tiny congregation. There was no change. Yet it seemed to the rector that his step was not so firm as formerly; and when he glanced into his bedroom glass he detected a whiteness above his brow which had not been obvious before the coming of Henry Reed.

One evening a young man, with dissipation signed upon an otherwise good-looking face, called and introduced himself as the dead man’s heir. He went on to ask for the keys, which his agent had instructed him were deposited for convenience at the rectory. Dr. Berry surrendered his charge with a nervous glance at the new-comer, and after begging to be excused from accompanying him went on to ask permission to retain, as he had always done, the key of the gate in the churchyard wall. The young man’s hearty consent thrilled him gratefully; and though, after his late experience, he dared not invite any relative of Reed to take up his quarters at the rectory, he remarked in his courteous manner that he would be pleased to make the further acquaintance of his new squire. Conway in boisterous slang replied that he would be delighted to have someone to speak to during his visit, and after promising to look in later that evening retired to glance over his property and to engage a room at the Load of Mischief.

That day was made notable by other arrivals. Flora Neill came from her riverside home to pay her annual visit upon her reverend uncle the squire of Kingsmore; and as dusk was settling upon the hills a line of dingy caravans proceeded at a walking pace along the bending road, accompanied by swarthy gipsies and the paraphernalia of the pleasure fair. These nomads invaded Kingsmore that night, and the following day all the village folk were making holiday; it being Mr. Price’s kindly custom to follow a precedent established by his ancestors, and to free his farm hands from their usual duties upon that particular day.

Shooting-booths, swings, and trial of strength machines occupied waste spaces by the roadside, while a merry-go-round discoursed blatant music upon a triangular patch of turf where the parish stocks were still religiously preserved. The Kingsmore fair was as degenerate as it was harmless. There was neither dancing-horse, elephants playing at ball, Italian marionette, nor booth of classical play. But posturising, grinning through horse-collars, eating of hot puddings were to be witnessed, besides such natural monstrosities as a calf with five legs and a lady of prodigious adiposity.

During the afternoon the squarson himself drove into the midst of the animated scene, accompanied by his niece, with a view to discovering whether the pleasures of his people were as innocent as stated, or whether this was to be positively the last occasion on which he could allow the fair to take place. The rustics, who were compelled to give him their allegiance, were not in the least afraid of the old man, whose nature was very nearly as simple as their own. Mr. Price was one of the last of the plain country squires. He permitted his servants to address him with familiarity. From his position in the chancel he would scan his congregation and record the number of heads before commencing service. Should a grey beard nod in the course of his sermon, the vicar would break off his discourse and order that the sinner should be awakened. The tramp on the road he would greet as a worthless rascal and soften the charge with a shilling; and at Christmas he took care that no cottage should be without its beef and beer. As he then glanced at the swarthy faces of the proprietors of booths and stalls he felt certainly “in some doubt whether he should not exert the justice of the peace upon such a band of lawless vagabonds.” But when it came to the test his heart was too kind to deprive anyone of his livelihood, or his own people of their pleasure. He was no new man, anxious to assert himself. Mr. Price knew his power, and therefore had little temptation to use it.

“Uncle!” Flora exclaimed. “Who is that man throwing at the cocoa-nuts? He was my travelling companion yesterday from the junction.”

Mr. Price fumbled in the deep pockets of his disreputable driving coat for his spectacles; and when they were produced, together with a sample of wool and a bunch of twine, he pushed them on his nose. “Where?” he asked. “Do you mean that elderly man in the brown gaiters? He is a sheep-farmer from the other side of Queensmore.”

“No--the young man to his left. There! He’s just going to throw.”

“Why, that is Mr. Conway, the new owner of the Strath, I do declare,” exclaimed Mr. Price, who having been called out on duty the previous evening had looked in at Thorlund rectory on his way home, to condole with his reverend brother upon his recent ordeal at the inquest, and there had made the acquaintance of the young man from town. “I am surprised to find him here, so soon after that terrible affair too. The squire of Thorlund throwing for cocoa-nuts! And not a stitch of mourning for his uncle--and smoking--and shouting! God bless my soul, Flora, the man’s no gentleman!”

“He is young,” said Flora indulgently.

“All the more reason why I should show him his duty,” said the old squire.

He summoned a passing labourer to hold the horse’s head; but as he was about to step down Conway sighted the dog-cart, and hurried across the dusty grass in the happy mood of a schoolboy enjoying a half holiday. Mr. Price sank back to his seat with an exceedingly guilty expression, and caught up the reins.

“So you are taking in the variety show,” the young man cried, with an appalling bonhomie that set the immediate neighbourhood grinning. “I had no idea one could find such sport in a village,” he went on. “I’ve been throwing for an old chap, who came to me with a penny, and said he wanted to take a nut back to his grandson, and couldn’t throw himself, so would I? He kept his penny while I spent a shilling before I knocked down a nut. You seem to breed good business men down here.”

“I am here to satisfy myself that no objectionable features have been introduced to corrupt my people,” said Mr. Price severely. “I hope you will not mind an outspoken remark from an old man, Mr. Conway, but I feel that when one comes to take up a position in the country it is very necessary to keep up appearances. These simple people readily form a wrong estimate of character. Ah, yes! This is my niece, Miss Neill.”

“Do you enjoy this sort of thing?” asked Flora directly she had been introduced.

“It’s something fresh to a Londoner,” the young man replied. “I have been round all the shows, I have smashed bottles, tried my strength and my luck, and found I haven’t much of either, seen the fat woman, pinched her leg--”

“Did you sleep at the Strath last night?” broke in Mr. Price.

“No, I went to the pub. It’s an awful hole,” said Conway. “I started out to call upon you, as you were good enough to ask me to come, but when I got here I yielded to the temptation of the fair. If you are on your way back, I may as well walk on to the house,” he added coolly.

“Mr. Conway might drive back with us,” Flora suggested. “There is plenty of room behind.”

Courtesy hindered the squire from objecting. The young man neither acted nor spoke according to his old-fashioned ideas of a gentleman. He appeared to be neither temperate nor well-bred. And here was Flora making herself agreeable, solely because there did not happen to be another man handy. The smoke from Conway’s cigar passed across his face, and the old gentleman, whose constitution prevented him from appreciating tobacco in any form, coughed disgustedly.

It was a long mile from the centre of the village to the vicarage. As the cart jolted along the road Mr. Price shouted his customary little jokes to the people who passed on pleasure intent; while his niece sustained a running conversation with the new owner of the Strath.

“Uncle has told me all kinds of stories about your house,” Flora was saying. “I have often wanted to see the inside of it. But I should be sorry to have to spend a night there.”

“The parson at Thorlund swears it isn’t haunted,” said Conway eagerly. “I just looked in last night for a few minutes. It did make me feel a bit queer to see all the eighteenth century fixings which haven’t been touched for the Lord knows how long. The old garden by itself is enough to make a fellow imagine all sorts of things.”

“Your poor uncle was not strangled,” said Mr. Price, breaking into the conversation with a note of strong conviction. “That was only doctor’s evidence to give the jury a chance. I shall always maintain that Mr. Reed was killed by fright.”

“I do not believe that fright has ever killed a man,” objected Flora.

“Nonsense, child. What do you know about fear?” said the vicar sharply. “At your time of life you ought to be asking questions, instead of arguing with your betters. If the Strath were mine down it would come,” he went on, turning to Conway. “Of course it is haunted. You remember, Flora, my farmhouse and its spook of an old dame in a poke bonnet? Well, I had the place down, and out went the lady. You can’t strike a bargain with unrepentant souls. You must employ drastic measures, and the only way of getting rid of a spiritual nuisance is by using fresh bricks and mortar.”

Now that Mr. Price was mounted upon his hobby he talked freely, and the young people were compelled to remain tongue-tied until the vicarage was reached. There tea awaited them, a meal which Mr. Price took seriously, and when he was satisfied Flora asked Conway if he would care to see the garden. The townsman rose at once and accompanied the tall girl along the grass paths, above the valley and the stream winding in the distance, while the vicar uprooted plantains from his lawn, with an old table-knife. It was all delightfully old-world and simple. The profligate felt the charm of the soft evening and began to understand the pleasures of country life, as Flora, bare-headed and handsome, talked freely upon his limited subjects and laughed at his somewhat vulgar jokes. It was the sound of this laughter which caused Mr. Price to straighten himself and remember that he was the guardian of his fatherless niece, and that his guest might be able to claim some distant sort of relationship with his head-carter.

“Uncle,” said Flora, who always insisted upon managing the affairs of the house during her stay, as the old gentleman approached them. “Mr. Conway will stop and have supper with us.”

“I really think I ought to go back,” the young man said, conscious that it would not be wise to outstay his welcome.

“What, back to your Load of Mischief? No, you must follow the custom of the country. We will feed you and send you off to Thorlund by a poetic moonlight. Uncle, do go and wash your hands. They look as if you had been making dirt pies.”

“A man has no need to be ashamed of soiled hands,” said Mr. Price somewhat sharply, because he resented any allusion to his peculiarities. “I shall be pleased if you will share our evening meal, Mr. Conway,” he added, turning to the young man. Directly he had spoken he went to his threadbare knees and expelled a huge dandelion from a bed of larkspurs.

“Mr. Conway wants us to go over to Thorlund to-morrow,” Flora went on. “You will take me, won’t you, uncle? I am longing to see the Strath, and he has promised to give us tea.”

“I am not at all sure whether I shall be able to come,” said Mr. Price, approaching Conway, with the dinner-knife in one hand, and the bushy dandelion in the other. “I don’t like leaving Kingsmore while these fair people are about. They are an ungenerous lot, and sometimes repay my kindness by appropriating my chickens. But we will come if I can get away,” he added, because he too was burning with curiosity to see the interior of the house concerning which he had heard so many strange tales.

So Conway stopped to supper, and Flora played hostess; while Mr. Price, his simple face shining from a generous use of soap and hot water, thawed out under the benign influence of a glass of port, and told all his anecdotes for his guest’s benefit, studiously avoiding any reference to the Strath or to the Reed family, until his niece rose and left them. Then he pushed the decanter across the table, and from a dissertation upon the iniquitous corn-laws passed at a bound to the subject of oral tradition, and furtively inquired of his guest whether there were to his knowledge any letters or memoirs appertaining to Sir John Hooper in existence at the Strath. Seeing blank astonishment on Conway’s face he went on to explain his question, by dealing with the known history of the defunct baronet.

“Never heard of the chap,” declared Conway, assisting himself to wine.

“You may possibly find in your house some of those materials which help us to a knowledge of history,” went on the old squire, who was by this time in his most genial mood. “Sir John had a daughter, an only child, who, it is reputed, was very beautiful, and he treated her, ’tis said, with great cruelty. A tradition exists in my family that on a certain winter’s night the girl was discovered crying among the elms in this garden. My ancestor had remarked upon the noise made, as he supposed, by the owls, until a friend declared that the sound was made by human voice. They went out and searching in the snow found the girl. She was huddled against a great dog, and her eyes were fixed with fear. They carried her to the fire, but directly she found her strength she was gone. They say she had a lover, and that her father killed him on the highway.”

“When did this happen?” Conway asked, reaching again for the decanter.

“About the time that Wolfe was chasing Montcalm out of Quebec. Hooper was hanged upon what is still known as Deadman’s Hill. Any villager will point out the spot to you. But I want to know what happened to that poor girl. Tradition in this village suggests that she was often to be seen, walking at night with the dog, always crying, and always dressed in white like a bride. It was considered bad luck to meet, or even to see her, just as it is thought unlucky nowadays to break a mirror or spill the salt.”

“Is she supposed to haunt the Strath?” inquired the owner with more interest.

Mr. Price shook his head in a puzzled fashion, and bent low over the table.

“Your rector, who knows the place better than any man living, declares there is neither figure to be seen, nor sound to be heard, either in house or garden,” he said, fingering the ends of his white tie excitedly. “And I must own that village opinion bears him out to the letter. Now as regards my farm-house, which was undoubtedly possessed--I saw the queer old Georgian woman myself, standing by a hay-rick, one raw winter afternoon--not a labourer would go near the place, and the stories I heard of red and green lights flashing across the windows, groans, and gnashing of teeth, though the poor old dame, I would swear, hadn’t a stump left in her head, made me sympathise with the psalmist who declared, ‘all men are liars.’ Try the Strath for a few days, Mr. Conway. Don’t mistake me. I wouldn’t live there myself. I’m a churchman, but I have a horror of the unseen world. Is that decanter empty? There is another upon the sideboard. Yes, give the Strath a fair test. It has always been a place of mystery, but latterly seems to have broken out, if I may so use the expression. Enter into the mood of the influence and it will treat you well, Berry would say. Only don’t let him get too strong a hold upon you, or he will whisk you back into an atmosphere of prehistoric days.”

Nearly an hour later Flora, weary of her own society and nettled at being isolated, came glimmering round the house in her white dress, and played spy at the dining-room window. She saw the two squires, the old aristocrat and the young plebeian, leaning across the table, slopping wine amicably into each other’s glass, the one talking perpetually, the other laughing in approbation. She heard her uncle announce that his father had died of gout, the blame being on the speaker’s great-grandfather; and she also heard his companion’s assertion that Mr. Price might therefore consider himself insured against the malady. Then she shivered a little at the grotesqueness of the scene, entered the house through the conservatory, and passing into the dining-room broke up the conversation by taking Conway out into the garden.

“If you decide to live in the country,” she told him severely, “you will have to abandon your London habits. Uncle is an old man,” she added reprovingly. “And it is wrong of you to excite him into forgetting himself.”

Conway became penitent and apologetic. “A fellow living alone in diggings hasn’t much chance of doing himself any good, Miss Neill,” he said in deep humility. “It’s too lonely of an evening to stay in, and the means of enjoying yourself are made so jolly convenient. I’m ashamed of myself--I am really, but your old uncle is such a jolly good sort. And, you see, I’m not a clever chap, Miss Neill,” he rambled on. “I haven’t got much learning, and I can’t stand books. I don’t know Shakspere from Robinson Crusoe. Don’t laugh at me, Miss Neill. I can’t help being a silly jackass. Perhaps I had better be going now. But you will come over to-morrow? Do come and see my house.”

Flora was about to deliver one of her plain-spoken remarks, when she was interrupted by a loud summons from the dining-room. Leaving the guest she slipped back into the house, and discovered her uncle, sitting erect and preternaturally stern, beside his hospitable table, which had been influenced that night by some subtle nerve of consciousness deflected from the Strath.

“Flora,” he cried indignantly. “The man’s no gentleman. I forbid you to contaminate yourself by speaking to him. He has drunk more than is good for him. And so have I.”

“I fancy you once told me your great-grandfather never went to bed sober,” said the girl.

“Customs were different then,” snapped the squire. “Send Mr. Reed away, and remember please, he is related to my head-carter.”

“If you mean Mr. Conway he is just going. Had you not better come into the drawing-room? The housemaid will be here presently.”

“I shall remain here until to-morrow morning, if necessary,” said the squire solemnly. “Supper has not agreed with me to-night. The soup was a failure.”

“If my mother could see you, she would take hold of your poor old shoulders and shake you,” cried Flora; and with that she ran out and rejoined the squire of Thorlund, who was standing near the gate, gazing penitently at the solemn stars.

“Miss Neill,” he said tremulously. “There’s nothing like the country. I was ill when I came here, but already, thanks to the beautiful fresh air, I feel a different man. I am going to walk back to Thorlund in this wonderful moonlight, and I shall admire nature all the way.”

After an earnest appeal to Flora “not to forget to-morrow,” the guest started off along the shining road. From a distance came up the mellowed noises of the fair, and the glow of naptha lamps became reflected against the rolling clouds.

Flora stood, smiling a little, in the shadow, flicking away the gnats from her forehead.

“That is one of the weakest men I have ever met,” she said to a moth which hovered for a moment before her. “It would be amusing, and quite easy, to treat him in this fashion.”

She wound her handkerchief tightly round her little finger, and turned with the action towards the house.