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The Thing from the Lake

by Eleanor M. Ingram · English · Gutenberg #23738 · 340,408 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Thing from the Lake

Author: Eleanor M. Ingram


        
Release date: December 4, 2007 [eBook #23738]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23738

Credits: E-text prepared by Nick Wall, Suzanne Shell, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THING FROM THE LAKE ***


E-text prepared by Nick Wall, Suzanne Shell, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



THE THING FROM THE LAKE

by

ELEANOR M. INGRAM

Author of "From the Car Behind", "The Unafraid", etc.







Copyright, 1921, by J. B. Lippincott Company
Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
at the Washington Square Press
Philadelphia, U. S. A.




CHAPTER I

     "As well give up the Bible at once, as our belief in
     apparitions."--WESLEY.


The house cried out to me for help.

In the after-knowledge I now possess of what was to happen there, that
impression is not more clearly definite than it was at my first sight of
the place. Let me at once set down that this is not the story of a
haunted house. It is, or was, a beleaguered house; strangely besieged as
was Prague in the old legend, when a midnight army of spectres unfurled
pale banners and encamped around the city walls.

Of course, I did not know all this, the day that my real-estate agent
brought his little car to a stop before the dilapidated farm. I believed
the house only appealed to be lived in; for deliverance from the
destroying work of neglect and time. A spring rain was whispering down
from a gray sky, dripping from broken gutters and eaves with a patter
like timid footsteps hurrying by, yet even in the storm the house did
not look dreary.

"There, Mr. Locke, is a bargain," the agent called back to me, where I
sat in my car. "Finest bit in Connecticut for a city man's summer home!
Woodland, farm land, lake and a house that only needs a few repairs to
be up-to-date. Look at that double row of maples, sir. Shade all summer!
Fine old orchard, too; with a trifle of attention."

I nodded, surveying the house with an eagerness of interest that
surprised myself. A box-like, fairly large structure of commonplace New
England ugliness, it coaxed my liking as had no other place I had ever
seen; it wooed me like a determined woman. And as one would long to
clothe beautifully a beloved woman, I looked at the house and foresaw
what an architect could do for it; how creamy stucco; broad white
porches and a gay scarlet roof would transform it.

"Come inside," my agent urged, hope in his voice as he observed my face;
"let me show you the interior. I brought the keys along. Of course, the
rooms may seem a bit musty. No one has lived in it for--some time. It's
the old Michell property; been in the family for a couple of hundred
years. Last Michell is dead, now, and it's being sold for the benefit of
some religious institute the old gentleman left it to. Trifle wet to
walk over the land today! But I've a plan and measurements in my
portfolio."

I said that we would go in. If he had but known the fact, the place was
already sold to me; before I left my car, before I entered the house,
before I had seen the hundred-odd acres that make up the estate.

There was a narrow, flagged path to the veranda, where the planking
moved and creaked under our weight while my companion unlocked the front
door. Rather astonishingly, the air of the long-closed place was neither
musty nor damp, when we stepped in. Instead, there was a faint, resinous
odor, very pleasant and clean; perhaps from the cedar of which the
woodwork largely consisted.

The house was partially furnished. Not, of course, with much that I
would care to retain, but a few good antiques stood out among their
commonplace associates. A large bedroom on the north side, which I
appointed as my own at first sight, held an old rosewood set including a
four-posted, pineapple-carved bed. I threw open the shutters in this
room and looked out.

I received the first jar to my satisfaction. On this side of the place,
the grounds ran down a slight slope for perhaps half a block to the
five-acre hollow of shallow water and lush growth which the agent called
a lake. From it flowed a considerable creek, winding behind the house
and away on its journey to the Sound. For that under-water marsh I felt
a shock of violent dislike.

"You don't care for the lake?" my companion deprecated, at my elbow.
"Fine trout in that stream, though! I'd like you to see it in the
sunshine."

"I should care more for it if it was a lake, not a swamp," I answered.

"Oh, but that is only because the old dam is down," he exclaimed
eagerly. "That lets all the water out, you see. Why, if the dam were put
back, you'd have as pretty a lake for a canoe as there is in the State!
Its natural depth is four or five feet all over, and about eight or ten
where the stream flows through to the dam. Even yet, a few wild duck
stop there spring and fall, and when I was a boy I've seen heron. Put
back the dam, Mr. Locke, and I'll guarantee you'll never say swamp
again!"

"We will try it," I said. "Now let us find a lawyer and see how quickly
I can be put in possession."

We drove back to the little town from which we had that morning started
out, and where my agent lived; my sleek car following his small one with
somewhat the effect of a long-limbed panther striding behind an agitated
mouse.

It appeared that the sale was simply consummated. I do not mean that all
the formalities were completed in a day. But by nightfall I could feel
myself the owner of the place.

Perhaps it was the giddiness of being a land-owner for the first time,
or perhaps it was the abject wretchedness of the only hotel in town that
inspired the whim which seized me during my solitary dinner. I had spent
one night here, and did not welcome the prospect of a second. A return
to New York was not practicable, because I had arranged to meet several
contractors and an architect at the farm, next morning, to discuss the
alterations I wanted made. Why not drive out to my new house this
evening and sleep tonight in the rosewood-furnished bedroom?

The idea gained favor as I contemplated it. I could go over the house
tonight and sketch more clearly what I wanted done, while I would be on
the ground when my men arrived next morning. There was an allure of
camping out about it, too.

In the end I went, of course.

It was dark when I stabled my roadster in the barn that was part of my
new possessions; where the car seemed to glitter disdain of the
hay-littered, ragged shelter. Equipped with a flashlight, suitcase and
bundle, I followed a faint path that wound its way to the house through
wet blackberry vines whose thorns had outlived the winter. My steps
broke the blank silence that brooded over the place. At this season
there was no insect life; nor any other stirring thing within hearing or
sight. But just as I stepped upon the veranda, I heard a vague sound
from the lake that lay a few hundred feet to the north. There was no
wind, yet the water had seemed to move with a sound like the smacking of
soft, glutinous lips. Or as if some soft body drew itself from a bed of
clinging mud. I wondered idly if the tide could run this far back from
Long Island Sound.

The house reiterated the impression of welcoming me. I shut and locked
the old door behind me, and went up to the room I had chosen as my own.
There I unshuttered and opened the windows, lighted one of the candles I
had brought and set it on a little bookcase filled with dingy volumes,
and threw my blankets on the bed. I had moved in!

My pleasant sense of proprietorship continued to grow. Before I thought
of sleep, I had been through the house several times from cellar to
attic and accumulated a list of things to be done. Back in my room, an
hour passed in revising the list, by candle-light.

Near ten o'clock, I rolled myself in a dressing-gown and my blankets,
spread an automobile robe over the four-posted bed, and fell asleep.




CHAPTER II

     "Beware of her fair hair, for she excels
     All women in the magic of her locks."
                              --SHELLEY (_Trans._).


It trailed suavely through my fingers, slipping across my palm like a
belt of silk. It glided with the noiseless haste of a thing in flight.
Quite naturally, even in the dazed moment of awakening I closed my hand
upon it. It was soft in my grasp, yet resilient; solid, yet supple. If I
may speak irrationally, it felt as if it must be fragrant. It was a
strange visitor to my experience, yet I recognized its identity
unerringly as a blind man gaining sight might identify a flower or a
bird. In brief, it was--it only could be an opulent braid of hair.

When I grasped it, it ceased to move.

In the dense darkness of my bedroom, I lay still and considered. I was
alone, or rather, should have been alone in the old house I had bought
the day before. The agent assured me that it had been unoccupied for
years. Who, then, was my guest? A passer-by seeking refuge in a
supposedly deserted house would hardly have moved about with such silent
caution. A tramp of this genus would be a rarity indeed. I had nothing
with me of value to attract a thief. The usual limited masculine
jewelry--a watch, a pair of cuff-links, a modest pin--surely were not
sufficiently tempting to snare so dainty a bird of prey as one wearing
such plumage as I held. I have not a small fist, yet that braid was a
generous handful. How did it come to trail across my bed, in any case?
And why was its owner locked in silence and immobility? Surely startled
innocence would have cried out, questioned my grasp or struggled against
it! My captive did neither.

I began to paint a picture against the darkness; the picture of a
crouching woman, fear-paralyzed; not daring to stir, to sob or pant or
shiver lest she betray herself. Or, perhaps, a woman who was not hushed
by panic, but by deliberation. A woman who slowly levelled a weapon,
assuring her aim in the blank darkness by such guides as my breathing
and the taut direction of her imprisoned tresses. An ugly woman could
not have such hair as this. Or, could she? I had a doubtful recollection
of various long-haired demonstrators glimpsed in drugshop windows, who
were not beautiful. Yes, but they would never have found themselves in
such a situation as this one! Only resolve or recklessness could bring a
woman to such a pass; and with spirit and this hair no woman could be
ugly.

How quiet she was! I suddenly reflected that she must be thinking the
same thing of me, since neither of us had moved during a considerable
space of time. Possibly she fancied me only half-aroused, and hoped that
I would relapse into sleep without realizing upon what my drowsy grasp
had closed. No doubt it would have been the course of chivalry for me to
pretend to do so, but it was not the course of curiosity.

The deadlock could not last indefinitely. Apparently, though, it must be
I who should break it. As quietly as possible, I brought my left hand
forward to grope along that silken line which certainly must guide me to
the intruder herself. My hand slipped along the smooth surface to the
full reach of my arm; and encountered nothing. Check, for the first
attempt! The candle and matches I had bought in the village were also
beyond my reach, unless I released my captive and rolled across the bed
toward the little bookcase where I had placed them beside the
flashlight. If I should speak, what would she do? And--a new
thought!--was she alone in the house?

There came a gentle draw at the braid, instantly ceasing as I
automatically tightened my hold. The pretense that I slept was ended. I
spoke, as soothingly and kindly as I could manage.

"If you will let me strike a light, we can explain to each other. Or, if
you will agree not to escape----?"

In spite of my efforts, my voice boomed startlingly through the dark,
still room. No reply followed, but the braid quivered and suddenly
relaxed from its tension. She must have come closer to me. Delighted by
so much success attained and intrigued by the novelty of the adventure,
I moved slightly, stretching my free arm in the direction of the
flashlight.

"I am not a difficult person," I essayed encouragement. "Nor too dull, I
hope, to understand a mistake or a necessity. Nor am I affiliated with
the police! Permit me----"

I halted abruptly. A cool edge of metal had been laid across the wrist
of my groping hand. As the hand came to rest, palm uppermost, I could
feel, or imagined I could feel my pulse beating steadily against the
menacing pressure of the blade. The warning was eloquent and sufficient;
I moved no further toward my flashlight. Of course, if I had lifted my
right hand from its guard of the braid, I could easily have pinioned the
arm which poised the knife before I suffered much harm. But I might have
lost my captive in the attempt; an event for which I was not ready, yet.

"Check," I admitted. "Although, it is rather near a stalemate for us
both, isn't it?"

The knife pressed closer, suggestively.

"No," I dissented with the mute argument. "I think not. I do not believe
you could do it; not in cold blood, anyway!"

"You do not know," insisted the closer pressing blade, as if with a
tongue.

"No, I do not know," I translated aloud. "But I am confident enough to
chance it. What reason have you for desperate action? I would not harm
you. Have I not a right to curiosity? This is my house, you know. Or
perhaps you did not know that?"

A sigh stirred the silence, blending with the ceaseless whisper of the
rain that had recommenced through the night. The braid did not move in
my right hand, nor did the blade touching my left.

"Speak!" I begged, with an abrupt urgency that surprised myself. "You
are the invader. Why? What would you have from me? If I am to let you
go, at least speak to me, first! This is--uncanny."

"There is magic in the third time of asking," came a breathed, just
audible whisper. "Yet, be warned; call not to you that which you may
neither hold nor forbid."

"But I do call--if that will make you speak to me," I returned, my
pulses tingling triumph. "Although, as to not holding you----"

"You fancy you hold me? It is not you who are master of this moment, but
I who am its mistress."

Her voice had gained in strength; a soft voice, yet not weak, used with
a delicate deliberation that gave her speech the effect of being a
caprice of her own rather than a result of my compulsion. Yet, I
thought, she must be crouched or kneeling beside me, on the floor, held
like the Lady of the Beautiful Tresses.

"Still, I doubt if you have the disposition to use your advantage," I
began.

"You mean, the cruelty," she corrected me.

"I am from New York," I smiled. "Let me say, the nerve. If you pressed
that knife, I might bleed to death, you know."

"Would you hear a story of a woman of my house, and her anger, before
you doubt too far?"

"Tell me," I consented; and smiled in the darkness at the transparent
plan to distract my attention from that imprisoned braid.

She was silent for so long that I fancied the plan abandoned, perhaps
for lack of a tale to tell. Then her voice leaped suddenly out of the
blackness that closed us in, speaking always in muted tones, but with a
strange, impassioned urgency and force that startled like a cry. The
words hurried upon one another like breaking surf.

"See! See! The fire leaps in the chimney; it breathes sparks like a
dreadful beast--it is hungry; its red tongues lick for that which they
may not yet have. Already its breath is hot upon the wax image on the
hearth. But the image is round of limb and sound. Yes, though it is but
toy-large, it is perfect and firm! See how it stands in the red shine:
the image of a man, cunningly made to show his stalwartness and strength
and bravery of velvet and lace! The image of a great man, surely; one
high in place and power. One above fear and beyond the reach of hate!

"The woman sits in her low chair, behind the image. The fire-shine is
bright in her eyes and in her hair. On either side her hair flows down
to the floor; her eyes look on the image and are dreadfully glad. Ha,
was not Beauty the lure, and shall it not be the vengeance?

"The nine lamps have been lighted! The feathers have been laid in a
circle! The spell has been spoken; the spell of Hai, son of Set, first
man to slay man by the Dark Art!

"The man is at the door of the woman's house. Yes, he who came in pride
to woo, and proved traitor to the love won--he is at her door in
weakness and pain.

"As the wax wastes, the man wastes! As the mannikin is gone, the man
dies!

"On her doorstep, he begs for life. He is coward and broken. He suffers
and is consumed. He calls to her the love-names they both know. And the
woman laughs, and the door is barred.

"The door is barred, but what shall bar out the Enemy who creeps to the
nine lamps?

"See, the fire shines through the wax! The image is grown thin and wan.
Three days, three nights, it has shrunk before the flames. Three days,
three nights, the woman has watched. As the fire is not weary, she is
not weary. As the fire is beautiful, she is beautiful.

"The man is borne to her door again. He lifts up his hands and cries to
her. But now he begs for death. Now he knows anguish stronger than fear.
And the woman laughs, and the door is barred.

"The fire shines on a lump of wax. The man is dead. From her chair the
woman has arisen and stands, triumphant.

"_But what crouches behind her, unseen? The lamps are cast down! The
pentagram is crossed! The Horror takes its own._"

The impassioned speech broke off with the effect of a snapped bar of
thin metal. In the silence, the steady whisper of rain came to my ears
again, continuing patiently. I became aware of a rich yet delicate
fragrance in the air I breathed. It was not any perfume I could
identify, either as a composition or as a flower scent. If I may hope to
be understood it sparkled upon the senses. It produced a thirst for
itself, so that the nostrils expanded for it with an eagerness for the
new pleasure. I found myself breathing deeply, almost greedily, before
answering my prisoner's story.

"'Sister Helen,'" I quoted, as lightly as I could.

"And do you think Rossetti had no truth to base his poem upon?" her
quiet voice flowed out of the darkness, seeming scarcely the same speech
as the swift, irregular utterance of a moment before. "Do you think that
all the traditions and learning of the younger world meant--nothing?"

"Are you asking me to believe in witchcraft and sorcery?"

"I ask nothing."

"Not even to believe that you will press the knife if I refuse to free
you?"

"Not even that; now!"

Compunction smote me. Her voice sounded more faint, as if from fatigue
or discouragement. It seemed to me that the blade against my wrist had
relaxed its menace of pressure and just rested in position. I seemed to
read my lady's weariness in the slackened vigilance. Perhaps she was
really frightened, now that her brave attempt to lull me into incaution
had failed.

"Listen, please," I spoke earnestly. "I am going to set you free. I
apologize for keeping you captive so long! But you will admit the
provocation to my curiosity? You will forgive me?"

A sigh drifted across the darkness.

"I ask no questions," I urged. "But will you not trust me to make a
light and give what help I can? You are welcome to use the house as you
please. Or, if you are lost or stormbound, my car is in the old barn and
I will drive you anywhere that you say. Let us not spoil our adventure
by suspicion. In good faith----"

I opened my hand, releasing the lovely rope by which I had detained my
prisoner. Then, with a quickening pulse, I waited. Would she stay? Would
she spring up and escape? Would she thank me, or would she reply with
some eccentricity unpredictable as her whim to tell me that tale?

She did none of these things. The braid of hair, freed entirely,
continued to lie supinely across my open palm. The coolness of the blade
still lightly touched my wrist. She might be debating her course of
action, I reflected. Well, I was in no haste to conclude the episode!

When the silence had lasted many moments, however, I began to grow
restive. Anxiety tinged my speculations. Suppose she had fainted? Or did
she doubt my intentions, and was her quietness that of one on guard? I
stirred tentatively.

Two things happened simultaneously with my movement. The braid glided
away from me, while the knife slipped from its position and tinkled upon
the floor. I started up, perception of the truth seizing my slow wits,
and reached for my flashlight.

There was no one in the room except myself. Down my blanket was slipping
a severed braid of hair, perhaps a foot in length, jaggedly cut across
at the end farthest from my hand. Leaning over, I saw on the floor
beside the bed a paper-knife of my own; a sharp, serviceable tool that
formed part of my writing kit. Before going to bed, I had taken it from
my suitcase to trim a candle-wick, and had left it upon the bookstand.

Now I understood why her voice had sounded more distant than seemed
reasonable while I held her beside me. No doubt she had hacked off the
detaining braid almost as soon as I grasped it. The knife she had
pressed against my wrist to keep me where I lay while she made ready for
flight; or amused herself with me. Flight? Say rather that she had
leisurely withdrawn! Perhaps she had not even heard my magnanimous
speech offering her the freedom that she already possessed. If she had
stayed to hear me, probably she had laughed.

Perhaps she was still in the house.

I rose and lighted a candle, under the impulsion of that idea, reserving
my flashlight for the search. But there was no one in any of the dusty,
sparsely furnished rooms and halls through which I hunted. The ancient
locks on doors and windows were fastened as I had left them, although my
lady certainly had entered and left at her pleasure. Puzzled and amused,
I finally returned to my bedchamber.

There was some difference in that room. I was conscious of the fact as
soon as I entered and closed the door behind me. The candle still burned
where I had left it, flickering slightly in some current of air. There
was no change that the eye could find, no sound except the rain, yet I
felt an extreme reluctance to go on even a step from where I stood. What
I wanted to do was to tear open the door behind me, to rush out into the
hall and slam the door shut between this room and myself.

Why? I looked around me, sending the beam of the flashlight playing over
the quiet place. Nothing, of course! I walked over to the bookcase, took
up the braid I had left there, and sat down in an old armchair to study
my trophy. On principle and by habit I had no intention of being
mastered by nerves. It was humiliating to discover that I could be made
nervous by the mere fact of being in an unoccupied farmhouse after
midnight.

The braid was magnificent. It was as broad as my palm, yet compressed so
tightly that it was thick and solid to the touch. If released over
someone's shoulders, it would have been a sumptuous cloak, indeed! In
what madness of panic had the girl sacrificed this beauty? How she must
hate me, now the panic was past! The color, too, was unique, in my
experience; a gold as vivid as auburn. Or was it tinged with auburn? As
I leaned forward to catch the candle-light, a drift of that fragrance
worn by my visitor floated from her braid.

At once I knew what had changed in the room. The air that had been so
pure when the house was opened, now was heavy with an odor of damp and
mould that had seeped into the atmosphere as moisture will seep through
cellar walls. One would have said that the door of some hideous vault
had been opened into my bedchamber. This stench struggled, as it were,
with the volatile perfume that clung about the braid; so that my senses
were thrust back and forth between disgust and delight in the strangest
wavering of sensation.

I made the strongest effort to put away the effect this wavering had
upon me. I forced myself to sit still and think of normal things; of the
men whom I was to see next morning, of the plans I meant to discuss with
them.

Useless! The stench was making me ill. A wave of giddiness swept over
me, and passed. My heart was beating slowly and heavily. Something in my
head pulsed in unison. I felt a frightful depression, that suddenly
burst into an attack of fear gripping me like hysteria. I wanted to
shriek aloud like a woman, to cover my eyes and run blindly. But at the
same time my muscles failed me. Will and strength were arrested like
frozen water.

As I sat there, facing the door of the room, I became aware of Something
at the window behind my back. Something that pressed against the open
window and stared at me with a hideous covetousness beside which the
greed of a beast for its prey is a natural, innocent appetite. I felt
that Thing's hungry malignance like a soft, dreadful mouth sucking
toward me, yet held away from me by some force vaguely based on my own
resistance. And I understood how a man may die of horror.

Yet, presently, I turned around. Weak and sick, with dragging effort I
turned in my chair and faced the black, uncurtained window where I felt
It to be.

Nothing was there, to sight or hearing. I sat still, and combated that
which I knew _was_ there. In the profound stillness, I heard the wind
stir the naked branches of the trees, the flowing water through the
fragments of the one-time dam, the sputtering of my candle which needed
trimming. Sweat ran down my face and body, drenching me with cold. It
crouched against the empty window, staring at me.

After a time, the presence seemed not so close. At last, I seemed to
know It was gone. In the gush of that enormous relief my remaining
strength was swept away like a swimmer in a torrent and I collapsed
half-fainting in my chair.

When I was able, I rose and walked through the house again. Again the
rooms showed nothing to my flashlight except dull furniture, walls
peeling here and there from long neglect, pictures of no merit and
dreary subject. I had expected nothing, and I found nothing.

It was on my way upstairs to my bedroom that a sentence from the
invisible lady's story came back to my mind.

"What crouches behind her, unseen? The Horror takes Its own----"

The bedroom door opened quietly under my hand. The rain had ceased and a
freshening breeze came from the west, filling the room with sweet
country air. The candle had burned down. While I stood there, the flame
flickered out.

After a brief indecision, I made my way to the bed, rolled myself in the
blankets, and laid down between the four pineapple-topped posts. This
time I kept the flashlight at my hand. But almost at once I slept, and
slept heavily far into a bright, windy March morning.




CHAPTER III

     "Wide is the seat of the man gentle of speech."
                             --INSTRUCTION OF KE' GEMNI.


On the second day after my return to New York, my Aunt Caroline Knox
called me up on the telephone.

There are reasons why I always feel myself at a disadvantage with Aunt
Caroline. The first of these brings me to a trifling matter that I
should have set down before, but which I have made a habit of ignoring
so far as possible in both thought and speech. As was Lord Byron, I am
slightly lame. I admit that is the only quality in common; still, I like
the romantic association. Now, my limp is very slight, and I never have
found it interfered much with things I cared to do. In fact, I am
otherwise somewhat above the average in strength and vigor. But from my
boyhood Aunt Caroline always made a point of alluding to the physical
fact as often as possible. She considered that course a healthful
discipline.

"My nephew," she was accustomed to introduce me. "Lame since he was
seven. Roger, do not scowl! Yes; run over trying to save a pet dog. A
mongrel of no value whatever!"

Which would have left some doubt as to whether she referred to poor
Tatters or to me, had it not been for her exceeding pride in our family
tree.

The second reason for my disadvantage before her, was her utter contempt
for my profession as a composer of popular music.

Today her voice came thinly to me across the long-distance wire.

"Your Cousin Phillida has failed in her examinations again," she
announced to me, with a species of tragic repose. "In view of her
father's intellect and my--er--my family's, her mental status is
inexplicable. Although, of course, there is your own case!"

"Why, she is the most educated girl I know," I protested hastily.

"I presume you mean best educated, Roger. Pray do not quite lose your
command of language."

I meant exactly what I had said. Phillida has studied since she was
three years old, exhaustively and exhaustedly. A vision of her plain,
pale little face rose before me when I spoke. It is a burden to be the
only child of a professor, particularly for a meek girl.

"She has studied insufficiently," Aunt Caroline pursued. "She is
nineteen, and her position at Vassar is deplorable."

"Her health----" I murmured.

"Would not have hampered her had she given proper attention to
athletics! However, I did not call up to hear you defend Phillida in a
matter of which you are necessarily ignorant. Her father and I are
somewhat better judges, I should suppose, than a young man who is not a
student in any true sense of the word and ignores knowledge as a purpose
in life. Not that I wish to wound or depreciate you, Roger. There is, I
may say, a steadiness of moral character beneath your frivolity of mind
and pursuit. If my poor brother had trained you more wisely; if you had
been _my_ son----"

"Thank you, Aunt," I acknowledged the benevolent intention, with an
inward quailing at the clank of fetters suggested. "Was there something
I can do for you?"

"Will you meet Phillida at the Grand Central and bring her home? I
cannot have her cross New York alone and take a second train out here.
Her father has a lecture this afternoon and I have a club meeting at the
house."

"With pleasure, Aunt! What time does her train get in?"

"Half after four. Thank you, Roger. And, she looks on you as an elder
brother. I believe an attitude of cool disapproval on your part might
impress upon her how she has disappointed the family."

"Leave it to me, Aunt. May I take her to tea, between trains, and get
out to your place on the six o'clock express?"

"If you think best. You might advise her seriously over the tea."

"A dash of lemon, as it were," I reflected. "Certainly, Aunt, I could."

"Very well. I am really obliged!"

"The pleasure is mine, Aunt."

But that it was going to be Phillida's, I had already decided. She would
need the support of tea and French pastry before facing her home. As for
treating her with cool disapproval, I would sooner have spent a year at
Vassar myself. It was my intention to meet her with a box of chocolates
instead of advice. Phil was not allowed candy, her complexion being
under cultivation. On the occasions when we were out together it had
been my custom to provide a box of sweets, upon which she browsed
luxuriously, bestowing the remnants upon some street child before
reaching her home.

From the telephone I turned back to that frivolous pursuit of which my
aunt had spoken with such tactfully veiled contempt. She was not
softened by the respectable fortune I had made from several successful
musical comedies and a number of efforts which my publishers advertise
as "high-class parlor pieces for the home." In fact, she felt it to be a
grievance that my lightness should be better paid than the Professor's
learning. In which she was no doubt right!

Ever since my return from my newly purchased farm in Connecticut,
however, I had not been working for money or popular approval, but for
my own pleasure. There was a Work upon which I spent only special hours
of delicious leisure and infinite labor. It held all that was forbidden
to popular compositions; depth and sorrow and dissonances dearer than
harmony. I called it a Symphony Polynesian, and I had spent years in
study of barbaric music, instruments and kindred things that this
love-child of mine might be more richly clothed by a tone or a fancy.
Aunt Caroline had interrupted, this morning, at a very point of
achievement toward which I had been working through the usual
alternations of enjoyment and exasperation, elevation and dejection that
attend most workmen. Pausing only to set my alarm-clock, I hurried into
recording what I had found, in the tangible form of paper and ink.

I always set the alarm-clock when I have an engagement, warned by dire
experiences.

Aunt Caroline had summoned me about eleven in the morning. When the
strident voice of the clock again aroused me, I had just time to dress
and reach the Grand Central by half-past four. I recognized that I was
hungry, that the vicinity was snowed over with sheets of paper, that the
piano keys had acquired another inkstain, and my pipe had charred
another black spot on the desk top. Well, it had been a good day; and
Phillida's tea would have to be my belated luncheon or early dinner.
Even so, it was necessary to make haste.

It was in that haste of making ready that I uncovered the braid of
glittering hair which I had brought from Connecticut. I use no
exaggeration when I say it glittered. It did; each hair was lustrous
with a peculiar, shining vitality, and crinkled slightly along its full
length. With a renewed self-reproach at sight of its humbled exile and
captivity, I took up the trophy of my one adventure. While I am without
much experience, such a quantity seemed unusual. Also, I had not known
such a mass of hair could be so soft and supple in the hand. My mother
and little sister died before I can remember; and while I have many good
friends, I have none intimate enough to educate me in such matters.
Perhaps a consciousness of that trifling physical disadvantage of mine
has made me prefer a good deal of solitude in my hours at home.

The faint, tenacious yet volatile perfume drifted to my nostrils, as I
held the braid. Who could the woman be who brought that costly fragrance
into a deserted farmhouse? For so exquisite and unique a fragrance could
only be the work of a master perfumer. There was youth in that vigorous
hair, coquetry in the individual perfume, panic in her useless sacrifice
of the braid I held; yet strangest self-possession in the telling of
that fanciful tale of sorcery to me.

On that tale, told dramatically in the dark, I had next morning blamed
the weird waking nightmare that I had suffered after her visit. The
horror of the night could not endure the strong sun and wind of the
March morning that followed. Like _Scrooge_, I analyzed my ghost as a
bit of undigested beef or a blot of mustard. Certainly the thing had
been actual enough while it lasted, but my reason had thrust it away.
That was over, I reflected, as I laid the braid back in the drawer. But
surely the lady was not vanished like the nightmare? Surely I should
find her in some neighbor's daughter, when my house was finished and I
went there for the summer? She could not hide from me, with that bright
web about her head whose twin web I held.

It had grown so late that I had to take a taxicab to the Terminal, just
halting at a shop long enough to buy a box of the chocolates my cousin
preferred. But when I reached the great station and found my way through
the swirl of travelers to the track where Phil's train should come in, I
was told the express had been delayed.

"Probably half an hour late," the gateman informed me. "Maybe more! Of
course, though, she may pull in any time."

Which meant no tea for Phillida; instead, a rush across town to the
Pennsylvania station to catch the train for her home. As I could not
leave my post lest she arrive in my absence, it also meant nothing to
eat for me until we reached Aunt Caroline's hospitality; which was cool
and restrained rather than festive.

I foresaw the heavy atmosphere that would brood over all like a cold
fog, this evening of Phil's disgraceful return from the scholastic
arena. Ascertaining from the gateman that the erring train was certain
not to pull in during the next ten minutes, I sought a telephone booth.

"Aunt Caroline, Phil's train is going to be very late, possibly an hour
late," I misinformed my kinswoman, when her voice answered me. "I have
had nothing to eat since breakfast, and she will be hungry long before
we reach your house. May I not take her to dinner here in town?"

"Please do not call your cousin 'Phil'," she rebuked me, and paused to
deliberate. "You had no luncheon, you say?"

"None."

"Why not? Were you ill?"

"No; just busy. I forgot lunch. I am beginning to feel it, now. Still,
if you wish us to come straight home, do not consider me!"

I knew of old how submission mollified Aunt Caroline. She relented, now.

"Well----! You are very good, Roger, to save your uncle a trip into the
city to meet her. I must not impose upon you. But, a quiet hotel!"

"Certainly, Aunt."

"Phillida does not deserve pampering enjoyment. I am consenting for your
sake."

"Thank you, Aunt. I wonder, then, if you would mind if we stopped to see
a show that I especially want to look over, for business reasons? We
could come out on the theatre express; as we have done before, you
remember?"

"Yes, but----"

"Thank you. I'll take good care of her. Good-bye."

The receiver was still talking when I hung up. There is no other form of
conversation so incomparably convenient.

The train arrived within the half-hour. With the inrush of travelers, I
sighted Phillida's sober young figure moving along the cement platform.
She walked with dejection. Her gray suit represented a compromise
between fashion and her mother's opinion of decorum, thus attaining a
length and fulness not enough for grace yet too much for jauntiness. Her
solemn gray hat was set too squarely upon the pale-brown hair, brushed
back from her forehead. Her nice, young-girl's eyes looked out through a
pair of shell-rimmed spectacles. She was too thin and too pale to
content me.

When she saw me coming toward her, her face brightened and colored quite
warmly. She waved her bag with actual abandon and her lagging step
quickened to a run.

"Cousin Roger!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Oh, how good of you to
come!"

She gripped my hands in a candid fervor of relief and pleasure.

"I am so glad it is you," she insisted. "I was sorry the train could not
be later; I wished, almost, it would never get in--and all the time it
was you who were waiting for me!"

"It was, and now you are about to share an orgy," I told her. "I have
your mother's permission to take you to dinner, Miss Knox."

"Here? In town? Just us?"

"Yes. And afterward we will take in any show you fancy. How does that
strike you?"

She gazed up at me, absorbing the idea and my seriousness. To my dismay,
she grew pale again.

"I--I really believe it will keep me from just dying."

I pretended to think that a joke. But I recognized that my little cousin
was on the sloping way toward a nervous breakdown.

"No baggage?" I observed. "Good! I hope you did not eat too much
luncheon. This will be an early dinner."

She waited to take off the spectacles and put them in her little bag.

"I do not need them except to study, but I didn't dare meet Mother
without them," she explained. "No; I could not eat lunch, or breakfast
either, Cousin Roger. Nor much dinner last night! Oh, if you knew how I
dread--the grind! I should rather run away."

"So we will; for this evening."

"Yes. Where--where were you going to take me?"

We had crossed the great white hall to street level, and a taxicab was
rolling up to halt before us. Surprised by the anxiety in the eyes she
lifted to mine, I named the staid, quietly fastidious hotel where I
usually took her when we were permitted an excursion together.

"Unless you have a choice?" I finished.

"I have." She breathed resolution. "I want to go to a restaurant with a
cabaret, instead of going to the theatre. May I? Please, may I? Will you
take me where I say, this one time?"

Her earnestness amazed me. I knew what her mother would say. I also
knew, or thought I knew that Phillida needed the mental relaxation which
comes from having one's own way. In her mood, no one else's way,
however, wise or agreeable, will do it all.

"All right," I yielded. "If you will promise me, faith of a gentlewoman,
to tell Aunt Caroline that I took you there and you did not know where
you were going. My shoulders are broader than yours and have borne the
buffeting of thirty-two years instead of nineteen. Had you chosen the
place, or shall I?"

To my second surprise, she answered with the name of an uptown place
where I never had been, and where I would have decidedly preferred not
to take her.

"They have a skating ballet," she urged, as I hesitated. "I know it is
wonderful! Please, please----?"

I gave the direction to the chauffeur and followed my cousin into the
cab. It seemed a proper moment to present the chocolates from my
overcoat pocket. When she proved too languid to unwrap the box, I was
seriously uneasy.

"You cannot possibly know how dreadful it is to be the only child of two
intellectual people who expect one to be a credit," she excused her lack
of appetite, nervously twitching the gilt cord about the package. "And
to be stupid and a disappointment! Yes, as long as I can remember, I
have been a disappointment. If only there had been another to divide all
those expectations. If only you had been my brother!"

"Heaven forbid!" I exclaimed hastily. "That is----"

"Don't bother about explaining," she smiled wanly, "I understand. But
you are distinguished, and you look it. I never will be, and I am ugly.
Mother expects me to be an astronomer like Father and work with him, or
to go in for club life and serious writing as she does. I never can do
either."

"Neither could I, Phil."

"You are clever, successful. Everybody knows your name. When we are out,
and people or an orchestra play your music, Mother always says: 'A
trifle of my nephew's, Roger Locke. Very original, is it not? Of course,
I do not understand music, but I hear that his last light opera----' And
then she leans back and just _eats up_ all the nice things said about
your work. She would never let you know it, but she does. And that is
the sort of thing she wants from me. I--I want to make cookies, and I
love fancywork."

The taxicab drew up with a jerk before the gaudy entrance to Silver
Aisles.

I imagine Phillida had the vaguest ideas of what such places were like.
When we were settled at a table in a general blaze of pink lights,
beside a fountain that ran colored water, I regarded her humorously. But
she seemed quite contented with her surroundings, looking about her with
an air I can best describe as grave excitement. At this hour, the room
was not half filled, and the jazz orchestra had withdrawn to prepare for
a hard night's work.

After I had ordered our dinner, I glanced up to see her fingers busied
loosening the severe lines of her brushed back hair.

"Everyone here looks so nice," she said wistfully. "I wish my hair did
shine and cuddle around my face like those women's does. Do--do I look
queer, Cousin? You are looking at me so----?"

"I was thinking what pretty eyes you have."

Her pale face flushed.

"Really?"

"Most truthfully. As for the hair, isn't that a matter of bottled polish
and hairdressers? But you remind me of a question for you. Isn't a braid
of hair this wide," I laid off the dimensions on the table, "this long,
and thick, a good deal for a woman to own?"

"Show me again."

I obeyed, while she leaned forward to observe.

"Not one girl in a hundred has so much," she pronounced judgment. "Who
is she? Probably it isn't all her own, anyhow!"

"It is not now, but it was," I said remorsefully.

"How could you tell? Did you measure it?"--with sarcasm. "Do you
remember the maxim we used to write in copybooks? 'Measure a thousand
times, and cut once?' One has to be cautious!"

"I cut it first, and then measured."

"What? Tell me."

At last she was interested and amused. There was no reason why I should
not tell her of my midnight adventure. We never repeated one another's
little confidences.

She listened, with many comments and exclamations, to the story of the
unseen lady, the legend of the fair witch, the dagger that was a
paper-knife by day and the severed tresses. She did not hear of the
singular nightmare or hallucination that had been my second visitor. My
reason had accounted for the experience and dismissed it. Some other
part of myself avoided the memory with that deep, unreasoning sense of
horror sometimes left by a morbid dream.

The dinner crowd had flowed in while we ate and talked. A burst of
applause aroused me to this fact and the commencement of the first show
of the evening. The orchestra had taken their places.

"They will hardly begin with their best act," I remarked, surprised by
Phillida's convulsive start and rapt intentness upon the stretch of ice
that formed the exhibition floor. "Your ballet on skates probably will
come later."

"I did not come to see the ballet," she answered, her voice low.

"No? What, then?"

"A--man I know?"

Once when I was a little fellow, I raced headlong into the low-swinging
branch of a tree, the bough striking me across the forehead so that I
was bowled over backward amid a shower of apples. I felt a twin
sensation, now.

"Here, Phillida?"

"Yes."

"Someone from your home town or your college town?" I essayed a casual
tone.

"Neither. He belongs here, and they call him Flying Vere. He--Look!
Look, Cousin!"

I turned, and saw that the first performer was upon the ice floor.

He came down the center like a silver-shod Mercury. In the silence, for
the orchestra did not accompany his entrance, the faint musical ringing
of his skates ran softly with him. My first unwilling recognition of his
good looks and athletic grace was followed by an equally reluctant
admission of his skill. Reluctant, because my anger and bewilderment
were hot against the man. My little cousin, my pathetic, unworldly
Phillida--and this cabaret entertainer! At the mere joining of their
names my senses revolted. What could they have in common? How had she
seen him? Having seen him, it was easy to understand how he had
fascinated her inexperience. Only, what was his object?

He had seen us, where we sat. I saw his dark eyes fix upon her and flash
some message. Her plain little face irradiated, her fingers
unconsciously twisting and wringing her napkin, she leaned forward to
watch and answer glance for glance.

I would rather not put into words my thoughts. Yet, I watched his
performance. In spite of myself, he held me with his swift, certain
skill, his vitality and youth.

He was gone, with the swooping suddenness of his appearance. The jazz
music clattered out. Phillida turned back to me and began to speak with
a hushed rapture that baffled and infuriated me.

"You understand, Cousin Roger? Now that you have seen him, you do
understand? No! Let me talk, please. Let me tell you, if I can. It began
last summer, at the school where I was cramming for college work. Oh,
how tired I was of study! How tired of it I am, and always shall be! I
think that side of me never will get rested. Then, in the woods, I met
him. He was stopping at a hotel not far away. I--we----"

I waited for her to go on. Instead, she abruptly spread wide her hands
in a gesture of helplessness.

"After all, I cannot tell you. Not even you, Cousin! He--he liked me. He
treated me just as a really, truly girl who would have partners at
dances and wear fluffy frocks and curl her hair. He thought I was
pretty!"

The naive wonder and triumph of her cry, the challenge in her brown
eyes, to my belief, were moving things. I registered some ugly mental
comments on the rearing of Phil and the kind of humility that is _not_
good for the soul.

"Why not?" I demanded. "Of course!"

She shook her head.

"No. Thank you, but--no! Not pretty, except to him. Only to him, because
he loves me."

I do not know what impatience I exclaimed. She checked me, leaning
across the table to grasp my hand in both hers.

"Hush! Oh, hush, dear Cousin Roger! For it is quite too late. We were
married six months ago; last autumn."

When I could, I asked:

"Married legally, beyond mistake? Were you not under eighteen years
old?"

"I was eighteen years and a half. There is no mistake at all. We walked
over to the city hall in the nearest town, and took out our license, and
were married."

"Very well. I will take you home to your father and mother, now; then
see this man, myself. If there is indeed no flaw in the marriage and it
cannot be annulled, a divorce must be arranged. Any money I have or
expect to have would be a small price to set you free from the miserable
business. But the first thing is to get you home. We will start now."

She detained my hand when I would have signalled our waiter. Her eyes,
shining and solemn as a small child's, met mine.

"No, Cousin, please! I am not going home any more. At least, not alone.
I asked you to bring me here where he is, because I am going to stay
with my husband."

"Never," I stated firmly.

"Yes."

"Not if I have to send for your father and take you home by force."

"You cannot. I am of age."

"Phillida, I am responsible for you to your parents tonight. Let me take
you home, explain things to them, and then decide your course."

"But that is what I most do not want to do!" she naively exclaimed.

"You will not?"

"I'm sorry. No."

"Then I must see the man."

"Not--hurt----?"

I recalled the man we had just seen on the skating floor, with a qualm
of quite unreasonable bitterness. That anxiety of Phillida's had a
flavor of irony for me.

"Hardly," I returned. "There are fortunately other means of persuasion
than physical force."

"Oh! But you cannot persuade him to give me up."

I was silent. At which, being a woman, she grew troubled.

"How could you?" she urged.

"You have had no opportunity of judging what influence money has on some
people, Phil."

She laughed out in relief.

"Is that all? Try, Cousin."

"You trust him so much?"

"In everything, forever!"

"Then if I succeed in buying him off, promise me that you will come home
with me."

"If he takes money to leave me?"

"Yes."

"I should die. But I will promise if you want me to, because I know it
never will happen. Just as I might promise to do anything, when I knew
that I never would have to carry it out."

"Very well," I accepted the best I could get. "I will go find him."

"There is no need. He is coming here to our table as soon as he is
free."

"I will not have you seen with him in this place."

"But I am going to stay here with him," she said.

Her eyes, the meek eyes of Phillida, defied me. My faint authority was a
sham. What could be done, I recognized, must be done through the man.

We sat in silence, after that. Presently, her gaze fixed aslant on me as
if to dare my interference, she drew up a thin gold chain that hung
about her neck and ended beneath her blouse. From it she unfastened a
wedding ring and gravely put the thing on her third finger, the
school-girl romanticism of the gesture blended with an air of
little-girl naughtiness. She looked more fit for a nursery than for this
business.

I could tell from the change in her expression when the man was
approaching. I rose, meaning to meet him and turn him aside from our
table. But Phillida halted me with one deftly planted question.

"You would not leave me alone in this place, Cousin?"

Certainly I would not leave her alone at a table here; not even alone in
appearance while I had my interview with the man close at hand. Yet it
seemed impossible to speak before her. She calmly answered my
perplexity.

"You must talk to him here, of course. I--want to listen to you both.
Indeed, I shall not interfere at all, or be angry or hurt! I know how
good you mean to be, dear; only, you do not understand."

I sat down again, perforce. When the man's shadow presently fell across
our table, it did not soothe me to see Phil thrust her hand in his, her
small face enraptured, her fingers locking about his with a caress plain
as a kiss. She said proudly, if tremulously:

"Cousin Roger, this is my husband. Mr. Locke, Ethan dear."

He said nothing. His hesitating movement to offer his hand I chose to
ignore. I admit that my spirit rose against him to the point of loathing
as he stood there, tall, correct in attire--the focus of admiring
glances from other diners--in every way the antithesis of my poor
Phillida.

"Sit down," I bade curtly, when he did not speak. "Miss Knox insists
that we have our interview here. I should have preferred otherwise, but
her presence must not prevent what has to be said."

"It won't prevent anything I want to say, Mr. Locke," he answered.

He spoke with a drawl. Not the drawl of affectation, nor the drawl of
South or West so cherished by the romantic, but the slow, deliberate
speech of New England's upper coasts. It had the oddest effect, that
honest, homely accent on the lips of a performer in this place. Phil
drew him down to the third chair at the table. After which, she folded
her hands on the edge of the cloth as if to signify to me how she kept
her promise of neutrality, and looked fixedly at her glass of water
instead of at either of us. Plainly, all action was supposed to proceed
from me.

"My cousin has just told me of her marriage," I opened, as dryly concise
as I could manage explanation. "It is of course impossible that she
should adopt your way of living, as she seems to have in mind. You may
not understand, yet, that it also is impossible for you to adopt hers.
No doubt you have supposed her to be the daughter of wealthy people, or
at least people of whom money could be obtained. You were wrong.
Professor Knox has nothing but his modest salary. Her parents are of the
scholarly, not of the moneyed class. She has no kin who could or would
support her husband or pay largely to be rid of him. Of all her people,
I happen to be the best off, financially. It happens also that I am not
sentimental, nor alarmed at the idea of newspaper exploitation for
either of us. It is necessary that all this be plainly set forth before
we go further.

"Now, for your side: you have involved Miss Knox to the extent of
marriage. To free her from this trap into which her inexperience has
walked is worth a reasonable price. I will pay it. I shall take her home
to her father and mother tonight, and consult my lawyer tomorrow. He
will conduct negotiations with you. The day Miss Knox is divorced from
you without useless scandal or trouble-making, I will pay to you the sum
agreed upon with my lawyer. If you prefer to make yourself
objectionable, you will get nothing, now or later."

He took it all without a flicker of the eyelids, not interrupting or
displaying any affectation of being insulted. I acknowledge, now, that
it was an outrageous speech to make to a man of whom I knew nothing. But
it was so intended; summing up what I considered an outrageous situation
brought about by his playing upon a young girl's ignorance of such
fellows as himself. Phillida's usually pale cheeks were burning. Several
times she would have broken in upon me with protests, if Vere had not
silenced her by the merest glances of warning. A proof of his influence
over her which had not inclined me toward gentleness with him!

When I finished there was a pause before he turned his dark eyes to
mine, and held them there.

"Honest enough!" he drawled, with that incongruous coast-of-Maine tang
to his leisureliness. "I'll match you there, Mr. Locke. I don't care
whether you make fifty thousand a year with your music writing, or
whether you grind a street-piano with a tin-cup on top. It's nothing to
me. I guess we can do without your lawyer, too. Because, you see, I
married Mrs. Vere because I wanted her; and I figure on supporting her.
If her folks are too cultivated to stand me, I'm sorry. But they won't
have to see me. So that's settled!"

He was honest. His glance drove that fact home to me with a fist-like
impact. There was nothing I was so poorly prepared to meet.

Phillida's hands went out to him in an impulsive movement. He covered
them both with one of his for a moment before gently putting them in her
lap with a gesture of reminder toward the revellers all about us. The
delicacy of that thought for her was another disclosure of character,
unconsciously made. Worthy or unworthy, he did love Phil.

I am not too dully obstinate to recognize a mistake of my own. Whatever
my bitterness against the man, I had to accord him some respect. I sat
for a while striving to align my forces to attack this new front.

"I don't blame you for thinking what you said, Mr. Locke," his voice
presently spoke across my perplexity. "I can see the way things came to
you; finding me here, and all! I'm glad to have had this chance to talk
it out with one of my wife's relations. I'd like them to know she'll be
taken care of. Outside of that, I guess there is nothing we have to say
to each other."

"I suppose I owe you both an apology," I said stiffly.

"Oh, that's all right--for both of us! I can see how much store you set
by her."

"But what are you going to do with her, man?" I burst forth. "Do you
expect to keep her here; sitting at a table in this place and watching
you do your turn, making your fellow performers her friends, seeing and
learning----?" I checked my outpouring of disgust. "Or do you propose to
shut her up in some third-class boarding house day and night while you
hang around here? Good heavens, Vere, do you realize what either life
would be for an nineteen-year-old girl brought up as she has been?"

He colored.

"As for bringing up," he retorted, "I guess she couldn't be a lot more
miserable than her folks worried her into being. But--you're right about
the rest. That's why I was going to leave her with her folks yet a
while, until I had a place for her. I mean, while I saved up enough to
get the place."

"But I wrote to him when I failed in my exams, Cousin Roger," Phillida
broke in. "I told him that I would not go home. I could not bear it. I
was coming to him, and he would just have to keep me with him or I
should _die_. Indeed, I do not care about places. I think it will be
lovely fun to sit here and watch him, or go behind the scenes with him
and make friends with the other people. I--I am surprised that you are
so narrow, Cousin Roger, when all your own best friends are theatrical
people and artists and you think so highly of them."

I answered nothing to that. The distance between the stage and this
class of cabaret show was not to be traversed in a few seven-league
words. I looked at Vere, who returned my look squarely and soberly.

"You needn't worry about her being here, Mr. Locke," he said. "I know
better than that! But she has to come to me; it's her right, don't you
think? I'll promise you to take her to a better place as soon as I can
manage."

"What kind of a place?"

"I'm saving to get a place in the country," he answered diffidently.
"I'm a countryman, and Phillida thinks she'd like it."

"You?" I exclaimed, unable to smother my derision and unbelief. My
glance summed up his fastidious apparel and grooming, the gloss on his
curling dark hair and the dubious diamond on his little finger.

He reddened through his clear, dark skin, but his eyes were not those of
a man taken in a lie.

"Did you take notice of what I do here?" He asked me, with the first
touch of humility I had seen in him. "I couldn't dance or sing or do
parlor tricks. I wasn't bred to parlors or indoors. But I learned to
skate pretty fancy from a boy up. My folks' farm was on one side of a
lake and the schoolhouse on the other. About November that lake used to
freeze solid. My brother and I used to skate five miles to school, and
back again, before we were six years old. We lived on skates about half
the year, I guess. Well--you don't care about the rest; how the farm was
just about big enough to support my elder brother and his family, and I
came to New York. Nor how I found New York pretty well filled up with
folks who knew considerably more than I did. It was the manager of this
place who advertised for expert skaters, who dressed me up like this,
and paid me the first living wages I'd had in the city. All the same, I
was bred a farmer, and I mean to get back to it. Always have! You're a
man, Mr. Locke, and I'd hate you to think I was a shimmy dancer on ice
and nothing else, or I wouldn't mention it. My father would have taken
the buggy-whip to me, I guess, if he'd lived to see me in this rig. Soon
as I've enough put by, I'll shed this perfumed suit and the cheap
jewelry and take my wife where she can have a chance to forget I ever
wore them."

"But I _like_ them," put in Phillida ardently. "Please do not fuss so,
Ethan; because I really do."

"Do you?" I turned upon her. "Are you sure, then, that it is not all
this cabaret glamour you really are in love with? Would you care for him
as an ordinary, hard-working fellow in a pair of overalls and a flannel
shirt? No applause, no lights, no stage?"

She laughed up at me.

"You have forgotten that I met Ethan while he was on a vacation from his
work here, and roughing it. When I married him, I had hardly seen him in
anything except his Navy flannel shirt, scrubby trousers, and funny
blunt-toed shoes."

"You served in the war?" I asked him.

He nodded.

"Yes. On a submarine chaser. Got pneumonia from exposure and was
invalided home just before the Armistice."

"And you came back here?"

"I came here," he corrected me. "I enlisted from Maine. I was discharged
in New York. That was when I couldn't find anything I could do, until
this skating trick came along."

I sat thinking for a time; as long thoughts as I could command. The
obvious course was to send for Phillida's father. Yet what could that
vague and learned gentleman do that I could not? I visioned the
Professor standing in this riotous, gaudy restaurant, swinging his
eye-glasses by their silk ribbon and peering at Vere in helpless
distaste and consternation. It was practically certain that Phil would
refuse to go home with him.

What if she did go home? I could picture the scene there, when the truth
came out. The mortification of her people, the gossip in the little
town, her outcast position among the girls and boys with whom she had
grown up--what a martyrdom for a sensitive spirit! Of course, the only
possible thing considered by Aunt Caroline would be a prompt divorce.

If Phillida refused to consent to a divorce, how could she live at home
as the wife of a man her parents had pronounced unfit to receive? If she
yielded and gave up Vere, would she be much better off? An embarrassment
to her family, the heroine of a stolen marriage and Reno freedom, what
chance of happiness would she have in her conventional circle?
Especially as she neither was a beauty nor the dashing type of girl who
might make capital of such a reputation. Probably she would bury herself
in nunlike seclusion, stay in her room when callers came, and wear a
veil when she went out to walk.

Meanwhile, she would break her heart for Vere.

Could matters be any worse if she tried life with him, even if the
experiment eventually proved a failure and ended in a divorce instead of
beginning there? Might not her parents be spared much they most dreaded,
if their friends could be told simply that Phillida had made a love
match and was with her husband?

Finally, Phillida was a human creature with the right to manage her own
life. Had any of us the right to lay hands upon her existence and mould
it to our fancy?

I looked up from my revery to find the eyes of both of them fixed on me
as if I held their doom balanced upon my palm. Perhaps, in a sense, I
did.

"Phil, will you come home to your father and mother, and consider all
this a bit more before you decide?" I asked her.

I thought I knew the answer to this, and I did.

"No, Cousin Roger," she refused firmly. "Please forgive me. I know how
kind you mean to be, but--no! I shall stay with Ethan. If ever you love
anyone, you will understand."

I accepted the decision. There was no reason why I should think of the
woman who had spoken to me across the darkness in a voice of melody and
power, or why I should seem to feel again the exquisite, live softness
of her braid within my hand. But it was so.

"Very well," I said. "Vere, it is to you, then, as Phillida's husband,
that I must address any plans. I do not pretend to like the course she
has taken. I do not know what action her parents may take, although I
believe they will listen to my advice. Putting all that aside, she
refuses to come with me and you agree that she cannot stay here.

"I have just bought a farm in Connecticut, intending to use it as a
summer home. There are some alterations and repairs being made, but
little is to be changed inside the house and it is in perfectly livable
shape. Here is my offer. Take Phillida there, and I will make you
manager of the place. I will pay all reasonable expenses of putting the
land into proper condition and getting such stock and equipment as you
judge best; all expenses and up-keep of the house and whatever salary
usually is drawn by such managers of small estates. I shall be there, on
and off, but you and Phillida must take charge of everything. I am
neither a farmer nor a housekeeper, and do not wish to be either. I
bought the place only because New York is too hot to work in during
three months of the year, and I hate summer resorts. Keep my room ready,
and you will find I disturb you little. Of course, hire what servants
are necessary.

"Now, if you make the place self-supporting inside of five years, I will
deed the whole thing to you two. To put it better, if you succeed in
making the farm pay a living for yourselves, I will make it over to you
and withdraw. If you fail--well, I suppose you will be no worse off than
you are now!"

They were stricken speechless. Perhaps my attitude had not pointed to
such a conclusion of our interview. Phillida told me long afterward that
she expected me to bid them good-evening and abandon them forever, as my
mildest course; with alternative possibilities such as summoning a
policeman and having Vere haled to prison. Seeing their condition, I
rose.

"I will stroll about and leave you a chance to talk it over," I
declared; although there are few ordeals I dislike more than displaying
my limp about such public rooms.

Vere stopped me, rising as I rose.

"No need of that, for us," he answered, facing me across the little
table. "About giving us your farm, Mr. Locke, that's for the future!
Just now, the manager's job is plenty big enough to thank you for. I
wish I could say it better. If you'll stay here with Phillida for ten
minutes, until I can get back, I'll be obliged."

"Where are you going?"

"To resign here, and get my outfit into a suitcase."

He had taken up my challenge like a man, at least. There were none of
the hesitations and excuses to stay in town that I had half expected. It
pleased me that he decided for Phil as well as himself. Some of my ideas
about marriage are antiquated, I admit. I nodded to him, and sat down
again.

It is unnecessary to record the childish things Phillida tried to say to
me, while he was gone.

"I am so happy," was her apology for threatened tears. "I never knew
anyone--except Ethan--could be so kind. And--and, will you tell Father
and Mother?"

"Yes." I winced, though, at that prospect. "Give me that little bag you
carry on your wrist."

She obeyed, wide-eyed.

"You do tote a powder-puff. I did not know whether Aunt Caroline
permitted it. Rub it on your nose," I advised, passing the bit of fluff
to her.

While she complied, almost like a normally frivolous girl, I used the
moment to transfer a few banknotes to the bag, so some need might not
find her penniless.

Vere came back in not much more than the promised ten minutes. He had
changed to gray street clothes and carried a suitcase. I noted that the
diamond had disappeared from his finger and his curly head looked as if
it had been held under a water-faucet and vigorously toweled to lessen
the brilliantine gloss.

"If you'll tell us where your farm is, Mr. Locke, we'll start," he
volunteered.

Phillida looked up at him with eyes of adoring trust.

"I had the porter at the Terminal check my suitcase to be called for. We
shall have to get it, dear."

In spite of myself, I smiled at their amazing promptitude. There was
both reassurance and pathos in its unconscious youth. All this eagerness
pressing forward--where? They did not know, nor I. Certainly we did not
dream how strange a goal awaited one of us three, or on what weird,
desolate path that traveler's foot was already set.

"You had better go to a good hotel for tonight," I modified their plan.
"Tomorrow is time enough to go out to the farm, by daylight. Phil has
had enough excitement for one day. I will write full directions for the
trip, Vere, on the back of this timetable of the railroad you must
take."

They were enchanted with this suggestion. Indeed, they were in a state
of mind to have assented if I advised them to sit out on a park bench
until morning.

Yet, when I had put them and their scanty luggage into a taxicab, I
suffered a bad pang of misgiving. What responsibility was I assuming in
letting my little-girl cousin go like this? What did I know of this man,
or where he would take her? I think Phillida divined something of my
trouble, for she leaned out the door to me and held up her face like a
child's to be kissed.

"I am so _happy_," she whispered.

I turned to Vere; who had a long envelope in readiness to put in my
hand.

"I guess you might like to have these for a while, Mr. Locke," he said,
with one of his slow, straightforward glances.

With which farewells I had to be content, and watch their taxi swing out
into the bright-dark flow of traffic where it was lost from my sight.
After which, I entered another taxicab by my unromantic self and was
driven to that railroad station where I would find a train bound to the
college town that was the home of Aunt Caroline and her husband. One
always thought of Phil's parents in that order, although the Professor
was a moderately distinguished scientist and his spouse merely masterful
in her own limited circle.

The envelope Vere had given me contained their marriage certificate, his
release from the Navy, and his membership card in the American Legion.




CHAPTER IV

     "Fair speech is more rare than the emerald found by slave maidens
     on the pebbles."--PTAH-HOTEP.


At ten o'clock, next morning, I was summoned from my sleep by the bell
of the telephone beside my bed. It was not a pleasant sleep, although I
had not returned to my apartment until dawn. Nightmare doubts galloped
ruthless hoofs over any repose.

Phillida's voice came over the wire to me like the morning song of a
bird.

"Good-morning, Cousin Roger. We are going to take the train in a few
moments. But I could not leave New York without telling you how happy I
am. Are you--did I wake you up? I was afraid that I might, but Ethan
said you would like me to call, even so."

"My dear, it was the kindest thought you ever had," I told her
fervently.

"Was it?" she hesitated. "Then--were they pretty dreadful to you at
home?"

"Quite!"

"Do you suppose they will _do_ anything dreadful about us?"

"No. Nothing."

It did not seem necessary to tell her that Aunt Caroline did not know
where the runaways had gone, and was thereby debarred from hasty action.
Phillida's father had privately agreed with me in this.

"I am so very happy, Cousin Roger!"

"I am glad, Phil."

"And you will come to the farm soon?"

"Soon," I promised.

So the nightmares of immediate anxiety for her galloped themselves away,
routed for that time. Like my gold-fish when their bowl has been unduly
shaken, I sank down again into the quieted waters of my little world and
absorption in my own affairs. There have been hours when I wondered if I
was of more importance than they, as a matter of cosmic fact.

A month passed before I kept my promise to go to the farm in
Connecticut.

As a first reason, I wanted to leave my young couple alone for a period
of adjustment. Also, I was curious to see how they would handle the
business left to them. I held telephone conversations with Phillida, and
with various contractors now and then. I sent out the furnishings for my
own room. Everything else I purposely left to the experimenters.

There was a second reason, more obscure. I wanted to keep for a while
the little mystery of the lady who had come to the farmhouse room in the
dark of the night. She was pure romance, a rare incident in a prosaic
age. My table had been bare of such delicately spiced morsels, and I
relished the savor of this one upon my palate. I was not quite ready to
find her in the matter-of-fact daughter of some neighbor, who had sought
shelter from the storm in that supposedly empty house and probably
mistaken me for a tramp.

Perhaps I was equally reluctant to go back and prove that the adventure
was ended, that she had been a bird of passage who had gone on with no
thought of return.

With all these delays, and the fact that my work really kept me busy in
town, April was verging toward May when I finally saw the last of my
luggage put into the car and started on my fifty-mile drive to the house
by the lake. I did not take this first visit very seriously, or intend
it to be over long. To be a constraint upon the household I had
established, or assume a right there, was far from the course I planned.
It was not certain Vere and I would be comfortable housemates. But to
stay away altogether would have hurt Phillida as much as to stay too
long, I considered. Probably a week would be about enough for this time.

So lightly, so ignorantly, I stepped from the first great division of my
life into the second; not hearing the closing of the gate through which
there was no turning back.




CHAPTER V

     "The very room, coz she was in,
     Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'."
                         --THE COURTIN'.


I arrived at noon, when a bright sun set the country air afloat with
motes like dust of gold. The place seemed drenched in golden light. Even
the young grass had gold in its green, and the lake glittered hot with
yellow sparkles.

The house was transformed. The cream-colored stucco that hid its homely
walls, deep, arched porches that took the place of the old shallow
affairs, scarlet Spanish tiles where bleached shingles had been--all
united in giving it the gayest, most modern air imaginable. A gravel
drive curved in beneath the new porte-cochere, inviting the wheels of my
car to explore. Grass had been put in order, flower-beds laid out. The
new dam was up, and the miniature lake no longer suggested a swamp. If
the place had appealed to me in its dreary neglect, now it held out its
arms to me and laughed an invitation.

As I stepped from my car, I heard running feet and a girl sped around
the veranda to meet me. She cast herself into my arms before I fairly
realized this was Phillida. A Phillida as new to my eyes as the house!
After the first greetings I held her off to analyze the change.

She was tanned and actually rosy. The corners of her once sad little
mouth turned up instead of down and developed--I looked twice--yes,
developed a dimple. The dull hair I always had seen brushed plainly
back, now was parted on one side and fluffed itself across her forehead
and about her cheeks with an astonishing effectiveness. She was attired
in a China-blue linen frock with a scarlet sash knotted in front quite
daringly, for Phillida.

"Why, Phil, how pretty we are!" I admired.

She looked up at me like a praised little girl, and smoothed the sash. I
noticed she wore above her wedding ring that "diamond" which once had
adorned Vere's finger so distastefully to me. It shone bravely in the
sunlight with quite a display of fire. Tracing my gaze, she held out her
hand for me to see.

"Yes, it was his, Cousin Roger. Of course, we have not very much money
yet, and I do not care about all the engagement rings that ever were
thought of. But, I was afraid people up here might notice that I had
none and think slightingly of Ethan. So I asked him, and we went to a
jeweler, who made it smaller to fit me. It is not a false stone, you
know. It is a white topaz, and I love it better than the biggest
diamond."

"Then you are still happy?"

"Forever and ever, world without end," she answered solemnly.

We went in.

Sun and sweet wind had worked white magic in the long-closed house.
Quaint furniture, no longer dust-grimed but lustrous with cleanliness
and polish, had quite a different air. Fresh upholstery in cheerful
tints, fresh paper on the walls, good rugs, order and daintiness
everywhere changed the interior out of my recognition. Already the
atmosphere of home and cheer was established.

"Come see your rooms," Phillida invited, enraptured by my admiration.
"They are so pretty!"

She ran up the stairs, around the passage, and ushered me into the room
of graceful adventure and grotesque nightmare. I stopped on the
threshold.

I had ordered the partition removed between the two chambers on this
side, giving me one large room. This, with the little bathroom attached,
occupied the entire large frontage of the house. This long, spacious
room; floors covered by my Chinese rugs, walls echoing the rugs'
smoke-blue, my piano in a bright corner, my special easychairs and
writing-table in their due places, welcomed me with such familiar
comfort that I could not identify the neglected chamber where I had
slept one night in the old bed with the four pineapple-topped posts. The
windows were opened, and white curtains with their over-draperies of
blue silk were swinging in and out on a fresh breeze where the Horror of
my dream had seemed to press itself against the black panes. Decidedly,
I must have had a bad attack of indigestion that night!

"See how nice?" Phillida was urging appreciation at my side. "We swung
those lovely old hangings from the arch, so they can be drawn across the
bedroom end of your room, if you like. Although I do not know why you
_should_ like, everything is so pretty! Your long Venetian mirror came
safely, and all your darling lamps. And--and I hope you like it so well,
Cousin Roger, that you will stay here always!"

When she left me alone, I walked to the different windows, contemplating
the stretches of lawn dotted with budding apple trees and the lake that
lay beyond shining in the sun. Was Phillida's charming wish to become a
fact, I wondered? Could this rest and calm hold me content here, where I
had meant merely to pause and pass on? I looked at the yellow country
road meandering past the lake into unseen distance. Should I ever see my
Lady of the Beautiful Tresses come that way, or travel that road to
where she lived? If I did meet her, would she forgive me the loss of her
braid? There would be a test for the sweetness of her disposition!

When a chiming dinner-gong summoned me downstairs, I found Vere awaiting
me beside Phillida. We shook hands, and he made some brief, pleasant
speech about their having expected me sooner. If pale, timid Phil had
become a surprising butterfly, Vere had taken the reverse progress
toward the sober grub. I like him better in outing clothes, although he
showed even more the unusual good looks which so unreasonably prejudiced
me against him. If he felt any strain in our meeting, his slow, tranquil
trick of speech and manner covered it. I hope I did as well! It was then
I discovered that his wife's pet name for him fitted like a glove. She
called him "Drawls."

The luncheon was good; cooked and served by a middle-aged Swedish woman
named Cristina. Afterward, I was conducted into the kitchen by the lady
of the house, to view the new fittings and improvements. Most odd and
pretty it was to see Phillida in that role of housewife, and to watch
her pride in Vere and deference to him. Let me record that I never saw
the daughter of Aunt Caroline fail in this settled course toward her
husband. Whether it was born of revulsion from her mother's hectoring
domestic methods, or of consciousness that outsiders might rate Vere
below his wife in station and education, so her respect for him must
forbid their slight, I do not know. But I never saw her oppose him or
speak rudely to him before other people. I suppose they may have had the
usual conjugal differings, neither of them being angelic. If so, no
outsider ever glimpsed the fact.

We spoke of nothing serious on that first day. They both showed me the
various improvements finished or progressing, indoors or out.

We dined as agreeably as we had lunched. Quite early, afterward, I
excused myself, and left together the two who were still on their
honeymoon.

At the door of my room, I pushed a wall-switch that lighted
simultaneously three lamps. In this I had repeated the arrangement used
by me for years in my city apartment. I have a demand for light
somewhere in my make-up, and no reason for not indulging it. There
flashed out of the dusk a large lamp upon my writing-table, a tall
floor-lamp beside the piano, and a reading-lamp on a stand beside my bed
at the far end of the room. All three were shaded in a smoke-blue and
rose-color effect that long since had caught my fancy for night work;
the shades inset with imitation semi-precious stones, rough-cut things
of sapphire, tourmaline-pink and baroque pearl.

I lay emphasis upon this, to make clear how normal, serene and even
familiar in effect was the room into which I came. Yet, as I closed the
door behind me and stood in that softly brilliant radiance, a shudder
shook me from head to foot with the violence of an electric shock. A
sense of suffocation caught at my throat like an unseen hand.

Both sensations were gone in the time of a drawn breath, leaving only
astonishment in their wake. Presently I went on with the purpose that
had brought me upstairs; lifting a portfolio to the table and beginning
to unpack the work which I had been doing in New York. As I laid out the
first sheets of music, there drifted to my ears that vague sound from
the lake I had heard on my first night visit here, while I stood on the
tumble-down porch. The sound that was like the smack of glutinous lips,
or some creature drawing itself out of thick, viscid slime. As before, I
wondered what movement of the shallow waters could produce that result.
Not the tide, now, for the new dam was up and the lake cut off from Long
Island Sound. The pouring of the waterfall flowed on as a reminder of
that fact.

The sound was not repeated. The dusk outside the windows offered nothing
unusual to be seen. I finished my unpacking and sat down at my
writing-table.

I am not accustomed to heed time. There never has been anyone to care
what hours I kept, and I work best at night. Midnight was long past when
I thought of rest.

I declare that I thought of nothing more; not even recalling the vague
unease felt on entering the room. A day spent in the fresh air, followed
by an evening of hard work and journeyings between the piano and table,
had left me utterly weary. When I lay down, it was to sleep at once.




CHAPTER VI

     "I have made a story that hath not been heard;
     A great feat of arms that hath not been seen!"
                                        --AMENEMHE'ET.


I woke slowly. It seemed that I struggled to wakefulness as a spent
swimmer struggles toward shore. Up, up through deep poles of sleep I
dragged myself, driven by some dimly sensed necessity. Peril had stolen
upon me in my unconsciousness, a stalking beast. I knew that with
nightmare certainty. It was as if my soul stood affrighted beside my
brain, wailing upon its ally to arouse and stand with it against the
menace. And my brain answered, but with infinite difficulty; like a
drugged warrior who hears the clang of battle and forces numbed limbs to
stir, arise and grasp the sword.

I was awake. Suddenly; the swimmer reaching the surface!

How shall I describe Fear incarnate? The Horror was at the open window
opposite the foot of my bed, staring in upon me with slavering
covetousness of the prey It watched. I lay there, and felt It seek for
me across the darkness with tentacles of evil that groped for some part
of me upon which It might lay hold.

The room was still. Between the draperies, the window showed nothing to
the eye except a dark square faintly tinged with the night luminance of
the sky. There was nothing to see; nothing to hear. But gradually I
became aware of a hideous odor of mould and mildew, of must and damp
decay that loaded the air with disgust.

I lay there, and opposed the approach of the Thing with all the will of
resistance in me. The sweat poured from my whole body, so that I lay as
in water and the drenched linen of my sleeping-suit clung coldly to me.

It could not pass the defense of my will. I felt the malevolent fury of
Its striving. Like the antennae of some monstrous insect brushing about
my body, I felt Its evil desires wavering about my mental self,
examining, searching where It might seize. It had not yet found the
weakness It sought. If It did----?

The sickening, vault-like air I must breathe fought for It. So did the
darkness. All this time, or the time that seemed so long, I had no more
command of my body than a cataleptic patient. Every ounce of force in me
had rushed to support the two warriors of the battle: the brain and will
that opposed the clutching menace. But now, as I grew more and more
fully awake, out of very loathing and danger I drew determination.
Slowly, painfully, I began to free my right arm and hand from this
paralysis.

As I advanced in resolution, the Thing seemed to recoil. Inch by inch, I
moved my hand across the bed toward my reading-lamp on the stand beside
me. In proportion as I moved, the dreadful tentacles drew back and away.
A last effort, and the chain was in my fingers. I jerked spasmodically.

Rosy light from the lamp flashed over the room. All the quiet comfort of
the place sprang into view as if to reassure me; the piano open as I had
left it, the table strewn with my evening's work, each bit of furniture,
each drapery or trinket undisturbed.

The Thing was gone. In the hush I heard my panting breath and the tick
of my watch on the stand. It was two o'clock in the morning. As I
mechanically read the hour, a cock somewhere shrilled its second call
before dawn. The Horror had been true to the legendary time of
apparitions.

Weak and chilled, I presently made an attempt to rise. But at the
movement, a wave of sickness swept through me. The room seemed to rock
and swing. I had just time to recognize the grip of faintness before I
fell back on the pillow.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vivifying sweetness was in my nostrils, which expanded avidly for this
new air. Perfume that was a tonic, a subtle elixir; that sparkled upon
the senses, sank suavely and healingly through me, so that I seemed to
draw refreshment with each breath. Reluctantly, I aroused more and more
in response to this unusual stimulant; which somehow gave delicious rest
yet drew me from it into life.

I could have sworn someone had touched me. With some exclamation on my
lips, I started up; to find myself in darkness. The lamps I had left
lighted burned no longer.

This time there was no terror in my awakening. No Thing of nightmare
pressed against my window-space. The fragrance persisted; the ghastly
smell of mould and corruption was gone. But I wanted light for all that!
Reaching for the lamp beside me on its stand, I found the little chain.
I felt the chain draw in my fingers and heard the click that should have
meant light; but no answering brightness sprang up.

Instead, across the dark came a voice; a voice low-pitched, soft without
weakness, keen with exultation:

"Victory! Victory! You have no need of light--who conquered in darkness!
The Enemy has fled. It has covered the Unspeakable Eyes from the eyes of
a man. By the will of a man Its will has been forbidden. It has dragged
Itself back to the Barrier and cowers there for this time. Oh, soldier
on the dreadful Frontier, be proud, putting off your armor tonight! Be
proud, and rest."

Those practical people who are never unnerved by the intangible, may
gauge if they can the weirdness of this address following my first
experience, and then smile their contempt of me. For I confess to a
moment of uncanny chill. The voice was that of the woman who had trailed
her braid of hair into my grasp, the night I first slept here. But, how
did she know of the Thing's visit to me? I had not spoken nor uttered a
cry throughout Its visitation. How could she have knowledge of that
silent struggle between It and me, or of my escape so narrowly won. How,
unless she too----?

I groped for a glass of water left on my stand. I drank, and felt my dry
throat relax.

"Who are you?" I asked.

A sigh trembled toward me.

"I am one who stands on the threshold of your beautiful world, as a
traveler stands outside a lighted palace, gazing where she may not
enter, and feeling the winter about her."

"Do not suppose me quite a superstitious fool," I said bruskly. "You are
a woman. The woman who left a very real braid of hair in my hands, not
long ago, to save herself from capture!"

"Yes. Yet, I am neither more nor less real than the One which came for
you a while since."

"Then my nightmare was real? A thing of flesh and blood, or clever
mechanism? You know it. Perhaps you produced it?"

The rush of my angry suspicion dashed in useless heat against her cool
melancholy.

"Real? What is real?" she challenged me. "Turn to the sciences that you
should understand better than I, and ask. Stretch out your arm. For a
million years men have vowed you touch empty air. They saw and felt it
empty. But now a child knows air swarms with life. In that thin
nothingness, crowd and move the distributors of death, disease, health,
vigor--existence itself. The water you have just tasted is pure and
clear in the glass? Pure? Each drop is an ocean of inhabitants clean and
unclean. I speak commonplaces. But is there no knowledge not yet
commonplace? Oh man, with all the unfathomed universe about us, _dare_
you pronounce what is real?"

"What is natural," I began.

She interrupted me.

"Doubtless what is not natural cannot and does not exist. Have you,
then, measured Nature? He was a great thinker, one of deep knowledge,
who compared Man to a child wandering on the shore of a vast ocean and
picking up a pebble here and there."

"Of what would you convince me? And, why?"

"Of what? Danger! Why? Would you watch a man enter a jungle where some
hideous beast crouched in ambush, while you neither warned nor armed
him? I am here to turn you back. I am the native of that country who
runs to cry warning to a stranger; to put into his hand the weapon of
understanding."

So solemn, so urgent a sincerity was in her voice, that again chill
touched me. The clammy dampness of my garments hung on my limbs as a
reminder of the Thing, real or unreal, that twice had made Its presence
felt beyond denial. Wild as her words might be, their incredible
suggestion was matched by my experience. I sought with my eyes for her,
before answering. The room was dark, yet the darker bulk of furniture
loomed out enough to be distinguishable. No figure was visible, even
traced by the direction of her voice. I was certain that any movement to
seek her would mean her flight.

"Do you mean that you want me to go away from this place?" I questioned.

The sigh came again, just audibly.

"Yes. Why should you die?"

Was I wrong in fancying the sigh regretful? Did I not hear a wistful
reluctance in her tone? Excitement ran along my veins like burning oil
on flowing water. The woman hidden in the dark, the association of her
voice with the strange, exquisite fragrance I breathed, the thought of
beauty in her born of that lovely braid of hair I had seized--all
blended in a spell of human magic. I have said I was a man much alone,
and a lame man who craved adventure.

"Just now," I said, "you spoke of some victory. You called me--soldier."

"Is it not victory to have driven back the Dark One? Is he not a soldier
who, aroused in the night to meet dreadful assault, sets his face to the
enemy and battles front to front? Before the Eyes men and women have
died or lost reason, or fled across half the world, broken by fear. What
are the wars of man with man, compared with a man's battle against the
Unknown? I honor you! I salute you! But--soldier alone on the forbidden
Frontier, go! Join your fellows in the world alloted to you; live, nor
seek to tread where mankind is not sent."

"How can there be wrong in facing a situation that I did not cause?"

"There is no wrong. There is danger."

"What danger?" I persisted.

"Can you ask me?" she retorted with a hint of impatience. "You who have
felt Its grope toward your inner spirit?"

I shuddered, remembering the brush of those antennae, exploring,
examining! But I persisted, beyond my every-day nature. Her speech was
for me like that liquor distilled from honey that inflamed the Norsemen
to war fury.

"You say I came off victor," I reminded her.

"Yes. But can you conquer again, and again, and again? Will you not feel
strength fail, health break, madness creep close? Will you not be worn
down by the Thing that knows no weariness and fall its prey at last?"

"It will come--often?"

"Until one conquers, It will come."

I forced away a qualm of panic.

"How can you know?" I demanded.

"Ask me not. I do know."

"But, look here!" I argued. "If as you say, this creature was not meant
to meet mankind, how can It come after me this way?"

She seemed to pause, finally answering with reluctance:

"Because, two centuries ago one of the race of man here broke through
the awful Barrier that rears a wall between human kind and those dark
forms of life to which It belongs. For know that a human will to evil
can force a breach in that Barrier, which those on the other side never
could pass without such aid."

I neither understood nor believed. At least, I told myself that I did
not believe her wild, legendary explanation of the nightmare Thing that
visited me. I did not want to believe. Neither did I wish to offend her
by saying so!

"You will go," she presently mistook my silence for surrender. "You are
wise as well as brave. Good go with you! Good walk beside you in that
happy world where you live!"

"Wait!" I cried sharply. Her voice had seemed to recede from me, a
retreating whisper at the last word. "No! I will not go. I must--I will
know more of you. You are no phantom. Who are you? Where--when can I see
you in daylight?"

"Never."

"Why not?"

"I came to hold a light before the dreadful path. The warning is given."

"But you will come again?"

"Never."

"What? The Thing will come, and not you?"

"What have I to do with It, who am more helpless before It than you? Go;
and give thanks that you may."

"Listen," I commanded, as firmly as I could. "I am not going away from
this house without better reason. All this is too sudden and too new to
me. If you have more knowledge than I, you have no right to desert me
half-convinced of what I should do."

"I can stay no longer."

"Why can you not come again?"

"You plan to trap me," she reproached.

"No. Word of honor! You shall come and go as you please; I will not make
a movement toward you."

"Not try--to see me, even?" she hesitated.

"Not even that, if you forbid."

There was a long pause.

"Perhaps----" drifted to me, a faint distant word on the wind that had
begun to stir the tree-branches and flutter through my room.

She was gone. There sounded a click whose meaning did not at once strike
me, intent as I was upon the girl. Twice I spoke to her, receiving no
reply, before judging that I might rise without breaking my promise.
Then I recognized the click of a moment before, as that of the electric
switch beside my door. No doubt she had turned off my lights at her
entrance and now restored them. I pulled the chain of my reading-lamp,
and this time light flashed over the room.

I had known no one would be there, and no one was. Yet I was
disappointed.

As I drew on my dressing-gown I heard a clock downstairs strike four.
Not a breath or a step stirred in the house. The damp freshness of
coming dawn crept in my windows, bringing scents of tansy and
bitter-sweet from the fields to strive against the unknown fragrance in
my room. The melancholy depression of the hour weighed upon me. Beneath
the gentle strife of sweet odors, my nostrils seemed to detect a lurking
foulness of mould and decay.

I sat down at my desk, to wait beside the lamp for the coming of
sunrise.




CHAPTER VII

     "For it is well known that Peris and such delicate beings live upon
     sweet odours as food; but all evil spirits abominate
     perfumes."--ORIENTAL MYTHOLOGY.


The breakfast bell, or rather Phillida's Chinese chimes, merrily
summoned me to the dining-room; a homely spell to exercise the phantoms
of the night.

My little cousin, rosy beyond belief, trim in white middy blouse and
blue skirt, was already in her place behind the coffeepot. Vere sat
opposite her at the round table. They were holding hands across the
rolls and bacon and eggs, their glances interlocked in a shining content
that made my solitariness rather drab and dull to my own contemplation.
At my clumsy step the picture dissolved, of course. Vere rose while
Phillida welcomed me to my chair and went into a young housewife's
pretty solicitude about my fruit and hot eggs.

The sun glinted across the table. The very servant had a smiling air of
enjoying the occasion. I never had a more pleasant breakfast. A big
brindle cat purred on the window-sill beside Phillida; no dainty Persian
or Angora, but a battered veteran whose nicked ears and scarred tail
proved him a battling cat of ring experience.

"I planned to have a wee white kitten," Phil explained, while putting a
saucer of milk before the feline tough. "One that would wear a ribbon,
you know. You remember, Cousin Roger, how Mother always forbade pets
because she believed animals carry germs? I meant to have a puss, if
ever I had a home of my own. This one just walked into the kitchen on
the first day we came here. Ethan said it was a lucky sign when a cat
came to a new home. He gave it the meat out of his sandwiches that we
had brought for lunch, and it stayed. So I decided to keep it instead of
a kitten. It really is more cat!"

What footing was here for dreary terrors? In a mirror across the room I
glimpsed my own countenance looking quite as usual. No over-night white
hairs appeared; no upstanding look such as the legend gave to Sir
Sintram after he met the Little Master.

After the meal, Vere asked me to walk over to the lake with him.

We strolled through the old orchard toward the dam. This was my side of
the house. In passing, I looked up at the window against which the Thing
had seemed to press Itself with sickening lust for me. Phillida was
framed in the open square, and shook a dustcloth at us by way of
greeting and evidence of her busyness.

The wide, shallow lake lay almost without movement, except at the head
of the dam. There the water poured over with foam and tumult, an
amber-brown cataract some twenty-odd feet across, to rush on below in a
winding stream that grew calmer as it flowed.

"We must put our lake in order, Vere," I observed, as we stood on a
knoll at the head of the dam. "All this growth of rank vegetation ought
to be pulled up, the banks graded and turfed perhaps, the bottom cleaned
up. Water-lilies would look better than cat-tails."

To my surprise, he did not assent. Instead, he set his foot on a boulder
and rested his arm upon his knee; looking into the clear water.

"Mr. Locke, I just about hate saying what I have to," he told me in his
sober, leisurely fashion. "I expect you won't like it; not at all.
Well--best said before you get deeper in. I can't see my way to make
farming this place pay."

I was bitterly disappointed. Even at the worst estimate of Vere, I had
imagined he would stick the thing out a little longer than this. Poor
Phillida's time of happiness should have lasted more than these few
weeks. But the call of New York, of the "lounge lizard's" ease and
unhealthy excitement had won already, it seemed. I said nothing at all.
The blow was too sore.

"There are too few acres of arable land, and they're used up," Vere was
continuing. "I've seen plenty of impoverished, run-out farms in New
England. You could pour money into the soil out of a gold pitcher these
five years to come, before it began to pay you back. And then your money
might better have been put anywhere in bank, for profit! I saw that, the
first week here. Since then I've been looking around for something
better to do."

"And have found it, of course," I said bitingly. "Or else you would be
drawing your salary as manager and saying nothing to me of all this!
Well, where does poor Phil go, and when?"

He turned his dark-curled head and regarded me with calm surprise.

"I didn't exactly know that my wife was going anywhere, Mr. Locke."

"What? You do not mean to leave the farm?"

"Not unless you're tired of our bargain. I've been calculating how to
make it pay. That won't be by planting corn and potatoes and taking a
wagon-load into town! If you think I'm wrong, call in any practical man
who knows this sort of business. We've got to think closer to win here.
That's why I'd like to set the lake to work instead of just prettying it
up."

"The lake, Vere? There isn't enough water-power over the dam to do any
more than run a toy, is there?"

He motioned me nearer to where he stood gazing down.

"Notice what kind of water this is, Mr. Locke? Brown like forest water,
sort of green-lighted because the bottom is like turf; neither mud nor
sand, but a kind of under-water moss? You see? It's pure and clean, with
a little fishy smell about it. Matter of fact, it is forest water! Comes
from way off yonder, the stream does, before it spreads out into our
lake, here. I borrowed a boat and followed back two miles before it got
too shallow for me. Boys have caught trout here three times since I've
been watching."

"Well?"

"My father was fish-warden in our district. I learned the business. If
you're willing, I can start some trout-raising that ought to pay well.
You know, the State is glad to help game preserving, free."

He proceeded to give me a brief lecture on the subject, in his quiet,
unpretentious manner; producing notes and diagrams from his pockets. He
had written to various authorities and exhibited their replies. He knew
exactly what the State would do, what he himself must do, and what
investment of money would be required. I listened to him in admiration
and astonishment.

From fish raising, he went on to discuss each acre of the farm; its best
use in view of its situation, condition, and our needs. We could afford
so much labor, it appeared, and no more. We must have certain apparatus;
methodically listed with prices. If we used a certain sheltered south
field for a peach orchard, the trees planted should be such an age and
have giant-powder blast deep beds for them in order that they might soon
bear fruit.

When at last he ended his deceptive speech that sounded so lazy while
implying so much energy, and turned his black eyes from the papers on
his knee to my face, I had been routed long since.

"Vere," I said abruptly, "did you know that I thought you were going to
desert the farm, when you began to speak?"

He nodded.

"Yes, I guess so. You don't exactly like me; haven't had any occasion
to! You don't judge me a fit match for your cousin. Well, neither would
anyone else, yet!"

He began to gather his papers together, his attention divided with them
while he finished his answer:

"There will be plenty of time before that 'yet' runs out. Mighty
pleasant time, thanks to you, Mr. Locke! Phillida and I expect to enjoy
building things up as much as we'll enjoy it after they're all built.
Meantime, I prize what you're doing all the more because I know how you
feel. Now, if you'd be interested to look over these plans or submit
them to someone you've confidence in, for inspection, I'll just turn
them over to you."

He had so accurately measured me that I was disconcerted. It was quite
true that he was compelling my respect, while my first dislike of him
still obstinately lurked in the background of my mind. I felt
ungenerous, but I would not lie to him.

"I am a queer fellow, Vere," I said. "Leave that to time, as you say! As
for the plans, they are far beyond my scope. A city man, it has been my
way to 'phone for an expert when anything was to be done, or to buy what
I fancied and pay the bills. In this case, you are the expert. The plans
seem brilliant to me. Certainly they are moderate in cost. Keep them,
and carry them out as soon as that may be done. You are master here, not
I."

We walked back together through the sun and freshness of the early
spring morning. As we neared the house Phillida's voice hailed us. She
was at my window again, leaning out with her hair wind-ruffled about her
face.

"Cousin Roger," she summoned me, "I have found out what makes your room
as sweet as a garden of spices. See what it is to be a composer
completely surrounded by royalties, able to buy the most gorgeous scents
to lay on one's pillow! And all enclosed in antique gold!"

She held up some small object that shone in the sunlight. "Throw it
down," I begged, startled into excitement.

She complied, laughing. Vere sprang forward, but I made a quicker step
and caught the thing.

It was one of those filigree balls of gold wrought into openwork, about
the size of a walnut, that fine ladies used to wear swung from a chain
or ribbon and call a pomander. The toy held a chosen perfume or essence
supposed to be reviving in case miladi felt a swoon or megrim about to
overwhelm her; as ladies did in past centuries and do no longer.

Whose gentle pity had brought this pomander to my pillow, to help me
from that faintness which had followed my struggle with the Thing? Whose
was the exquisite, individual fragrance contained in the ball I held? I
had a vision of a figure, surely light and soft of movement, haloed with
such matchless hair as the braid I had captured, stealing step by timid
step across my room; within my reach while I lay inert. Perhaps her face
had bent near mine in her doubt of my life or death; hidden eyes had
studied me in the scanty starlight.

Oh, for Ethan Vere's good looks and athlete's grace, to lure my lady
from her masquerade!

"Where did you buy it, Cousin Roger? 'Fess up!" Phillida's merry voice
coaxed me.

"It was given to me," I slowly answered. "I cannot offer it to you,
Phil. But I will buy any other pretty thing you fancy, instead, next
time I go to town."

She made a gesture of disclaim.

"I did not mean _that_! Only, do tell me what the perfume is?"

"I was going to ask if you knew."

"No. Something very expensive and imported, I suppose. Perhaps whoever
gave it to you had it made for herself alone, as some wealthy women do.
It is the most clinging, yet delicately refreshing scent I ever met."

"Tuberose," suggested Vere.

"Drawls, no. How can you? Like an old-fashioned funeral!" she cried.

"Tuberose didn't always go to funerals," he corrected her teasingly, as
she made a face at him. "I remember them growing in my Aunt Bathsheba's
garden. Creamy looking posies, kind of kin to a gardenia, seems to me!
Thick-petalled, like white plush, and holding their sweet smell
everlastingly. But Mr. Locke's perfumery isn't just that, either. There
was something else grew in that garden--I can't call to mind what I
mean. Basil, maybe?"

"The basil plant, that feeds on dead men's brains," quoted Phil with a
mock shiver. "You _are_ happy in your ideals, Drawls!"

He laughed.

"Well, that garden smelled pretty fine when the dew was just warming up
in the sun, mornings--and so does this little gilt ball! I'll guess Mr.
Locke's lady never got it from France. Smells like old New England."

There was no reason why a vague chill should creep over me, or the
sunshine seem to darken as if a thin veil drifted between me and the
surrounding brightness. Let me say again that no place could have been
more unlike the traditional haunted house. There hung about it no sense
of morbidity or depression. Yet, what was I to think? I was not sick or
mad; and the Thing had come to me twice. I turned from the married
lovers and made my way to the veranda, where I might be alone to
consider the pomander whose perfume was like a diaphanous presence
walking beside me.

Seated there, in one of the deep willow-chairs Phillida had cushioned in
peacock chintz and marked especially mine by laying my favorite
magazines on its arm, I studied my new trophy of the night. There was a
satisfaction in its material solidity. It was real enough, resting in my
palm.

Yes; but it was not ordinary among its quaint kind! As I picked out the
design of the gold-work, that fact was borne in upon my mind. Here was
no pattern of scroll or blossom or cupids and hearts. The small sphere
was belted with the signs of the Zodiac, beautiful in minute perfection.
All the rest of the globe was covered with lace-fine work repeating one
group of characters over and over. I was not learned enough to tell what
the characters were, but the whole plainly belonged to those strange,
outcast academies of astrology, alchemy--magic, in short. It contained
what appeared to be a pinkish ball; originally a scented paste rolled
round and dried, I judged by peering through the interstices of the
gold.

Had the old-world trinket been left to bewilder me? Why, and by whom?
What interest had my lady of the dark in elaborately deceiving me? Why
muffle her identity in mystery? Why the indefinable quaintness of
language, the choice of words that made her speech so different from
even the college-bred Phillida's?

She urged me to leave the house. If she, or anyone associated with her
wanted the place left vacant for some reason, why did not the Thing and
the warning come to others of our household group? Vere, Phillida, the
Swedish woman, Cristina--all had lived here for weeks without any
experiences like mine. I had not been told to leave my room, but the
house. The danger, then, was only for me?

Well, was I to run away, hands over my eyes, at the first alarm?

The gray cat came purring about me and presently leaped upon my knee. On
impulse, I offered the pomander to its nostrils. The unwinking yellow
eyes shut, the beast's powerful claws closed and unclosed with
convulsive pleasure, it breathed with that thirsty eagerness for the
scent so familiar to my own senses.

"Better than catnip, Bagheera?" I questioned. "You wouldn't bolt from
it, either, would you?"

Phillida's battered pet relaxed luxuriously, by way of answer, sniffed
toward the hand I withdrew, and composed itself to sleep. I put the
pomander in my waistcoat pocket.

I could not deny as mere nightmare the Thing which had visited me.
Better confront that fact! It was real. Only, real in what sense? What
human agency could produce an effect so frightful, an illusion so
hideous that I could scarcely bear to recall it here in full daylight,
without the use of a sight or sound to confuse the brain?

Had the girl told the truth in her wild explanation? A truth hinted at
by alchemists, Pythagoreans, Rosicrucians, pale students of sorcery and
magnificent charlatans, these many centuries? Were there other races
between earth and heaven; strange tribes of the middle spaces whose
destinies were fixed and complete as our own, but between whose lives
and ours were fixed barriers not to be crossed? Had I met one of these
beings, inimical to man as a cobra, intelligent as man, hunting Its
victim by methods unknown to us?

Was I a cheated fool, or a pioneer on the borders of a new country?

Could I meet that Thing tonight, and tomorrow night? Could I bear the
agony of Its presence, the stench of death and corruption that was Its
atmosphere? At the mere memory my forehead grew wet.

The postman's buggy had stopped at our mailbox. Phillida ran down to
meet the event of the morning. Her laughing chatter came back to me
while she waited, fists thrust in middy pockets, for the old man to sort
our letters from his bags. It did not appear so hard to make a woman
happy, I mused. A man might attempt it with hope, if he could but
persuade her to try him.

My lady had promised to come again. Perhaps, with patience----?

Phillida came across the lawn with an armful of gaudy-covered catalogues
and a handful of letters.

"Catalogues for Ethan; letters for you," she called in advance of her
arrival. "What an important person you are, Cousin Roger! It always
gives me a quivery thrill to realize _who_ you are as well as how nice
you are. Now, isn't that a jumbled speech to tumble out of me?"

I took her tanned little hand along with the letters; letters that were
so many voices summoning me back to pleasant, busy Manhattan.

"It is a fine speech for a humble person to answer, Phil! But does that
sort of thing matter to you women? What do you love Vere for, at bottom?
Because he is strong and supple and has curly hair? No?" as she shook
her head. "Because he has worn the uniform, then; proved his courage in
war at sea? Because he had the glamour about him of real adventure and
cabaret glitter? Or because he took you away from a life you hated? Or,
perhaps, because he is kind and loves you? No! For none of these
reasons? Why, then, love Ethan Vere?"

She stopped vigorously shaking her head in repeated denial, and smiled
at me triumphantly.

"Because he _is_ Ethan Vere," she promptly responded. "Oh, Cousin Roger,
you clever people are so stupid! It would not make any difference at all
if Drawls were ugly, or never had been a sailor, or could not skate or
do things, or had not been able to make me happy. It is something very
much bigger than all that!"

"And all the divorce courts, Phil? The breach of promise suits, and the
couples who make each other miserable?"

"But they never had anything," she said. "Perhaps they will have it,
some day. Don't you know, Cousin Roger, that the most important things
in the world are those most people never know about?"

I was not sure whether I knew that, or not. After last night, I was not
sure of many things. Still, if such gifts were given as she believed, if
it was merely a question of being Ethan Vere--or Roger Locke----?

But I had never seriously considered leaving the adventure.




CHAPTER VIII

     "The heart is a small thing, but desireth great matters. It is not
     sufficient for a kite's dinner, yet the whole world is not
     sufficient for it."--HUGO DE ANIMA.


That evening Vere and I settled the business details of the developments
he had planned. Also while we three were quietly together, I launched a
discussion that had been gathering in my mind all day while I watched
Phillida.

"You are doing as efficient work as Vere," I told her. "In fact, you are
a most moderate pair! I gave you an open bank account, Phil; and you
have furnished the house for so little that I am amazed. And it is all
so gay, so freshly pretty! Being an ignorant man, the details are beyond
me. But--one servant? Aren't you working yourself too hard? I had
expected you to need several. Of course, we are not counting Vere's
outdoor force."

She turned in her low chair beside the lamp and glanced toward the
window behind her, before replying. I noticed the action, because a
moment before Vere had turned precisely the same way.

"It is good of you to think of those things, Cousin Roger," she
declared. "But, I want to be a real wife to Drawls. I do, indeed! And I
have it all to learn because I was not brought up for that. Look at this
dish-towel I am hemming. Cristina would laugh at the stitches if she
dared, yet they are better than when I began. Some day I shall sew fine
things. So it is with all my housekeeping. I think we should begin as we
mean to go on, so I have furnished the house for--us. Perhaps if it had
been for you alone, I should have chosen satin-wood and tapestry instead
of willow and cretonne. The same way about Cristina. If Ethan and I are
to save and earn this lovely place, as you offered, we cannot afford
more than one maid. You understand what I am trying to explain, don't
you?"

"Yes," I assented. "Surely! What were you looking for, just now, behind
you?"

"I? Oh, nothing! I just fancied someone had passed by the window and
stared in. I can't imagine what made me fancy that. Unless the cat----"
She hesitated.

"Bagheera is asleep under Mr. Locke's chair," Vere observed casually.

"Truly, Cousin Roger, I love the way we are living," she resumed. "It is
very miserable of me, I daresay, not to be more intellectual after all
Father and Mother labored with me. But it is so! I want to live this way
all my life; to be busy, and plan things with Ethan, and make them come
true together."

Under cover of the table she put her hand into Vere's, and silence held
us a little while. I watched Bagheera the cat, who sat beside my chair
staring with unblinking yellow eyes toward the window across the room.
Did I imagine a slight uneasiness in those eyes, a wary readiness in
gathered limbs and muscles bulking under the old cat's scant fur? Now
the tail twitched with a lashing movement.

Presently Bagheera looked away and relaxed. A moment more, and he curled
down, composing himself to sleep.

"You like the place, Phil?" I questioned. "You do not find it lonely
here, or in any way depressing?"

The candor of her surprise told me that no dweller between the worlds
had visited her.

"Cousin Roger? This darling house? Why?"

I passed that question safely, and after a few minutes bade them
good-night. They had a fashion of gazing at one another that made it a
matter of necessary kindness to leave them alone together.

As I made my solitary way upstairs, I will not deny a growing
excitement, or that dread fought with my resolution. Who would keep
tryst with me tonight? The Horror or the lady? Both; as each time
before? If so, which one would come first, and what might be my measure
of success or failure? If some trick were being played upon me, I meant
to pluck it out of the mystery.

The quietly pleasant room received me without a hint of the unusual. I
lighted the lamps and sat down to my work.

The house was still by ten o'clock, all lights out except mine. At
midnight I lay down in the dark, the pomander under my pillow. Whether I
put the gold ball there from sentiment, or from some absurd fancy about
its perfume and mystic carving being somehow a talisman against evil, or
because I feared the trinket might be taken from me during the night, I
should be troubled to answer. I did place it there, and lay lapped in
its sweet odor while the moments dragged past; heavy, slow-footed
moments of strain and dreadful expectation scarcely relieved by a hope
uneasy as fear.

The cock crowed for the first hour; and for the second. I slept, at
last. When I awoke, level sun-rays were striking across the world.

Nothing had happened.




CHAPTER IX

     "These Macedonians are a rude and clownish people that call a spade
     a spade."--PLUTARCH.


Next morning, I took my car and began a systematic investigation of the
neighborhood. There proved to be few houses within reasonable distance
where such a woman as my lady could be lodged. However, I made my
cautious inquiries even where the quest seemed useless, resolved to
leave no chance untried. No better plan occurred to me than exhibition
of the pomander with a vague story of wishing to return it to a young
lady with red-gold hair. But nowhere did a native show recognition of
the top or the description.

On my way home I overtook a familiar, travel-stained buggy that inspired
me with a fresh disrespect for my own abilities. Why had I not put my
question to our rural mail deliverer in the beginning? Surely here was a
man who knew everyone and went everywhere!

The old white horse rolled placid eyes toward the car that drew up
beside it, then returned to cropping the young grass by the roadside.
The postman looked up from the leather sack open before him, and nodded
to me.

"Morning, Mr. Locke," he greeted. "Now let me get the right stuff into
this here box, an' I'll sort your family's right out for you. There's a
sample package of food sworn to make hens lay or kill 'em, for Cliff
Brown here, that's gone to the bottom of the bag. I don't know but
Cliff's poultry'd thank me to leave it be! Up it's got to come, though!"

"Will it make them lay?" I asked, watching the ruddy old face peering
into the sack.

"I guess it might, if Cliff told 'em they'd have to lay or eat it,
judgin' from the smell that sample's put in my bag."

"Not as sweet as this?" I suggested, and leaned across to lay the
pomander in his gnarled hand.

The familiar expression of acute, almost greedy pleasure flowed into his
face. His nostrils expanded with eager intake of the perfume that seemed
an elixir of delight. He said nothing, absorbed in sensation.

"Do you know of a lady who wears that scent?" I asked. "A lady with
bright fair hair, colored like copper-bronze?"

"Not I!" he denied briefly.

"No one at all like that--with hair warmer in shade than ordinary gold
color, and a lot of it?"

"No. Not around here, nor anywhere I've been! What do you call this
perfumery, Mr. Locke?"

"I have no idea," I answered, sharply disappointed. "No one knows except
the young lady I am trying to find. Are you sure you cannot help me at
all? There is no newcomer in the neighborhood, no visitor at any house
who might be the one I am looking for?"

He shook his head, giving back the pomander with marked reluctance.

"No one who might be able to tell more than yourself?" I persisted.

A gleam of humor lit his eyes. He dropped a cardboard cylinder into Mr.
Clifford Brown's mailbox and began to sort out my letters.

"Far as that goes, I guess Mis' Hill don't miss much of what goes on
around here. When she hears a good bit of tattle, she has her husband
hitch up, and she goes drivin' all day. Ain't a house she knows that
don't get to hear the whole yarn! You know Mis' Royal Hill? Mis' Vere
gets butter and cheese from her. Might ask her!"

I thanked him and drove on.

Mrs. Hill, garrulous wife of the farmer who owned the place next to
ours, was on her porch when I came to a halt before the house. She
granted me more interest than the other natives upon whom I had called
that morning; inviting me into her parlor to "set," when she had
identified me. But she knew nothing of the object of my quest.

"I guessed you must be the new owner up to the Michell place," she
observed, her beady, faded brown eyes busy with my appearance, picking
up details in avid, darting little glances suggestive of a bird pecking
crumbs. "Cliff Brown said a lame feller had bought it. I don't see as
that little limp cripples you much, the way you can rampus 'round in
that fast automobile of yours! Now, I'm perfectly sound, and I wouldn't
be paid to drive the thing. You'd ought to get the other fellow to run
it for you; the handsome one. I guess you like to do it, though? Writer,
ain't you? Books or newspapers?"

I rallied my scattered faculties to answer the machine-gun attack.

"Music?" she echoed, her narrow, sun-dried face wrinkling into new lines
of inquisitiveness. "They said you had a piano in your bedroom, but I
thought they were just foolin' me! Seems I never heard of havin' a piano
upstairs. Most folks like to show 'em off in the parlor. Must be kind of
funny, takin' your company upstairs to play for 'em. But then it's kind
of a funny thing for a man to take to, anyhow! I got a niece ten years
old next August who can play piano so good there don't seem anythin'
left to learn her, so----! But there ain't no use of you drivin' 'round
here lookin' for a fair-headed girl, Mr. Locke. The Slav folk down in
the shanties by the post road are about the only light-complected ones
in this neighborhood. Somehow, we run mostly to plain brown. Senator
Allen has two girls, but they're only home from a boardin' school for
vacation. How do you like your place?"

"Very much," I assured her. "Only, I do not know a great deal about it,
yet. Its history, I mean. Are there any interesting stories about the
house? You know, we city people like a nice legend or ghost story to
tell our friends when they come to visit us."

She chuckled, swinging in her plush-covered rocking-chair, arms folded
on her meagre breast.

"Guess you'll have to make one up! I never heard of none. The Michell
family always owned it--and they were so stiff respectable an' upright
everyone was scared of 'em! Most of the men were clergymen in their
time. The last, Reverend Cotton Mather Michell, went abroad to foreign
parts for missionary work with the heathen, twenty-odd years ago; an'
died there. He never married, so the family's run out. The Michells were
awful hard on women; called 'em vessels of wrath an' beguilers of Adam.
Preached it right out of the pulpit--so I guess no girl in these parts
could have been hired to wed with him, if he'd wanted. His mother died
when he was born, so he'd had no softenin' influence. After news came of
his death, the house was shut up 'till you bought it. My, how you've
changed it, already! I'd admire to go through it."

When I had invited her to call on Phillida and inspect our domicile, and
paid due thanks for information received, she followed me out to the
car.

"All this land 'round here is old and full of Indian relics," she
remarked. "Over to the Sound where the swamps used to be, there was lots
of fightin' with savages. An' they say a witch was stoned to death where
the Catholic convent stands now, on the road up above your place. So I
guess you can figure out a story to tell your company, if you like."

"A convent?" I repeated, my attention caught by a new possibility. "Do
they, perhaps, have visitors there, ladies in retreat for a time, as
convents often do abroad?"

Mrs. Hill laughed, shaking her tightly-combed head.

"No hope of your girl there," she chuckled. "They're the strictest
sisterhood in America, folks say. Poor Clares, I think they're called.
No one, not even their relations, ever see their faces after they join.
They're not allowed to talk to each other, even. Just stay in their
cells, an' pray, even in the middle of the night, an' shave their heads
an' live on a few vegetables an' dry bread."

I laughed with her. Certainly no convent would harbor my lady of
marvelous tresses and magical perfume, of wild fancies and heretical
theories. That thought of mine was indeed far afield. But where, then,
was I next to seek?

I made a detour and used some strategy to gain a view of the Senator's
daughters. They proved to be brunettes who wore their locks cropped
after the fashion of certain Greenwich villagers. My disappointment was
not great; my lady was not suggestive of a boarding-school miss. But I
had hoped to find somewhere a trace of the copper-bronze head whose
royalty of hair I had shorn as the traitors shore King Childeric's
Gothic locks.

I drove home with a sense of blankness upon me. Suppose she never came
again? Suppose the episode was ended? Not even freedom from the Thing
could compensate for the baffled adventure.

Think of the lame feller with an Adventure!




CHAPTER X

     "Plato expresses four kinds of Mania--Firstly, the musical;
     secondly, the telestic or mystic; thirdly, the prophetic; and
     fourthly, that which belongs to Love."--PREFACE TO ZANONI.


For myself, I have always found that excitement stimulates imagination.
There are others, I know, who can do no creative work except when all
within and without is lulled and calm. Perhaps I have too much calm as
an ordinary thing! That evening, when I went to my room, lighted my
lamps and closed my door, I stood alone for awhile breathing the mingled
sweetness of the country air and the pomander ball. In that interval,
there came to me, complete and whole as a gift thrust into my hand, the
melody which an enthusiastic publisher since assured me has reached
every ear in America.

As to that extravagant statement, I can only measure by the preposterous
amount of money the melody has brought me. Perhaps there is a magic
about it. For myself, I cannot hear it--ground on a street-organ, given
on the stage, played on a phonograph record or delicately rendered by an
orchestra--without feeling again the exaltation and enchantment of that
night.

I flung myself down at my writing-table, tossing my former work right
and left to make room for this. If it should escape before I could set
it down! If the least of those airy cadences should be lost!

At three o'clock in the morning I came back to realization of time and
place. The composition was finished; it stood up before me like a flower
raised over-night. Eight hours had passed since I sat down to the work,
after dinner. I was tired. As I began to draw into a pile the sheets of
paper I had covered with notes, weariness gripped me like a hand.

Eight hours? If I had shoveled in a ditch twice that long I could have
felt no more exhausted. Yielding to drained fatigue of mind and body, I
dropped my head upon the arms I folded upon the table. My hot, strained
eyes closed with relief, my stiff fingers relaxed. Rest and content
flowed over me; my work was done, and good.

Rest passed into sleep, no doubt.

The sleep could not have been long, for not many hours remained before
dawn. When I started awake and lifted my head, I found the room in
darkness. A perfume was in the air, and the sense of a presence scarcely
more tangible than the perfume. Even in the first dazed moment, I knew
my lady had come again.

"Do not rise!" her murmuring voice cautioned me. "Unless you wish me to
go?"

"No!"

"I am here because I promised to come. It was not wise of you to ask
that of me."

"Then I prefer folly to wisdom," I answered, steadying myself to full
wakefulness. "Or, rather, I am not sure that you can decide for me which
is which!"

"Why? After all, why? Just--curiosity?"

"You, who speak so learnedly of magic and sorcery," I retorted, smiling
under cover of the darkness, "have you never heard of the white magic
conjured by a tress of hair, a perfume ball, and a voice sweeter than
the perfume? An image of wax does not melt before a witch's fire so
easily as a man before these things."

"My hair pleased you?" she questioned naively.

"Or so easily as a woman melts before admiration!" I supplemented. "I am
delighted to prove you human, mystic lady. Please me? Could anyone fail
to be pleased with that most magnificent braid? But how can either you
or I forgive the cruelty that took it from its owner? Why did you cut it
off?"

"So little of it! And I did not know you, then."

"Little? That braid?"

"It reached below my knee, now it is but little less," she answered with
indifference. "We all have such hair."

I gasped. My imagination painted the picture of all that shining
richness enwrapping a slim young body. It was fantastic beyond belief to
sit there at my desk, beneath my fingers the tools of sober, workaday
life, and stare into the dark room that held the reality of my vision.
She was there, but I could not rise and find her. She was opposite my
eyes, but my promise forbade me to touch the lamp and see her.

"Who are 'we'?" I slowly followed her last sentence.

A sigh answered me. On the silence, a memory floated to me of the story
she had told while I held her prisoner that first night:

"_The woman sits in her low chair. The fire-shine is bright in her eyes
and in her hair. On either side, her hair flows down to the floor._"

Yes, by legend young witches had such hair; sylphs, undines and all of
the airy race of Lilith. I thrust absurdities away from me and offered a
quotation to fill the pause:

  "'I met a lady in the meads'
    'Full beautiful; a faery's child.'
  'Her hair was long, her foot was light,'
    'And her eyes were wild.'"

She did not laugh, or put away the suggestion. When I had decided that
she did not mean to reply, and was seeking my mind for new speech to
detain her with me, she finally spoke what seemed another quotation:

"'A spirit--one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither
departed souls nor angels; concerning whom Josephus and Michael Psellus
of Constantinople may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is
no climate or element without one or more.' Have you read the writings
of the learned Jew or of the Platonist, you who are so very bold?"

"Neither," I meekly admitted. "But neither ancient gentleman could
convince me that you are unhuman."

Her answer was just audible:

"Not I--but, It!"

Now I was silenced, for dreadful and uncanny was that whisper in the
dark to a man who had met here in this room What I had met.

"Tell me more of this Thing without a name," I urged, mastering my
reluctance to evoke even the idea of what the blood curdled to recall.
"Why does It hate me?"

"What can I tell you? Even in your world, does not evil hate good as
naturally as good recoils from evil? But this One has another cause
also!" She hesitated. "And you yourself? How have you challenged and
mocked It this very night? Here, where It glooms, you have dared bring
the high joy of the artist who creates? Oh, brave, brave!--he who could
await alone the visit of the Unspeakable, in the chamber into which the
Loathsome Eyes have looked, and write the music of hope and beauty!"

I started, with a hot rush of surprise and pleasure. She had heard my
work. She approved it. More than that, not to her was I the lame fellow
who ought to get a better man to drive his car!

"Nor should you, who have two worlds of your own," she added in a lower
tone, "doubt the existence of many both dark and bright. Go, then, out
of this haunted place where a human madness broke through the Barrier.
Be satisfied with the victories you have had. Let the visits of the Dark
One fade into mere nightmare; and know I am no more a living woman than
Franchina Descartes."

"Who was she?"

"Have you not read that early in the seventeenth century there appeared
in Paris the philosopher Descartes, accompanied by the figure of a
beautiful woman? She moved, spoke, and seemed life itself; but Descartes
declared she was an automaton, a masterpiece of mechanism he himself had
made. Yet many refused to believe his story, declaring he had by sorcery
compelled a spirit to serve him in this form. He called her Franchina,
his daughter."

"And the truth?"

"I have told you all the record tells. She was soon lost. Descartes took
her with him upon a journey by sea; when, a storm arising, the
superstitious captain of the vessel threw the magic beauty into the
Mediterranean."

"Thank you. But, are you fairy or automaton?"

"Do not laugh," she exclaimed with sudden passion. "You know I would say
that I have no part in the world of men and women. Not through me shall
the ancient dread seize a new life. A little time, now, then the doors
will close upon me as the sea closed over Franchina. I will not take
with me the memory of a wrong done to you. I shall never come to this
house after tonight. If you would give me a happiness, promise me you
will leave, too."

I had known we should come to this point. After a moment, I spoke as
quietly as I could:

"Tell me your name."

She had not expected that question. I think she might have withheld the
answer, given time to reflect. But as it was, she replied docilely as a
bidden child:

"Desire Michell."

The name fell quaintly on both hearing and fancy, with a rustle of early
New England tradition. Desire! I repeated it inwardly with satisfaction
before I answered her.

"Thank you. Now, I, Roger Locke, do promise you, Desire Michell, that I
will not leave this house until these matters are plainer to my
understanding, whether you go or stay. But if you go and come no more,
then I surely shall stay until I find a way to trace you or until the
Thing kills me."

"No!"

"Yes."

There was a pause. Then, to my utter dismay, I heard her sobbing through
the dark.

"Why do you tempt me?" she reproached. "Is it not hard enough, my duty?
For me it is such pleasure to be here--to leave for a while the
loneliness and chill of my narrow place! But you, so rich in all things,
free and happy--how should it matter to you if a voice in the dark
speaks or is silent? Let me go."

Wonder and exulting sense of power filled me.

"I can keep you, then?" I asked.

"I am--so weak."

"Desire Michell, I am as alone as you can be, in my real life. I have
gone apart from much that occupies men and women; gaining and losing in
different ways. One of the gains is freedom to dispose of myself without
grief or loss to anyone, except the perfunctory regret of friends. Will
you believe there is no risk that I would not take for a few hours with
you? Even with your voice in the dark? Come to me as you can, let us
take what time we may, and the chances be mine."

"But that is folly! You do not know. To protect you I must go."

"I refuse the protection. Stay! If there is sorrow in knowing you, I
accept it. I understand nothing. I only beg you not to turn me back to
the commonplace emptiness of life before I found you. Indeed, I will not
be sent away."

"If I yield, you will reproach me some day."

"Never."

"It could only be like this--that we should speak a few times before the
gates close upon me."

"What gates?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Very well," I took what the moment would grant me. "That is a bargain.
Yet, what safety lies in secrecy between us? If we are to help each
other, as I hope, would not plain openness be best? You will tell me no
more about yourself? Very well. Tell me something more about the enemy
in the dark whom I am to meet. You have hinted that It has a special
motive for fixing hate upon me beyond mere malignance toward mankind.
What is that motive?"

"Ask me not," she faintly refused me.

"I do ask you. My ignorance of everything concerned is a heavy drawback
in this combat. Arm me with a little understanding. What moves It
against me?"

The pause following was filled with a sense of difficulty and recoil,
her struggle against some terrible reluctance. So painful was that
effort, somehow clearly communicated to me, that I was about to devour
my curiosity and withdraw the question when her whisper just reached my
hearing:

"Jealousy!"

"Jealousy? Of what? For whom?"

"For--me."

The monstrous implication sank slowly into my understanding; then
brought me erect, gripping the edge of the table lest I forget restraint
and move toward her.

"By what right?" I cried. "By what claim? Desire Michell, what has the
Horror to do with you?"

The vehemence and heat of my cry struck a shock through the hushed room
distinct as the shattering of crystal. There was no answer, no movement;
no rebuke of my movement. I was alone. With that confession she had
fled.

My cry had been louder than I knew. Presently I heard a door open. Steps
sounded along the hall from the rooms on the opposite side of the house.
Someone knocked hesitatingly.

"Are you all right, Mr. Locke?" Vere's voice came through the panels.

I crossed to the door and opened it. He stood at the threshold, an
electric torch in his hand.

"We thought you called," he apologized. "I thought maybe you were sick,
or wanted something; and no light showed around your door."

I found the wall switch and turned on the lamps. As on the last
occasion, she had switched the lights off there, beyond my reach unless
I broke my promise not to move about the room while she remained my
guest.

"Come in," I invited him. "Much obliged to you and Phillida for looking
me up! I had been working late and dropped asleep in my chair, with a
nightmare as the result."

It was pleasant to have his normal presence, prosaic in bathrobe and
pajamas, in my cheerfully lighted room. His dark eyes glanced toward the
music-scrawled papers scattered about, then returned to meet my eyes
smilingly.

"We heard some of that work," he admitted. "Phil and I--well, I guess we
were guilty of sitting on the stairs to hear you play it over. I never
listened to a tune that took hold of me, kind of, like that one. We'd
certainly prize hearing all of it together, sometime, if you didn't
mind."

The warmth of achievement flowed again in me. I crossed to the piano to
assemble the finished sheets, answering him with one of those
expressions of thanks artists use to cloak modestly their sleek inward
vanity. I was really grateful for this first criticism that soothed me
back to the reality of my own world.

Across the top of the uppermost sheet of music, in small, square script
quaint as the pomander, was written a quotation strange to me:

"We walk upon the shadows of hills across a level thrown, and pant like
climbers."

I did not know that I had read the words aloud until Vere answered them.

"So we do! I guess there is more panting over shadows and less real
mountain-climbing done by us humans than most folks would believe. Most
roads turn off to easy ways before we reach the hills we make such a
fuss about. Who wrote that, Mr. Locke?"

"I don't know," I replied vaguely, intent upon Desire Michell's meaning
in leaving this to me.

He nodded, and turned leisurely to go.

"Kind of seems to me as if he must have felt like you did when you wrote
that piece tonight," he observed diffidently. "As if trouble did not
amount to much, taken right. I'll get back to Phil, now. She might be
anxious."

Could that be what Desire had meant me to understand? Was there indeed
some quality of courage----?

That is why my most successful composition from the standpoint of money
and popularity went to the publisher under the title, "Shadows of
Hills." Of course no one connected the allusion. The general
interpretation was best expressed by the cover design of the first
printing: a sketch of a mountain-shaded lake on which floated a canoe
containing two young persons. I was well pleased to have it so.

But--in what land unknown to man towered the vast mountains in whose
shadow I panted and strove? Or was my foot indeed upon the mountain
itself?

I did not know. I do not know, now.




CHAPTER XI

     "If the Dreamer finds himself in an unknown place, ignorant of the
     country and the people, let him be aware that such place is to be
     understood of the Other World."--ONEIROCRITICA ACHMETIS.


In the morning I drove down to New York. There were affairs demanding
attention. Also, I was pressed by an eagerness to get my over-night work
into the hands of the publisher. To be exact, I wanted to put the
manuscript out of reach of the Thing at the house. Without reason, I had
awakened with that instinct strong within me.

The atmosphere of the city was tonic. Merely driving through the
friendly, crowded streets was an exhilaration. The practical employment
of the day broomed away fantastic cobwebs. In the evening I turned
toward Connecticut with a feeling of leaving home behind me. But I would
not stay away from the house for a night, risking that Desire Michell
might come and find me missing. She might believe I had been seized by
cowardice and deserted. She might never return.

I will not deny that I had lied to her. There was no intention in me of
accepting her fleeting visits as the utmost she could give. I meant to
snatch her out of darkness and mystery, to set her in the wholesome
sunlight where Phillida flitted happily. If I could prevent, those gates
of which she vaguely spoke never should close between us. But it was
plain that I must tread warily. Once frightened away, how could she be
found? Her home, her history, even her face, were unknown to me. Tracing
her by a perfume and a tress of hair had been tried, and failed. Of her
connection with the Dark Thing I refused to think too deeply. Her
connection with me must come first.

It was not until I passed the cottage of Mrs. Hill, glimmering whitely
in the starlight, where the road made an angle toward the farm, that I
recalled our talk in her "best room."

"_The Michell family always owned it. The Reverend Cotton Mather Michell
went to foreign parts for missionary work twenty years ago and died
there----_"

My lady of the night was Desire Michell. A clue?

"_He never married, so the family's run out._"

It was damp here in the hollow where the road dipped down. A chill ran
coldly over me.

Arrived at the garage which had taken the place of our tumble-down barn,
I put the car away as quietly as possible. Ten o'clock had struck as I
passed through the last village, and our household was asleep. Moving
without unnecessary noise, I crossed to the house. Bagheera, the cat,
padded across the porch to meet me and rubbed himself around my legs
while I stooped to put the latch-key in the lock.

As the key slid in place, I heard the waterfall over the dam abruptly
change the sound of its flow, swelling and accelerating as when a gust
of wind hurries a greater volume of water over the brink. But there was
no wind. Immediately followed that sound from the lake which I can liken
to nothing better than the smack of huge lips unclosing, or the suck of
a thick body drawing itself from a bed of mud. The cat thrust himself
violently between my feet and pressed against the house-door uttering a
whimpering mew of urgency. Startled, I looked in the direction of the
lake.

At this distance it showed as a mere expanse of darkness, only the
reflection of a star here and there revealing the surface as water. What
else could be shown, I rebuked my nerves by querying of them; and turned
the key. Bagheera rushed into the hall when the door opened wide enough
to admit his body. I followed more sedately and closed the door behind
us both.

Now I was not acquainted with Bagheera's night privileges. Did Phillida
allow him in the house, or not? After an instant's consideration, I bent
and picked him up from his repose on the hall rug. He should spend the
night shut in with me, out of mischief yet comfortable. Purring in the
curve of my arm, he was carried upstairs without objection on his part.
Until we reached my room! On its threshold I felt his body stiffen; his
yellow eyes snapped open alertly. Cat antipathy to a strange place, I
reflected, amused, as I switched on the lights.

"All right, Bagheera," I spoke soothingly, and put him upon the rug.

He bounded erect, fur bristling, tail lashing from side to side after
the fashion of a miniature panther. When I stooped to stroke him, he
eluded my hand. In a gliding run, body crouched, ears flattened, he sped
toward the doorway, was through it and gone.

Well, I decided, he could not be pursued all through the house. It would
be easier to explain him to Phillida next morning. I was tired;
pleasantly tired. The day had been filled with the enthusiasm and
congratulations of my associates, with conferences and plans for
launching the new music via theatres and advertising. It ought to "go
big," they assured me. In my optimism of mood, I wondered if I had not
already driven off the Dark Thing, since the girl had come to me the
night past without It appearing before or afterward. Perhaps,
woman-timid, she exaggerated the danger and It had retreated after the
second failure to overpower me.

I fell asleep with a tranquil conviction that nothing would disturb my
rest this night.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stillness enveloped me, absolute, desolate. Silence contained me. Yet
the thought of another scorched against my understanding in a burning
communication of intelligence.

"Man," It commanded, "I am here. Fear!"

And I knew that which was my body did fear to the point of death, but
that which was myself stood up in revolt.

"Crouch," It bade. "Crouch, pygmy, and beg. Fear! The blood crawls in
the veins, the heart checks, the nerves shrink and wither--man, your
life wanes thin and faint. Down--shall your race affront mine?"

My heart did stagger and beat slow. Life crept a sluggish current. But
there was another force that stiffened to resistance, and gathered
itself to compact strength within me.

"No," my thought refused the dark intelligence. "I am not yours. Command
your own, not me."

"Weakling, you have touched that which is mine. Into my path you have
dared step. Back--for in my breath you die!"

The air my lungs drew in was foul and poisonous. With more and more
difficulty my heart labored. Confused memories came to me of men found
dead in their beds in haunted rooms. Would morning find me so? Better
that way than to yield to the Thing! Better----

I struggled erect; or fancied so.

Now I saw myself as one who stood with folded arms fronting a breach in
a colossal wall. Huge, immeasurably huge that cliff reared itself beyond
the sight and ranged away on either side into unknown distances, dully
glistening like gray ice, unbroken save in this place. The gray strand
on which I stood was a narrow strip following the foot of the wall.
Behind me lay a vast, unmoving ocean banked over with an all-concealing
mist. Not a ripple stirred along that weird beach, or a ray changed the
fixed gray twilight. And I was afraid, for my danger was not of the
common dangers of mankind, but that which freezes the blood of man when
he draws near the supernatural; the ancient fear.

I stood there, while sweat poured painfully from me, and fronted my
enemy who pressed me hard.

The Thing was at the breach, couched in the great cleft that split the
Barrier, darkness within darkness. Unseen, I felt the glare of Its hate
beat upon me. From It emanated deathly cold, like the nearness of an
iceberg in the night, with an odor of damp and mold.

"Puny earth-dweller, lost here," Its menace breathed, "what keeps you
from destruction? For you the circle has not been traced nor the
pentagram fixed, for you no law has been thrust down. Trespass is death.
Die, then."

Only my will held It from me, and I felt that will reel in sickened
bewilderment. I had no strength to answer, only the steadfast instinct
to oppose.

The Thing did not pass. There in the breach It ravened for me, thrust
Itself toward me, pressed against the thin veil of separation between
us. I saw nothing, yet knew where It raised Itself, gigantic in
formlessness more dreadful than any shape. Its whispered threats broke
against me like an evil surf.

"Man, the prey is mine. Would you challenge me? The woman is mine by the
pact of centuries. Save yourself. Escape."

The woman? Startled wonder filled me. Was I then fighting for Desire
Michell?

Out of the air I was answered as if her voice had spoken; certainty came
to grip me as if with her small hands. She had no help but in me. If I
fell, she fell. If I stood firm----? Exultant resolve flared strong and
high within me. My will to protect leaped forward.

The Thing shrank. It dwindled back through the gap in the Barrier. But
as It fled, a last venomous message drifted to me:

"Again! And again! Tire but once, pygmy----!"

       *       *       *       *       *

I was sitting up in bed in my lighted room, my fingers clutching the
chain of the lamp beside me. Was some dark bulk just fading from beyond
my window? Or was I still dreaming?

I was trembling with cold, drenched as with water so that my relaxing
hand made a wet mark on the table beneath the lamp. This much might have
been caused by nightmare. But what sane man had nightmares like these?

When I was able, I rose, changed to dry garments and wrapped myself in a
heavy bathrobe. There was an electric coffee service in my room kept for
occasions when I worked late into the night. I made strong black coffee
now and drank it as near boiling as practicable. Presently the blood
again moved warmly in my veins.

Then I knew that the chill in the room was not a delusion of my chilled
body. I was warm, yet the air around me remained moist and cold, unlike
a summer night. It seemed air strangely thickened and soiled, as pure
water may be muddied by the passage of some unclean body. In this
atmosphere persisted a fetid smell of mold and decay, warring with the
homely scent of coffee and the fragrance of the pomander beneath my
pillow.

I was more shaken, more exhausted by this encounter with the unknown
than by either of my former experiences. A fact which drove home the
grim farewell of my enemy! _Tire but once, pygmy----!_ Desire herself
had foretold that the dark Thing would wear me down.

Well, perhaps! But not without fighting for Its victory. At least I
would be no supine victim. Already I had forced my way--where? Where was
that Barrier before which I had stood? Awe sank coldly through me at
memory of that colossal land where I was pygmy indeed, an insolent human
intruder upon the unhuman. What other shapes of dread stalked and
watched beyond that titanic wall? By what swollen conceit could I hope
to win against Them?

I would not consider escape by flight, even if the end had been certain
destruction. But my head sank to my hands beneath the weight of a
profound depression and discouragement.

It was the hour before dawn, traditionally the worst for man. The hour
superstition sets apart for its own, when the life flame burns lowest.
At a distance a dog had treed some little wood creature, and bayed
monotonously.

There was a weakness at the core of my strength. I waged this combat for
the sake of Desire Michell. _But what was she to whom the Thing laid
claim by the pact of centuries?_

Darkness began to tinge with light. Pale gray filtered into the dusk
with grudging slowness. As day approached I saw that a fog enfolded the
house in vapor, stealing into the room in coils and swirls like thin
smoke. The lamps looked sickly and dim. I forced away my languor, rose
and walked to the nearest window.

Something was moving up the slope from the lake; a dim shape about which
the fog clung in steamy billows. My shaken nerves thrilled unpleasantly.
What stirred at this empty hour? What should loom so tall?

A moment later the figure was near enough to be distinguished as Ethan
Vere, bearing several long fishing-rods over his shoulder.

"Vere!" I hailed him, with mingled relief and utter disgust with myself.
"Anything going on so early?"

He looked up at me--I never saw Vere startled--and came on to stop
beneath the window. Taking off his cap, he ran his fingers through his
black curls, pushing their wetness from his forehead. I noticed how the
mists painted him with a spectral pallor.

"Good morning, Mr. Locke," he greeted me. "Just as I've been thinking,
there are some big snapping-turtles about the lake and creek. I guessed
there'd be some war between them and me before that water was safe for
use! One of the fellows dragged a duck under, drowned it and started
feeding right before my eyes, just now."

"We will have to get a canoe."

He nodded placid assent.

"That'll look pretty on the lake. Phillida will like it. But I guess
I'll keep a homely old flat-bottomed punt out of sight around some
corner for work. The other craft goes over too prompt for jobs like
mine, and don't hold enough. I'm going to fetch my rifle, now. I'd
admire to blow that duck-eater's ugly head off."

"I will get into some clothes and be right with you," I invited myself
to the hunt.

"I'd like to have you," he replied with his quaint politeness. There
were times when I could visualize Vere's New England mother as if I had
known her.

The human interlude had been enough to dispel the black humors of the
night. When I was ready to go out, I opened the drawer that held the
copper-bronze braid and took it into my hand. How vital with youth its
crisp resilience felt in my clasp, I thought; young, too, were its
luxuriance and shining color. Nonsense, indeed, to fancy ghostliness
here or the passing of musty centuries over the head that had worn this
tress! A flood of reassurance rose high in me. Whatever the Thing might
be, I would trust the girl Desire Michell. Yes, and for her I would
stand fast at that Barrier until victory declared for the enemy or for
me. Until It passed me, It should not reach her.

I went downstairs to join Vere. The brightening mist was cool and fresh.
There was neither horror nor defeat in the promise of the morning.




CHAPTER XII

     "In vain I called on Rest to come and stay.
     We were but seated at the festival
     Of many covers, when One cried: 'Away!'"
                           --ROSE GARDEN OF SA'ADI.


Now I entered a time of experiences differing at every point, yet
interwoven closely, so that my days might compare to a rope whose
strands are of violently contrasted colors. The rope would be
inharmonious, startling to the eye, but strong to bind and hold. As I
was bound and held!

All day I lived in the wholesome household atmosphere evoked by Vere and
Phillida. It is impossible to describe the sunny charm they created
about the commonplace. Our gay, simple breakfasts where Phillida
presided in crisp middy blouse or flowered smock; where the gray cat sat
on the arm of Vere's chair, speculative yellow eye observant of his
master's carving, while the Swedish Cristina served us her good food
with the spice of an occasional comment on farm or neighborhood
events--how perfect a beginning for the day! How stale beside our
breeze-swept table was any board at which I had ever sat! I do declare
that I have never seen a more winning face than the bright one of my
little cousin whom her world had pronounced "plain." Vere and I basked
in her sunbeams gratefully.

Afterward, we each had our work. Of the three, Vere was the most
industrious; slow, steady and unsparing of himself to a degree that
accomplished surprising results. Phillida flitted over the place indoors
and out, managing the house, following Vere about, driving to village or
town with me on purchasing trips for our supplies. I did rather more of
my own work than usual, that summer, and consequently had more of the
commercial side to employ me.

A healthy, normal life? Yes--until the hours between midnight and dawn.

I never knew when I laid down at night whether I should sleep until sun
and morning overlay the countryside; whether the whispering call of
Desire Michell would summon me to an hour more exquisite than reality,
less satisfying than a dream, or whether I should leap into
consciousness of the Loathsome Eyes fixed coldly malignant upon me while
my enemy's inhuman hate groped toward me across the darkness Its
presence fouled.

For my two guests kept their promises.

If I speak briefly of the coming of the Thing during this time, I do so
because the mind shrinks from past pain. It came again, and again. It
craftily used the torture of irregularity in Its coming. For days there
might be a respite, then It would haunt me nights in succession until my
physical endurance was almost spent.

I have stood before the breach in that Barrier, fighting that nightmare
duel, until the place of colossal desolation, last frontier the human
race might hope to keep, became as well known to me as a landscape on
earth. Yet the effect of the Thing's assaults upon me never lessened. On
the contrary, the horror gained in strength. A dreadful familiarity grew
between It and me. Communication flowed more readily between us with
use. I will not set down, perhaps I dare not set down the intolerable
wickedness of Its alternate menaces and offered bribes. Contact with Its
intelligence poisoned.

There were nights when It was dumb, when all Its monstrous power
concentrated and bore upon me, Its will to destroy locked with my will.
My victory was that I lived.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the shadow, Desire Michell and I drew closer to one another.

How can I tell of a love that grew without sight? So much of the love of
romance and history is a matter of flower-petal complexions,
heart-consuming eyes, satin lips, and all the form and color that make
beauty. How can I make clear a love that grew strong and passionately
demanding, knew delicate coquetries of advance and evasion, intimacy of
minds like the meeting of eyes in understanding--all in the dark? The
blind might comprehend. But the blind have a physical communication we
had not; touch has enchantments of its own.

Every night, near midnight, I switched off the lights and waited in the
chair at my writing-table, where I was accustomed to work. If she had
not come by two o'clock, I learned to know she would not visit me that
night. I might sleep in that certainty. A strange tryst I kept there in
the dark; listening to the flow of the waterfall from the lake, loud in
that dead hour's stillness, or hearing the soft, incessant sounds of
insect life awake in trees and fields. If she came--a drift of perfume,
a movement slight as a curtain stirred by the wind, then an hour with
such a companion as the ancient magician might have drawn out of the air
to his nine mystic lamps.

Strange, fantastic tales she told me, spun of fancies luminous and frail
as threads of glass. She could not speak without betraying her deep
learning in sciences rejected and forgotten by the modern world.
Alchemy, astrology, geomancy furnished her speech with allusions blank
to my ignorance; which she most gently and politely enlightened when I
confessed. I learned that the Green Lion of Paracelsus was not a beast,
but a recipe for making gold; that Salamandar's Feather was better known
today as asbestos; and that the Emerald Table was by no means an article
of furniture. I give these examples merely by way of illustration.

On the other side of the shield held between us, I soon discovered that
she knew no more of modern city life than a well-taught child who has
never left home. She listened eagerly to accounts of theatres and
restaurants. The history of Phillida and Ethan Vere seemed to her more
moving and wonderful than any story she could tell me. I was amazed and
humbled to find that she rated my ability to make music as a lofty art
among the occult sciences.

Of the evil Thing that haunted me, we came to say little. To press her
with questions meant to end her visit, I found by experience. When I
spoke of that strand between the Barrier and the gray mist-hidden sea,
her passion of distress closed all intercourse with the plea that I go
away at once, while escape was possible, while life remained mine. So
for the most part I curbed my tongue and my consuming curiosity; not
from consideration, but of necessity.

One night I asked her how the dark Thing spoke to me, by what medium of
communication.

"Spirits of all orders can speak to man in every language, so long as
they are face to face," she answered, with a faint surprise at my lack
of knowledge. "'_When they turn to man, they come into use of his
language and no longer remember their own, but as soon as they turn from
man they resume their own language, and forget his._'

"But they themselves are unaware of this fact, for they utter thought to
thought by direct intelligence. So if angel or demon turns his back to
you, Roger, you may not make him hear you though you call with great
force."

"How do you know that, Desire?"

"But by simple reading! Do not Ennemoser and many writers record it?"

"Have you spoken to such beings, Desire?"

The question was rash, but it escaped me before I could check the
impulse. To my relief, she answered without resentment:

"No."

"No? The Thing--the enemy that comes to me has never spoken to you?"

"No."

I was silent in amazement and incredulity. The dark creature claimed
her, she declared herself helpless to escape from that dominion into
normal life, and yet It never had spoken to her? It spoke to me, a
stranger most ignorant, and not to the seeress who was familiar with Its
existence and the lore which linked humanity to Its fearful kind?

"You do not believe me," her voice came quietly across my thoughts.

"I believe you, of course," I stammered. "I was only--astonished. You
have described It, and the Barrier, so often; from the first night----!
I supposed you had seen all I have, and more."

"All you have seen? Now tell me with what eyes you have seen the Barrier
and the Far Frontier? The eyes of the body, or that vision by which man
sees in a dream and which is to the sight as the speech of spirits is to
the hearing?"

"I suppose--with the inner sight."

"Then understand me when I say that I have seen with the eyes of
another, by a sight not mine and yet my own."

"You mean," I floundered in vague doubts and jealousy of her human
associations of which I knew nothing. "You mean--hypnotism?"

She laughed with half-sad raillery.

"How shall I answer you, Roger? Once upon a time, the jewel called beryl
was thought unrivaled as a mirror into which a magician might look to
see reflected events taking place at a distance, or reflections of the
future. But by and by magicians grew wiser. They found any crystal would
serve as well as a beryl. Later still, they found a little water poured
in a basin or held in the hollow of the hand showed as true a fantasm.
So one wrote: '_There is neither crystallomancy nor hydromancy, but the
magick is in the Seer himself._'"

"Well, Desire?"

"Well, Roger--if to see with the sight of another is hypnotism, then
every man who writes a book or tells a good tale is a hypnotist; every
historian who makes us see the past is a necromancer."

"You read of the Thing----?"

"No," she replied, after a long pause. "I knew It through sympathy with
one who died as I would not have you to die, my friend Roger, of whom I
shall think long in that place to which I go presently. Question me no
more. When the time comes for you to throw a certain braid of hair and a
pomander into the fire----"

"I will never do that!"

"No? Well, you might keep the pomander, which is pure gold engraved with
ancient signs and the name of the Shining Dawn, Dahana, in Sanskrit
characters. Also the perfume it contains is precious, being blent with
the herb vervain which is powerful against evil spirits."

"It is not the pomander that I should keep, nor the pomander that holds
the powerful spell."

"You--value the braid so much?"

"I value only one other beauty as highly."

"Yes, Roger?"

"Yes, Desire. And that beauty is she who wore the braid."

Now the darkness in the room was dense. Yet I thought I sensed a
movement toward me as airy as the flutter of a bird's wing. The
fragrance in the atmosphere eddied as if stirred by her passing. But
when I spoke to her again, after a moment's waiting, she had gone.

I am sure no housekeeper was ever more nice in her ideas of neatness
than my little Cousin Phillida, and no maid more exact in carrying out
orders than Cristina. Nevertheless, automobiles pass on the quietest
roads, and my windows are always wide open. There is the fireplace, too,
with possibilities of soot. Anyhow, there was a light gray dust
overlaying the writing-table on the following morning. And in the dust
was a print as if a small hand had rested there, a yard from my chair.

A slim hand it must have been. I judged the palm had been daintily
cupped, the fingers slender, smooth and long in proportion to the absurd
size of the whole affair. My hand covered it without brushing an
outline.

I could not put this souvenir away with the braid and the pomander. But
I could put its evidence with their witness of Desire Michell's reality.




CHAPTER XIII

     "For may not the divell send to their fantasie, their senses being
     dulled and as it were asleep, such hills and glistering courts
     whereunto he pleaseth to delude them?"--KING JAMES' "DEMONOLOGY."


Now I have to record how I walked into the oldest snare in the world.

Perhaps it was the sense of her near presence brought home to me by her
hand-print on the table so close to where my hand rested; perhaps it was
her speech of presently leaving me to return no more. Or perhaps both
these joined in urging on my determination to learn more of Desire
Michell before some unknown bar fell between us. I only know that I
passed into a mood of trapped exasperation at my helplessness and lack
of knowledge. It seemed imperative that I should act to save us both,
act soon and surely; yet inaction was bound upon me by my ignorance. Who
was she? Where did she live? What bond held her subject to the Thing
from the Barrier? What gates were to close between us? Why could she not
put her hand in mine, any night, and let me take her away from this
haunted place? Why, at least, not come to me in the light, and let me
see her face to face? I was a man groping in a labyrinth while outside
something precious to him is being stolen.

For the first time I found myself unable to work, unable to share our
household life with Phillida and Vere, or to find relaxation in driving
about the countryside. Anger against Desire herself stirred at the
bottom of my mind; Desire, who hampered me by the word of honor in which
she had netted me so securely.

It was then that my enemy from the unknown places began to whisper of
the book.

I encountered that enemy in a new mood. We did not meet at the breach in
the mighty wall, confronted in death conflict between Its will and mine.
Instead, night after night It crept to my window as at our first
meeting. I started awake to find Its awful presence blackening the
starlight where It crouched opposite me, Its intelligence breathing
against mine. As always, my human organism shrank from Its unhuman
neighborhood. Chill and repugnance shook my body, while that part of me
which was not body battled against nightmare paralysis of horror. But
now It did not menace or strive against me. It displayed a dreadful
suavity I might liken to the coiling and uncoiling of those great snakes
who are reported to mesmerize their prey by looping movements and
figures melting from change to change in the Hunger Dance of Kaa.

There was a book that held all I longed to know, It whispered to me. A
book telling of the woman! She did not wish me to read, for fear I
should grow overwise and make her mine. The book was here, in my house.
I might arise and find--if I would be guided by It----!

I thrust the whispers away. How could I trust my enemy? If such a book
existed, which seemed improbable, there was a taint of disloyalty to
Desire in the thought of reading without her knowledge.

The Thing was not turned away. How could I do harm by learning what she
was, unless she had evil to conceal? Did I fear to know the truth? As
for the book's existence, I had only to accept guidance from It----?

I persisted in refusal. But the idea of the book followed me through my
days like a wizard's familiar dogging me. Where could such a volume be
hidden, in what secret nook in wall or floor? How came a book to be
written about the girl I supposed young, unknown and set apart from the
world? Was I letting slip an opportunity by my fastidious notions of
delicacy?

Indecision and curiosity tormented me beyond rest. Phillida and Vere
began to consider me with puzzled eyes. Cristina developed a habit of
cooking individual dishes of especial succulence and triumphantly
setting them before me as a "surprise"; a kindness which of course
obliged me to eat whether I was hungry or not. I suspect my little
cousin abetted her in this transparent ruse. I pleaded the heat as an
excuse for all. We were in late August now. Cicadas sang their dry chant
in the fields, where the sun glared down upon Vere's crops and painted
him the fine bronze of an Indian. Our lake scarcely stirred under the
hot, still air.

It was after a day of such heat, succeeded by a night hardly more cool,
that the lights in my room quietly went out. I was sitting at my table,
some letters which required answers spread before me while I brooded,
pen between my fingers, upon the mystery which had become my life. For
the moment I attributed the sudden failure of light to some accident at
the powerhouse.

Not for long! The hateful cold that crept like freezing vapor into the
room, the foul air of damp and corruption pouring into the scented
country atmosphere, the frantic revolt of body and nerves--before I
turned my eyes to the window I knew the monster from the Frontier
crouched there.

"Weakling!" It taunted me. "Puny from of old, how should you prevail? By
your fear, the woman stays mine. Miserable earth-crawler, in whose hand
the weapon was laid and who shrinking let it fall unused, the end
comes."

"The book?" I gasped, against my better judgment.

"The book was the weapon."

"No, or you would not have offered it to me."

"Coward, believe so. Hug the belief while you may. The offer is past."

Past? A madness of bafflement and frustrated curiosity gripped and shook
me.

"I take the offer," I cried in passion and defiance. "If there is such a
book, show it to me!"

The Thing was gone. Light quietly filled the lamps--or was it that I had
opened my eyes? I gripped the arms of my chair, waiting. For what? I did
not know. Only, all the horror I ever had felt in the presence of the
Thing was slight compared to the fear that presently began to flow upon
me as an icy current. There in the pleasantly lighted room, alone, I
sank through depths of dread, down into an abyss of despair, down----

A long sigh of rising wind passed through the house like a sucked breath
of triumph. Windows and doors drew in and out against their frames with
a rattling crash, then hung still with unnatural abruptness. Absolute
stillness succeeded. I felt a very slight shock, as if the ground at my
feet was struck.

I fled from the terror for the first time. Yes, coward at last, deserter
from that unseen Frontier's defense, I found myself in the hall outside
my room, leaning sick and faint against the wall. Behind me the door
shut violently, yet I felt no current of air to move it.

From the other side of the house there sounded the click of latch, then
a patter of soft-shod feet. Phillida came hurrying down the hall toward
me. She was wrapped in some silky pink-flowered garment. Her short hair
stood out around her head like a little girl's well-brushed crop. She
presented as endearingly natural a figure, I thought, as any man could
seek or imagine. The wisdom of Ethan Vere who had garnered his love
here!

"Cousin?" she exclaimed. "The hall light is so dim! You almost
frightened me when I glimpsed you standing there. Did the wind wake you,
too? I think we are going to have a thunder storm, it is so hot and
gusty. I heard poor Bagheera mewing and scratching at the door, so I was
just going down to let him in before the rain comes."

"Yes," I achieved. Then, finding my voice secure: "I will let in the
cat. Where is Vere?"

"He did not wake up, so I tiptoed out. Why?"

"I do not like to have you going about the house alone at this hour."

Her eyes widened and she laughed outright.

"Why, Cousin Roger! What a funny idea to have about our very own house!
I have one of the electric flashlights you bought for us all; see?"

What could I tell her of my vision of her womanly softness and timidity
brought to bay by the Thing of horror, down in those empty lower rooms?
How did I know It stalked no prey but me? Its clutch was upon Desire
Michell. These were Its hours, between midnight and dawn.

"Tramps," I explained evasively. "Give me the light."

But she pattered down the stairs beside me, kimono lifted well above her
pink-flowered slippers, one hand on the balustrade. The light glinted in
the white topaz that guarded her wedding ring, a richer jewel than any
diamond in the sight of one who knew the tender thought with which she
had set it there. No! The horror was not for her, clothed in her
wholesome goodness as in armor of proof. Surely for such as she the
Barrier stood unbreached and strong.

When I opened the front door, Bagheera darted in like a hunted cat. A
drift of mist entered with him. Looking out, I saw the night was heavy
with a low-hanging fog that scarcely rose to the tree tops; a
ground-mist that eddied in smoke-like waves of gray where our light fell
upon it. Such mists were common here, yet I shivered and shut it out
with relief. While I refastened the lock, Bagheera purred around my
ankles, pressing caressingly against me as if thanking me after the
manner of cats. I remembered this was not the first time he had shown
this anxiety and gratitude for shelter.

"Bagheera does love you," Phillida commented, stooping to pat him.
"Isn't it funny, though, that he never will go into your room? He is
always petting around you downstairs. When Cristina or I are doing up
your quarters, he will follow us right up to the door-sill, but we can't
coax him inside. Perhaps he doesn't like that perfume you always have
about."

A qualm ran through me, recalling the night I had taken the cat there by
force and its frantic escape. But I snapped the key fast and
straightened myself with sharp self-contempt. Had I fallen so low as to
heed the caprices of a pet cat? Was it not enough that I had fled from
my enemy after accepting the knowledge It had striven so long to force
upon me?

For I had that knowledge. When I had halted in the passage outside my
room, in the moment before Phillida had joined me, there had been
squarely set before my mental sight the place to seek the book.

"Phillida, there was a bookcase in this house when it was bought," I
said. "I believe it stood in my room before the place was altered. A
small stand; I remember putting my candle on its top the first night I
slept here. Have you seen it?"

Some tone in my question seemed to touch her expression with surprise as
she lifted her eyes to mine; or perhaps it was the hour I chose for the
inquiry.

"Oh, yes," she answered readily. "I supposed you had noticed it long
ago; I mean, where it stands. The quaintest bit, a genuine antique! And
holding the stuffiest collection of old books, too! I believe they may
be valuable, out-of-print, early editions. If," her voice faltered
wistfully, "if Father ever forgives me for being happy with Ethan, and
comes to visit us, he would love every musty old volume. Do you think
Mother and he ever will, Cousin Roger?"

"I am sure they will, Phil. Feuds and tragic parents are out of date.
They must adjust themselves gradually when they realize Vere
is--himself. Before you go upstairs to him, will you tell me where to
find that bookcase?"

"Now? Why, of course!"

She led me across the hall to her sewing room. I cannot say that she
sewed there very much, but she had chosen that title in preference to
boudoir or study as more becoming a housewife. She had assembled here a
spinning-wheel from the attic, some samplers, a Hepplewhite sewing-table
and chairs discovered about the house. Her canaries' cage hung above a
great punch-bowl of flowered ware in which she kept gold-fish. A pipe of
Vere's balanced beside the bowl showed that his masculine presence was
not excluded.

In a corner stood the bookcase. Phillida pulled the chain of a lamp
bright under a shade of peacock chintz, and watched me stoop to look at
the faded bindings.

"Thank you, Phil," I said. "It may take some time to find the book I
want. You had better hurry back to bed before Vere comes hunting for a
missing wife."

"Are you going to stay and hunt for the book tonight, then?"

"Unless you are afraid I shall disturb your canaries?"

She did not laugh. Drawing nearer, she stroked my sleeve with a
caressing doubt and remonstrance.

"But you have not been to bed at all, and soon it will be morning! Do
you have to write your lovely music at night, Cousin Roger? You have
been growing thin and tired, this summer. Are you quite well? You are so
good that you should be happy, but--are you?"

"Good, Phil?" I wondered, touched. "Why, how did your lazy,
tune-spinning, frivolous cousin get that reputation in this branch of
the family?"

"You are so kind," she said simply. "Ethan says so. You know, Cousin
Roger, that I was over-educated in my childhood; my brain choked with
little, little stupid knowledge that hardly matters at all. We went to
church Sundays because that was the correct thing to do. But I was
almost a heathen when Ethan married me. He doesn't trouble about church.
He doesn't trouble about the past, or life after death, or punishment
for sin. He believes if one tries to be kind and straight, the big
Kindness and Straightness takes care of everything. So I have learned to
feel that way, too. It is a--a calm sort of feeling all the time, if you
know what I mean. And that is the way you are good, although perhaps you
never thought of it."

"Thank you, Phillida," I acknowledged; and walked with her to the foot
of the stairs.

When her pink-clad figure had vanished behind her bedroom door, I went
back to the sewing room and drew up a chair before the case of books.

Phillida had not unreasonably stigmatized them as stuffy. They were a
sober collection. Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy," an ancient copy of
the Apocrypha, and a three-volume Life of Martin Luther loaded the first
shelf. I looked at the second shelf and found it filled with the bound
sermons of a divine of whom I had never heard.

The lowest shelf held strange companions for the sedate volumes above.
Erudite works on theosophy, magic, the interpretation of dreams and
demonology huddled together here. Not all of them were readable by my
humble store of learning. There was a Latin copy of Artemidorus,
Mesmer's "Shepherd," Mathew Paris, some volumes in Greek, and some I
judged to be Arabian and Hebrew. At the end of the row stood a thin,
dingy book whose title had passed out of legibility. I took it out and
opened the covers.

Fronting the first page was a faded woodcut, the portrait of a woman.
Beneath in old long-s type, dim on the yellowed paper, was printed the
legend:

"_Desire Michell, ye foule witch._"

Closing the book, I forced reason to come forward. I was resolved that
panic should not drive me again nor my defense fall from within its
walls. Master of my enemy I might never be; master of my own inner
kingdom I must and should be. But I was glad to be here instead of
upstairs while I read; glad of the interlude in Phillida's company, and
of the presence of the three sleepy canaries who blinked down at the
disturbing lamp.

The date stamped into the back of the book in Roman numerals was of a
year in the seventeen hundreds. What connection could its Desire Michell
have with the girl I knew? Perhaps she had adopted the name to mystify
me. Or at most, she might be of the family of that unfortunate woman
branded witch by a bigoted generation.

Reopening the book, I studied the dim, stiff portrait. The face was
young, delicate of line, with long eyes set wide apart; eyes that even
in this wretched picture kept a curious drowsy watchfulness. The
inevitable white Puritan cap was worn, but curls clustered about the
brow and two massive braids descended over either shoulder. The perfumed
bronze-colored braid up in my drawer----?

The volume was entitled "Some Manifestations of Satan in Witchcraft in
Ye Colonies," by Abimelech Fetherstone. Disregarding the satanic
manifestations set forth in the other four chronicles, I turned to "Ye
Foule Witch, Desire Michell."

As I began to read, another breath of wind sighed through the house,
sucking windows and doors in and out with the shock of sound, instantly
ended, that is produced by a distant explosion. I thought a flash of
lightning whipped across my eyes. But when I glanced toward the windows
I saw only the smoke-like fog banked in drifts against the panes.




CHAPTER XIV

     "Beauty is a witch--"
             --MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.


I will tear the core out of many yellow pages of diffuse writing spiced
with smug moral reflections.

Desire Michell had been no traditional old hag, hideous and malevolent;
no pallid, raving epileptic to accuse herself in shrieking tales of
Black Men, and Sabbats, and harm done to neighbors' cattle or crops. Her
father was a clergyman who brought his goods and his motherless daughter
from England to the Colonies, and settled in "ye Pequot Marsh country."
There he found a congregation, and they lived much respected. Their
culture appeared to be far beyond that of their few, hard-working
neighbors. Young Mistress Michell was reputed learned in the use of
simples, among other arts, and to have been "of a beauty exceeding the
custom among godly women, to so great degree that sorcery should have
been suspected of her."

However, sorcery was not suspected; not even when her fame spread among
near-dwelling Indian tribes who gave her a name signifying _Water on
which the Sun is Shining_. Admiration was her portion, then, with all
the suitors the vicinity held. But from fastidiousness or ambition she
refused every proposal made to her father for her. She walked aloof and
alone, until another sort of wooer came to the gate of the minister's
house.

This man's full name was not given, apparently through the writer's
cautious respect for place and influence. He was vaguely described as
goodly in appearance, of high family, but not abundantly supplied with
riches. However he chanced to come to the obscure settlement was not
stated. He did come, saw Desire Michell, and fell as abjectly prostrate
before her as any youth who never had left the village.

He pressed his courtship hard and eagerly. At first he was welcome at
the minister's house. But a day came when Master Michell forbade him to
cross that door and rumor whispered, scandalized, that Sir Austin's suit
had not been honorable to the maid.

Sir Austin sulked a week at the village inn. Then he broke under the
torment of not seeing Desire Michell. Their betrothal was made public,
and he rode away to prepare his home for their marriage in the spring.

Travel was slow in the winter, news trickled slowly across snowbound
distances. With spring came no bridegroom; instead word arrived of his
affair with an heiress recently come to New York from England. She was
rich in gold and grants of land from the Crown. Her husband would be a
man of weight and influence, it seemed.

Sir Austin had married her.

Desire Michell shut herself in her father's house. The clergyman did not
live many months after the humiliation. Alone, the girl lived.
"Student," wrote Abimelech Fetherstone, "of black and bitter arts. Or as
some say, having, like Bombastus de Hohenheim, a devil's bird enchained
to do her will."

In his distant home, Sir Austin sickened. He burned with fever, anguish
consumed him. Physicians were called to the bedside of the rich man.
They could not diagnose his ailment or help him. He screamed for water.
When it was brought, his throat locked and he could not swallow. He
raved of Desire Michell, beseeching her mercy. In his times of sanity,
he begged and commanded his wife and servants to send for the girl. In
her pardon he saw his sole hope of life.

Finally, he was obeyed. Messengers were sent to the village. They were
not even admitted to the house they sought, or to sight of Mistress
Michell.

"Your master came himself to woo; let him come himself to plead."

That was the answer they received to carry back to the sick man.

Sir Austin heard, and submitted with trembling hope. Writhing in the
anguish wasting him by day and night, he made the journey by coach and
litter to Desire Michell's house. At her door-sill he implored entrance
and pity. The door did not open.

It never opened for him. For three days in succession he was borne to
her threshold, calling on her in his pain and fear. His servants and
physician clustered about staring at the house which stood locked and
blank of response. At night fire-shine was seen from an upper room; some
declared they heard wild, melodious laughter.

On the third day Sir Austin died. A stern-faced deputation of men went
to the house of the late clergymen. They found the door unlatched and
open to their entrance. In the upper room they found Mistress Michell
seated before her hearth where a dying fire fell to embers, her hair
"flowing down in grate bewty."

"What have I to do with Sir Austin, or he with me?" she calmly asked the
men who gaped upon her. "How should I have harmed him, who came not near
him, as ye know? Bury him, and leave me in peace."

If she had been aged and ugly, she might have been hung. Gossip ran rife
through the countryside. But indignation was strong against the man who
had jilted the local beauty, there existed no proof of harm done, and
the matter slept for a time.

New matters came. A horror grew up around the house. The girl was seen
flitting across the fields at dawn, a monstrous shadow following. Her
voice was heard from the room where she locked herself alone, raised in
unknown speech. Strange lights moved in her windows in the deep night.
The old woman who had served in the house for years was stricken with a
palsy and was taken away mumbling unintelligible things that iced the
blood of superstitious hearers.

There was a young man of the neighborhood whose love for Mistress
Michell had been long and constant. One morning he was found dead on her
doorstep, his face fixed in drawn terror. Under his hand four words were
scrawled in the snow: "_Sara daughter of Ruel----_"

There were those who could finish that quotation. Next Sabbath the new
minister took as his text: "Ye shall not suffer a witch to live." And he
spoke of Sara the daughter of Ruel, who was wed to ten bridegrooms, each
of whom was dead on the wedding eve; for she was beloved by an evil
spirit that suffered none to come to her. Authority moved at last
against Desire Michell. But when the officers came to arrest her, she
was found dead in her favorite seat before the hearth.

"Fair and upright in her place, scented with a perfume she herself
distilled of her learning in such matters; which was said to contain a
rare herb of Jerusalem called Lady's Rose, resembling spikenard, with
vervain and cedar and secret simples; in which she steeped her hair so
that wherever she abode were sweet odours. So did she escape Justice,
but shall not escape Hell's Damnation and Heaven's casting out."

I closed the book and laid it down.

Reading those dim, closely printed pages had taken time. I was
astonished to find the window spaces gray with dawn, when I glanced that
way. The night was past. Neither from Desire nor from the Thing without
a name which had sent me to this book could I find out what I was
expected to glean from the narration.

My enemy had made no conditions on directing me to the book. It had
asked no price, uttered no menace. Why, then, had I so solemn a
certainty that a crisis in our affair had been reached. I had come to an
end; a corner had been turned. I had opened a door that could not be
closed. How did I know this? Why?

Why was the fog against the windows this morning so like the fog that
shrouded the unearthly sea opposite the Barrier?

By and by Cristina came downstairs and busied herself in the kitchen.
Bagheera, who had slept beside my chair all night, rose and padded out
to the region of breakfast and saucers of milk. Next, the voices of
Phillida and Vere drifted from above.

To have Phillida find me there in her sewing-room, finishing an
all-night vigil, involved too many explanations. I did an unwise thing.
From the lowest shelf of the bookcase I gathered such books as were
readable by my knowledge, and carried the armful up to my room. After a
hot bath and breakfast I would look over these companions of the New
England witch book.




CHAPTER XV

     "Not a drop of her blood was human,
     But she was made like a soft sweet woman."
                                           --LILITH.


The fog stayed all day. The mist was so dense that it gave the effect of
a solid mass enclosing the house. No wind stirred it, no cheering beam
of sun pierced it. Through it sounds reached the ear distorted and
magnified. All day I sat in my room reading.

There are books which should not be preserved. I, who am a lover of
books, who detest any form of censorship, I do seriously set down my
belief that there exist chronicles which would be better destroyed. With
this few people will agree. My answer to them is simple: they have not
read the books I mean.

Not all the volumes from the old bookcase were of that character, of
course. Nearly all of them were well known to classical students, at
least by name. Obscure, fantastic, cast aside by the world they were,
but harmless to a fairly steady head. But there were two that clung to
the mind like pitch. I have no intention of giving their titles.

Ugly and sullen, early night closed in when I was in a mood akin to it.
Dinner with Phillida and Vere was an ordeal hurried through. We were out
of touch. I felt remote from them; fenced apart by a heavy sense of
guilt and defilement left by those hateful books, most incongruously
blended with contempt for my companions' childish light-heartedness. As
soon as possible, I left them.

Alone in my room, in my chair behind the writing-table again, I pushed
aside the pile of books and sank into sombre thought. What should I say
to Desire Michell if she came tonight?

Who was she, who was claimed by the Unspeakable and who did not deny Its
claim? Was I confronted with two beings from places unknown to normal
humanity? If she was the woman that she had seemed to be throughout our
intercourse, how could the dark enemy control her? Even I, a common man
with full measure of mankind's common faults and weaknesses, could hold
Its clutch from me by right of the law that protects each in his place.

Was she one of those who have stepped from the permitted places?

"_Sara the daughter of Ruel--who was beloved by an evil spirit who
suffered none to come to her_."

"_There was a young gentlewoman of excellent beauty, daughter of a
nobleman of Mar, who loved a foule monstrous thing verie horrible to
behold, and for it refused rich marriages.... Until the Gospel of St.
John being said suddenlie the wicked spirit flue his waies with sore
noise_."

I put out my hand and thrust the pile of books aside from my direct
sight. But I could not so easily thrust from my mind the thoughts these
books had implanted. I could not forget that Desire Michell herself had
alleged jealousy as the Thing's reason for attacking me.

What if we came to an explanation tonight and ended this long delirium?
Was it not time? Had not my weeks of endurance earned me this right?
Resolution mounted in me, defiant and strong.

The evening had passed to an hour when I might look for the girl to
come. I switched off the lights, and sat down to keep our nightly tryst.

In the darkness of the haunted room, the thoughts I would have held at
bay rushed upon me as clamorous besiegers.

Desire! Desire of the world! Desire of mine and of the unhuman Thing,
did we grasp at Eve or Lilith? At the fire on the hearth or the cold
phosphorescence of swamp and marsh?

A drift of fragrance was afloat on the air. A delicate stir of movement
passed by me. I raised my head from my hands, expectant.

"I am here," her familiar voice told me.

"Desire, you had to come, tonight."

Some quality in my voice carried to her a message beyond the words. But
she did not break into exclamation or question as another woman might.
She was mute, as one who stands still to find the path before taking a
step.

"You are angry," she said at last. "Something here has gone badly for
you; I knew that before I entered this room."

"How can you say that?" I challenged. "If you are like other men and
women, how can you know what happens when you are absent? How do you
know what passes between the Thing from the Frontier and me?"

"I do not know unless you tell me, Roger. If I feel from afar when you
are in sorrow, why, so do many people feel with another in sympathy."

"You feel more than ordinary sympathy can," I retorted.

"Then, perhaps it is not an ordinary sympathy I have for you, Roger."

Her very gentleness struck wrong on my perverted mood. Was she trying to
turn me from my purpose with her soft speech? She had never granted me
anything so near an admission of love until now.

"It is not an ordinary trial that I have borne for these meagre meetings
where I do not see your face or touch your hand," I answered. "But that
must end. Put your hand in mine, Desire, and come with me. Let us go out
of this room where shadows make our thoughts sickly. You shall stay with
my cousin. Or if you choose, we will go straight to New York or Boston.
I am asking you to be my wife. Let us have done with phantoms and
spectres. I love you."

"No," she whispered. "You do not love me tonight. Tonight you distrust
me. Why?"

"Is it distrusting you to ask you to marry me?"

"Not this way would you have asked that of me when I last came! But I
will answer you more honestly than you do me. To go with you would be
the greatest happiness the world could give. To think of it dazzles the
heart. But it is not for me. Have you forgotten, Roger, that my life is
not mine? That I am a prisoner who has crept out for a little while? The
gates soon close, now, upon me."

"What gates?" I demanded.

"Sacrifice and expiation."

"Expiation of what?" I exclaimed, exasperated. "Desire, I have read the
book of Desire Michell, downstairs."

I heard her gasp and shrink in the darkness. Silence bound us both. In
the hush, it seemed to me that the house suddenly trembled as it had
done the night before, a slight shock as from some distant explosion. In
my intentness upon the woman opposite me the tremor passed unheeded. She
must answer me now, surely! Now----

She spoke with a breathless difficulty, spacing her words apart:

"How did you--find--the book?"

"It told me--the Thing from out there," I admitted, sullenly defiant of
her opinion.

She cried out sharply.

"You? You took Its gift? You did that fatal madness--and you are here?
Oh, you are lost, and the guilt mine! Yet I warned you that danger
flowed from knowing me. You accepted the risk and the sorrow--yet you
have thrown down all for a bribe of knowledge. Do you not know what it
means to take a gift from the Dark Ones of the Borderland? To brave the
Loathesome Eyes so long--and fall this way at last! Yet--there may be a
hope--since you still live. But go. Not tomorrow, not at dawn, but go
now. By all that man can dread for soul or body, go now."

"Not without you."

"Me? Oh, how can I make you understand! I shall never come here again.
Take with you my gratitude for our hours together, my prayers for all
the years to come. There is no blame to you because you could not trust
a woman on whom falls the shadow of the awful Watcher that stalks behind
me. I make no reproach--if only you will go. Do not linger. I do most
solemnly warn you not to stay alone in this room one moment after I have
gone."

"Desire!" I exclaimed. "Wait.

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