Weird and Witty Tales of Mystery (14 page)

"Catch cold?" he would ask, "I've forgotten how to do it, I think. I
suppose it makes one's body more sensible always to sleep out-of-doors.
People who live indoors always remind me of something peeled and
skinless."

"Do you mean to say you slept out-of-doors last night in that deluge?"
asked Darcy. "And where, may I ask?"

Frank thought a moment.

"I slept in the hammock till nearly dawn," he said. "For I remember the
light blinked in the east when I awoke. Then I went—where did I
go?—oh, yes, to the meadow where the Pan-pipes sounded so close a week
ago. You were with me, do you remember? But I always have a rug if it
is wet."

And he went whistling upstairs.

Somehow that little touch, his obvious effort to recall where he had
slept, brought strangely home to Darcy the wonderful romance of which
he was the still half-incredulous beholder. Sleep till close on dawn in
a hammock, then the tramp—or probably scamper—underneath the windy
and weeping heavens to the remote and lonely meadow by the weir! The
picture of other such nights rose before him; Frank sleeping perhaps by
the bathing-place under the filtered twilight of the stars, or the
white blaze of moonshine, a stir and awakening at some dead hour,
perhaps a space of silent wide-eyed thought, and then a wandering
through the hushed woods to some other dormitory, alone with his
happiness, alone with the joy and the life that suffused and enveloped
him, without other thought or desire or aim except the hourly and
never-ceasing communion with the joy of nature.

They were in the middle of dinner that night, talking on indifferent
subjects, when Darcy suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence.

"I've got it," he said. "At last I've got it."

"Congratulate you," said Frank. "But what?"

"The radical unsoundness of your idea. It is this: All nature from
highest to lowest is full, crammed full of suffering; every living
organism in nature preys on another, yet in your aim to get close to,
to be one with nature, you leave suffering altogether out; you run away
from it, you refuse to recognize it. And you are waiting, you say, for
the final revelation."

Frank's brow clouded slightly.

"Well," he asked, rather wearily.

"Cannot you guess then when the final revelation will be? In joy you
are supreme, I grant you that; I did not know a man could be so master
of it. You have learned perhaps practically all that nature can teach.
And if, as you think, the final revelation is coming to you, it will be
the revelation of horror, suffering, death, pain in all its hideous
forms. Suffering does exist: you hate it and fear it."

Frank held up his hand.

"Stop; let me think," he said.

There was silence for a long minute.

"That never struck me," he said at length. "It is possible that what
you suggest is true. Does the sight of Pan mean that, do you think? Is
it that nature, take it altogether, suffers horribly, suffers to a
hideous inconceivable extent? Shall I be shown all the suffering?"

He got up and came round to where Darcy sat.

"If it is so, so be it," he said. "Because, my dear fellow, I am near,
so splendidly near to the final revelation. To-day the pipes have
sounded almost without pause. I have even heard the rustle in the
bushes, I believe, of Pan's coming. I have seen, yes, I saw to-day, the
bushes pushed aside as if by a hand, and piece of a face, not human,
peered through. But I was not frightened, at least I did not run away
this time."

He took a turn up to the window and back again.

"Yes, there is suffering all through," he said, "and I have left it all
out of my search. Perhaps, as you say, the revelation will be that. And
in that case, it will be good-bye. I have gone on one line. I shall
have gone too far along one road, without having explored the other.
But I can't go back now. I wouldn't if I could; not a step would I
retrace! In any case, whatever the revelation is, it will be God. I'm
sure of that."

The rainy weather soon passed, and with the return of the sun Darcy
again joined Frank in long rambling days. It grew extraordinarily
hotter, and with the fresh bursting of life, after the rain, Frank's
vitality seemed to blaze higher and higher. Then, as is the habit of
the English weather, one evening clouds began to bank themselves up in
the west, the sun went down in a glare of coppery thunder-rack, and the
whole earth broiling under an unspeakable oppression and sultriness
paused and panted for the storm. After sunset the remote fires of
lightning began to wink and flicker on the horizon, but when bed-time
came the storm seemed to have moved no nearer, though a very low
unceasing noise of thunder was audible. Weary and oppressed by the
stress of the day, Darcy fell at once into a heavy uncomforting sleep.

He woke suddenly into full consciousness, with the din of some
appalling explosion of thunder in his ears, and sat up in bed with
racing heart. Then for a moment, as he recovered himself from the
panic-land which lies between sleeping and waking, there was silence,
except for the steady hissing of rain on the shrubs outside his window.
But suddenly that silence was shattered and shredded into fragments by
a scream from somewhere close at hand outside in the black garden, a
scream of supreme and despairing terror. Again and once again it
shrilled up, and then a babble of awful words was interjected. A
quivering sobbing voice that he knew, said:

"My God, oh, my God; oh, Christ!"

And then followed a little mocking, bleating laugh. Then was silence
again; only the rain hissed on the shrubs.

All this was but the affair of a moment, and without pause either to
put on clothes or light a candle, Darcy was already fumbling at his
door-handle. Even as he opened it he met a terror-stricken face
outside, that of the man-servant who carried a light.

"Did you hear?" he asked.

The man's face was bleached to a dull shining whiteness.

"Yes, sir," he said. "It was the master's voice."

Together they hurried down the stairs, and through the dining-room
where an orderly table for breakfast had already been laid, and out on
to the terrace. The rain for the moment had been utterly stayed, as if
the tap of the heavens had been turned off, and under the lowering
black sky, not quite dark, since the moon rode somewhere serene behind
the conglomerated thunder-clouds, Darcy stumbled into the garden,
followed by the servant with the candle. The monstrous leaping shadow
of himself was cast before him on the lawn; lost and wandering odours
of rose and lily and damp earth were thick about him, but more pungent
was some sharp and acrid smell that suddenly reminded him of a certain
châlet in which he had once taken refuge in the Alps. In the blackness
of the hazy light from the sky, and the vague tossing of the candle
behind him, he saw that the hammock in which Frank so often lay was
tenanted. A gleam of white shirt was there, as if a man sitting up in
it, but across that there was an obscure dark shadow, and as he
approached the acrid odour grew more intense.

He was now only some few yards away, when suddenly the black shadow
seemed to jump into the air, then came down with tappings of hard hoofs
on the brick path that ran down the pergola, and with frolicsome
skippings galloped off into the bushes. When that was gone Darcy could
see quite clearly that a shirted figure sat up in the hammock. For one
moment, from sheer terror of the unseen, he hung on his step, and the
servant joining him they walked together to the hammock.

It was Frank. He was in shirt and trousers only, and he sat up with
braced arms. For one half second he stared at them, his face a mask of
horrible contorted terror. His upper lip was drawn back so that the
gums of the teeth appeared, and his eyes were focused not on the two
who approached him but on something quite close to him; his nostrils
were widely expanded, as if he panted for breath, and terror incarnate
and repulsion and deathly anguish ruled dreadful lines on his smooth
cheeks and forehead. Then even as they looked the body sank backward,
and the ropes of the hammock wheezed and strained.

Darcy lifted him out and carried him indoors. Once he thought there was
a faint convulsive stir of the limbs that lay with so dead a weight in
his arms, but when they got inside there was no trace of life. But the
look of supreme terror and agony of fear had gone from his face, a boy
tired with play but still smiling in his sleep was the burden he laid
on the floor. His eyes closed, and the beautiful mouth lay in smiling
curves, even as when a few mornings ago, in the meadow by the weir, it
had quivered to the music of the unheard melody of Pan's pipes. Then
they looked further.

Frank had come back from his bath before dinner that night in his usual
costume of shirt and trousers only. He had not dressed, and during
dinner, so Darcy remembered, he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt
to above the elbow. Later, as they sat and talked after dinner on the
close sultriness of the evening, he had unbuttoned the front of his
shirt to let what little breath of wind there was play on his skin. The
sleeves were rolled up now, the front of the shirt was unbuttoned, and
on his arms and on the brown skin of his chest were strange
discolorations which grew momently more clear and defined, till they
saw that the marks were pointed prints, as if caused by the hoofs of
some monstrous goat that had leaped and stamped upon him.

Before me sits the Chinese—my friend who, when the hurlyburly's done,
spins me out the hours with narratives of ancient Yellowland. His name
is Fuey Fong, and he speaks to me thus:

"Missa Gordon, whatta is Chrisinjin Indevil Shoshiety?"

I explain to him as best a journalist may the purpose of the Society
for Christian Endeavour.

"We', dissa morning I go down to lailload station. Shee vay many
peoples getta on tlain. Assa conductor, 'Whatta is?' Conductor tole me:
'You can't go. You a
heeffen
. Dissa
Chrisinjin
Indevil Shoshiety.'

"Dissa mek me vay tire. 'Me'ican peoples fink ole China heeffen. Fink
doan' know about Gaw of heffen. Dissa 'Me'icans doan' know whatta is.
China peoples benieve Olemighty Gaw semma lika you."

Fuey endures in meditation several moments. Then he says:

"Missa Gordon, I tay you how about Gaw convert China clilimal?"

"How God converted a Chinese criminal?"

"Yeh. I tay you. Dissa case somma lika dis:

"One tem was China highrob. His nem was Chan Tow. Live by rob on pubnic
highway evely one he can. Dissa highrob live in place call Kan Suh.
We', one tem was merchan', nem Jan Han Sun, getta lich in Kan Suh; say
hisse'f: 'I getta lich; now mus' go home Tsan Ran Foo, shee my de-ah
fadder-mudder-in-'aw an' my de-ah wife.' So med determine to go home
nex' day.

"Kan Suh to Tsan Ran Foo about dousands miles distant, and dissa parts
China no lailload, no canal. So dissa trivveler declude to ride in
horse-carry-chair."

"What is a horse-carry-chair?"

"We', I tay you. Somma lika dis: Two horse—one befront, one inhine.
Two long stick, and carry-chair in minnle. Usa roop somma lika harness.
Dissa way trivvle long distance ole ove' China.

"We', nex' day Missa Jan start out faw Tsan Ran Foo in
horse-carry-chair. Hed big backage of go' an' sivver. Bye-bye—trivvle
long tem—was pass high tree. Up high tree was Chan Tow—dissa
highrob—was vay bad man! Chan Tow up tree to watch to stea' whatta he
can, semma lika vutture."

"Like a
vulture
."

"Like a vutture—big bird—eat dead beas' ole he can.

"Chan Tow look down on load, and shee horse-carry-chair wif Missa Jan
feet stick out. Nen dissa highrob say hisse'f: 'Vay nice feet; lich
man. I go fonnow him. Maybe can stea' from him.' So fonnow 'long Missa
Jan by day, by night, severow day—doan' lose sight ole dissa tem.
Bye-bye Missa Jan was trivvle ole night, and leach hotel early morning.
He tole hotel-kipper: 'You giva me loom. I slip ole day.' Nen tek his
backage go' an' sivver, an' tek to bed wif him. Chan Tow come 'long;
say: 'Giva me loom nex' my de-ah frien' jussa come in horse-carry-chair.'
Hotelkipper look him, an' say, 'Whatta your nem is?' Chan Tow say, 'My
nem Chow Ying Hoo.' Dissa nem, transnate Ingernish, mean Brev Tiger."

"And what does Chan Tow mean?"

"Oh, Chan Tow mean ole semma bad faminy.

"We', dissa highrob slip nex' loom Missa Jan; but no can fine how to
rob him ole dissa tem. Getta vay much disgussion; but nex' day he
fonnow long inhine dissa lich man jussa semma befaw. Somma tem eat at
semma tabuh wif Jan; but Jan getta begin to suspicious, an' ole tem
getta his go' an' sivver unnerneaf him when he shet down to tabuh. Chan
Tow say hisse'f: 'You fink I doan' know how to shucshess to stea' yo'
money. Maybe I big foo' you.'

"We', bye-bye was mont' go by. Dissa merchan' reach his netive sheety.
Firs' he go immedinity to respec' his fadder-mudder-in-'aw, becose his
fadder-mudder dead. Dey vay gnad to shee him—vay denight. Dey assa him
vay many quishuns; but he tole dem: 'I mus' go to my de-ah wife. I not
sheen her so long tem.' Nen he smi' hisse'f, an' tole horse-carry-chair-man
run wif him quick to fine his de-ah wife. When he allive ne' his house,
say to man: 'Goo'-by! I go ressa way on footstep.' Nen go vay quier on
his tiptoe, and lock vay soft at his daw."

Here pauses the Chinese, and looks at me. Shortly he says:

"We'?"

"Well?" I echo.

"We', dissa last tem dissa merchan' Jan Han Sun was sheen annibe!"

"Does the highrob follow him and kill him?"

"No one shee any highrob. No one shee any horse-carry-chair-man. No one
shee any Jan. No maw!

"Nex' morning come fadder-mudder-in-'aw to congratchnate dissa
daughter. Said, 'We vay denight, vay gnad, yo' husban' come home. Where
he is dissa morning? Daughter look vay supp'ise.' Said, 'When you shee
my husban' come home?' Parents said: 'Why, my de-ah daughter, yo'
husban' pass by my daw las' night. We hev vay short convisition
beggedder, an' he say bling home glate many go' an' sivver—mek you
habby. Nen left us come shee you.'