Section 19

Susie gave a little start, which Dr. Porhoét no- ticed.
“What is the matter with you?”
“ Nothing,” she said quickly.
He looked at her for a moment, then proceeded with the subject that strangely fascinated him.
“ You must let me take you one day to the library of the Arsenal. There is no richer collection in the world of books dealing with the occult sciences. And of course, you know that it was at the Ar- senal that the tribunal sat, under the suggestive name of chambre ardente, to deal with cases of sor- cery and magic?”
“T didn’t,’ smiled Susie. :
“T always think that these manuscripts and queer old books, which are the pride of our library, served in many an old trial. There are volumes there of innocent appearance which have hanged wretched men and sent others to the stake. You' would not believe how many persons of fortune, rank, and intelligence, during the great reign of Louis XIV., immersed themselves in these satanic undertakings.”
Susie did not answer. She could not now deal with these matters in an indifferent spirit. Every- thing she heard might have some bearing on the circumstances which she had discussed with Dr.
Porhoét times out of number. She had never been
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able to pin him down to an affirmation of faith. Certain strange things had manifestly happened, but what the explanation of them was no man could say. He offered analogies from his well-stored memory. He gave her books to read till she was saturated with occult science. At one moment she was inclined to throw them all aside impatiently, and at another was ready to believe that everything was possible.
Dr. Porhoét stood up and stretched out a medi- tative finger. He spoke in that agreeably academic manner which, at the beginning of their acquaint-
ance, had always entertained Susie, because it con- ©
trasted so absurdly with his fantastic utterances. “Tt was a strange dream that these wizards cher- ished. They sought to make themselves beloved of those they cared for and to revenge themselves on those they hated; but above all they sought to become greater than the common run of men and to wield the power of the gods. They hesitated at nothing to gain their ends. But Nature with dif- ficulty allows her secrets to be wrested from her. In vain they lit their furnaces, and in vain they studied their crabbed books, called up the dead, and conjured ghastly spirits. Their reward was disap- pointment, and wretchedness, poverty, the scorn of men, torture, imprisonment, and shameful death. And yet, perhaps, after all there may be some par- ticle of truth hidden away in these dark places.” “You never go further than the cautious per-
xe
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“In these matters it is discreet to have no definite
opinion,” he smiled, with a shrug of the shoulders.
“Tf a wise man studies the science of the occult, his duty is not to laugh at everything, but to seek patiently, slowly, perseveringly, the truth that may be concealed in the night of these illusions.”
The words were hardly spoken when Matilde, the ancient bonne, opened the door to let a visitor come in. It was Arthur Burdon. Susie gave a cry of surprise, for she had received a brief note from him two days before, and he had said nothing of crossing the Channel.
“Tm glad to find you both here,” said Arthur, as he shook hands with them.
* Has anything happened?” cried Susie.
His manner was curiously distressing, and there was a nervousness about his movements that was very unexpected in so restrained a person.
“ T’ve seen Margaret again,” he said,
mele
He seemed unable to go on, and yet both knew that he had something important to tell them. He looked at them vacantly, as though all he had to say was stiddenly gone out of his mind.
“T’ve come straight here,” he said, in a dull, be- wildered fashion. “I went to your hotel, Susie, in the hope of finding you; but when they told me you were out I felt certain you would be here.”
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“You seem worn out, cher ami,” said Dr. Por- hoét, looking at him. ‘ Will you let Matilde make you a cup of coffee?”
“‘T should like something,” he answered, with a look of utter weariness.
“ Sit still for a minute or two, and you shall tell us what you want to when you are a little rested.”
Dr. Porhoét had not seen Arthur since that after- noon in the previous year when, in answer to Had- do’s telegram, he had gone to the studio in the Rue © Campagne Premiére. He watched him anxiously while Arthur drank his coffee. The change in him was extraordinary; there was a cadaverous exhaus- - tion about his face, and his eyes were sunken in their sockets. But what alarmed the good doctor most was that Arthur’s personality seemed thor- oughly thrown out of gear. All that he had en- dured during these nine months had robbed him of the strength of purpose, the matter-of-fact sure- ness, which had distinguished him. He was now unbalanced and neurotic.
Arthur did not speak. With his eyes fixed mood- ily on the ground, he wondered how much he could bring himself to tell them. It revolted him to disclose his inmost thoughts, yet he was come to the end of his tether and needed the doctor’s ad- vice. He found himself obliged to deal with cir- cumstances that might have existed in a world of nightmare, and he was driven at last to take ad- vantage of his friend’s peculiar knowledge.
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Returning to London after Margaret’s flight, Arthur Burdon had thrown himself again into the work which for so long had been his only solace. It had lost its savour; but he would not take this into account, and he slaved away mechanically, by perpetual toil seeking to deaden his anguish. But as the time passed he was seized on a sudden with a curious feeling of foreboding, which he could in no way resist; it grew in strength till it had all the power of an obsession, and he could not reason himself out of it. He was sure that a great danger threatened Margaret. He could not tell what it was, nor why the fear of it was so persistent, but the idea was there always, night and day; it haunted him like a shadow and followed him like remorse. His anxiety increased continually, and the vague- ness of his terror made it more tormenting. He felt quite certain that Margaret was in imminent peril, but he did not know how to help her. Ar- thur supposed that Haddo had taken her back to Skene; but, even if he went there, he had no chance of seeing her. What made it more difficult still was that his chief at St. Luke’s was away, and he was obliged to be in London in case he should be suddenly called upon to do some operation. But he could think of nothing else. He felt it urgently needful to see Margaret. Night after night he dreamed that she was at the point of death, and heavy fetters prevented him from stretching out a hand to help her. At last he could stand it no
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more. He told a brother surgeon that private busi- ness forced him to leave London, and put the work into his hands. With no plan in his head, merely urged by an obscure impulse, he set out for the village of Venning, which was about three miles from Skene.
It was a tiny place, with one public-house serv- ing as a hotel to the rare travellers who found it needful to stop there, and Arthur felt that some explanation of his presence was necessary. Having seen at the station an advertisement of a large farm to let, he told the inquisitive landlady that he had come to see it. He arrived late at night. Nothing could be done then, so he occupied the time trying to find out something about the Haddos.
Oliver was the local magnate, and his wealth would have made him an easy topic of conversa- tion even without his eccentricity ; but the only defi- nite circumstance which Arthur gained was that his mother had been in a lunatic asylum for a quarter | of a century. The discovery gave a new turn to his fears. It had struck him before that Oliver was so unbalanced that he might sometimes be pro- nounced insane, and this suggested that things might be even worse. The landlady roundly called him off his head and as an instance of his queerness told Arthur, to his great dismay, that Haddo would have no servants to sleep in the house: after dinner everyone was sent away to the various cottages in the park, and he remained alone with his wife. It
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was an awful thought that Margaret might be in the hands of a raving madman, with not a soul to protect her. But if he learnt no more than this of solid fact, Arthur heard much that was significant. To his amazement the old fear of the wizard had grown up again in that lonely place, and the gar- rulous woman gravely told him of Haddo’s evil influence on the crops and cattle of farmers who had aroused his anger. He had had an altercation with his bailiff, and the man had died within a year. A small freeholder in the neighbourhood had refused to sell the land which would have rounded off the estate of Skene, and a disease had attacked every animal on his farm so that he was ruined. Arthur was impressed because, though she reported these rumours with mock scepticism as the stories of ignorant yokels and old women, the innkeeper had evidently a terrified belief in their truth. No one could deny that Haddo had got possession of the land he wanted; for, when it was put up to auction, no one would bid against him, and he bought it for a song.
As soon as he could do so naturally Arthur asked after Margaret. The woman shrugged her shoul- ders. No one knew anything about her. She never came out of the park gates, but sometimes you could see her wandering about inside by herself. She saw no one. Haddo had long since quarrelled with the surrounding gentry; and though one old lady, the mother of a neighbouring landowner, had
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called when Margaret first came, she had not been admitted, and the visit was never returned.
“She’ll come to no good, poor lady,” said the hostess of the inn. ‘ And they do say she’s a per- fect picture to look at.”
Arthur went to his room. He longed for the day to come. There was no certain means of see- ing Margaret. It was useless to go to the park gates, since even the tradesmen were obliged to leave their goods at the lodge; but it appeared that she walked alone, morning and afternoon, and it might be possible to see her then. He decided to climb into the park and wait till he came upon her | in some spot where they were not likely to be ob- served.
Next day the great heat of the last week was gone, and the melancholy sky was dark with lower- ing clouds. Arthur inquired for the road which led to Skene, and set out to walk the three miles which separated him from it. The country was grey and barren. There was a broad waste of heath, with gigantic boulders strewn as though in prehistoric times Titans had waged there a mighty battle. Here and there were trees, but they seemed hardly to withstand the fierce winds of winter; they were old and bowed before the storm. One of them attracted his attention. It had been struck by light- ning and was riven asunder, leafless; but the maimed branches were curiously set on the trunk so that they gave it the appearance of a human
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being writhing in the torture of infernal agony. The wind whistled strangely. Arthur’s heart sank as he walked on. He had never seen a country so desolate.
He came to the park gates at last and stood for some time in front of them. At the end of a long avenue, among the trees, he could see part of a splendid house. He walked along the wooden pali- sade that surrounded the park. Suddenly he came to a spot where a board had been broken down. He looked up and down the road. No one was in sight. He climbed up the low, steep bank, wrenched down a piece more of the fence, and slipped in.
He found himself in a dense wood. There was no sign of a path, and he advanced cautiously. The bracken was so thick and high that it easily con- cealed him. Dead owners had plainly spent much care upon the place, for here alone in the neigh- bourhood were trees in abundance; but of late it had been utterly neglected. It had run so wild that there were no traces now of its early formal ar- rangement; and it was so hard to make one’s way, the vegetation was so thick, that it might almost have been some remnant of primeval forest. But at last he came to a grassy path and walked along it slowly. He stopped on a sudden, for he heard a sound. But it was only a pheasant that flew heavily through the low trees. He wondered what he should do if he came face to face with Oliver. The innkeeper had assured him that the squire seldom
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came out, but spent his days locked in the great at- tics at the top of the house. Smoke came from the chimneys of them, even in hottest days of sum- mer, and weird tales were told of the devilries there committed.
‘Arthur went on, hoping in the end to catch sight of Margaret, but he saw no one. In that grey, chilly day the woods, notwithstanding their green- ery, were desolate and sad. A sombre mystery seemed to hang over them. At last he came to a stone bench at a cross-way among the trees, and, since it was the only resting-place he had seen, it struck him that Margaret might come there to sit down. He hid himself in the bracken. He had forgotten his watch and did not know how the time passed; he seemed to be there for hours.
But at length his heart gave a great beat against his ribs, for all at once, so silently that he had not heard her approach, Margaret came into view. She sat on the stone bench. For a moment he dared not move in case the sound frightened her. He could not tell how to make his presence known. But it was necessary to do something to attract her attention, and he could only hope that she would not cry out,
“Margaret,” he called softly.
She did not move, and he repeated her name more loudly. But still she made no sign that she
had heard. He came forward and stood in front of her.
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Ss bo
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“ Margaret.”
She looked at him quietly. He might have been someone she had never set eyes on, and yet from her composure she might have expected him to be standing there.
“ Margaret, don’t you know me?”
“What do you want?” she answered placidly.
He was so taken aback that he did not know what to say. She kept gazing at him steadfastly. On a sudden her calmness vanished, and she sprang to her feet.
“Ts it you really?” she cried, terribly agitated. “T thought it was only a shape that mimicked you.”
“ Margaret, what do you mean? What has come over you?”
She stretched out her hand and touched him.
“T’m flesh and blood all right,” he said, trying to smile.
She shut her eyes for a moment, as though in an effort to collect herself.
“T’ve had hallucinations lately,” she muttered. “T thought it was some trick played upon me.”
Suddenly she shook herself.
“But what are you doing here? You must go. How did you come? Oh, why won’t you leave me alone?”
“T’ve been haunted by a feeling that something horrible was going to happen to you. I was obliged to come.”
”
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“For God’s sake go. You can do me no good. If he finds out you’ve been here——”
She stopped, and her eyes were dilated with ter- ror. Arthur seized her hands.
“ Margaret, I can’t go—I can’t leave you like this. For Heaven’s sake, tell me what is the mat- ter. I’m so dreadfully frightened.”
He was aghast at the difference wrought in her during the two months since he had seen her last. Her colour was all gone, and her face had the greyness of the dead. There were strange lines on her forehead, and her eyes had an unnatural glit- ter. Her youth had suddenly left her. She looked as if she were struck down by mortal illness.
“What is the matter with you?” he asked.
“ Nothing.” She looked about her anxiously. “Oh, why don’t you go? How can you be so cruel?”
“T must do something for you,” he insisted.
She shook her head.
“It’s too late. Nothing can help me now.” She paused; and when she spoke again it was with a voice so ghastly that it might have come from the lips of a corpse. “I’ve found out at last what he’s going to do with me. He wants me for his great experiment, and the time is growing shorter.”