Gaslit Horror

by Lamb, Hugh; Hearn, Lafcadio ; Capes, Bernard

  And even as they shrieked the Black Reaper paused, and, putting away his scythe, stooped and gathered up a sheaf in his arms and stood it on end. And, with the very act, a man—one that had been forward in yesterday’s business—fell down amongst us yelling and foaming; and he rent his breast in his frenzy, revealing the purple blot thereon, and he passed blaspheming. And the reaper stooped and stooped again, and with every sheaf he gathered together one of us fell stricken and rolled in his agony, while the rest stood by palsied.

  But, when at length all that was cut was accounted for, and a dozen of us were gone each to his judgment, and he had taken up his scythe to reap anew, a wild fury woke in the breasts of some of the more abandoned and reckless amongst us.

  “It is not to be tolerated!” they cried. “Fire the corn and burn this sorcerer!”

  And with that, some five or six of them, emboldened by despair, ran up into the little field, and, separating, had out each his flint and fired the crop in his own place, and retreated to the narrow part for safety.

  Now the reaper rested on his scythe, as if unexpectedly acquitted of a part of his labour; but the corn flamed up in these five or six directions, and was consumed in each to the compass of a single sheaf: whereat the fire died away. And with its dying the faces of those that had ventured went black as coal; and they flung up their arms, screaming, and fell prone where they stood, and were hidden from our view.

  Then, indeed, despair seized upon all of us that survived, and we made no doubt but that we were to be exterminated and wiped from the earth for our sins, as were the men of Anathoth. And for an hour the Black Reaper mowed and trussed, till he had cut all from the little upper field and was approached to the neck of juncture with the lower and larger. And before us that remained, and who were drawn back amongst the trees, weeping and praying, a fifth of our comrades lay foul, and dead, and sweltering, and all blotched over with the dreadful mark of the pestilence.

  Now, as I say, the reaper was nearing the neck of juncture; and so we knew that if he should once pass into the great field towards us and continue his mowing, not one of us should be left to give earnest of our repentance.

  Then, as it seemed, our Vicar came to a resolution, moving forward with a face all wrapt and entranced; and he strode up the meadow path and approached the apparition, and stretched out his arms to it entreating. And we saw the other pause, awaiting him; and, as he came near, put forth his hand, and so, gently, on the good old head. But as we looked, catching at our breaths with a little pathos of hope, the priestly face was thrown back radiant, and the figure of him that would give his life for us sank amongst the yet standing corn and disappeared from our sight.

  So at last we yielded ourselves fully to our despair; for if our pastor should find no mercy, what possibility of it could be for us!

  It was in this moment of an uttermost grief and horror, when each stood apart from his neighbour, fearing the contamination of his presence, that there was vouchsafed to me, of God’s pity, a wild and sudden inspiration. Still to my neck fastened the little Margery—not frighted, it seemed, but mazed—and other babes there were in plenty, that clung to their mothers’ skirts and peeped out, wondering at the strange show.

  I ran to the front and shrieked: “The children! the children! He will not touch the little children! Bring them and set them in his path!” And so crying I sped to the neck of meadow and loosened the soft arms from my throat, and put the little one down within the corn.

  Now at once the women saw what I would be at, and full a score of them snatched up their babes and followed me. And here we were reckless for ourselves; but we knelt the innocents in one close line across the neck of land, so that the Black Reaper should not find space between any of them to swing his scythe. And having done this, we fell back with our hearts bubbling in our breasts, and we stood panting and watched.

  He had paused over that one full sheaf of his reaping; but now, with the sound of the women’s running, he seized his weapon again and set to upon the narrow belt of corn that yet separated him from the children. But presently, coming out upon the tender array, his scythe stopped and trailed in his hand, and for a full minute he stood like a figure of stone. Then thrice he walked slowly backwards and forwards along the line, seeking for an interval whereby he might pass; and the children laughed at him like silver bells, showing no fear, and perchance meeting that of love in his eyes that was hidden from us.

  Then of a sudden he came to before the midmost of the line, and, while we drew our breath like dying souls, stooped and snapped his blade across his knee, and, holding the two parts in his hand, turned and strode back into the shadow of the dripping well. There arrived, he paused once more, and, twisting him about, waved his hand once to us and vanished into the blackness. But there were those who affirmed that in that instant of his turning, his face was revealed, and that it was a face radiant and beautiful as an angel’s.

  Such is the history of the wild judgment that befell us, and by grace of the little children was foregone; and such was the stranger whose name no man ever heard tell, but whom many have since sought to identify with that spirit of the pestilence that entered into men’s hearts and confounded them, so that they saw visions and were afterwards confused in their memories.

  But this I may say, that when at last our courage would fetch us to that little field of death, we found it to be all blackened and blasted, so as nothing would take root there then or ever since; and it was as if, after all the golden sand of the hour-glass was run away and the lives of the most impious with it, the destroyer saw fit to stay his hand for sake of the babes that he had pronounced innocent, and for such as were spared to witness to His judgment. And this I do here, with a heart as contrite as if it were the morrow of the visitation, the which with me it ever has remained.

  S. Levett-Yeats

  Here’s a story to gladden the heart of any publisher: the definitive method of finding a sure-fire best seller. Whether all publishers would welcome the cost is another matter.

  It comes from a book of short stories by a now-forgotten writer of the turn of the century, Sidney Kilner Levett-Yeats. Levett-Yeats served in the cavalry in India for some years, and then went into government service. He was mentioned in the Birthday Honours in 1912 as Accountant-General, Posts and Telegraphs in the Indian civil service but seems to have sunk into obscurity thereafter.

  He published nine books between 1893 and 1904, starting with an interesting book of short stories, The Romance of Guard Mulligan (1893). His last listed work is the novel Orrain (1904).

  “The Devil’s Manuscript” comes from his second book of short stories, The Heart of Denise (1899). Why it has escaped reprinting for over 100 years is a mystery.

  The Devil’s Manuscript

  I. THE BLACK PACKET

  “M. De Bac? De Bac? I do not know the name.” “Gentleman says he knows you, sir, and has called on urgent business.”

  There was no answer, and John Brown, the ruined publisher, looked about him in a dazed manner. He knew he was ruined; tomorrow the world would know it also, and then—beggary stared him in the face, and infamy too. For this the world would not care. Brown was not a great man in “the trade,” and his name in the Gazette would not attract notice; but his name, as he stood in the felon’s dock, and the ugly history a cross-examination might disclose would probably arouse a fleeting interest, and then the world would go on with a pitiless shrug of its shoulders. What does it matter to the moving wave of humanity if one little drop of spray from its crest is blown into nothing by the wind? Not a jot. But it was a terrible business for the drop of spray, otherwise John Brown, publisher. He was at his best not a good-looking man, rather mean-looking than otherwise, with a thin, angular face, eyes as shifty as a jackal’s and shoulders shaped like a champagne-bottle. As the shadow of coming ruin darkened over him, he seemed to shrink and look meaner than ever. He had almost forgotten the presence of his clerk. He could think of nothing but the morrow, when Simmo
nds’ voice again broke the stillness.

  “Shall I say you will see him, sir?”

  The question cut sharply into the silence, and brought Brown to himself. He had half a mind to say “No.” In the face of the coming tomorrow, business, urgent or otherwise, was nothing to him. Yet, after all, there could be no harm done in receiving the man. It would, at any rate, be a distraction, and, lifting his head, Brown answered:

  “Yes, I will see him, Simmonds.”

  Simmonds went out, closing the green baize door behind him. There was a delay of a moment, and M. De Bac entered—a tall, thin figure, bearing an oblong parcel, packed in shiny, black paper, and sealed with flame-coloured wax.

  “Good-day, Mr. Brown”; and M. De Bac, who, for all his foreign name, spoke perfect English, extended his hand.

  Brown rose, put his own cold fingers into the warm grasp of his visitor, and offered him a seat.

  “With your permission, Mr. Brown, I will take this other chair. It is nearer the fire. I am accustomed to warm climates, as you doubtless perceive”; and De Bac, suiting his action to his words, placed his packet on the table, and began to slowly rub his long, lean fingers together. The publisher glanced at him with some curiosity. M. De Bac was as dark as an Italian, with clear, resolute features, and a moustache, curled at the ends, thick enough to hide the sarcastic curve of his thin lips. He was strongly if sparely built, and his fiery black eyes met Brown’s gaze with a look that ran through him like a needle.

  “You do not appear to recognize me, Mr. Brown?”—De Bac’s voice was very quiet and deep-toned.

  “I have not the honour—” began the publisher; but his visitor interrupted him.

  “You mistake. We are quite old friends; and in time will always be very near each other. I have a minute or two to spare”—he glanced at a repeater—“and will prove to you that I know you. You are John Brown, that very religious young man of Battersea, who, twelve years ago, behaved like a blackguard to a girl at Homerton, and sent her to—but no matter. You attracted my attention then; but, unfortunately, I had no time to devote to you. Subsequently, you effected a pretty little swindle—don’t be angry, Mr. Brown—it was very clever. Then you started in business on your own account, and married. Things went well with you; you know the art of getting at a low price, and selling at a high one. You are a born “sweater.” Pardon the word. You know how to keep men down like beasts, and go up yourself. In doing this, you did me yeoman’s service, although you are even now not aware of this. You had one fault, you have it still, and had you not been a gambler you might have been a rich man. Speculation is a bad thing, Brown—I mean gambling speculation.”

  Brown was an Englishman, and it goes without saying that he had courage. But there was something in De Bac’s manner, some strange power in the steady stare of those black eyes, that held him to his seat as if pinned there.

  As De Bac stopped, however, Brown’s anger gave him strength. Every word that was said was true, and stung like the lash of a whip. He rose white with anger.

  “Sir!” he began with quivering lips, and made a step forward. Then he stopped. It was as if the sombre fire in De Bac’s gaze withered his strength. An invisible hand seemed to drag him back into his seat and hold him there.

  “You are hasty, Mr. Brown”; and De Bac’s even voice continued: “you are really very rash. I was about to tell you a little more of your history, to tell you you are ruined, and tomorrow every one in London—it is the world for you, Brown—will know you are a beggar, and many will know you are a cheat.”

  The publisher swore bitterly under his breath.

  “You see, Mr. Brown,” continued his strange visitor, “I know all about you, and you will be surprised, perhaps, to hear that you deserve help from me. You are too useful to let drift. I have therefore come to save you.”

  “Save me?”

  “Yes. By means of this manuscript here,” he pointed to the packet, “which you are going to publish.”

  Brown now realized that he was dealing with a lunatic. He tried to stretch out his arm to touch the bell on the table; but found that he had no power to do so. He made an attempt to shout to Simmonds; but his tongue moved inaudibly in his mouth. He seemed only to have the faculty of following De Bac’s words, and of answering them. He gasped out:

  “It is impossible!”

  “My friend”—and De Bac smiled mirthlessly—“you will publish that manuscript. I will pay. The profits will be yours. It will make your name, and you will be rich. You will even be able to build a church.”

  “Rich!” Brown’s voice was very bitter. “M. De Bac, you said rightly. I am a ruined man. Even if you were to pay for the publication of that manuscript I could not do it now. It is too late. There are other houses. Go to them.”

  “But not other John Browns. You are peculiarly adapted for my purpose. Enough of this! I know what business is, and I have many things to attend to. You are a small man, Mr. Brown, and it will take little to remove your difficulties. See! Here are a thousand pounds. They will free you from your present troubles,” and De Bac tossed a pocket-book on the table before Brown. “I do not want a receipt,” he went on. “I will call tomorrow for your final answer, and to settle details. If you need it I will give you more money. This hour—twelve—will suit me. Adieu!” He was gone like a flash, and Brown looked around in blank amazement. He was as if suddenly aroused from a dream. He could hardly believe the evidence of his senses, although he could see the black packet, and the neat leather pocket-book with the initials “L. De B.” let in in silver on the outside. He rang his bell violently, and Simmonds appeared.

  “Has M. De Bac gone?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He didn’t pass out through the door.”

  “There is no other way. You must have been asleep.”

  “Indeed I was not, sir.”

  Brown felt a chill as of cold fingers running down his backbone, but pulled himself together with an effort. “It does not matter, Simmonds. You may go.”

  Simmonds went out scratching his head. “How the demon did he get out?” he asked himself. “Must have been sleeping after all. The guv’nor seems a bit dotty to-day. It’s the smash coming—sure.”

  He wrote a letter or two, and then taking his hat, sallied forth to an aërated bread-shop for his cheap and wholesome lunch, for Simmonds was a saving young man, engaged to a young lady living out Camden Town way. Simmonds perfectly understood the state of affairs, and was not a little anxious about matters, for the mother of his fiancée, a widow who let lodgings, had only agreed to his engagement after much persuasion; and if he had to announce the fact that, instead of “thirty bob a week,” as he put it, his income was nothing at all, there would be an end of everything.

  “M’ria’s all right,” he said to his friend Wilkes, in trustful confidence as they sat over their lunch; “but that old torpedo”—by which name he designated his mother-in-law-elect—“she’ll raise Cain if there’s a smash-up.”

  In the meantime, John Brown tore open the pocket-book with shaking hands, and, with a crisp rustling, a number of new bank-notes fell out, and lay in a heap before him. He counted them one by one. They totalled to a thousand pounds exactly. He was a small man. M. De Bac had said so truly, if a little rudely, and the money was more than enough to stave off ruin. De Bac had said, too, if needed he would give him more, and then Brown fell to trembling all over. He was like a man snatched from the very jaws of death. At Battersea he wore a blue ribbon; but now he went to a cabinet, filled a glass with raw brandy, and drained it at a gulp. In a minute or so the generous cordial warmed his chilled blood, and picking up the notes, he counted them again, and thrust them into his breast-pocket. After this he paced the room up and down in a feverish manner, longing for the morrow when he could settle up the most urgent demands against him. Then, on a sudden, a thought struck him. It was almost as if it had been whispered in his ear. Why trouble at all about matters? He had a clear thousand with him, and in an hour he could
be out of the country! He hesitated, but prudence prevailed. Extradition laws stretched everywhere; and there was another thing—that extraordinary madman, De Bac, had promised more money on the morrow. After all, it was better to stay.

  As he made this resolve his eyes fell on the black packet on the table. The peculiar colour of the seals attracted his attention. He bent over them, and saw that the wax bore an impress of a V-shaped shield, within which was set a trident. He noticed also that the packet was tied with a silver thread. His curiosity was excited. He sat down, snipped the threads with a penknife, tore off the black paper covering, flung it into the fire, and saw before him a bulky manuscript exquisitely written on very fine paper. A closer examination showed that they were a number of short stories. Now Brown was in no mood to read; but the title of the first tale caught his eye, and the writing was so legible that he had glanced over half a dozen lines before he was aware of the fact. Those first half-dozen lines were sufficient to make him read the page, and when he had read the page the publisher felt he was before the work of a genius.

  He was unable to stop now; and, with his head resting between his hands, he read on tirelessly. Simmonds came in once or twice and left papers on the table, but his master took no notice of him. Brown forgot all about his lunch, and turning over page after page read as if spellbound. He was a businessman, and was certain the book would sell in thousands. He read as one inspired to look into the author’s thoughts and see his design. Short as the stories were, they were Titanic fragments, and everyone of them taught a hideous lesson of corruption. Some of them cloaked in a religious garb, breathed a spirit of pitiless ferocity; others were rich with the sensuous odours of an Eastern garden; others, again, were as the tender green of moss hiding the treacherous deeps of a quicksand; and all of them bore the hall-mark of genius. They moved the man sitting there to tears, they shook him with laughter, they seemed to rock his very soul asleep; but through it all he saw, as the mariner views the beacon fire on a rocky coast, the deadly plan of the writer. There was money in them—thousands—and all was to be his. Brown’s sluggish blood was running to flame, a strange strength glowed in his face, and an uncontrollable admiration for De Bac’s evil power filled him. The book, when published, might corrupt generations yet unborn; but that was nothing to Brown. It meant thousands for him, and an eternal fame to De Bac. He did not grudge the writer the fame as long as he kept the thousands.