by Various
VIII
THE TERROR BY NIGHT
Maynard disincumbered himself from his fishing-creel, stabbed the buttof his rod into the turf, and settled down in the heather to fill apipe. All round him stretched the undulating moor, purple in the latesummer sunlight. To the southward, low down, a faint haze told where thesea lay. The stream at his feet sang its queer, crooning moor-song as itrambled onward, chuckling to meet a bed of pebbles somewhere out ofsight, whispering mysteriously to the rushes that fringed its banks ofpeat, deepening to a sudden contralto as it poured over granite bouldersinto a scum-flecked pool below.
For a long time the man sat smoking. Occasionally he turned his head towatch with keen eyes the fretful movements of a fly hovering above thewater. Then a sudden dimple in the smooth surface of the stream arrestedhis attention. A few concentric ripples widened, travelled towards him,and were absorbed in the current. His lips curved into a little smileand he reached for his rod. In the clear water he could see the originof the ripples; a small trout, unconscious of his presence, was waitingin its hover for the next tit-bit to float downstream. Presently it roseagain.
"The odds are ten to one in your favour," said the man. "Let's see!"
He dropped on one knee and the cast leapt out in feathery coils. Once,twice it swished; the third time it alighted like thistledown on thesurface. There was a tiny splash, a laugh, and the little greenheartrod flicked a trout high over his head. It was the merestbaby--half-an-ounce, perhaps--and it fell from the hook into the herbagesome yards from the stream.
"Little ass!" said Maynard. "That was meant for your big brother."
He recovered his cast and began to look for his victim. Without avail hesearched the heather, and as the fateful seconds sped, at last laid downhis rod and dropped on hands and knees to probe among the grass-stems.
For a while he hunted in vain, then the sunlight showed a golden sheenamong some stones. Maynard gave a grunt of relief, but as his handclosed round it a tiny flutter passed through the fingerling; it gave afinal gasp and was still. Knitting his brows in almost comical vexation,he hastened to restore it to the stream, holding it by the tail andstriving to impart a life-like wriggle to its limpness.
"Buck up, old thing!" he murmured encouragingly. "Oh, buck up! You'reall right, really you are!"
But the "old thing" was all wrong. In fact, it was dead.
Standing in the wet shingle, Maynard regarded the speckled atom as itlay in the palm of his hand.
"A matter of seconds, my son. One instant in all eternity would havemade just the difference between life and death to you. And the highgods denied it you!"
On the opposite side of the stream, set back about thirty paces from thebrink, stood a granite boulder. It was as high as a man's chest, roughlycubical in shape; but the weather and clinging moss had rounded itsedges, and in places segments had crumbled away, giving foothold toclumps of fern and starry moor-flowers. On three sides the surroundingground rose steeply, forming an irregular horseshoe mound that opened tothe west. Perhaps it was the queer amphitheatrical effect of thissetting that connected up some whimsical train of thought in Maynard'sbrain.
"It would seem as if the gods had claimed you," he mused, still holdingthe corpse. "You shall be a sacrifice--a burnt sacrifice to the God ofWaste Places."
He laughed at the conceit, half-ashamed of his own childishness, andcrossing the stream by some boulders, he brushed away the earth and weedfrom the top of the great stone. Then he retraced his steps and gathereda handful of bleached twigs that the winter floods had left strandedalong the margin of the stream. These he arranged methodically on thecleared space; on the top of the tiny pyre he placed the troutlet.
"There!" he said, and smiling gravely struck a match. A faint column ofsmoke curled up into the still air, and as he spoke the lower rim of thesetting sun met the edge of the moor. The evening seemed suddenly tobecome incredibly still, even the voice of the stream ceasing to be asound distinct. A wagtail bobbing in the shallows fled into the waste.Overhead the smoke trembled upwards, a faint stain against a cloudlesssky. The stillness seemed almost acute. It was as if the moor werewaiting, and holding its breath while it waited. Then the twigs upon hisaltar crackled, and the pale flames blazed up. The man stepped back withartistic appreciation of the effect.
"To be really impressive, there ought to be more smoke," he continued.
Round the base of the stone were clumps of small flowers. They werecrimson in colour and had thick, fleshy leaves. Hastily, he snatched ahandful and piled it on the fire. The smoke darkened and rose in a thickcolumn; there was a curious pungency in the air.
Far off the church-bell in some unseen hamlet struck the hour. Thedistant sound, coming from the world of men and every-day affairs,seemed to break the spell. An ousel fluttered across the stream anddabbled in a puddle among some stones. Rabbits began to show themselvesand frisk with lengthened shadows in the clear spaces. Maynard looked athis watch, half-mindful of a train to be caught somewhere miles away,and then, held by the peace of running water, stretched himself againstthe sloping ground.
The glowing world seemed peopled by tiny folk, living out their timid,inscrutable lives around him. A water-rat, passing bright-eyed upon hislawful occasion, paused on the border of the stream to consider thestranger, and was lost to view. A stagnant pool among some reeds caughtthe reflection of the sunset and changed on the instant into raw gold.
Maynard plucked a grass stem and chewed it reflectively, staring outacross the purple moor and lazily watching the western sky turn fromglory to glory. Over his head the smoke of the sacrifice still curledand eddied upwards. Then a sudden sound sent him on to one elbow--thethud of an approaching horse's hoofs.
"Moor ponies!" he muttered, and, rising, stood expectant beside hissmoking altar.
Then he heard the sudden jingle of a bit, and presently a horse andrider climbed into view against the pure sky. A young girl, breeched,booted and spurred like a boy, drew rein, and sat looking down into thehollow.
For a moment neither spoke; then Maynard acknowledged her presence byraising his tweed hat. She gave a little nod.
"I thought it was somebody swaling--burning the heather." She consideredthe embers on the stone, and then her grey eyes travelled back to thespare, tweed-clad figure beside it.
He smiled in his slow way--a rather attractive smile.
"No. I've just concluded some pagan rites in connection with a smalltrout!" He nodded gravely at the stone. "That was a burnt sacrifice."With whimsical seriousness he told her of the trout's demise and highdestiny.
For a moment she looked doubtful; but the inflection of breeding in hisvoice, the wholesome, lean face and humorous eyes, reassured her. Asmile hovered about the corners of her mouth.
"Oh, is that it? I wondered ..."
She gathered the reins and turned her horse's head.
"Forgive me if I dragged you out of your way," said Maynard, never swiftto conventionality, but touched by the tired shadows in her eyes. Thefaint droop of her mouth, too, betrayed intense fatigue. "You lookfagged. I don't want to be a nuisance or bore you, but I wish you'd letme offer you a sandwich. I've some milk here, too."
The girl looked round the ragged moor, brooding in the twilight, andhalf hesitated. Then she forced a wan little smile.
"I am tired, and hungry, too. Have you enough for us both?"
"Lots!" said Maynard. To himself he added: "And what's more, my child,you'll have a little fainting affair in a few minutes, if you don't havea feed."
"Come and rest for a minute," he continued aloud.
He spoke with pleasant, impersonal kindliness, and as he turned to hissatchel she slipped out of the saddle and came towards him, leading herhorse.
"Drink that," he said, holding out the cup of his flask. She drank witha wry little face, and coughed. "I put a little whisky in it," heexplained. "You needed it."
She thanked him and sat down with the bridle linked over her arm. Thecolour crept back into her chee
ks. Maynard produced a packet ofsandwiches and a pasty.
"I've been mooning about the moor all the afternoon and lost myselftwice," she explained between frank mouthfuls. "I'm hopelessly late fordinner, and I've still got miles to go."
"Do you know the way now?" he asked.
"Oh, yes! It won't take me long. My family are sensible, too, and don'tfuss." She looked at him, her long-lashed eyes a little serious. "Butyou--how are you going to get home? It's getting late to be out on themoor afoot."
Maynard laughed.
"Oh, I'm all right, thanks!" He sniffed the warm September night. "Ithink I shall sleep here, as a matter of fact. I'm a gipsy by instinct--
"'Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly Heaven above----'"
He broke off, arrested by her unsmiling eyes. She was silent a moment.
"People don't as a rule sleep out--about here." The words came jerkily,as if she were forcing a natural tone into her voice.
"No?" He was accustomed to being questioned on his unconventional modeof life, and was prepared for the usual expostulations. She lookedabruptly towards him.
"Are you superstitious?"
He laughed and shook his head.
"I don't think so. But what has that got to do with it?"
She hesitated, flushing a little.
"There is a legend--people about here say that the moor here is haunted.There is a Thing that hunts people to death!"
He laughed outright, wondering how old she was. Seventeen or eighteen,perhaps. She had said her people "didn't fuss." That meant she was leftto herself to pick up all these old wives' tales.
"Really! Has anyone been caught?"
She nodded, unsmiling.
"Yes; old George Toms. He was one of Dad's tenants, a big purple-facedman, who drank a lot and never took much exercise. They found him in aditch with his clothes all torn and covered with mud. He had been run todeath; there was no wound on his body, but his heart was broken." Herthoughts recurred to the stone against which they leant, and his quaintconceit. "You were rather rash to go offering burnt sacrifices abouthere, don't you think? Dad says that stone is the remains of an oldPh[oe]nician altar, too."
She was smiling now, but the seriousness lingered in her eyes.
"And I have probably invoked some terrible heathen deity--Ashtoreth, orPugm, or Baal! How awful!" he added, with mock gravity.
The girl rose to her feet.
"You are laughing at me. The people about here are superstitious, and Iam a Celt, too. I belong here."
He jumped up with a quick protest.
"No, I'm not laughing at you. Please don't think that! But it's a littlehard to believe in active evil when all around is so beautiful." Hehelped her to mount and walked to the top of the mound at her stirrup."Tell me, is there any charm or incantation, in case----?" His eyes weretwinkling, but she shook her fair head soberly.
"They say iron--cold iron--is the only thing it cannot cross. But I mustgo!" She held out her hand with half-shy friendliness. "Thank you foryour niceness to me." Her eyes grew suddenly wistful. "Really, though, Idon't think I should stay there if I were you. Please!"
He only laughed, however, and she moved off, shaking her impatienthorse into a canter. Maynard stood looking after her till she wasswallowed by the dusk and surrounding moor. Then, thoughtfully, heretraced his steps to the hollow.
* * * * *
A cloud lay across the face of the moon when Fear awoke Maynard. Herolled on to one elbow and stared round the hollow, filled withinexplicable dread. He was ordinarily a courageous man, and had nonerves to speak of; yet, as his eyes followed the line of the ridgeagainst the sky, he experienced terror, the elementary, nauseatingterror of childhood, when the skin tingles, and the heart beats at asuffocating gallop. It was very dark, but momentarily his eyes grewaccustomed to it. He was conscious of a queer, pungent smell, horriblyanimal and corrupt.
Suddenly the utter silence broke. He heard a rattle of stones, thesplash of water about him, realised that it was the brook beneath hisfeet, and that he, Maynard, was running for his life.
Neither then nor later did Reason assert herself. He ran withoutquestion or amazement. His brain--the part where human reasoning holdsnormal sway--was dominated by the purely primitive instinct of flight.And in that sudden rout of courage and self-respect one consciousthought alone remained. Whatever it was that was even then at his heels,he must not see it. At all costs it must be behind him, and, resistingthe sudden terrified impulse to look over his shoulder, he unbuttonedhis tweed jacket and disengaged himself from it as he ran. The fainthaze that had gathered round the full moon dispersed, and he saw themoor stretching before him, grey and still, glistening with dew.
He was of frugal and temperate habits, a wiry man at the height of hisphysical powers, with lean flanks and a deep chest.
At Oxford they had said he was built to run for his life. He was runningfor it now, and he knew it.
The ground sloped upwards after a while, and he tore up the incline,breathing deep and hard; down into a shallow valley, leaping gorsebushes, crashing through whortle and meadowsweet, stumbling overpeat-cuttings and the workings of forgotten tin-mines. An idioticpopular tune raced through his brain. He found himself trying to framethe words, but they broke into incoherent prayers, still to the samegrotesque tune.
Then, as he breasted the flank of a boulder-strewn tor, he seemed tohear snuffling breathing behind him, and, redoubling his efforts,stepped into a rabbit hole. He was up and running again in the twinklingof an eye, limping from a twisted ankle as he ran.
He sprinted over the crest of the hill and thought he heard the soundalmost abreast of him, away to the right. In the dry bed of awatercourse some stones were dislodged and fell with a rattle in thestillness of the night; he bore away to the left. A moment later therewas Something nearly at his left elbow, and he smelt again the nameless,f[oe]tid reek. He doubled, and the ghastly truth flashed upon him. TheThing was playing with him! He was being hunted for sport--the sport ofa horror unthinkable. The sweat ran down into his eyes.
He lost all count of time; his wrist watch was smashed on his wrist. Heran through a reeling eternity, sobbing for breath, stumbling, tripping,fighting a leaden weariness; and ever the same unreasoning terror urgedhim on. The moon and ragged skyline swam about him; the blood drummeddeafeningly in his ears, and his eyeballs felt as if they would burstfrom their sockets. He had nearly bitten his swollen tongue in twofalling over an unseen peat-cutting, and blood-flecked foam gathered onhis lips.
God, how he ran! But he was no longer among bog and heather. He wasrunning--shambling now--along a road. The loping pursuit of thatnameless, shapeless Something sounded like an echo in his head.
He was nearing a village, but saw nothing save a red mist that swambefore him like a fog. The road underfoot seemed to rise and fall inwavelike undulations. Still he ran, with sobbing gasps and limbs thatswerved under his weight; at his elbow hung death unnamable, and thefear of it urged him on while every instinct of his exhausted bodycalled out to him to fling up his hands and end it.
Out of the mist ahead rose the rough outline of a building by theroadside; it was the village smithy, half workshop, half dwelling. Theroad here skirted a patch of grass, and the moonlight, glistening on thedew, showed the dark circular scars of the turf where, for a generation,the smith's peat fires had heated the great iron hoops that tyred thewheels of the wains. One of these was even then lying on the ground withthe turves placed in readiness for firing in the morning, and in thethrobbing darkness of Maynard's consciousness a voice seemed to speakfaintly--the voice of a girl:
"_There's a Thing that hunts people to death. But iron--cold iron--itcannot cross._"
The sweat of death was already on his brow as he reeled sideways,plunging blindly across the uneven tufts of grass. His feet caught insome obstruction and he pitched forward into the sanctuary of the hugeiron tyre--a spasm of cramp twisting his limbs up
under him.
As he fell a great blackness rose around him, and with it the bewilderedclamour of awakened dogs.
* * * * *
Dr. Stanmore came down the flagged path from the smith's cottage,pulling on his gloves. A big car was passing slowly up the villagestreet, and as it came abreast the smithy the doctor raised his hat.
The car stopped, and the driver, a fair-haired girl, leant sideways fromher seat.
"Good-morning, Dr. Stanmore! What's the matter here? Nothing wrong withany of Matthew's children, is there?"
The Doctor shook his head gravely.
"No, Lady Dorothy; they're all at school. This is no one belonging tothe family--a stranger who was taken mysteriously ill last night justoutside the forge, and they brought him in. It's a most queer case, andvery difficult to diagnose--that is to say, to give a diagnosis inkeeping with one's professional--er--conscience."
The girl switched off the engine, and took her hand from thebrake-lever. Something in the doctor's manner arrested her interest.
"What is the matter with him?" she queried. "What diagnosis have youmade, professional or otherwise?"
"Shock, Lady Dorothy; severe exhaustion and shock, heart strained,superficial lesions, bruises, scratches, and so forth. Mentally he is ina great state of excitement and terror, lapsing into delirium attimes--that is really the most serious feature. In fact, unless I cancalm him I am afraid we may have some brain trouble on top of the otherthing. It's most mysterious!"
The girl nodded gravely, holding her underlip between her white teeth.
"What does he look like--in appearance, I mean? Is he young?"
The shadow of a smile crossed the doctor's eyes.
"Yes, Lady Dorothy--quite young, and very good-looking. He is a man ofremarkable athletic build. He is calmer now, and I have left Matthew'swife with him while I slip out to see a couple of other patients."
Lady Dorothy rose from her seat and stepped down out of the car.
"I think I know your patient," she said. "In fact, I had taken the carto look for him, to ask him to lunch with us. Do you think I might seehim for a minute? If it is the person I think it is I may be able tohelp you diagnose his illness."
Together they walked up the path and entered the cottage. The doctor ledthe way upstairs and opened a door. A woman sitting by the bed rose anddropped a curtsey.
Lady Dorothy smiled a greeting to her and crossed over to the bed.There, his face grey and drawn with exhaustion, with shadows round hisclosed eyes, lay Maynard; one hand lying on the counterpane opened andclosed convulsively, his lips moved. The physician eyed the girlinterrogatively.
"Do you know him?" he asked.
She nodded, and put her firm, cool hand over the twitching fingers.
"Yes," she said. "And I warned him. Tell me, is he very ill?"
"He requires rest, careful nursing, absolute quiet----"
"All that he can have at the Manor," said the girl softly. She met thedoctor's eyes and looked away, a faint colour tingeing her cheeks. "Willyou go and telephone to father? I will take him back in the car now ifhe is well enough to be moved."
"Yes, he is well enough to be moved," said the doctor. "It is very kindof you, Lady Dorothy, and I will go and telephone at once. Will you staywith him for a little while?"
He left the room, and they heard his feet go down the narrow stairs. Thecottage door opened and closed.
The two women, the old and the young, peasant and peer's daughter,looked at each other, and there was in their glance that completeunderstanding which can only exist between women.
"Do 'ee mind old Jarge Toms, my lady?"
Lady Dorothy nodded.
"I know, I know! And I warned him! They won't believe, these men! Theythink because they are so big and strong that there is nothing that canhurt them."
"'Twas th' iron that saved un, my lady. 'Twas inside one of John's newtyres as was lyin' on the ground that us found un. Dogs barkin' wakenedus up. But it'd ha' had un, else----" A sound downstairs sent her flyingto the door. "'Tis the kettle, my lady. John's dinner spilin', an' Iforgettin'."
She hurried out of the room and closed the door.
The sound of their voices seemed to have roused the occupant of the bed.His eyelids fluttered and opened; his eyes rested full on the girl'sface. For a moment there was no consciousness in their gaze; then awhimsical ghost of a smile crept about his mouth.
"Go on," he said in a weak voice. "Say it!"
"Say what?" asked Lady Dorothy. She was suddenly aware that her hand wasstill on his, but the twitching fingers had closed about hers in a calm,firm grasp.
"Say 'I told you so'!"
She shook her head with a little smile.
"I told you that cold iron----"
"Cold iron saved me." He told her of the iron hoop on the ground outsidethe forge. "You saved me last night."
She disengaged her hand gently.
"I saved you last night--since you say so. But in future----"
Someone was coming up the stairs. Maynard met her eyes with a long look.
"I have no fear," he said. "I have found something better than coldiron."
The door opened and the doctor came in. He glanced at Maynard's face andtouched his pulse.
"The case is yours, Lady Dorothy!" he said with a little bow.