That was not difficult to do, for his library attracted me even more than the rare scenery of the South Hams, and I welcomed any excuse offered by a showery day to spend my time with new books. To fiction neither I nor my host was addicted; but he had collected probably the finest library on India in England, while for the rest, botany filled many shelves, and I had opportunity for the first time to study Sir Bruce’s own classical monographs upon the poison of serpents.
He told me the story of an extraordinary tragedy in Georgian times, and how Grimwood, after these appalling incidents, had long been empty until his father purchased the property, restored it and rendered it habitable again.
“And now,” he said, “the hands of death and decay are upon it once more; but whether when I am gone, a new master will labor here and renew the vanished beauty as my father did, is doubtful.”
We walked through the woods, visited a little lake, where the waters of a stream were collected at the lowest point of the coomb, and also inspected Sir Bruce’s farms, which displayed a much higher average of prosperity than his own dwelling. It was on the occasion of one of these short excursions that Sir Bruce uttered an opinion which interested, though it hardly astonished, me.
We had viewed a field of wheat already going golden-brown to harvest, and my host invited my criticism upon it.
“Collins, my tenant, assures me that this is the finest corn within his recollection,” he said, “and he has an experience of forty years. What do you think?”
But my profound ignorance prevented me from any comment.
“To me it looks much like many other fine fields that I have seen, Sir Bruce,” I responded, “but if your expert tenant is so impressed, then doubtless the wheat is something out of the common.”
“American grain,” he answered. “Perhaps one of Luther Burbank’s amazing hybrids. That man hustles Nature in a manner to cause her some uneasiness surely. Collins is a very intelligent farmer. He only laments that he did not come upon this corn sooner. But I console him by the assurance that the variety may not have existed five years ago.”
From this subject we turned to agriculture and thence to the industrial position generally. I uttered a platitude, my mind not really upon the subject, and my interest divided between our conversation and the spectacle of pheasants feeding along the edges of a spinney.
“No doubt,” I said, “little will be accomplished until there are neither rich nor poor. Surely that is the first step to the desired understanding and amelioration. Yet humanity cannot be made to see that step must be taken and that sacrifice made for the good of the greater number.”
Then Sir Bruce brought my wandering thoughts back sharply with an energetic protest.
“What nonsense is this, my dear fellow?” he asked. “These are the futilities of thinking that have largely landed the world in its present mess, and I have no sympathy with them whatever. Indeed I despise them. Far too much is involved, and the conditions of ‘rich’ and ‘poor’ can no more be destroyed than the climatic alterations of heat and cold. The race must be to the strong, and the promised land will not, I heartily hope, be one of allotments and five-roomed cottages only. Heroes will continue to be born, Granger; and herds of men will continue to follow them, honor them and lift them into the command and control of lesser men. But the heroes of our grandchildren will be very different from the heroes of our grandfathers — that I grant, though such men, when they appear, must be adequately rewarded by their grateful fellow creatures. So far I trust humanity to follow the old paths. Science is hard at work, not only in the head, but also in the heart of mankind, and human reason, despite irrational excursions into many false roads under many false lights, may yet return to the true way in time to come. Sometimes, however, I despair, for this cause: that we do not grasp our nettles bravely, but, for cowardice, pretend they have a right to their place in the border. We are frightened to pull them out and cast them into the fire.”
Sir Bruce strove for my sake to be cheerful and throw himself into such interests as a visitor to a strange county might be supposed to feel; but I found that, after all, his brother was not mistaken. A spirit of advancing age began to appear, not only in the domain of my host’s mind, but in the matter of his physical activities also. Like many old Indians, he had always been an early riser and fond of exercise; but it seemed here, though the attractive surroundings of his country home might well have tempted him to do otherwise, he surrendered to lethargy, rose late and frequently retired soon after dinner, upon the plea of passing indisposition and fatigue. He often appeared weary, and as night approached, I observed that he became more melancholy and disposed to dwell on sad rather than cheerful topics.
His staff was very small and his manner of life, though he made some efforts on my behalf, in reality naked of all nice comforts or luxuries. Indeed he seemed indifferent to comfort and had often, in the past, attributed his own rare preservation and physical well-being to a life that courted hardship and avoided ease, both of mind and body.
“I am content to be comfortable when I go to bed,” he used to say. “If a man is comfortable eight hours out of every twenty-four — both in his limbs and in his brain — he should be well satisfied. How many never are? This is not a comfortable world, and a hard life devoid of self-indulgence helps me to keep a sense of reality that most old people entirely lose.”
A man, his wife and their widowed daughter constituted Sir Bruce’s staff within doors. They were amiable and simple natives; but they proved very jealous for Sir Bruce and when, on one occasion, I asked Timothy Bassett, my friend’s factotum, certain questions concerning Grimwood, I noticed that he evaded any direct replies. My inquiry was of the most innocent nature and concerned the fabric of the mansion and certain portions of it I had not yet seen. There were some famous ceilings of Italian workmanship in empty chambers, and a coat of arms dating from the time of the original possessors in Elizabeth’s reign; but though Sir Bruce had never shown me these things, they had been mentioned by him with a promise to do so. Having regard for Bassett’s evasion, however, I did not return to the subject; but then came an evening when my host himself returned to the matter and, in connection with it, uttered statements so extraordinary and contrary to all human judgment that I lay awake for the greater part of the night afterwards, doubting whether far graver mischief might not be developing in him than General Fordyce imagined.
This particular conversation was also enormously significant for another reason, as I shall immediately indicate.
We had dined and having returned to his sitting room — a small chamber opening from the library — Sir Bruce struck at once into a topic already mentioned between us.
“You have not yet seen the curious coat of arms over the great open fireplace in the banquetting hall,” he said.
“But I look forward to doing so,” I answered.
“It was painted in heraldic colors on the marble,” he continued, “and a fragment of the illumination still remains upon the carving. The coat is three bats, or ‘rere-mice’ as the heralds call them: three bats, sable, displayed in pale one above the other. During my childhood that spectacle had for me a morbid fascination. It was as though the life-work for which I was destined already beckoned me. Now I know much about bats.”
“Surely all there is to know, Sir Bruce.”
“Far from it — little enough compared with all there is to know. The legendary lore of the bat may have a significance after all, though Science, of course, derides it. These ‘monsters’ as our forefathers held them to be — things impossible to place in the frank categories of nature — were thought to have been created after the transgression of Adam and doomed never to take their rank among those perfect works of the Creator which appeared before man’s Fall. The bat belongs to the ‘peccata Naturœ,’ — the errors, or failures of Nature. Of such are your griffon, wivern, dragon, or cockatrice. And to such may be added the succubus, vampire and were-wolf of the Middle Ages. As to living bats, I
have seen them and studied them singly and in myriads. The bat haunts in certain ruined Indian temples, secluded from a later civilization and hidden among the jungles and forests of Nepal and the Sikkim, are amazing, horrible places. There I have observed these creatures attain to a size far larger than any I record, because their capture, or destruction, proved impossible. These greater varieties of the species possess extraordinary perception and a faculty of animal intelligence we only find in our domestic and highly developed mammalia.”
My eyes grew round; but this was as nothing to what was to follow.
“Is it possible,” I asked, “that you can believe in the thing still often called ‘the Bat,’ but what is now more generally described as ‘the Unknown’?”
He did not directly reply, but asked a question in return for mine.
“Have you ever seen a sheep-dog trial, Granger? If not, I may tell you that it affords an extraordinary example of what, for a better term, we describe as the reasoning power of animals. The dog is directed from a distance by his master to do certain things. He has to seek out sheep, perhaps a mile away, on the hillside. He is bidden to fetch them and pen them in a small enclosure of hurdles. These duties he performs with no more directions than his master’s voice. Thus we see an animal whose instinct is developed into reason, and whose mind comprehends and obeys the will of his master conveyed to him from a distance by sounds.”
“I have heard of them, and the marvellous intelligence, apparently akin to reason, displayed by these highly trained sheep dogs,” I answered.
Then he replied to my question.
“There was a time when I did not believe in ‘the Bat.’ Now I do believe in it. And for the best of all possible reasons. I have myself seen it.”
I started, but Sir Bruce had apparently ceased to concern himself with me. He was looking before him and continued, as though thinking aloud rather than addressing another person.
“I have seen this thing. I have seen it on a moonlight night flying above my own woods and over my own house. It is somewhat larger than has been alleged. There was no mistake: my eyes are keen still for all their use. I am disposed to believe that more than one of these beings may exist; and, once convinced beyond the possibility of doubt, I have set myself to examine the events of the past and, if possible, arrive at some sort of explanation consonant with reality. So far as I can yet see, there is a solitary solution to this ghastly riddle, and that itself is ghastly and may well be said to strain credulity.”
I did not speak — indeed I had nothing to say.
Then, after a pause, he turned to me and directly addressed me.
“You will perceive now my purpose in mentioning the sheep-dog trials, Granger?”
But he had quite suspended my modest powers of ratiocination and I confessed that, as yet, no connection was apparent in my mind. Whereupon he regarded me with a strange expression that I had not before seen upon his face. It almost amounted to contempt.
“You may fairly be said to stand for the average man,” he answered, “and if you do not see, then it is improbable that the majority will see either. Yet upon what other conceivable basis can any intelligible clue be found? I admit the strangeness, the unlikeness to truth, the outrage to experience and preconceived opinions. I admit also the consequent horror, for any outrage to experience has always an element of horror. This thing confounds opinion and experience at every turn. I say, then, that as the dog will recognize and obey a human master, and perform for him operations that he could not perform for himself, being aided to do so by its adaptability and power of comprehending what man wishes and directs, so here, in this living organism we call ‘the Bat,’ there exists a mentality — far higher than that of the dog, yet lower than the mentality of man — which can be trained and directed, ordered and taught to obey. I see in this dark, living agent something akin to the fabled Efrits, and Eastern fairies and slaves of the ring, who were able to carry out their masters’ orders; I conceive of this creature, viewed rationally and without the terror it usually awakens by its strangeness, as an organism almost in sight of reason, yet none the less separated from modern man by a great gulf. I imagine that it may be, as it were, an abortive effort on Nature’s part to develop conscious intelligence along a different line and through a different species than that which produced man. She began and gave up, turning her attention in another direction. Thus we have a being — stranded on the way to something higher — a series broken — not a missing link, but the end of an in-completed chain. The gulf between this creature and ourselves, unknown men have in some measure bridged. They have discovered the monster, trained it and instructed it to obey them; they have learned a means to convey their wishes to it; and, such is its own intelligence, that it has comprehended and is now operating and using its powers under human direction.”
Upon this astounding theory he talked for a long time, evidently convinced that he was right. Once he broke off and anticipated an objection as though he had read it in my mind, where, indeed, it was.
“You will say that at Rome this creature was not associated with the deaths of the anarchists, or seen near its victims though they perished under its attack. But what of that? We know what camouflage means in warfare and the significance of imitative coloring in nature. The chameleon reflects his surroundings and so becomes invisible, as do many birds, insects and fishes. Even a huge object may possess this power, and ‘the Bat’ is probably better seen by night than in broad day.”
To use a familiar phrase, I could not believe my own ears, and suspected that I must be asleep and dreaming. But there was no real possibility of mistake and when I ventured other objections, he brushed them aside. Never in my experience had he permitted himself such assurance or declared himself so convinced of his own belief. He grew excited and oblivious of time. Then, as the clock struck one, an inspiration led me to distract him from this appalling theme and I thought upon Ian Noble.
“Let me tell you of our evening with Paul Strossmayer’s ‘super-chemist,’ Sir Bruce,” I began, when he gave me an opportunity. “His opinions and researches would have deeply interested you, and he echoed much that I have heard you say. He was a modest, attractive young fellow, and we all greatly regretted that you were not there to hear and give support.”
But Sir Bruce had shot his bolt. Moreover it was clear that my skepticism had annoyed him. For I could not accept his theory and would not pretend that I did. He showed little interest in Ian Noble, and even declared that no friend of Strossmayer was likely to attract him. He evidently retained his old aversion and distrust in that quarter and, indeed, ended the evening by speaking harsh words of the Jugo-Slav.
“It may be that he and his secret companions have actually enslaved these unknown creatures,” he said. “At any rate I desire to hear nothing of this other slave in human shape — the chemist, Ian Noble.”
He then pleaded fatigue, apologized for keeping me so long from my rest and prepared to retire. He thawed a little before leaving me; but he seemed to have drifted far from the man I knew, and I entertained profound fears for his mind. Indeed I determined to write to his brother on the following morning and was actually composing a letter while I lay awake through that sleepless night, when I recollected that General Hugh’s direction was unknown to me. Nor did I venture to ask for it. I remembered, however, that his address would be known at his own residence in Chislehurst, and decided to despatch my appeal there.
Upon what trifles may hang momentous events! Looking back, I feel little doubt that, had Sir Bruce been in an easier mood and permitted me to speak of Noble and what he had said and thought, not a few valuable lives might have been saved in the time to come. If I had even persisted and made another attempt to describe the young chemist’s aims and aspirations, infinite good must have resulted, had my host only been won to listen. But the opportunity was forever lost. Little guessing how much might hang upon it, I felt only concerned to keep the old man of science calm, and did not, therefore, d
uring the remainder of my visit touch again on this disputed ground. Yet had I done so; had I made a favor of it and invited — nay implored him, for courtesy and friendship, to let me speak, it is not too much to say that civilization itself had been enormously the gainer and the total measure of human happiness appreciably enriched and enlarged in this our time. The assertion must appear preposterous and exaggerated; but subsequent events proved it impossible to doubt that I write the truth.
The fatal mischief was wrought, and two days later there came news that entirely preoccupied us; for the extraordinary information that then reached Grimwood, through the channels of the newspapers, appeared to support the extravagant opinions of Sir Bruce.
The unknown had struck twice in America, and ‘the Bat’ had been observed by many witnesses.
CHAPTER IX
I SEE ‘THE BAT’
AN eminent man had been assassinated in America — one upon whom the eyes of the New and Old World alike turned at this moment; and almost simultaneously were destroyed five New York buildings, all dedicated to one purpose: the advancement of human welfare. In a night they were reduced to powder, and though the two events occurred widely separated in space, but a few hours intervened between them.
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