The Black Reaper

by Bernard Capes

  ‘I made some lame apology. She stamped her foot to end it and dismiss me. But as I passed her to go, she spoke again: “You will never find it. It is only faith that can move such mountains.”

  ‘I encountered J.B. in the morning-room, and we breakfasted alone together. Howick did not appear – purposely, I think. I felt somehow depressed and uneasy, but resolved to hold fast to myself without too many words. Once I enlightened Lamont: “That portrait,” I said, “is not Howick’s sister.” J.B. lifted his eyebrows. “O!” said he, “you have been paying it a morning visit, have you? No, it is a portrait of Maud Howick, daughter to Roger, the man who hangs opposite her.” It was my turn to stare. “Howick has been giving you his family history?” I asked. J.B. did not answer for a minute; then he said: “I hope you won’t take it in bad part, Penn-Howard; but – yes, he has been talking to me. I know, I think, all there is to know.” I had some right to be offended; and he admitted it. “Howick would put it to me,” he said. “He was struck, it seemed, by something I said that night at Lady Caroon’s; and he thinks you at heart a polite sceptic.” “Well,” I said, “have you solved the mystery, whatever it is?” He answered no, but that he had a theory; and asked me if I had formed any. “Not a ghost of one,” I replied; “and so Howick was certainly right in confiding first in you – first and last, indeed, if I am to be kept in the dark.” “On the contrary,” said J.B.; “I am going to repeat every word of Howick’s story to you – only in a quiet place.”

  ‘We found one presently, out in the fields in the shadow of a ruined byre. It stood up bare and lonely, like a tattered baldachin, and far away under the stoop of its roof we could see the walls of the moathouse rising lean and brown into a cloudless sky. Lamont began his narration with a question: “How old would you suppose this Miss Ruth Howick, the sister, to be?” I was about to answer promptly, recalled my perplexity, and hesitated. “Tell me, without more ado,” I responded. “Nineteen,” he said, and shut his lips like a trap. Something caught at me, and I at myself. “Go on,” I said; “anything after that.” And J.B. responded, speaking in his abrupt, incisive way:

  ‘“This James Howick came into his own here some year and a half ago. There were only himself and his sister – to whom he was and is devoted – the sole survivors of a once considerable family. Their father, Gilbert Howick – son of Paul, who was younger brother to the Roger of the portrait – married one Margaret (a beautiful ward of Paul’s, and brought up by him as a member of his own family) about whose origin attached some mystery, which was only made clear to her husband on the occasion of their marriage. Margaret, in brief, was then revealed to Gilbert for his own first cousin once removed, being the natural daughter of his cousin Maud, one of the two children of Roger. I know nothing about the liaison which necessitated this explanation, nor do we need to know. Its results are what concern us. Roger, it is certain, took his daughter’s dereliction in a truly devilish spirit. He was an evil, dark man, it was said, pledged to the world and its pride, and once a notorious liver. There is none so extreme in fanaticism as a convert from irreligion; none so damnably righteous as a rake reformed. Having committed the fruits of her sin to the merciful custody of his younger brother – a very different soul, of a humane and pious disposition – Roger turned his attention to the moral and physical ruin of the sinner. He swore that she should forfeit the youth she had abused; and he was as good as his word. No one knows how it happened; no one knows what passed in that dark and haunted house. But Maud grew old in youth. She had been spoiled and petted for her beauty; now the spirit broke in her, and she seemed to shrink and disappear behind the wrinkled, crumbling veil of what had been – like a snake, Penn-Howard, that struggles and cannot cast its dead skin. She grew old in youth. That portrait of her was painted when she was nineteen.”

  ‘I cried out. “It was impossible!” “It would seem so,” said Lamont. “By what infernal arts he held her to his will – holds her now – it is sickening to conjecture.” I turned to look at him. “Holds her now!” I repeated. “Then you mean—” “Yes,” he said; “it is imprisoned youth that is for ever trying to escape, to emerge, like the snake, from its dead self. That is the secret of the room. At least, such is my theory.”

  ‘I sat as in a dream, awed by, yet struggling to reject, a conclusion so fantastic. “Well, grant your theory,” I said at length, with a deep breath; “how does it affect this woman – or girl – this Ruth?”

  ‘“Think,” said Lamont. “She is actually that erring child’s granddaughter. It seems wonderfully pitiful to me. Her own mother died in that house, during a visit, in giving birth to her. At the time, the son, Roger’s son, was master of Haggarts. He was a poor-witted creature, Howick tells me; but he lived, as the imbecile often will, to a ripe old age. Ruth was born prematurely. Her mother, it was said, fell under the cursed influence of the place, and withered in her prime. Maud herself, according to the story, had already died in that very room – was found dead there, little more than a child still in years, a poor, worn ghost of womanhood in seeming. Since then, the room has always had an evil reputation – with what justice Howick never knew or regarded, until the death of his uncle put him, a year and a half ago, in possession of the place.”

  ‘“But this Ruth—”

  ‘“It came upon her, it seems, gradually at first, then more rapidly. She lost her health and vivacity; she was for ever haunting the room. When we first met Howick, she was already horribly changed. Ten months have passed since then. He has tried to hide it from the world; has made practically a hermit of himself. The servants of that date have been changed for others, and changed again. She feels, it must be supposed, what we felt – a ceaseless anguish to release something – nothing – a mere pent shadow of horror. And more than that: the sin of the mother is being visited on the child of the child – and through the same diabolical agency.” Lamont paused a moment, staring before him, and knotting his fingers together till they cracked. “Penn-Howard,” he said, “I believe – I do believe, on my soul, that the secret, whatever it is, lies at the hands of that devil portrait.”

  ‘“Then why, in God’s name, not remove and burn the thing?”

  ‘“He has offered to. It had a dreadful effect upon her. She cried that so the clue would be lost for ever. And so it affects her to be excluded from the room. He has had to give it all up as hopeless.”

  ‘He rose, and I rose with him, not in truth convinced, but oddly agitated.

  ‘“Well,” I said, “what do you propose doing?”

  ‘He seemed deep in thought, and did not answer me. At the door we parted. Entering alone, I met Howick in the hall. He looked at me searchingly in his lank, haggard way, then suddenly took my hand. “You know?” he said. “He has told you? Mr Penn-Howard, she was such a bright and pretty child.” I saw tears in his eyes, and understood him better from that moment.

  ‘Lamont was absent all day, and returned late from a prolonged tramp over the hills. The poignant subject was tacitly shelved that night, and we went to bed early.

  ‘The next morning, after breakfast, J.B. turned upon our host. “I want,” he said, “that room to myself, possibly for the whole morning, possibly for longer. Can you secure it to me?” Howick nodded. I could detect in his eyes some faint reflection of the strong spirit which faced him. Somehow one never despairs in J.B.’s presence. “I will say you are looking for it,” he said. “She will not disturb you then.” “There is a closet,” said Lamont, “in my bedroom which will do very well for a dark-room.”

  ‘He disappeared soon after with his camera. It was his business, and I seldom disturbed him at it. We left him alone, and tried to forget him, though I could see all the morning that Howick was in a state of painful nervous tension. Not till after lunch did we hear or see anything of my colleague, and then he came in, descending from his improvised dark-room. He held a negative in his hand, and he shut the door behind him like a man who had something to reveal. “Mr Howick,” he said, straight out an
d at once, “I am going to ask you to let me destroy that portrait of your great-uncle.”

  ‘The words took us like a smack; and, as we stood gaping, J.B. held out his negative. “Look at this,” he said, and beckoning us to the window, let the light slant upon the thing so as to disclose its subject. “The secret stands revealed, does it not?” said he, quiet and low. “A long, a very long exposure, and the devil is betrayed. O, a wonderful detective is the camera.”

  ‘I heard Howick breathing fast over my shoulder. For myself, I was as much perplexed as astonished. “It is the portrait,” I muttered, “and yet it is not. There is the ghost of something revealing itself through it.” “Exactly,” said J.B. drily – and went and put the negative behind the clock on the mantelpiece. “Well, shall we do it?” he asked, turning to our host. Howick’s face was ghastly. He could hardly get out the words, “In God’s name, do what you will! Better to dare and end it all than live on like this.” J.B. stood looking at him earnestly. “No,” he said. “You go to her. Penn-Howard and I will manage the business.”

  ‘We left him, and went to the room and locked ourselves in. I confess my blood was tingling. So shut in with it, the unspeakable atmosphere of that place seemed to intensify to a degree quite infernal. I seemed to realise in it a battle of two wills, Lamont’s and another’s. My friend’s face was a little pale; but the set of its every feature spoke of an inexorable purpose. As we handled the portrait to lower it, it fell heavily and unaccountably forward, an edge of the massive frame just missing J.B.’s skull by an inch. “That miscarriage does for you, my friend,” he said, showing his teeth a little, like a dog. Portrait and frame lay apart on the floor; the shock had disunited them. Lamont knelt, and went over the former unflinchingly. The green eyes, caught from their age-long inquisition of the face on the wall opposite, seemed to glare up into his in hate and fury. “Get out your knife,” I cried irresistibly, “and slash the cursed thing to pieces.” “No,” he answered; “that is not at all my purpose.”

  ‘What was his purpose? I knew in a moment. He fetched out his knife indeed, and, hunting over the surface of the thing, found a blister in the paint, cut into it, seized an edge between thumb and finger, and, flaying away a long strip, uttered a loud, jubilant exclamation. “Look at this, Penn-Howard.” I bent over – and then I understood in a flash. It was but a strip exposed; but it was like a chink of dazzling daylight let through. There was another portrait underneath.

  ‘Artists tell me that when one oil-painting is superimposed on another within a few years of the production of the first, only exceptional circumstances can render their successful separation possible. I know nothing about the technical difficulties; I know only that in this case we were able to remove the overlying skin, strip by strip, almost without a hitch, until the whole of the upper portrait lay in flakes of rubbish upon the floor – to be delivered within a few minutes to consuming fire. And the thing revealed! I cannot describe the beauty of that vision, bursting into flower out of its age-long cimmerian darkness. It was the personification of youth – a young girl (she might have been sixteen), laughing and lovely, the most wilful, bewitching face you could imagine – Maud Howick.’

  Once more Penn-Howard fell silent. The room by now was dark; his figure was indistinguishable, and his voice, when he spoke again, seemed a shadow borne out of the shadows:

  ‘While we gazed, fascinated, there came a knock on the door. It was Howick. His face was transfigured – his eyes glowed. “She has fallen asleep,” he said; “and that is not all. My God, what has happened?” We took him in and showed him the portrait. He broke down before it. “The little grandmother!” he said, “the poor, erring child! And it was of that, and by that damnable method, that that fiend incarnate robbed her! To imprison her youth within his wicked soul, drawn by him out of the mirror to stand for ever at sentry over her lest she escape. And she pined and withered in that hideous bondage, until he could show her, in that other, what his hate had wrought of her. But she is free at last – her soul is free to fly for ever this dark house of its captivity.”

  ‘J.B. looked at him searchingly. “And your sister?” he said. Howick did not answer; but he beckoned us to follow him, and he led us into the drawing-room where she lay. Fast in dreamless slumber as the sleeping beauty. But the change! God in heaven; she was already a child again!’

  The speaker halted for the last time. It was minutes before he took up the tale, in a constrained and hesitating way:

  ‘I saw all this, I tell you – saw it with these eyes. We stayed there yet a week longer; and I left her in the end a radiant, laughing child, a joyous, captivating little soul, who remembered, or seemed to remember, nothing of the fearful months preceding. And yet, now I am away, I doubt. It is the curse of my disposition. What, for instance, if one were to yield her one’s soul and discover, too late, that one had succumbed to some unreal glamour, to the arts of a veritable and most feminine Lamia. I believe it is not so; I know it is not so – and yet, the incredible—’

  His voice died out. I saw how it was, and answered, I am afraid, brutally:

  ‘You aren’t really in love with her, of course. That is as clear as print.’

  He rose at once. ‘That decides it,’ he said. ‘I shall go back and ask her to be my wife.’

  But he did not do so. Two days later I met him in the street. His manner was quite breezy and insouciant. ‘O, by the by!’ he said, in a break of our conversation, ‘did I tell you that I had heard from J.B.? He and Miss Howick are engaged.’

  THE STRENGTH OF THE ROPE

  Si finis bonus est, totum bonum erit.

  There were notices, of varying dates, posted in prominent places about the cliffs to warn the public not to go near them – unless, indeed, it were to read the notices themselves, which were printed in a very unobtrusive type. Of late, however, this Dogberrian caveat had been supplemented by a statement in the local gazette that the cliffs, owing to the recent rains succeeding prolonged frost, were in so ill a constitution that to approach them at all, even to decipher the warnings not to, was – well, to take your life out of the municipal into your own hands.

  Now, had the Regius Professor a bee in his bonnet? Absurd. He knew the risks of foolhardiness as well as any pickpocket could have told him. Yet, neither general nor particular caution availed to abate his determination to examine, as soon as we had lunched, the interior formation of a cave or two, out of those black and innumerable, with which the undercliff was punctured like a warren.

  I did not remonstrate, after having once discovered, folded down under his nose on the table, the printed admonition, and heard the little dry, professorial click of tongue on palate which was wont to dismiss, declining discussion of it, any idle or superfluous proposition. I knew my man – or automaton. He inclined to the Providence of the unimaginative; his only fetish was science. He was one of those who, if unfortunately buried alive, would turn what opportunity remained to them to a study of geological deposits. My ‘nerves’, when we were on a jaunt (fond word!) together, were always a subject of sardonic amusement with him.

  Now, utterly unmoved by the prospect before him, he ate an enormous lunch (confiding it, incidentally, to an unerring digestion), rose, brushed some crumbs out of his beard, and said, ‘Well, shall we be off?’

  In twenty minutes we had reached the caves. They lay in a very secluded little bay – just a crescent of sombre sand, littered along all its inner edge with debris from the towering cliffs which contained it.

  ‘Are you coming with me?’ said the Regius Professor.

  Judged by his anxious eyes, the question might have been an invitation, almost a shamefaced entreaty. But the anxiety, never more than apparent, was delusive product of the preposterous magnifying-glasses which he wore. Did he ever remove those glasses, one was startled to discover, in the seemingly aghast orbs which they misinterpreted, quite mean little attic windows to an unemotional soul.

  ‘Not by any means,’ I said. ‘I will sit h
ere, and think out your epitaph.’

  He stared at me a moment with a puzzled expression, grinned slightly, turned, strode off towards the cliffs, and disappeared, without a moment’s hesitation, into the first accessible burrow. I was moved on the instant to observe that it was the most sinister-looking of them all. The tilted stratification, under which it yawned oblique, seemed on the very poise to close down upon it.

  Now I set to pacing to and fro, essaying a sort of mechanical preoccupation in default of the philosophy I lacked. I was really in a state of clammy anxiety about the Professor. I poked in stony pools for little crabs, as if his life depended on my success. I made it a point of honour with myself not to leave off until I had found one. I tried, like a very amateur pickpocket, to abstract my mind from the atmosphere which contained it, only to find that I had brought mind and atmosphere away together. I bent down, with my back to the sea, and looking between my legs sought to regard life from a new point of view. Yet, even in that position, my eyes and ears were conscious, only in less degree, of the spectres which were always moving and rustling in the melancholy little bay.

  Tekel upharsin. The hand never left off writing upon the rocks, nor the dust of its scoring to fall and whisper. That came away in flakes, or slid down in tiny avalanches – here, there, in so many places at once, that the whole face of the cliffs seemed to crawl like a maggoty cheese. The sound was like a vast conspiracy of voices – busy, ominous – aloft on the seats of an amphitheatre. They were talking of the Regius Professor, and his consideration in making them a Roman holiday.

  Here, on no warrant but that of my senses, I knew the gazette’s warning to be something more than justified. It made no difference that my nerves were at the stretch. One could not hear a silence thus sown with grain of horror, and believe it barren of significance. Then, all in a moment, as it seemed to me, the resolution was taken, the voices hushed, and the whole bay poised on tiptoe of a suspense which preluded something terrific.