Scene II.--MYSTERY

Is it possible then that the soul--which is invisible and proceeding to another place… when it is separated from the body--is at once dissipated and utterly annihilated, as many men say? It is impossible to think so.--_Plato_.

When Conway reached the exposed road, leaving Kingsmore behind, a cool wind sprang up redolent of pines. To feel it the better he took off his hat and leaned against a moss-clad milestone. The unwonted exercise of walking along country roads tired him quickly. He watched the moonbeams playing across the ridges of short grass, and flinging shadows into the ghastly chalk-pits, until the solitude awed him. He found himself in a vastly different world from the noisy town which had surrounded him throughout his life. And yet he found himself longing for the grapes and pomegranites of his Egypt. He was incapable of feeling any true admiration for the splendid silence of the hills. The novelty of the experiment was still upon him; but the artistic temperament was not, and never had been, his.

Across the brow of the chalk a thin thread of road cut the highway at right angles, and here a spectral sign-post pointed with three arms; the fourth had been removed by storm, and its remainder was a sharp finger-like splinter. Reaching this point Conway crossed the patch of grass to make a short cut; but in passing the post his foot struck an obstacle, which proved to be the amputated arm. In idle curiosity he lifted the rotten board, and holding it in the moonlight made out the barely legible inscription, “Queensmore. 1 Mile.”

There was nothing to be seen in the direction pointed at by the splinter, except ragged bushes and white stones, beside a weedy road which descended in graceful curves from the summit and disappeared far down in a clump of larches. There was no indication of a village down beyond; not a voice proceeded from the valley, nor tinkle of sheep-bell, nor snort of cow or horse at pasture. A barn owl slid across the firs and shrieked at the enemy; and silence settled down again.

Presently there sounded a rattle of wheels, a stamp of iron shoes; a stream of lamplight followed; and then a box-shaped cart topped the ridge, and came noisily to the rectangular section of the roads, the horse backing as he felt the decline.

“Like a lift, sir?” inquired a hoarse voice, proceeding from a muffled figure perched high between two goggle lamps.

Conway recognised the mail-cart making its journey towards the distant railway. Glad of the invitation he reached the flat roof, with the driver’s assistance, settled himself upon a bag of newspapers, and, clinging to the iron rail, closed his eyes when the horse was given his head, because it appeared that any moment he might be hurled forward into space. The driver began to chat, and when his head had ceased revolving Conway found himself able to listen.

“I ain’t allowed to take anyone up,” the man explained. “And I ain’t supposed to smoke neither, which is what I call a bit of stupid tyranny. But ’tis lonesome driving along these roads night after night. Would you mind leaning over a bit, and holding the reins, while I strike a light? Are you a stranger in these parts, sir?”

Conway replied, without revealing his identity, and as the cart jolted on he asked the driver to point out the site of Queensmore and the position of Deadman’s Hill. The man immediately swung round, and extended his whip in the direction of the rapidly receding clump of larches.

“Deep down in yonder valley,” he replied. “You ain’t got property there, I hope, sir?”

“I have not,” Conway answered.

“Queensmore is deserted and broke up. A very old village, they tell me, sir, built by these Saxons, and full of their remains, leastways the ground is. Go over and have a look at the place, if so be you can spare the time. It lies just at the foot of Deadman’s Hill. That there is the hill, sir. A bit further back you can see the post which marks where the gallows stood. They do say it ain’t healthy to be along these ways by night; but I’ve crossed this here country for years in all weathers, at Midsummer, Hallow’s E’en, and Christmas, and I’ve seen naught, but only owls and bats and glowworms. Folks let a fancy get into their heads, and keep it there, and let it grow, until they come to believe it’s true.”

“How many people live at Queensmore now?” Conway asked.

“Not one. The last inhabitant--an old man, name of Jabez Tooke--died there five years ago. He wouldn’t leave the place, and having a bit of money of his own he lived there by himself till he was ninety, and then he had to go whether he wanted to or not. They buried him in the old churchyard, and there’s a stone over his grave, saying something this way, ‘Here lies Jabez Tooke, the last resident in Queensmore, who wouldn’t be taken from his native village till death took him.’ Kind of joke on his name, you see, sir. Parson Price was angry when that stone was put up, they tell me. But it don’t matter now. Queensmore has had its day, and now the owls have it to themselves. The wind is pulling it down bit by bit.”

“What made the people leave it?” the townsman asked.

“Well ’tis a bad country for agriculture hereabouts, and when year after year the sheep did no good the farmers began to get out of it. Then, of course, the labourers had to move on, and after that the parish was joined on to Kingsmore, and that was the end of it. It wasn’t ever what you would call healthy down yonder. Too much stagnant water, and they couldn’t afford to drain. Flowers did well, but there’s no money in them. All the village must be just blowing with roses now, sir, and any one as wants can help themselves. But ’tis a sad kind of place, with its tumbling cottages, and ruined church, and nobody seems to care to go near it.”

The driver chatted on, glad of the opportunity to use his tongue, until the mail-cart approached Thorlund, and the great elms which surrounded the Strath could be seen against the sky.

“I don’t carry no weapons,” he said, in response to Conway’s question regarding the dangers of the road. “I wouldn’t know how to handle a pistol--shoot the old horse as likely as not. There ain’t any real danger on the road nowadays. I was held up once, when ’twas thought I was carrying valuables, and I gave my gentleman strong medicine with this here whip. I’m tidy useful with a whip, and when a man gets a clean cut across the eyes he’s had enough. Never got a word of thanks for saving the mail, but if I was seen carrying a gentleman I would be sure of the sack. I mustn’t do less than my duty, sir, but as much over as I like. It’s a hard life, because there’s more foul weather than fair, and never a word of encouragement if I bring in the cart up to time all the year round. Yonder is Thorlund, and the Strath. Now that’s an awful mysterious sort of place, if you like, sir, and it’s a very queer affair about this Mr. Henry Reed.”

“If you don’t mind stopping here, I will get down,” said Conway, when he discovered that the cart was turning away from the valley. “I am going to Thorlund.”

“Are you though?” exclaimed the driver, with a sudden direct interest in his passenger. “Mind that step, sir. It’s dangerous when you don’t know it. Well there, I’ve been real glad to have your company, and I didn’t ought to take anything, but thank you very much all the same, and good-night to you, sir.”

It was not until the ancient yews of the churchyard appeared before him that Conway perceived he had somewhere made a wrong turn. He saw ahead a grey wall partly covered with ivy, and in his pocket he felt a key which would open the hidden door in that wall. A light streamed across the graves; a window beyond was open, and coming near he saw Dr. Berry seated at his table, and when he stopped there came upon the night the scholar’s rich voice chanting a Greek lyric. It was an unknown tongue to the listener, but he was nevertheless fascinated; and as he stood, listening, a strange power fell upon him, his mind succumbed at once, and his feet passed the dark mound which marked the resting-place of his uncle’s body, and entered the shadow. He fitted the key into the lock, turned it, and the door opened at a touch.

For an instant he held back. The wonderful garden spread away before him bathed in moonlight. Then he laughed with a sense of new-found happiness, and moved forward, drawn on by invisible bonds; and the door closed into the wall with a gentle vibration; and a hundred unknown energies made music in his brain. The house called to its new servant, and he went to it; and the guest’s bedroom in the Load of Mischief remained unoccupied that night.

As the Aeolian harp is thrilled by every passing breath of wind, so the consciousness of Dr. Berry responded to every change in the influence of the Strath. He had not perceived the figure of Conway passing before the window, neither had he heard the opening nor the closing of that door in the crumbling wall; and yet he knew a material being had entered the garden, and he felt more strongly than he had ever done a power controlling his human organism, prompting him to take pencil and paper, and write--he knew not what.

The influence of the Strath was again strongly aroused. Since Reed’s tragical fate the old house had remained quiescent. It appeared to have exhausted its power for the time. And now in one moment the scholar’s tongue was silenced as he recited the complaint of Euphron, “God, as thou hast given us only a short life, why dost thou not allow us to pass it without sorrow?” and a cold breath went through the room, and his body began to pass into ecstacy; and he knew by all this that the power had returned, and that it was kindly and wished him well.

The impulse to write became overwhelming. Scarcely knowing what he did, the scholar took a pencil, and immediately the hand supporting it was guided towards a sheet of paper and there reposed with violent twitchings. The upper part of his body turned shudderingly away from the right arm, and settled, a mass of semi-conscious matter, across the high support afforded by the side of his chair; but the arm, and especially the hand which clutched the pencil, were impatient, active, and mobile.

“What is this?” he moaned; for he could feel that his body was in pain, and there was in his mouth a taste exceeding bitter, as though he had swallowed hemlock.

And immediately his unconscious hand moved fiercely and rapidly across the paper, tracing out in ancient Greek the explanation:--

“We cannot command the elements, or would have come near before. Now you shall recognise our power. Give praise to the Supreme, for the permission afforded of proving to you the truth of the endlessness of life.

“We will answer the questions you have written down, though we work with difficulty, being compelled by the immutable law of Nature to communicate through your brain and your mind, feeling again, as we return to earth-state, the pains of our dissolution. The conditions are exceptional to-night. We have awaited such an opportunity for long. But being yourself in the body you will desire some proof of the presence of an objective mind. When you awaken go forth into your garden. Seven white lilies stand in a line beside the gate. The blooms upon the fourth we will remove as we pass from hence, leaving the green stalk bare. We will also read from a book and impress you of a word. Walk, when you are able, across the room, and your hand shall seek out a book, which, as you hold it, shall open at the one hundred and ninetieth page. The last word upon that page is ΚΑΣΣΙΤΕΡΟΙΟ. It is enough. Thus you shall learn our power over matter.

“What is the meaning, you have asked, of this influence at the Strath? You have doubted whether this power could arise from the actions of certain earth-bound spirits. Also you have desired to know how it is that after years of quiescence the spirit of the house, as you have called it, should have become in so short a time thus mightily aroused. We answer you concerning these things. Those spirits, who, because of their grossness, are imprisoned near the earth, are ever struggling to make their presence felt. As the sea-bird flutters towards the light of some lofty tower, so do these discarnate beings struggle towards that incarnate mind, or towards those material objects, through whom, or by which, they may exert their will and proclaim their identity. Some of these spirits are harmless, but many are dangerous and all are undeveloped. There are in the Strath certain material objects by means of which these spirits are allowed great power upon the affairs of mortals who approach the place. You cannot understand, nor may we explain to you further, how this should be. Only beware, for there is peril in seeking out this knowledge, and the body endures not easily nor for long. You know not how the spirit may work, even through a ring, or a lock of hair, or may seek to impress its nearness through the bird or the flower. We say again, beware, for the spirits of the earth-bound, they who in the flesh have done murder, or violence to themselves, or have succumbed to the bodily appetite, are jealous of the happiness of those who have led the spiritual life in your condition. They shall retard your upward progress if they may.

“And now we answer concerning the present great activity of those who control the ancient house. It is your desire to seek into hidden causes which has made it possible for such energies to arise. That power will not be maintained, but while it continues we have fear for you, knowing the frailty of the incarnate mind. These undeveloped spirits have at length become skilled in managing the elements. It is necessary that a certain combination of circumstances should be formed, before such manifestations of spiritual power be possible, and because such a combination is rare you do not often find upon your sphere that influence, as you call it, which is now filling your mind with perplexing doubts. It is possible that the combination, which now exists, may not be made again. We would speak upon other matters, but your brain is unable to express those greater truths, and your mind is incapable of receiving them. Be satisfied now, and rest. You have very much to learn.”

The inert body of the scholar stirred slightly and he groaned deeply in his trance. But, before he could awaken, his vitalised right arm, acting so strongly at variance with the remainder of his system, swept again across the paper, and his hand settled, and his fingers went on to write:

“A spirit lately arrived desires to communicate, and we are commanded to permit him. He will use our power to write in his own language, and will then depart from you, having given the evidence that is required.”

There the sprawling Greek letters ceased, and the pencil went on to write in English, forming in illiterate unshaped handwriting the brief and blasphemous message:

“Damn you, Professor. You were right.”

Some minutes passed before Dr. Berry came to himself and was able to comprehend what the intelligence had wrought through his undiscerning brain. It was close upon midnight before the message was deciphered; for despite his scholarship and skill in reading manuscripts, there were words and symbols in that script which were new to him. The communication was written in Attic Greek by an intelligence which exhibited a perfect command over the finer tones of that perfect language. No living scholar could have penned those lines, and possibly few modern Greeks could have translated them into their own decadent tongue.

Slowly and painfully, for his body was racked and weary, Dr. Berry approached his bookcase, and immediately his arm was raised and his hand guided towards a work near the end of the top shelf, a book bound in drab boards, entitled, “Theatre of the Greeks.” That work was one of a parcel which had come to him during the previous year and so far had not been opened. The boards fell apart, but not the pages which he required, and on bending to discover the cause he found that the leaves had not been cut. Opening the page quickly with a paper-knife, his eye sought the concluding word upon page 190. It was ΚΑΣΣΙΤΕΡΟΙΟ.

Lighting a candle, the scholar walked out into the garden and the still dark night, until he came to a flower-bed, beside the gate which opened upon the graveyard. Six tall Madonna lilies lifted their heads of white bloom before the fence where at sunset seven had stood. Approaching, the scholar raised the candle above his head, and before a moth blundered against the wick and extinguished the flame, he perceived that the central lily, the fourth from whichever side the plants were counted, stood a bare green stalk, denuded of its blooms.