Kitabı oku: «The Heart of Denise, and Other Tales», sayfa 10

"When we reached Henzada, a difficulty arose which we should have foreseen. Stevens was recognised, and his late visit only too well remembered. The result was trouble; but the Myook-there was only a Myook there in those days-was open to argument, backed up with palm oil, and Stevens was let off with a fine. Of course I paid, and was correspondingly sorry for myself; but we'd gone too far now to recede. We bought a boat-or rather I did-hired a couple of men to help, and started. Stevens had selected some good picks at Rangoon, and these formed a not unimportant item of our outfit. In three days we reached a big creek.

"'It was hyar that I cut from those Injuns on the war-path,' said Stevens, 'and we cayn't be mor'n a mile from the gully-we should be there by nightfall.'

"It was noonday, almost as hot as it is now, and I was snoozing comfortably, when I heard Stevens shout:

"'Hyar we are, pard-wake up!'

"The boat swung lightly round, and shot under the overhanging branches of a large jack tree as he spoke, and I had to stoop very low to save my head. Stevens was trembling with excitement.

"'In thar,' he called out-'tell them to steer in thar, an' then right ahead.' He pointed to a small opening, about three feet wide, up which a long straight cut of water extended. We got the boat in with some little trouble, and then slipped along easily. The cut was as straight as a canal, overhung on each side with a heavy undergrowth. As we went deeper into the forest this undergrowth became less, and finally almost ceased. Every yard of our advance took us amongst trees which grew more gigantic as we went on. Some of the trees were splendid, going up fifty or sixty feet before throwing out a single branch; and the bamboos-I never saw such bamboos. As we continued our course it became darker and darker, until we entered the blackest bit of forest I ever saw. We could hear the drip of the dew from leaf to leaf. The few rays of sunlight that straggled in fell in level bars on the green of the leaves, shadowing the dim outlines of the long colonnades of tree trunks, and occasionally lighting up the splendour of some rare orchid in full bloom. A hundred times I wanted to stop and collect specimens, but Stevens would not hear of it.

"'No, no, old pard! let's get on. We'll come back hyar in our steam yacht, an' you can then root away for etarnity. We're on the right trail, an' in ten hours-my God! I cayn't think ez how your mind can turn to roots now.'

"I was a little surprised myself; but the love of these flowers was in me, and not all the gold in Asia could stop that. In this way we travelled for about four hours; and then towards evening a broad band of daylight spread suddenly before us, and, almost before I was aware of it, we were out of the long, snake-like cutting, and, turning a magnificent clump of bamboos, came upon a wide stretch of water.

"'There they air!' said Stevens.

"There they were-six huge statues-standing in a row on the edge of the inland lake, each colossal image larger than the other, all with their faces set towards the west. It was almost sunset, and the sky was aflame with colour, which was reflected back by the water, over which the Gautamas looked in serene peace. There was not a sound except the soft murmuring of the breeze amongst the tree tops. As I live, it was the place we had seen in the mirror, and for a moment that tragedy of the past came before me in all its clearness-and I was in dreamland.

"'Wal, pard! Struck ile at last.'

"The sound of Stevens' voice came to me as from a far distance. In the sunlit haze before me I saw the Don paddling his boat away, his long black moustaches lifted with the snarling laugh he had laughed, when he hid his treasure so that no man could tell.

"The boat grounded softly, and Stevens shook me by the shoulder.

"'Wake up, old hoss! – wake up!'

"I pulled myself together and looked at my companion. His face was full of a strange excitement, and as for myself, I felt as if I could hardly speak. As a matter of fact, we wasted no time in words; but took off our coats and set to work. Our small crew lent a willing hand. It was under the left foot of the biggest Buddha we dug, and in about half an hour made a hole big enough for a man to stand in over his waist.

"'Guess he must have burrowed down far,' said Stevens, 'or we've missed the spot.' Even as he spoke his pick struck with a sharp clang against something.

"'Iron against iron,' yelled Stevens, as he swung his pick round like a madman. He worked so furiously that it was impossible to get near him; but finally he stopped, and said very calmly:

"'Thar's the pile, pard.'

"We shook hands, and then, with the aid of the men, lifted out the box. It was exceedingly heavy. When we got it out there was some difficulty in opening it, but a revolver cartridge and the pick solved the matter. As the lid went up, we saw before our eyes a pile of gold, jewellery and precious stones. Hake Stevens ran his fingers through them lovingly, and then lay down on the ground, laughing and crying. Then he got up again, and plunged his arms up to the elbows into the winking mass-and his eyes were as the eyes of a madman. I put my hand into the box and pulled out a fistful of gems. Stevens grasped me by the wrist, and then loosed his hold at once.

"'Oh God! oh God!'

"'Why, what is the matter, Stevens? Look at these beauties!' and I held out my hand to him. He looked back at me in a strange sort of way, and said, in a husky voice:

"'Keep that lot, pard. Don't let them be mixed with the others. See! I will take what I can hold, too, and we will divide the rest.' He put his hand amongst the jewels and drew it back with a shudder. 'They're hot as hell,' he said.

"I thought the best thing to do was not to notice his strange manner.

"'Keep them to cool,' I said, flinging what I had with me into the box, and shutting the lid, 'and come and have some dinner. I'm famished.'

"'Do you think these fellows are all right?' Stevens said, apparently trying to pull himself together, as he indicated the crew with a glance.

"'We ought to be a match for twice the number; but we'll keep a look out.'

"We went to dinner in the boat, carrying our box with us. Our crew lit a fire near one of the idols, and cooked their food, whilst we ate our very simple meal. The sun had gone down, and the moon was fighting with a heavy mass of clouds that had sprung up apparently from nowhere, and were gathering in mountainous piles overhead. The low rumbling of distant thunder came to our ears.

"'Looks like rain. Jehoshaphat! – it is rain.'

"A distant moaning sound that gradually increased in volume was audible, the tree tops bent and swayed, the placid surface of the lagoon was beaten into a white foam, and the storm came. We heard a yell from the boatmen on the bank. The next moment we were torn from our moorings, and went swinging down the creek in pitchy darkness. Overhead and around all hell was loose. The paddles were swept away, and we spun round in a roaring wind, in a din of the elements, and a darkness like unto what was before God said, 'Let there be light.' I shouted to Stevens, but could not hear my own voice. Suddenly there came a deafening crash, and a chain of fire hung round the heavens. I saw Stevens crouching in the boat, with his face resting on the box, and his arms clasped around it. 'By the Lord!' he was gibbering and mowing to himself-even above the storm I heard his shrill cry-'the idols, the idols! they're laffin' at us.' I turned my head as he spoke: the blackness was again lit up, and I saw by it the calm, smiling faces of the Buddhas. All their eyes were fixed on us, and in that strange and terrible light the stony smiles on their faces broadened in devilish mockery. The rain came down in sheets; and the continual and ceaseless flashes of lightning flared on the angry yellow water around us, and made the rain seem as if there were millions of strands of fine silver and gold wires hanging from the blackness above. It was all I could do to keep myself in the canoe. At each flash I looked at Stevens, and saw him in the same posture, crouching low, like a cat. Then he began to sing, in a shrill voice, that worked its way, as a bradawl through wood, past all the noise of the elements. And now the whole heavens were bright with a pale light that was given back by the hissing water around. The raindrops sparkled like gems, and hit almost with the force of hailstones. Stevens rose with a scream, and stood in the boat.

"'Sit down, for God's sake!' I called out.

"'I'm holding them with my life-the diamonds, the jewels!' he yelled with a horrid laugh, and shook his fist at something. I followed his movements; and there, riding in the storm, was a small canoe, paddled by a man in the dress of old days. He was smiling at Stevens as, with long easy sweeps of his paddle, he came closer and closer.

"'Shoot him!' yelled Stevens, as he pulled out his revolver and fired once, twice, and then flung it with all his might at the vision. In the effort he overbalanced the boat, and all I can remember is that I was swimming for dear life, and being borne down with frightful rapidity through that awful light. I saw something, which might have been Hake Stevens, struggling for a moment on the water; but, Stevens or not, it sank again almost immediately, and some one laughed too as this happened.

"And I think," said Burgess, "that's about all. I never saw Hake Stevens again, and I don't want ever to see Brito's jewels any more."

"How did you get out?"

"By absolute luck. I don't very well remember now; and By Jove! here comes the breeze."

Even as he spoke, a cool puff of wind fanned us into life.

THE DEVIL'S MANUSCRIPT

CHAPTER 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; to-morrow 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 Simmonds' 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 to-morrow, 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 recognise 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 forwards. 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 to-morrow 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 He 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 to-morrow 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 pocketbook 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, that 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 business man, 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 every one 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.

"By Heaven!" and he brought his fist down on the table with a crash, "the man may be a lunatic; but he is the greatest genius the world ever saw-or he is the devil incarnate."

And somebody laughed softly in the room.

The publisher looked up with a start, and saw Simmonds standing before him.

"Did you laugh, Simmonds?"

"No, sir!" replied the clerk with a surprised look.

"Who laughed then?"

"There is no one here but ourselves, sir-and I didn't laugh."

"Did you hear nothing?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Strange!" and Brown began to feel chill again.

"What time is it?" he asked with an effort.

"It is half-past six, sir."

"So late as that? You may go, Simmonds. Leave me the keys. I will be here for some time. Good-evening."

"Mad as a coot," muttered Simmonds to himself; "must break the news to M'ria to-night. Oh, Lor'!" and his eyes were very wet as he went out into the Strand, and got into a blue omnibus.

When he was gone, Brown turned to the fire, poker in hand. To his surprise he saw that the black paper was still there, burning red hot, and the wax of the seals was still intact-the seals themselves shining like orange glow-lights. He beat at the paper with the poker; but instead of crumbling to ashes it yielded passively to the stroke, and came back to its original shape. Then a fury came on Brown. He raked at the fire, threw more coals over the paper, and blew at the flames with his bellows until they roared up the chimney; but still the coppery glare of the packet-cover never turned to the grey of ashes. Finally, he could endure it no longer, and, putting the manuscript into the safe, turned off the electric light, and stole out of his office like a thief.