Chapter IV

Leaning back in his chair, with unseeing eyes cast upward, Craighead paused so long that I feared his mind had altered; then drawing his hand across his forehead as though wiping away some vision, his entire expression changed. He commenced as though still a boy.

“This entire estate was even more on the outskirts of civilization when I was a boy than it is now. The village has grown, but it is still ten miles away. We had few neighbors, only one east of us, two miles or more away, through a black ash swamp, impassable even yet except when the river is very low, then difficult. To my knowledge, there was no communication between this neighbor, John Blank, and my family. Blank was a sort of myth to us, never seen, only reputed living down the ‘back channel.’

“Father was a strange man, silent, austere; my sister, the one in Scotland, Alix, and I were in awe of him, but only on account of his austerity. I thought, even at thirteen, that this was a queer place for a rich man to make a home, and wondered why a man of education and refinement should hide a wife, and a beautiful wife my mother was, away in this God-forsaken part of the world and bring my sister and myself up without girls and boys of our age to play with.

“I asked mother, but she requested me never to refer to the subject again. We children went to the red school you saw a mile beyond the little church, when weather permitted our being carried there in a buckboard, and we were tutored by our mother.

“Alix was two years my senior, very bright and a good pianist. I passed the high school examination at twelve years of age, but because of a body too frail, was not permitted to enter preparatory school as planned, with McGill and the profession of doctor as the ultimate. To this illness was due my meeting John Blank, the mythical, never visible but reputed at school a dangerous character, an ogre, without ears and with hoofs where his hands should have been.

“In my wanderings through the dense woods that hemmed in Craighead Hall, as my father named this house, coming much closer then than now and stretching for miles around, I found in the border of the swamp a small knoll covered with beech trees at the summit, and completely hedged about with stunted spruce and cedar; a creek winding around almost the entire base. Here I secretly built a leafy bower, a little house, and almost daily from spring to fall I took a book and crossing nearly a mile of forest reveled in the romantic _Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage_, _Lalla Rookh_, _The Deformed Transformed_; the poets and the poetic my sole and beloved companions, and chameleon-like, I became the hero of every song and story.

“The one disturbing thought assailing me, now and then becoming a haunting fear, was that I might some day meet John Blank. Neurotic, I feared that to see him meant death from terror and my retreat was on an upper reach of Blank’s creek.

“One day the woes of _Little Dorrit_ having aroused in me such a feeling of resentment against her oppressors and such a flood of sympathy that I was blinded by tears, I was startled to see standing before me in actual life, John Blank the dreaded. He had no ears--that registered, and as expected, I faded, died, just as my school companions predicted.”

As Craighead said this preposterous thing and paused, I looked at him sharply, questioning his sanity, but he was absorbed in the recollection, was a boy again and resumed as though the thing had just then transpired.

“Yes,” Craighead continued, “I died, but the resurrection did not wait on Old Gabriel.

“Where was I? Snow-white linen, four posts of red cedar roughly hand-carved, a lamp, lighted but turned low, sat on a dresser near at hand. I can see the room now, painted a light blue. I was in bed, evidently not home, for we had no such room as this, and the aroma of roast duck came temptingly over the half partition beyond which I could hear somebody walking. I coughed involuntarily and sat up alarmed when the door opened and a not unkind but stern-faced woman about as old as my mother, I reflected, looked anxiously at me, saying,

“‘Thanks to the good God, he’s alive. He will eat supper with us; then John, you must take the lad home; it is the only thing to do.’

“At mention of John came an instantaneous mental picture, a queer fluttering in my chest and I fell back on the pillow.

“A deep-toned voice came over the partition, ‘How is the lad, Margie?’

“There was in the voice a tone of sadness indescribable, yet I had heard that tone sometimes in the very minor chord struck by sister Alix when she was blue, always when I was having one of my bad coughing days. Byron would have analyzed the note was my thought. Was I not Byron only yesterday? I did analyze it and properly. Here was no ogre, but kindness, refinement, great sadness, and the inner sense even of precocious, adolescent, undernurtured youth reassured me, told me there was nothing here to fear; told me that the earless head was living death, tragedy to this man as was his deformity to that other who wrote _The Deformed Transformed_, my hero Byron, and fear flew out of the window.

“Tenderly and without offense to the exaggerated modesty of youth, the woman dressed me, took my hand and led me through the door, partially screening with her person the man. He stood as though in deep thought, head bowed, arms locked behind, leaning a little forward as though seeing something through the windows, where my gaze followed across a clearing, along rows of currant bushes down to an impenetrable swamp a few rods away, and growing dark in the fading twilight. I saw it all, and the three-quarter moon, and strange to say, even yet I fail to comprehend just why my immediate thoughts dwelt on these inconsequential things rather than on the man who had shocked me into a faint.

“Then he extended his right hand, a flash at his face, a mental measurement of his stature with my father as the yard stick, six feet tall; my mind went blank for an instant. Here was no hand nor hoofs, only a pitiable, misshapen thing. All the fingers had been severed midway of the third phalanges. What an awful, unsightly thing, a thumb and four gross misshapen stubs in contact with my soft hand which had never known physical labor like that of other boys! I coughed, and the old weak feeling made me reel.

“The man caught me in his arms and groaned, rather than said, ‘Oh, God, it can never be,’ then, still holding my face against his body, ‘Son, do not be afraid of me. I am deformed, but only in body. My ears and fingers, they cut them off, but they couldn’t destroy the will nor my heart. Son, it beats just like your father’s; let us be friends. My God, my lot is hard,’ and then he held me off and in a harsher voice said ‘Look at me. Once I was as other men. Men did this to me.’

“A more terrifying sight for a boy never was presented. The face was scarred and lined, but the head was well-shaped and surmounted a strong athletic-looking body, but the pity of it--the lack of the accustomed semicircular protuberances on either side with scars marking each cheek from chin to temple and from nose bridge to jaw hinge, gave to the picture a terrifying, rather than a disgusting appearance. Without ears it would not have been so bad; the thick iron-gray bunch of hair growing low near the temples relieved the impression to some extent, but the scars, crosses carried by this man, not from the temple of justice to Golgotha, but throughout a lifetime until obliterated by post-mortem putrefaction! Ugh! They give me a chill yet! They brutalized an otherwise kindly, handsome face.

“It was the eyes that saved the day, fearless, determined yet kindly brown eyes through which a man’s soul was shining. My terror was gone, I grasped the stumpy hand, felt drawn to the man, clasped him about the waist and wept. He held me close for a time and I could feel his body racked by sobs. The woman put an arm around me, saying, ‘Supper is ready,’ and led me to the table.

“I never ate much, nor talked during meals; was taught that it was unbecoming in youth to converse before elders, but while I then ate sparingly and at first with a lump in my throat, I was so drawn out by Blank’s quiet questioning that I was soon telling all about my family, all I knew. Especially that mother, while always appearing sad was apparently happy, and in reply to the direct question, said I, was awfully fond of father and mother as they would wander away together and sit on our veranda alone for hours.

“I asked Blank if he knew why father with all his money (I had seen in the back vault a trunk full of gold pieces) settled here in the woods, and there was such a peculiar look in Blank’s eyes when he disclaimed any knowledge of the reason, that I wondered if he did not know more about our family than he was willing to disclose to me. He asked many questions about Alix and I thought I sensed in him a sort of yearning. Perhaps it was only because he had no children or had lost a daughter. I was not a dullard. The very seclusion of our household, father’s peculiar reserve and keenness seemed to have permeated; both Alix and I were observing youths.

“Nine o’clock, and it suddenly dawned on me that my family would be anxious, perhaps hunting for me, though I had stayed as late once when I went to sleep in my retreat. Father would go out to the woods, atop the burnt hill, as we called it because once swept by a forest fire. Father found me there one day, reading Voltaire’s _La Pucelle_, a forbidden book and locked away thereafter.

“Nobody knew of my bower in the creek’s embrace, or the joy I found in the music of the rippling water, the song of the birds and the whispering of the beech leaves. They all talked to me, never in words, but it seemed as though souls released from the body were trying to tell me the secrets of a hereafter. These friends knew my friends Byron and Shelley and many others, but not Voltaire, so I took him to the wood on the hill.

“Blank took a lantern and led me by the hand down the lane between currant bushes right into the land of mystery, the impenetrable vine-tangled moss-hung swamp. I was surprised to find two logs laid lengthwise, flattened atop, on which we walked, the vines closing overhead. For a quarter of a mile or so we walked on such logs. The way led through tall rushes, then shallow water smothered in wild rice, a dismal pathway to freedom.

“Reeds and rice cradled a canoe well hidden. It was of red cedar and smooth as glass. A shove out and soon reeds and rice were left behind. Water-killed ash trees gave place to water-lily pads and soon we were in open water.

“We were in the back waters of the great river but nearly two miles from the main stream, or bay. Blank paddled in silence, seemed sad or moody. I remember feeling that I was putting him to a great deal of trouble.

“Almost at our landing, a good four miles, Blank spoke, ‘Son, it is better to lie a little sometimes than make others suffer. As you have expressed gratitude to me, give me your promise that you will not say one word about meeting me or going to my home--not to a living soul! I have my reasons and know that you will respect them if you promise.’

“I promised. I would have promised that man anything and I would have kept faith--strange how chivalrous the age, thirteen, is in certain types. Wild horses could not have drawn out the truth as to where I spent that evening. I was ready to invent any story, take any censure. Neither father nor mother ever punished, only chided, but that method of correction had for me a bitter sting.”

Hugh arose without a word from me; he was right back to that night. Leaning over the heavy railing enclosing the front veranda he drew his hand across his eyes as I had observed was his habit when trying to arouse himself and said, “Let us walk.”

As we walked toward the river between the poplars, without preliminary, just as though he had not interrupted his story, Hugh, pointing to the left, said,

“Blank kissed me on the brow, jumped into the canoe, and pushed out into the river. My father had never caressed me; mother often. I remember that while it embarrassed, the act further endeared Blank to me, he seemed so lonesome.

“I circled up there through the orchard instead of taking the path, tiptoed up the east veranda stairs, pushed open the window of my room, the corner one next to yours, and after marveling that the house was so quiet, prepared to say that I had returned home early, fallen asleep in the orchard and had just awakened.

“True, the housekeeper was worried over my absence but not unduly, however, as she was a rather placid specimen. I simply said to her that I was not feeling well when I returned, so did not wish dinner, her chief concern being that it was ‘cold.’

“My parents and Alix had gone to the village and had not yet returned. Soon they came in the front way; father was always so particular in matters of form and deportment. I think he was endeavoring to teach his children through example.

“Father said to me, ‘You look fatigued; what have you been doing?’

“‘Reading, sir,’ I replied.

“‘Then go to bed,’ was his order, kindly given.

“Alix had been led upstairs by the maid. I sorely wished to talk with her, as I sensed something amiss from the strained look on the faces of my parents.

“Mother said,

“‘Kiss me good night, my darling boy,’ took me in her arms and crying silently held me close, while she kissed me fervently.

“I noticed a package of papers, one from Glasgow, with a fat letter with foreign postmark, which father had placed on the big table. Connecting these unusual things with father’s abrupt manner and mother’s tears, living over again the events of the evening, seeing Blank’s awful deformity, as though he stood beside my bed, I finally dozed off, sick at heart for the first time in my young life.

“In the morning I went early to Alix’s room but she knew nothing, though she told me all about the marvels of Valleyford, its high buildings, some three stories higher by one than Craighead Hall, and neither of us was prepared for the shock when, noonday luncheon disposed of, father suddenly said, ‘Children, your grandfather, my father, in Scotland, is dead. Died a month ago. I am his only heir. That means I inherit his property. I must start for Glasgow tomorrow. The property is nothing to me, God knows, but I must save it for you two bairns; mother may go with me. If she does, you must mind Mr. Hallowed, children, just as you would me. Hugh, you must give up your rambling in the woods. You are old enough to know the danger of being attacked by bears and lynx and timber wolves are thick this autumn.’

“We promised. I do not think we realized in the slightest that our parents were going away.”

At this point in his story, Craighead paused as though the recollection of the events of that long past day pained him immeasurably, turned his back to me by squaring around on the bench on the pier on which we had been resting, then resumed:

“I am telling you these details with a purpose, Montrose; it will disclose itself in time. These were almost the parting words of my father, at least his last advice to me. He never returned from Scotland.

“Mother refused to permit him to go alone. Heartsick at leaving her children even for a couple of months, she felt a duty to father, he seemed so strong yet so unfitted to go without her.

“They drove away, their luggage one small leather trunk which father brought from the inner vault. I held open the great stone door which swung back and up so that when opened against the wall it took all my strength to keep it from slamming shut. The staple for the hook meant to hold it open had loosened in the stone and father cautioned me not to trust it, but to brace myself against the open slab until he put some papers into the trunk.

“I noticed that he locked the box from which he took the papers, that there were ribbons and big seals on the documents in his hands and that he was excited, if such a word may be applied to the condition of a man who was always calm. The big door fastened with a spring lock.

“When I returned here five years ago, I tried every key, but could not unlock this vault. Some day I shall have a locksmith in and see what is in the boxes. I have put this off because of the sad memories stirred when I go into even the outer room where Elaine stores her apples.

“Letters came; February, the long winter passed; there was a hitch in the estate’s settlement, Mother was not ill, but could not return alone, expressed much yearning for her children. From Father, admonitions as to health and conduct, directions to be relayed to John Hallowed, the foreman in charge, who watched the two of us like a hawk, even to seeing that we were safely tucked in nights, and I am afraid we led him a merry chase that winter, for youth’s natural trend is to be happy, and happiness in children means pranks and adventuring, distressing to elders in charge, especially such elders as old John, who felt a peculiar responsibility as our guardian.

“In time, I confided to Alix my great adventure in the black ash swamp and we wove many a weird fiction about his life, but not even the wildest of our imaginings came within a thousand miles of the awfulness of the truth. You shall hear his story in good season. I am leading up to it, I cannot tell it. You must see for yourself. Today the whole strange thing would be unbelievable to you who know us as yet so slightly. You must stay with us this fall, Montrose,” Hugh added, and I replied, thanking him, “that I had a whole month, if he and Miss Craighead would not tire of me.”

Resuming the thread of his story, Hugh said, “Our summons came in August. We had become accustomed to the Hallowed regime and there had grown in our young hearts the spirit of content. Gradually during the months there had crept upon us the feeling that our parents had gone on and on out through the wood which I had through tears watched them enter; the picture of both grew dim though Mother’s dear face came frequently into my thoughts. I wonder if the painful love in the hearts of all young people is not perhaps very much intensified through propinquity.

“One evening we were here on this pier and about to go for a swim when we noticed a canoe put straight out from Verde Island, that strip of green right opposite,” and Hugh pointed. “Two men were in the canoe, one paddling. The swim was postponed.

“We speculated as to the canoe’s occupants, with many a pleasant anticipation, as a stranger at Craighead Hall was always an adventure for us children, old John Hallowed not being overly inclined socially.

“The canoe pulled in right alongside the pier. The passenger was a stranger, a well-dressed man, I judged about twenty-five to thirty years of age, the paddler Big Beaver, an Indian who lived on the island from whom father bought furs for rugs and coats. Beaver was our friend. We had often paddled our canoes over to his house, a half dugout in the side of a knoll; he had permitted us to dig for arrowheads and flint axes in the old Indian burying ground on his island.

“We greeted him joyously and his reply was a characteristic ‘Huh,’ but he left out his usual ‘Huh, papooses.’

“The stranger, carefully, with a hand on the pier, I noted, thinking how awkwardly he got out of a canoe, stood and stiffly bowed to Alix, saying, ‘Is this Miss Alix Craighead whom I am addressing?’

“My sister made a little bow and the stranger continued his accent marking his nativity as Scotch, ‘McFarlane, Miss Craighead. I would speak with you and Mr. Hallowed. I come from your mother in Glasgow.’

“I was awestruck with his solemnity. Alix, deathly pale, with a finer sensibility or as she told me later, a premonition of evil things, asked me to run up to the barn and bring Mr. Hallowed to the library. Before I left the pier, I saw the stranger take a large sealed envelope from an inner pocket of his coat, heard Alix ask Beaver to stay for dinner, heard his short ‘No,’ as he pushed back with his paddle, shooting his canoe out into the stream, and when I looked back, Alix, with bosom rising and falling as though in great excitement, was holding the letter out in both hands evidently reading it.

“I found Hallowed dining with the men in the room west of the kitchen, and took him to the library. Alix and Mr. McFarlane were just entering the house, she dry-eyed but sad. Hallowed asked me to go back to where the men were, get Keith and help him take some horses back to a remote pasture. Pride in being of assistance on the farm, fatigue after the exertion of riding a mile and leading a horse sent me willingly to bed after an explanation from Hallowed who met me at the upstairs door, that Alix was asleep, the stranger fatigued, consequently it was not until next morning that I received my shock.

“An unusual thing, Alix bringing my breakfast on a tray. While I breakfasted, she laid out my best wearing apparel and stacked a full wardrobe on my bed. I asked if the Scotchman was royalty before whom I had to dress up, and she answered evasively.

“When I was ready to go out and not until then did she tell me.

“‘Our father has fallen from a horse and was seriously injured.’

“I felt no shock. Had I not seen a man’s leg broken when a tree fell on him? He was working as usual today.

“After a pause Alix said, ‘Father has passed away.’

“The grief of a child is poignant. Stunned, scarcely comprehending, mine was twofold. The thought that I should never see father again and the pity I had for Alix, who at last gave full sway to evidences of the pangs of a stronger nature than mine, up to that time suppressed, made me most miserable. But the little lady who had, since my parents went away, assumed the role of mother protector to her younger brother, soon dried her tears and mine, saying that we still had mother and must hurry to her. That was the reason for the coming of McFarlane. We were to travel with him to Scotland.

“In the early morning of life, nature is more kind to her children than during the midday or the afternoon; in an hour my mind was full of our imminent departure from the only home I had ever known and my heart was aflutter with the excitement of the adventure.

“We left Craighead Hall before noon. Hallowed and his first assistant foreman, Keith, rowed us over to Verde Island, old Big Beaver made a silent sixth; as we anticipated bringing mother back right away we proposed leaving a boat on the island.

“There is a mile of swamp back of the island, under water in the spring, but then dry. At the first house, that of a Mr. Murray, standing where the mainland is reached, where Mr. McFarlane had left a carriage seating six, we had luncheon.

“I remember thinking about McFarlane’s extravagance, keeping a man and a team a whole day. The man surely was a sport for a Scotchman, and I began to admire him.

“Hallowed was quite a talented man who had served grandfather before accompanying father across the ocean. I respected him, obeyed his instructions always. I knew that he was in father’s confidence, held almost as an equal, yet when he lifted Alix in his arms, held her close for a moment and kissed her, I was shocked. He turned to me, placing a hand on each of my shoulders, giving me a gentle shake saying, ‘Hugh Craighead, ye are head of the Craighead clan now. Show by being a man that ye be worthy the honor,’ and turned away, tears glistening on his cheeks.

“I never saw the faithful old retainer again. He died before we returned to the Hall. His body lies over there on the burnt hill, where if he ever visits his grave he may overlook the demesne in which he had as much pride as the owner.

“We drove over dubious roads for hours. It was dark when we reached the railroad station. I had never consciously seen a railroad; was a baby when brought across the ocean.

“Alix stood firm and calm with a hand on McFarlane’s arm as a great shaft of light swept the station platform on which we stood, while I cowered back against the station wall, terrified as the fearsome thing with a grinding noise, a great clanking of iron and hissing of steam passed us and the long line of coaches came to a stop. The thing seemed in pain, or in a fury; it breathed, to that boy of the backwoods, just like a monstrous animal, annoyed at being stopped in its mad journey through the night.

“I was still trying to get a good look at the mastodon as Alix, pulling me by the hand, mounted to the third car, following on the heels of McFarlane. Then we walked back inside to the rear coach.

“How trivialities fasten themselves in the young mind! I was worried, I recollect, that two strange boys, not much taller than I, should pick up our treasured bags and those of Mr. McFarlane and run down the station platform. I called to McFarlane to stop them, but he laughed, saying,

“‘It’s all richt, come along,’ and there were the bags and the two boys when we took our seats. It staggered me to see McFarlane pass a glittering shilling to each of the boys; profligate, I thought.”

“Truants! At last I have found you,” came cheerful, bell-like, Elaine’s voice through the fringe of cedars to the left of the landing.

A particularly vicious-looking bloodhound bounded in the open onto the sand, followed by the young lady, holding a leash.

“Luncheon is over-ready, gentlemen,” and she pulled the beast back from my uncomfortable heel which seemed to interest him inordinately and laughed into my eyes as she said,

“Now you cannot get away, Mr. Montrose. Lucifer has your picture, your measure,” and then addressing her brother, “Hughie, a messenger from the village has been waiting an hour with a letter which he would not entrust even to me.”

Hugh hurried up the avenue while Elaine and I walked over toward the larger roadway, she saying that we must take Lucifer back to his mates.

“Has each dog a name?” I asked, looking at the powerful brute walking ahead of us.

“Yes,” Elaine answered, laughingly, “Some of them two. The pack leader is Julius Caesar, not turned to clay, I assure you, though I think he would keep almost anything away should it see him first.”

“Is he a reincarnation?” I joked.

Apparently seriously, she said, “Yes, dogs, like all other things, are born and reborn, just like humans, but always in their own line of vibration.”

“So you think that this Julius Caesar, this dog, may be a reincarnation of the great Caesar?” I asked lightly, unable to determine whether or not she was serious.

“Stupid! Of course not,” she shot back. “Dogs come back as dogs, birds as birds and man always as man. But the Caesar who conquered the world had lived many lives and crossed many Rubicons before he sent that historic message to Rome. Consider what a man he was--even if we don’t quite approve of him. Isn’t reincarnation the only logical explanation of such a product?”

“Some day, Miss Elaine,” I ventured, “I would like to have you explain your theory of evolution as applied to the human soul. I am in earnest,” I added, as she gave me a quizzical glance. “The idea of the creation of the body from the earth and the breathing into it of life by the Omnipotent has always been accepted and I have not reasoned further.”

Elaine gave me such a serio-comic pitying look, laughingly adding, “You dear old innocent. Once I thought too that we came ready-made from the hands of a Creator, mind and soul and body, but--” and she hesitated, “some day you shall have the evidence that man as he wills creates himself. I wish for Hugh’s sake and my own that we could confide in you. You would then at least understand matters better.”

Her face had become serious, even sorrowful-looking as she talked and I was glad that Hugh interrupted just then.

He came out the garden way as we approached the kennels and announced that he must go at once to the village and might be gone several days. As the carriage drove up, he kissed his sister, then turned to me and while holding my hand, said, “My friend, I am going to ask you to look after my little sister during my absence.”

I ascended right then to the seventh heaven.