The Silver Bullet. Fergus Hume

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СКАЧАТЬ Well, Southberry is a goodish way behind us now and Saxham is our next resting place. Feel better?"

      "Yes, thanks. In another quarter of an hour, I shall make the attempt to reach Saxham. But we are so late, I fear no bed----"

      "Oh, that's alright. We can wake the landlord, I calculate we have only three miles."

      "Quite enough too. By the way Jim, what did you do, when I left you?"

      In the semi-darkness Herrick chuckled. "Fell in love!" said he.

      "H'm! You lost no time about it. And she?"

      "A daughter of the gods, divinely tall; dark hair, creamy skin, sea-blue eyes the figure and gait of Diana, and--"

      "More of the Celt than the Greek," interrupted Joyce, "blue eyes, black hair, that is the Irish type. Where did you see her?"

      "In Southberry Church, talking to a puny curate, who did not deserve such a companion. Oh, Robin, her voice! like an Eolian harp."

      "It must possess a variety of tones then Jim. Did she see you?"

      Herrick nodded and laughed again. "She looked and blushed. Beauty drew me with a single hair, therefore I thrilled responsive. Love at first sight Robin. Heigh-ho! never again shall I see this Helen of Marleigh."

      "Live in hope," said Joyce, springing to his feet. "Allons, mon ami."

      The more leisurely Herrick rose, markedly surprised at this sudden recuperation. "Wonderful man. One minute you are dying, the next skipping like a two year old. Hysterical all the same," he added as Joyce laughed.

      "Those three miles," explained the other feverishly, "I feel that I have to walk them, and my determination is braced to breaking point."

      "That means you'll collapse half way," retorted the doctor unstrapping his knapsack. "Light a match. Valerian for you my man."

      Robin made no objection. He knew the value of Valerian for those unruly nerves of his, at present vibrating like so many harp-strings, twangled by an unskilful player. His small white face looked smaller and whiter than ever in the faint light of the match; but his great black eyes flamed like wind-blown torches. The contrast of Herrick's sun-tanned Saxon looks, struck him as almost ludicrous. Joyce needed no mirror to assure him of his appearance at the moment. He knew only too well how he aged on the eve of a nerve storm. For the present it was averted by the valerian; but he knew and so did Herrick, that sooner or later it would surely come.

      "We must get on as fast as possible," said Herrick, the knapsack again on his broad back. "Food, drink, rest; you need all three. Forward!"

      For some time they walked on in silence. Robin was so small, Dr. Jim so large, that they looked like the giant and dwarf of the old fairy tale on their travels. But in this case it was the giant who did all the work. Joyce was a pampered, lazy, irresponsible child, in the direct line of descent from Harold Skimpole. If Jim Herrick must be likened to another hero of romance, Amyas Leigh was his prototype.

      The shadows melted before them, and closed in behind, and still there was nothing but plain and mist. At the end of two miles a dark bulk like a thunder-cloud, loomed before them. It stretched directly across their path. "Bogey," laughed Robin.

      "A wood," said the more prosaic Jim, "this moor is fringed with pine-woods: remember the forest we passed through this morning."

      "In the cheerful sunshine," shuddered Joyce. "I don't like woodlands by night. The fairies are about and goblins of the worst. Ha! Yonder the lantern of Puck. Oberon holds revel in the wood."

      "Puck must be putting a girdle round the earth then Robin," said Herrick and stared at the white starry light, which beamed above the trees.

      "Hecate's torch," cried Joyce, "a meeting of witches," and he began to chant the gruesome rhymes of the sisterhood, as Macbeth heard them. "The scene is a blasted heath too," said he.

      By this time the moon was rising, and silver shafts struck inward to the heart of the pines. The aerial light vanished behind the leafy screen, as the travellers came to a halt on the verge of the undergrowth.

      "We must get through," said Dr. Jim, "or if you like Robin, we can skirt round. Saxham village is just beyond I fancy."

      "Let us choose the bee-line," murmured Joyce. "I want a bed and a meal as soon as possible. This part of the world is unknown to me. You lead."

      "I don't know it myself. However here's a path. We'll follow it to the light. That comes from a tower of sorts. Too high up for a house."

      With Herrick as pioneer, they plunged into the wood, following a winding path. In the gloom, their heads came into contact with boughs and tree-trunks but occasionally the moon made radiant the secret recesses, and revealed unexpected openings. The path sometimes passed across a glade, on the sward of which Joyce declared he saw the fairies dancing: and anon plunged into a cimmerian gloom suggestive of the underworld. No wind swung the heavy pine-boughs; the wild creatures of the wood gave no sign, made no stir: yet the explorers heard a low persistent swish-swurr-swish, like the murmur of a dying breeze. It came from no particular direction, but droned on all sides without pause, without change of note. Herrick heard Robin's hysterical sob, as the insistent sound bored into his brain. He would have made some remark; but at the moment they emerged into a open space of considerable size. Here, ringed by pines, loomed a vast grey house, with a slim tower. In that tower burned the steady light outshining even the moon's lustre. But what was more remarkable still, was the illumination of the mansion. Every window radiated white fire.

      "Queer," said Robin halting on the verge of the wood, "not even a fence or a wall: a path or an outhouse. One would think that this was an inferior Aladdin's palace dropped here by some negligent genii. All ablaze too," he added wonderingly; "the owner must be giving a ball."

      "No signs of guests anyhow," returned Herrick as puzzled as his companion. "H'm! Queer thing to find Versailles in a pine wood. However it may afford us a bed and a supper."

      It was certainly strange. The circle of trees stopped short of the building at fifty yards. On all sides stretched an expanse of shorn and well-kept turf, pathless as the sea. In its midst the mansion was dropped--as Joyce aptly put it--unexpectedly. A two-storey Tudor building, with battlements, and mullioned windows, terraces and flights of shallow steps: the whole weather-worn and grey in the moonlight, over-grown with ivy, and distinctly ruinous. The dilapidated state of the house, contrasted in a rather sinister manner with the perfectly-kept lawn. Also another curious contrast, was the tower. This tacked on to the western corner, stood like a lean white ghost, watching over its earthly habitation. Its gleaming stone-work and sharp outlines showed that it had been built within the last decade. A distinct anachronism, which marred the quaint antiquity of the mediæval mansion.

      "He must be an astrologer," said Joyce referring to the owner, "or it may be that the tower is an inland pharos, to guide travellers across that pathless moor. A horrible place," he muttered.

      "Why horrible?" asked Dr. Jim as they crossed the lawn.

      Robin shuddered, and cast a backward glance. "I can hardly explain. But to my mind, there is something sinister in this lonely mansion, ablaze with light, yet devoid of inhabitants."

      "We have yet to find out if that is the case Robin. Hullo! the door is open," and in the strong moonlight they looked wonderingly at each other.

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