Story type: Literature
Just outside the small country station of M—- in Cornwall, a viaduct carries the Great Western Railway line across a coombe, or narrow valley, through which a tributary trout-stream runs southward to meet the tides of the L—- River. From the carriage-window as you pass you look down the coombe for half a mile perhaps, and also down a road which, leading out from M—- Station a few yards below the viaduct, descends the left-hand slope at a sharp incline to the stream; but whether to cross it or run close beside it down the valley bottom you cannot tell, since, before they meet, an eastward curve of the coombe shuts off the view.
Both slopes are pleasantly wooded, and tall beeches, interset here and there with pines–a pretty contrast in the spring–spread their boughs over the road; which is cut cornice-wise, with a low parapet hedge to protect it along the outer side, where the ground falls steeply to the water-meadows, that wind like a narrow green riband edged by the stream with twinkling silver.
For the rest, there appears nothing remarkable in the valley: and certainly Mr. Molesworth, who crossed and recrossed it regularly on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, on his way to and from his banking business in Plymouth, would have been puzzled to explain why, three times out of four, as his train rattled over the viaduct, he laid down his newspaper, took the cigar from his mouth, and gazed down from the window of his first-class smoking carriage upon the green water-meadows and the curving road. The Great Western line for thirty miles or so on the far side of Plymouth runs through scenery singularly beautiful, and its many viaducts carry it over at least a dozen coombes more strikingly picturesque than this particular one which alone engaged his curiosity. The secret, perhaps, lay with the road. Mr. Molesworth, who had never set foot on it, sometimes wondered whither it led and into what country it disappeared around the base of the slope to which at times his eyes travelled always wistfully. He had passed his forty-fifth year, and forgotten that he was an imaginative man. Nevertheless, and quite unconsciously, he let his imagination play for a few moments every morning–in the evening, jaded with business, he forgot as often as not to look–along this country road. Somehow it had come to wear a friendly smile, inviting him: and he on his part regarded it with quite a friendly interest. Once or twice, half-amused by the fancy, he had promised himself to take a holiday and explore it.
Years had gone by, and the promise remained unredeemed, nor appeared likely to be redeemed; yet at the back of his mind he was always aware of it. Daily, as the train slowed down and stopped at M—- Station, he spared a look for the folks on the platform. They had come by the road; and others, alighting, were about to take the road.
They were few enough, as a rule: apple-cheeked farmers and country-wives with their baskets, bound for Plymouth market; on summer mornings, as likely as not, an angler or two, thick-booted, carrying rods and creels, their hats wreathed with March-browns or palmers on silvery lines of gut; in the autumn, now and then, a sportsman with his gun; on Monday mornings half a dozen Navy lads returning from furlough, with stains of native earth on their shoes and the edges of their wide trousers. . . . The faces of all these people wore an innocent friendliness: to Mr. Molesworth, a childless man, they seemed a childlike race, and mysterious as children, carrying with them like an aura the preoccupations of the valley from which they emerged. He decided that the country below the road must be worth exploring; that spring or early summer must be the proper season, and angling his pretext. He had been an accomplished fly-fisher in his youth, and wondered how much of the art would return to his hand when, after many years, it balanced the rod again.
Together with his fly-fishing, Mr. Molesworth had forgotten most of the propensities of his youth. He had been born an only son of rich parents, who shrank from exposing him to the rigours and temptations of a public school. Consequently, when the time came for him to go up to Oxford, he had found no friends there and had made few, being sensitive, shy, entirely unskilled in games, and but moderately interested in learning. His vacations, which he spent at home, were as dull as he had always found them under a succession of well-meaning, middle-aged tutors–until, one August day, as he played a twelve-pound salmon, he glanced up at the farther bank and into a pair of brown eyes which were watching him with unconcealed interest.
The eyes belonged to a yeoman-farmer’s daughter: and young Molesworth lost his fish, but returned next day, and again day after day, to try for him. At the end of three weeks or so, his parents–he was a poor hand at dissimulation–discovered what was happening, and interfered with promptness and resolution. He had not learnt the art of disobedience, and while he considered how to begin (having, indeed, taken his passion with a thoroughness that did him credit), Miss Margaret, sorely weeping, was packed off on a visit to her mother’s relations near Exeter, where, three months later, she married a young farmer-cousin and emigrated to Canada.
In this way Mr. Molesworth’s love-making and his fly-fishing had come to an end together. Like Gibbon, he had sighed as a lover, and (Miss Margaret’s faithlessness assisting) obeyed as a son. Nevertheless, the sequel did not quite fulfil the hopes of his parents, who, having acted with decision in a situation which took them unawares, were willing enough to make amends by providing him with quite a large choice of suitable partners. To their dismay it appeared that he had done with all thoughts of matrimony: and I am not sure that, as the years went on, their dismay did not deepen into regret. To the end he made them an admirable son, but they went down to their graves and left him unmarried.
In all other respects he followed irreproachably the line of life they had marked out for him. He succeeded to the directorate of the Bank in which the family had made its money, and to those unpaid offices of local distinction which his father had adorned. As a banker he was eminently ‘sound’–that is to say, cautious, but not obstinately conservative; as a Justice of the Peace, scrupulous, fair, inclined to mercy, exact in the performance of all his duties. As High Sheriff he filled his term of office and discharged it adequately, but without ostentation. Respecting wealth, but not greatly caring for it–as why should he?–every year without effort he put aside a thousand or two. Men liked him, in spite of his shyness: his good manners hiding a certain fastidiousness of which he was aware without being at all proud of it. No one had ever treated him with familiarity. One or two at the most called him friend, and these probably enjoyed a deeper friendship than they knew. Everyone felt him to be, behind his reserve, a good fellow.
Regularly thrice a week he drove down in his phaeton to the small country station at the foot of his park, and caught the 10.27 up-train: regularly as the train started he lit the cigar which, carefully smoked, was regularly three-parts consumed by the time he crossed the M—- viaduct; and regularly, as he lit it, he was conscious of a faint feeling of resentment at the presence of Sir John Crang.
Nine mornings out of ten, Sir John Crang (who lived two stations down the line) would be his fellow-traveller; and, three times out of five, his only companion. Sir John was an ex-Civil Servant, knighted for what were known vaguely as ‘services in Burmah,’ and, now retired upon a derelict country seat in Cornwall, was making a bold push for local importance, and dividing his leisure between the cultivation of roses (in which he excelled) and the directorship of a large soap-factory near the Plymouth docks. Mr. Molesworth did not like him, and might have accounted for his dislike by a variety of reasons. He himself, for example, grew roses in a small way as an amateur, and had been used to achieve successes at the local flower-shows until Sir John arrived and in one season beat him out of the field. This, as an essentially generous man, he might have forgiven; but not the loud dogmatic air of patronage with which, on venturing to congratulate his rival and discuss some question of culture, he had been bullied and set right, and generally treated as an ignorant junior. Moreover, he seemed to observe–but he may have been mistaken– that, whatever rose he selected for his buttonhole, Sir John would take note of it and trump next day with a finer bloom.
But these were trifles. Putting them aside, Mr. Molesworth felt that he could never like the man who–to be short–was less of a gentleman than a highly coloured and somewhat aggressive imitation of one. Most of all, perhaps, he abhorred Sir John’s bulging glassy eyeballs, of a hard white by contrast with his coppery skin–surest sign of the cold sensualist. But in fact he took no pains to analyse his aversion, which extended even to the smell of Sir John’s excellent but Burmese cigars. The two men nodded when they met, and usually exchanged a remark or two on the weather. Beyond this they rarely conversed, even upon politics, although both were Conservatives and voters in the same electoral division.
The day of which this story tells was a Saturday in the month of May 188–, a warm and cloudless morning, which seemed to mark the real beginning of summer after an unusually cold spring. The year, indeed, had reached that exact point when for a week or so the young leaves are as fragrant as flowers, and the rush of the train swept a thousand delicious scents in at the open windows. Mr. Molesworth had donned a white waistcoat in honour of the weather, and wore a bud of a Capucine rose in his buttonhole. Sir John had adorned himself with an enormous glowing Senateur Vaisse. (Why not a Paul Neyron while he was about it? wondered Mr. Molesworth, as he surveyed the globular bloom.)
“Now in the breast a door flings wide–“
It may have been the weather that disposed Sir John to talk to-day. After commending it, and adding a word or two in general in praise of the West-country climate, he paused and watched Mr. Molesworth lighting his cigar.
“You’re a man of regular habits?” he observed unexpectedly, with a shade of interrogation in his voice.
Mr. Molesworth frowned and tossed his match out of window.
“I believe in regular habits myself.” Sir John, bent on affability, laid down his newspaper on his knee. “There’s one danger about them, though: they’re deadening. They save a man the bother of thinking, and persuade him he’s doing right, when all the reason is that he’s done the same thing a hundred times before. I came across that in a book once, and it seemed to me dashed sound sense. Now here’s something I’d like to ask you–have you any theory at all about dreams?”
“Dreams?” echoed Mr. Molesworth, taken aback by the inconsequent question.
“There’s a Society–isn’t there?–that makes a study of ’em and collects evidence. Man wakes up, having dreamt that friend whom he knows to be abroad is standing by his bed; lights his candle or turns on the electric-light and looks at his watch; goes to sleep again, tells his family all about it at breakfast, and a week or two later learns that his friend died at such-and-such an hour, and the very minute his watch pointed to. That’s the sort of thing.”
“You mean the Psychical Society?”
“That’s the name. Well, I’m a case for ’em. Anyway, I can knock the inside out of one of their theories, that dreams are a sort of memory-game, made up of scenes and scraps and suchlike out of your waking consciousness–isn’t that the lingo? Now, I’ve never had but one dream in my life; but I’ve dreamt it two or three score of times, and I dreamt it last night.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Molesworth was getting mildly interested.
“And I’m not what you’d call a fanciful sort of person,” went on Sir John, with obvious veracity. “Regular habits–rise early and to bed early; never a day’s trouble with my digestion; off to sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. You can’t call my dream a nightmare, and yet it’s unpleasant, somehow.”
“But what is it?”
“Well,”–Sir John seemed to hesitate–“you might call it a scene. Yes, that’s it–a scene. There’s a piece of water and a church beside it–just an ordinary-looking little parish church, with a tower but no pinnacles. Outside the porch there’s a tallish stone cross–you can just see it between the elms from the churchyard gate; and going through the gate you step over a sort of grid–half a dozen granite stones laid parallel, with spaces between.”
“Then it must be a Cornish church. You never see that contrivance outside the Duchy: though it’s worth copying. It keeps out sheep and cattle, while even a child can step across it easily.”
“But, my dear sir, I never saw Cornwall–and certainly never saw or heard of this contrivance–until I came and settled here, eight years ago: whereas I’ve been dreaming this, off and on, ever since I was fifteen.”
“And you never actually saw the rest of the scene? the church itself, for instance?”
“Neither stick nor stone of it: I’ll take my oath. Mind you, it isn’t like a church made up of different scraps of memory. It’s just that particular church, and I know it by heart, down to a scaffold-hole, partly hidden with grass, close under the lowest string-course of the tower, facing the gate.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been inside. But stop a moment–you haven’t heard the half of it yet! There’s a road comes downhill to the shore, between the churchyard wall–there’s a heap of greyish silvery-looking stuff, by the way, growing on the coping–something like lavender, with yellow blossoms–Where was I? Oh yes, and on the other side of the road there’s a tall hedge with elms above it. It breaks off where the road takes a bend around and in front of the churchyard gate, with a yard or two of turf on the side towards the water, and from the turf a clean drop of three feet, or a little less, on to the foreshore. The foreshore is all grey stones, round and flat, the sort you’d choose to play what’s called ducks-and-drakes. It goes curving along, and the road with it, until the beach ends with a spit of rock, and over the rock a kind of cottage (only bigger, but thatched and whitewashed just like a cottage) with a garden, and in the garden a laburnum in flower, leaning slantwise,” –Sir John raised his open hand and bent his forefinger to indicate the angle–“and behind the cottage a reddish cliff with a few clumps of furze overhanging it, and the turf on it stretching up to a larch plantation . . . .”
Sir John paused and rubbed his forehead meditatively.
“At least,” he resumed, “I think it’s a larch plantation; but the scene gets confused above a certain height. It’s the foreshore, and the church and the cottage that I always see clearest. Yes, and I forgot to tell you–I’m a poor hand at description–that there’s a splash of whitewash on the spit of rock, and an iron ring fixed there, for warping-in a vessel, maybe: and sometimes there’s a boat, out on the water. . . .”
“You describe it vividly enough,” said Mr. Molesworth as Sir John paused and, apparently on the point of resuming his story, checked himself, tossed his cigar out of the window, and chose a fresh one from his pocket-case. “Well, and what happens in your dream?”
Sir John struck a match, puffed his fresh cigar alight, deliberately examined the ignited end, and flung the match away. “Nothing happens. I told you it was just a scene, didn’t I?”
“You said that somehow the dream was an unpleasant one.”
“So I did. So it is. It makes me damnably uncomfortable every time I dream it; though for the life of me I can’t tell you why.”
“The picture as you draw it seems to me quite a pleasant one.”
“So it is, again.”
“And you say nothing happens?”
“Well–” Sir John took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it– “nothing ever happens in it, definitely: nothing at all. But always in the dream there’s a smell of lemon verbena–it comes from the garden–and a curious hissing noise–and a sense of a black man’s being somehow mixed up in it all. . . .”
“A black man?”
“Black or brown . . . in the dream I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen him. The hissing sound–it’s like the hiss of a snake, only ten times louder–may have come into the dream of late years. As to that I won’t swear. But I’m dead certain there was always a black man mixed up in it, or what I may call a sense of one: and that, as you will say, is the most curious part of the whole business.”
Sir John flipped away the ash of his cigar and leant forward impressively.
“If I wasn’t, as I say, dead sure of his having been in it from the first,” he went on, “I could tell you the exact date when he took a hand in the game: because,” he resumed after another pause, “I once actually saw what I’m telling you.”
“But you told me,” objected Mr. Molesworth, “that you had never actually seen it.”
“I was wrong then. I saw it once, in a Burmese boy’s hand at Maulmain. The old Eastern trick, you know: palmful of ink and the rest of it. There was nothing particular about the boy except an ugly scar on his cheek (caused, I believe, by his mother having put him down to sleep in the fireplace while the clay floor of it was nearly red-hot under the ashes). His master called himself his grandfather–a holy-looking man with a white beard down to his loins: and the pair of them used to come up every year from Mergui or some such part, at the Full Moon of Taboung, which happens at the end of March and is the big feast in Maulmain. The pair of them stood close by the great entrance of the Shway Dagone, where the three roads meet, and just below the long flights of steps leading up to the pagoda. The second day of the feast I was making for the entrance with a couple of naval officers I had picked up at the Club, and my man, Moung Gway, following as close as he could keep in the crowd. Just as we were going up the steps, the old impostor challenged me, and, partly to show my friends what the game was like–for they were new to the country–I stopped and found a coin for him. He poured the usual dollop of ink into the boy’s hand, and, by George, sir, next minute I was staring at the very thing I’d seen a score of times in my dreams but never out of them. I tell you, there’s more in that Eastern hanky-panky than meets the eye; beyond that I’ll offer no opinion. Outside the magic I believe the whole business was a put-up job, to catch my attention and take me unawares. For when I stepped back, pretty well startled, and blinking from the strain of keeping my attention fixed on the boy’s palm, a man jumped forward from the crowd and precious nearly knifed me. If it hadn’t been for Moung Gway, who tripped him up and knocked him sideways, I should have been a dead man in two twos–for my friends were taken aback by the suddenness of it. But in less than a minute we had him down and the handcuffs on him; and the end was, he got five years’ hard, which means hefting chain-shot from one end to another of the prison square and then hefting it back again. There was a rather neat little Burmese girl, you see–a sort of niece of Moung Gway’s–who had taken a fancy to me; and this turned out to be a disappointed lover, just turned up from a voyage to Cagayan in a paddy-boat. I believed he had fixed it up with the venerable one to hold me with the magic until he got in his stroke. Venomous beggars, those Burmans, if you cross ’em in the wrong way! The fellow got his release a week before I left Maulmain for good, and the very next day Moung Gway was found, down by the quays, dead as a haddock, with a wound between the shoulder-blades as neat as if he’d been measured for it. Oh, I could tell you a story or two about those fellows!”
“It’s easily explained, at any rate,” Mr. Molesworth suggested, “why you see a dark-skinned man in your dream.”
“But I tell you, my dear sir, he has been a part of the dream from the beginning . . . before I went to Wren’s, and long before ever I thought of Burmah. He’s as old as the church itself, and the foreshore and the cottage–the whole scene, in fact–though I can’t say he’s half as distinct. I can’t tell you in the least, for instance, what his features are like. I’ve said that the upper part of the dream is vague to me; at the end of the foreshore, that is, where the cottage stands; the church tower I can see plainly enough to the very top. But over by the cottage– above the porch, as you may say–everything seems to swim in a mist: and it’s up in that mist the fellow’s head and shoulders appear and vanish. Sometimes I think he’s looking out of the window at me, and draws back into the room as if he didn’t want to be seen; and the mist itself gathers and floats away with the hissing sound I told you about. . . .”
Sir John’s voice paused abruptly. The train was drawing near the M—- viaduct, and Mr. Molesworth from force of habit had turned his eyes to the window, to gaze down the green valley. He withdrew them suddenly, and looked around at his companion.
“Ah, to be sure,” he said vaguely; “I had forgotten the hissing sound.”
It was curious, but as he spoke he himself became aware of a loud hissing sound filling his ears. The train lurched and jolted heavily.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Sir John, half rising in his seat, “something’s wrong.” He was staring past Mr. Molesworth and out of the window. “Nasty place for an accident, too,” he added in a slow, strained voice.
The two men looked at each other for a moment. Sir John’s face wore a tense expression–a kind of galvanised smile. Mr. Molesworth closed his eyes, instinctively concealing his sudden sickening terror of what an accident just there must mean: and for a second or so he actually had a sensation of dropping into space. He remembered having felt something like it in dreams three or four times in his life: and at the same instant he remembered a country superstition gravely imparted to him in childhood by his old nurse, that if you dreamt of falling and didn’t wake up before reaching the bottom, you would surely die. The absurdity of it chased away his terror, and he opened his eyes and looked about him with a short laugh. . . .
The train still jolted heavily, but had begun to slow down, and Mr. Molesworth drew a long breath as a glance told him that they were past the viaduct. Sir John had risen, and was leaning out of the farther window. Something had gone amiss, then. But what?
He put the question aloud. Sir John, his head and shoulders well outside the carriage-window, did not answer. Probably he did not hear.
As the train ran into M—- Station and came to a standstill, Mr. Molesworth caught a glimpse of the station-master, in his gold-braided cap, by the door of the booking-office. He wore a grave, almost a scared look. The three or four country-people on the sunny platform seemed to have their gaze drawn by the engine, and somebody ahead there was shouting. Sir John Crang, without a backward look, flung the door open and stepped out. Mr. Molesworth was preparing to follow–and by the cramped feeling in his fingers was aware at the same instant that he had been gripping the arm-rest almost desperately–when the guard of the train came running by and paused to thrust his head in at the open doorway to explain.
“Engine’s broken her coupling-rod, sir–just before we came to the viaduct. Mercy for us she didn’t leave the rails.”
“Mercy indeed, as you say,” Mr. Molesworth assented. “I suppose we shall be hung up here until they send a relief down?”
The guard–Mr. Molesworth knew him as ‘George’ by name, and by habit constantly polite–turned and waved his flag hurriedly, in acknowledgment of the shouting ahead, before answering–
“You may count on half an hour’s delay, sir. Lucky it’s no worse. You’ll excuse me–they’re calling for me down yonder.”
He ran on, and Mr. Molesworth stepped out upon the platform, of which this end was already deserted, all the passengers having alighted and hurried forward to inspect the damaged engine. A few paces beyond the door he met the station-master racing back to despatch a telegram.
“It seems that we’ve had a narrow escape,” said Mr. Molesworth.
The station-master touched his hat and plunged into his office. Mr. Molesworth, instead of joining the crowd around the engine, halted before a small pile of luggage on a bench outside the waiting-room and absent-mindedly scanned the labels.
Among the parcels lay a fishing-rod in a canvas case and a wicker creel, the pair of them labelled and bearing the name of an acquaintance of his– a certain Sir Warwick Moyle, baronet and county magistrate, beside whom he habitually sat at Quarter Sessions.
“I had no idea,” Mr. Molesworth mused, “that Moyle was an angler. It would be a fair joke, anyway, to borrow his rod and fill up the time.– How long before the relief comes down?” he asked, intercepting the station-master as he came rushing out from his office and slammed the door behind him.
“Maybe an hour, sir, before we get you started again. I can’t honestly promise you less than forty minutes.”
“Very well, then: I’m going to borrow Sir Warwick’s rod, there, and fill up the time,” said Mr. Molesworth, pointing at it.
The station-master apparently did not hear; at any rate he passed on without remonstrance. Mr. Molesworth slung the creel over his shoulder, picked up the rod, and stepped out beyond the station gateway upon the road.
The road ran through a cutting, sunless, cooled by many small springs of water trickling down the rock-face, green with draperies of the hart’s-tongue and common polypody ferns; and emerged again into warmth upon a curve of the hillside facing southward down the coombe, and almost close under the second span of the viaduct, where the tall trestles plunged down among the tree-tops like gigantic stilts, and the railway left earth and spun itself across the chasm like a line of gossamer, its criss-crossed timbers so delicately pencilled against the blue that the whole structure seemed to swing there in the morning breeze. Above it, in heights yet more giddy, the larks were chiming; and Mr. Molesworth’s heart went up to those clear heights with a sudden lift.
In all the many times he had crossed the viaduct he had never once guessed–he could not have imagined–how beautiful it looked from below. He stood and gazed, and drew a long breath. Was it the escape from dreadful peril, with its blessed revulsion of feeling, that so quickened all his senses dulled by years of habit? He could not tell. He gave himself up to the strange and innocent excitement.
Why had he never till now–and now only by accident–obeyed the impulse to descend this road and explore? He was rich: he had not even the excuse of children to be provided for: the Bank might surely have waited for one day. He did not want much money. His tastes were simple–Was not the happiness at this moment thrilling him a proof that his tastes were simple as a child’s? Lo, too, his eyes were looking on the world as freshly as a child’s! Why had he so long denied them a holiday? Why do men chain themselves in prisons of their own making?
What had the station-master said? It might be an hour–certainly not less than forty minutes–before the train could be restarted. Mr. Molesworth looked at his watch. Forty minutes to explore the road: forty minutes’ holiday! He laughed, pocketed the watch again, and took the road briskly, humming a song.
Suppose he missed his train? Why, then, the Bank must do without him to-day, as it would have to do without him, one of these days, when he was dead. He thought of his fellow-directors’ faces, and laughed again. He felt morally certain of missing that train. What kind of world would it be if money grew in birds’ nests, or if leaves were currency and withered in autumn? Would it include truant-schools for bankers? . . .
“He that is down needs fear no fall,
He that is low, no pride;
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.”
“Fulness to such a burden is
That go on pilgrimage–“
Mr. Molesworth did not actually sing these words. The tune he hummed was a wordless one, and, for that matter, not even much of a tune. But he afterwards declared very positively that he sang the sense of them, being challenged by the birds calling in contention louder and louder as the road dipped towards the stream, and by the music of lapsing water which now began to possess his ear. For some five or six furlongs the road descended under beech-boughs, between slopes carpeted with last year’s leaves: but by and by the beeches gave place to an oak coppice with a matted undergrowth of the whortleberry; and where these in turn broke off, and a plantation of green young larches climbed the hill, the wild hyacinths ran down to the stream in sheet upon sheet of blue.
Mr. Molesworth rested his creel on the low hedge above one of these sheets of blue, and with the music of the stream in his ears began to unpack Sir Warwick Moyle’s fishing-rod. For a moment he paused, bethinking himself, with another short laugh, that, without flies, neither rod nor line would catch him a fish. But decidedly fortune was kind to him to-day: for, opening the creel, he found Sir Warwick’s fly-book within it, bulging with hooks and flies by the score–nay, by the hundred. He unbuckled the strap and was turning the leaves to make his choice, when his ear caught the sound of footsteps, and he lifted his eyes to see Sir John Crang coming down the road.
“Hullo!” hailed Sir John. “I saw you slip out of the station and took a fancy that I’d follow. Pretty little out-of-the-way spot, this. Eh? Why, where on earth did you pick up those angling traps?”
“I stole them,” answered Mr. Molesworth deliberately, choosing a fly. He did not in the least desire Sir John’s company, but somehow found himself too full of good-nature to resent it actively.
“Well, as a matter of fact, they belong to a friend of mine. They were lying ready to hand in the station, and I borrowed them without leave. He won’t mind.”
“You’re a cool one, I must say.” It may be that the recent agitation of his feelings had shaken Sir John’s native vulgarity to the surface. Certainly he spoke now with a commonness of idiom and accent he was usually at pains to conceal. “You must have a fair nerve altogether, for all you’re such a quiet-looking chap. Hadn’t even the curiosity–had you?–to find out what had gone wrong; but just picked up a handy fishing-rod and strolled off to fill up the time till damages were repaired. Look here. Do you know, or don’t you, that ’twasn’t by more than a hair’s-breadth we missed going over that viaduct?”
“I knew we must have had a narrow escape.”
“And you can be tying the fly there on to that gut as steady as a doctor picking up an artery! Well, I envy you. Look at that!” Sir John held out a brown, hairy, shaking hand. “And I don’t reckon myself a coward, either.”
Mr. Molesworth knew that the man’s record had established at any rate his reputation for courage. He had, in fact, been a famous hunter-out of Dacoity.
“I didn’t know you went in for that sort of thing,” pursued Sir John, watching Mr. Molesworth, who, with a penknife, was trimming the ends of gut. “Don’t mind my watching your first cast or two, I hope? I won’t talk. Anglers don’t like being interrupted, I know.”
“I shall be glad of your company: and please talk as much as you choose. To tell the truth, I haven’t handled a rod for years, and I’m making this little experiment to see if I’ve quite lost the knack, rather than with any hope of catching fish.”
It appeared, however, that he had not lost the knack, and after the first cast or two, in the pleasure of recovered skill, his senses abandoned themselves entirely to the sport. Sir John had lit a cigar and seated himself amid the bracken a short distance back from the brink, to watch: but whether he conversed or not Mr. Molesworth could not tell. He remembered afterwards that at the end of twenty minutes or so–probably when his cigar was finished–Sir John rose and announced his intention of strolling some way farther down the valley–“to soothe his nerves a bit,” as he said, adding, “So long! I see you’re going to miss that train, to a certainty.”
Yes, it was certain enough that Mr. Molesworth would miss his train. He fished down the stream slowly, the song and dazzle of the water filling his ears, his vision; his whole being soothed and lulled less by the actual scene than by a hundred memories it awakened or set stirring. He was young again–a youth of twenty with romance in his heart. The plants and grasses he trod were the asphodels, sundew, water-mint his feet had crushed–crushed into fragrance–five-and-twenty years ago. . . .
So deeply preoccupied was he that, coming to a bend where the coombe suddenly widened, and the stream without warning cast its green fringe of alders like a slough and slipped down a beach of flat pebbles to the head waters of a tidal creek, Mr. Molesworth rubbed his eyes with a start. Had the stream been a Naiad she could not have given him the go-by more coquettishly.
He rubbed his eyes, and then with a short gasp of wonder–almost of terror–involuntarily looked around for Sir John. Here before him was a shore, with a church beside it, and at the far end a whitewashed cottage– surely the very shore, church, cottage, of Sir John’s dream! Yes, there was the stone cross before the porch; and here the grid-fashioned church stile; and yonder under the string-course the scaffold-hole with the grass growing out of it!
If Mr. Molesworth’s hands had been steady when he tied on his May-fly, they trembled enough now as he hurriedly put up his tackle and disjointed his rod: and still, and again while he hastened across to the cottage above the rocky spit–the cottage with the larch plantation above and in the garden a laburnum aslant and in bloom–his eyes sought the beach for Sir John.
The cottage was a large one, as Sir John had described. It was, in fact, a waterside inn, with its name, The Saracen’s Head, painted in black letters along its whitewashed front and under a swinging signboard. Looking up at the board Mr. Molesworth discerned, beneath its dark varnish, the shoulders, scimitar, and grinning face of a turbaned Saracen, and laughed aloud between incredulity and a sense of terror absurdly relieved. This, then, was Sir John’s black man!
But almost at the same moment another face looked over the low hedge–the face of a young girl in a blue sun-bonnet: and Mr. Molesworth put out a hand to the gate to steady himself.
The girl–she had heard his laugh, perhaps–gazed down at him with a frank curiosity. Her eyes were honest, clear, untroubled: they were also extremely beautiful eyes: and they were more. As Mr. Molesworth to his last day was prepared to take oath, here were the very eyes, as here was the very face and here the very form, of the Margaret whom he had suffered for, and suffered to be lost to him, twenty-five years ago. It was Margaret, and she had not aged one day.
In Margaret’s voice, too, seeing that he made no motion to enter, she spoke down to him across the hedge.
“Are you a friend, sir, of the gentleman that was here just now?”
“Sir John Crang?” Mr. Molesworth just managed to command his voice.
“I don’t know his name, sir. But he left his cigar-case behind. I found it on the settle five minutes after he had gone, and ran out to search for him. . . .”
Mr. Molesworth opened the gate and held out a hand for the case. Yes: he recognised it. It bore Sir John’s monogram in silver.
“I will give it to him,” he said. Without exactly knowing why, he followed her into the inn-kitchen. Yes, he would take a pint of her ale. “The home-brewed?” Yes, certainly, the home-brewed.
She brought it in a pewter tankard, exquisitely polished. The polish of it caught and cast back the sunlight in prismatic circles on the scoured deal table. The girl–Margaret–stood for a moment in the fuller sunlight by the window, lingering there to pick a dead leaf from a geranium on the ledge.
“Which way did Sir John go?”
“I thought he took the turning along the shore; but I didn’t notice particularly which way he went. He said he had come down the valley, and I took it for granted he would be going on.”
Mr. Molesworth drank his beer and stood up. “There are only two ways, then, out of this valley?”
“Thank you, sir–” As he paid her she dropped a small curtsey–“Yes, only two ways–up the valley or along the shore. The road up the valley leads to the railway station.”
“By the way, there was an accident at the station this morning?”
“Indeed, sir?” Her beautiful eyes grew round. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“It might have been a very nasty one indeed,” said Mr. Molesworth, and paused. “I think I’ll take a look along the shore before returning. I don’t want to miss my friend, if I can help it.”
“You can see right along it from the rock beyond the garden,” said the girl, and Mr. Molesworth went out.
As he reached the spit of rock, the sunlight playing down the waters of the creek dazzled him for a moment. Rubbing his eyes, he saw, about two hundred yards along the foreshore, a boat grounded, and two figures beside it on the beach: and either his sight was playing him a trick or these two were struggling together.
He ran towards them. Almost as he started, in one of the figures he recognised Sir John. The other had him by the shoulders, and seemed to be dragging him by main force towards the boat. Mr. Molesworth shouted as he rushed up to the fray. The assailant turned–turned with a loud hissing sound–and, releasing Sir John, swung up a hand with something in it that flashed in the sun as he struck at the newcomer: and as Mr. Molesworth fell, he saw a fierce brown face and a cage of white, gleaming teeth bared in a savage grin. . . .
He picked himself up, the blood running warm over his eyes, and, as he stood erect for a moment, down over his white waistcoat. But the dusky face of his antagonist had vanished, and, with it, the whole scene. In place of the foreshore with its flat grey stones, his eye travelled down a steep green slope. The hissing sound continued in his ears, louder than ever, but it came with violent jets of steam from a locomotive, grotesquely overturned some twenty yards below him. Fainting, he saw and sank across the body of Sir John Crang, which lay with face upturned among the June grasses, staring at the sky.
STATEMENT BY W. PITT FERGUSON, M.D., OF LOCKYER STREET, PLYMOUTH.
The foregoing narrative has been submitted to me by the writer, who was well acquainted with the late Mr. Molesworth. In my opinion it conveys a correct impression of that gentleman’s temperament and character: and I can testify that in the details of his psychical adventures on the valley road leading to St. A–‘s Church it adheres strictly to the account given me by Mr. Molesworth himself shortly after the accident on the M—- viaduct, and repeated by him several times with insistence during the illness which terminated mortally some four months later. The manner in which the narrative is presented may be open to criticism: but of this, as one who has for some years eschewed the reading of fiction, I am not a fair judge. It adds, at any rate, nothing in the way of ‘sensation’ to the story as Mr. Molesworth told it: and of its improbability I should be the last to complain, who am to add, of my own positive observation, some evidence which will make it appear yet more startling, if not wholly incredible.
The accident was actually witnessed by two men, cattle-jobbers, who were driving down the valley road in a light cart or ‘trap,’ and were within two hundred yards of the viaduct when they saw the train crash through the parapet over the second span (counting from the west), and strike and plunge down the slope. In their evidence at the inquest, and again at the Board of Trade inquiry, these men agree that it took them from five to eight minutes only to alight, run down and across the valley (fording the stream on their way), and scramble up to the scene of the disaster: and they further agree that one of the first sad objects on which their eyes fell was the dead body of Sir John Crang with Mr. Molesworth, alive but sadly injured and bleeding, stretched across it. Apparently they had managed to crawl from the wreck of the carriage before Sir John succumbed, or Mr. Molesworth had managed to drag his companion out–whether dead or alive cannot be told–before himself fainting from loss of blood.
The toll of the disaster, as is generally known, amounted to twelve killed and seventeen more or less seriously injured. Help having been summoned from M—- Station, the injured–or as many of them as could be removed– were conveyed in an ambulance train to Plymouth. Among them was Mr. Molesworth, whose apparent injuries were a broken hip, a laceration of the thigh, and an ugly, jagged scalp-wound. Of all these he made, in time, a fair recovery: but what brought him under my care was the nervous shock from which his brain, even while his body healed, never made any promising attempt to rally. For some time after the surgeon had pronounced him cured he lingered on, a visibly dying man, and died in the end of utter nervous collapse.
Yet even within a few days of the end his brain kept an astonishing clearness: and to me, as well as to the friends who visited him in hospital and afterwards in his Plymouth lodgings–for he never returned home again, being unable to face another railway journey–he would maintain, and with astonishing vigour and lucidity of description, that he had actually in very truth travelled down the valley in company with Sir John Crang, and seen with his own eyes everything related in the foregoing paper. Now, as a record of what did undeniably pass through the brain of a cultivated man in some catastrophic moments, I found these recollections of his exceedingly interesting. As no evidence is harder to collect, so almost none can be of higher importance, than that of man’s sensations at the exact moment when he passes, naturally or violently, out of this present life into whatever may be beyond. Partly because Mr. Molesworth’s story, which he persisted in, had this scientific value; partly in the hope of diverting his mind from the lethargy into which I perceived it to be sinking; I once begged him to write the whole story down. To this, however, he was unequal. His will betrayed him as soon as he took pen and paper.
The entire veracity of his recollection he none the less affirmed again and again, and with something like passion, although aware that his friends were but humouring him while they listened and made pretence to believe. The strong card–if I may so term it–in his evidence was undoubtedly Sir John Crang’s cigar-case. It was found in Mr. Molesworth’s breast-pocket when they undressed him at the hospital, and how it came there I confess I cannot explain. It may be that it had dropped on the grass from Sir John’s pocket, and that Mr. Molesworth, under the hallucination which undoubtedly possessed him, picked it up, and pocketed it before the two cattle-drovers found him. It is an unlikely hypothesis, but I cannot suggest a likelier.
A fortnight before his death he sent for a lawyer and made his will, the sanity of which no one can challenge. At the end he directed that his body should be interred in the parish churchyard of St. A–, ‘as close as may be to the cross by the church porch.’ As a last challenge to scepticism this surely was defiant enough.
It was my duty to attend the funeral. The coffin, conveyed by train to M—- Station, was there transferred to a hearse, and the procession followed the valley road. I forget at what point it began to be impressed upon me, who had never travelled the road before, that Mr. Molesworth’s ‘recollections’ of it had been so exact that they compelled a choice between the impossibility of accepting his story and the impossibility of doubting the assurance of so entirely honourable a man that he had never travelled the road in his life. At first I tried to believe that his recollections of it–detailed as they were–might one by one have been suggested by the view from the viaduct. But, honestly, I was soon obliged to give this up: and when we arrived at the creek’s head and the small churchyard beside it, I confessed myself confounded. Point by point, and at every point, the actual scene reproduced Mr. Molesworth’s description.
I prefer to make no comment on my last discovery. After the funeral, being curious to satisfy myself in every particular, I walked across the track to the inn–The Saracen’s Head–which again answered Mr. Molesworth’s description to the last detail. The house was kept by a widow and her daughter: and the girl–an extremely good-looking young person–made me welcome. I concluded she must be the original of Mr. Molesworth’s illusion–perhaps the strangest of all his illusions–and took occasion to ask her (I confess not without a touch of trepidation) if she remembered the day of the accident. She answered that she remembered it well. I asked if she remembered any visitor, or visitors, coming to the inn on that day. She answered, None: but that now I happened to speak of it, somebody must have come that day while she was absent on an errand to the Vicarage (which lies some way along the shore to the westward): for on returning she found a fishing-rod and creel on the settle of the inn-kitchen.
The creel had a luggage-label tied to it, and on the label was written ‘Sir W. Moyle.’ She had written to Sir Warwick about it more than a month ago, but had not heard from him in answer. [It turned out that Sir Warwick had left England, three days after the accident, on a yachting excursion to Norway.]
“And a cigar-case?” I asked. “You don’t remember seeing a cigar-case?”
She shook her head, evidently puzzled. “I know nothing about a cigar-case,” she said. “But you shall see the rod and fishing-basket.”
She ran at once and fetched them. Now that rod and that creel (and the fly-book within it) have since been restored to Sir Warwick Moyle. He had left them in care of the station-master at M—-, whence they had been missing since the day of the accident. It was suspected that they had been stolen, in the confusion that day prevailing at the little station, by some ganger on the relief-train.
The girl, I am convinced, was honest, and had no notion how they found their way to the kitchen of The Saracen’s Head: nor–to be equally honest–have I.