NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE Page 4

  ‘I sprang to my feet—God, something must be done! I knew what was to come, but they didn’t, and with the unerring instinct of the occultist, I knew that this, for Vlasto, was the Dance of Death! I rose, with some vague frantic idea of rushing to the stage and seizing the Doll before it was too late, yet even as I rose the music rushed to the great climax, and I knew I was already too late. Beneath me on the stage, full-stretch from the hands of his creature, flew Vlasto, whirling out in that dreadful spin, splayed out like a limp bundle, a dummy figure, while in the centre of the wheel spun the Doll, her scarlet lips smiling, glass eyes agleam, as she gripped Vlasto’s wrist in her iron-jointed hands. Round and round they went, faster and faster in that mad whirl, till women in the audience whimpered and screamed and the men muttered and grew uneasy . . . would it never cease?

  ‘Even as the distracted thought fled across my mind, there was a frenzied shriek from a woman below—and Vlasto, released at the highest speed of his outward whirl, was flung clear into the audience, like a stone from the hand of the thrower! And as I fell back in my box, faint and sick, I heard from the stage below a shriek of terrible metallic mirth, as the Doll laughed—and laughed—and laughed! . . .

  ‘Well, there is not much more to tell, except my conclusions. I could not leave it at that: truth to tell, I was, despite my horror at the last scene, far too curious, and posing as an old friend of Vlasto’s, got an interview with the doctor who was at once sent for. We became rather friendly, and he told me much about the Vlastos. He attended Madame Vlasto, it appears, and told me she was increasingly delicate, and that they lived a cat-and-dog life. He said Vlasto used to hypnotise her, and boasted he could make her do anything. She was, it appears, a little soubrette on the halls when he married her—she married him out of pique with her lover, but she never loved him, and after a few months grew to hate him bitterly. He was an inventor, when she married him, trying to make a life-size mechanical doll, but always just failing. One night, she told the doctor, he came in from his workshop nearly mad with baffled fury, dragging the doll with him, and propping it up against a chair swore doggedly that, come what would, by what means he cared not, he would make that doll move! Then an idea seemed to strike him. He hypnotised her, as he had often done before, and she acquiesced apathetically, seeing no reason for refusal . . . but this time, when she came round, he was rubbing his hands and laughing gleefully, bubbling over with mirth and triumph. It appears that in trance he found he could transfer her personality to the Doll—as long as she remained under, the Doll would live! It moved, spoke, sang, danced, did, in a mechanical way, in fact, everything she as a woman could do—sang her old songs, danced her old skirt-dances; in fact, for the time being, she passed wholly into the wooden framework of the Doll! Vlasto nearly went mad with pride and delight when he found what he could do, told her they would be millionaires, the greatest turn in the world, and since anything would be better than their then state of utter poverty, she consented. But to repent . . . for as they rose higher and higher and made more money, Vlasto’s innate bestiality rose with them, and she grew to loathe him more and more bitterly. She was forced to work with savage energy, learning new songs continually, new dances, since the Doll’s repertoire must be kept up-to-date. . . .

  ‘He had never loved her, and now her twopenny prettiness that had awakened his brief passion was gone he was flagrantly and brutally unfaithful, bringing home women from the streets night after night, drinking, dicing, beating her, insulting her before his coarse friends. . . . Then her old lover suddenly appeared.

  ‘What happened actually then, I never knew. She was very reticent about this, poor little woman! But it appears Vlasto had originally parted them by some underhanded trick or other, and the lover, Hermann Kloster, had only just discovered it. . . . They fell into each other’s arms, poor children, and feverishly made plans to fly together—but Vlasto caught them on the very threshold, and . . . well, the lover mysteriously disappeared, and was never heard of till six weeks later, when his body was found in a ditch, horribly mutilated. I think we may safely conclude that Vlasto was at the bottom, metaphorically speaking, of that ditch! . . . Well, Emmy Vlasto was very ill then with brain fever, and Vlasto, panic-stricken, had her carefully nursed . . . spent money like water to cure her—it did not pay him to have her fall ill, obviously, since his turn had to stop till she was better. One can hardly hypnotise a hopelessly wandering brain!

  ‘Well—she went back to him then, and sank into a condition of sullen apathy, apparently, but I think this may have been more apparent than real. My own idea is that from that time she set herself, slowly and laboriously, for she was neither educated nor clever, to find some way of revenging herself on Vlasto. And damme—I think she did it, don’t you?’

  ‘How exactly? Yes, I see your drift, but I want details,’ I protested. Hellier smiled at me indulgently.

  ‘You want the i’s doffed and the t’s crossed, in fact, Laurie? Well, I can do that in a very short sentence, my infant. Vlasto was in the habit of hypnotising his wife into deep trance just before he left for the theatre—originally he used to do it in his dressing-room—then left that off as he got on as being too dangerous. Her released personality then, under his domination, took complete control of Minna the Doll, which was, as Barrington had said, nothing inside but a meaningless tangle of wires and coils, useless till galvanised into temporary life, the vehicle at the moment of Emmy Vlasto, one-time soubrette. But that last night . . . He had, as usual, hypnotised her at their lodging, a gorgeous suite at the best hotel in Milan. We found her with her head resting across the writing-table in the sitting-room, the ink barely dry upon a note. She had died in her trance—just at the moment when the Doll was so horribly trying to speak, and the note was as follows:

  ‘“Herr Doktor,

  ‘“You know my history. I have tried many times to wreak upon this fiend who holds me in bondage my hatred and revenge. . . . Tonight is the anniversary of my lover’s death. I have prayed him, if he is near me, to lend me his strength to do it tonight. While I am in a trance only I cannot kill Vlasto, I am too weak, though I have tried many times. But I feel if I can find the courage to die—to release the full force of my hate and rage and anguish in death: that force may give me the strength to kill him as he deserves! Tonight, before he hypnotised me, I took a slow poison, timed to bring me death at the moment that I, in the cloak of Minna the Doll, step upon the stage. Hermann, be near me—I have prayed for strength, and tonight will prove my prayer! “

  ‘And that’s all! But I can tell you fellows that I don’t wish my worst enemy to have to sit through an experience like that—when the tortured soul of dead Emmy Vlasto took its long-delayed vengeance on her husband through the grim, jointed hands of Vlasto’s Doll!’

  February

  The Poet’s Story

  Robin’s Rath

  The evening was chill with the cool dampness of February when we gathered for dinner, chatting, laughing, comparing notes as to the past month. There was a bowl of pearly snowdrops on the round table, delicately virginal, and Saunderson nodded towards them as he greeted Dan Vesey, the latest-comer, a shy pale fellow with lank black hair forever falling over his brow in a lovelock.

  ‘Seasonable, eh, Dan? You’re a February’s child, aren’t you? Thought so! Got anything in the shape of a story to fit this evening—something that’ll tune in with February and rain and snowdrops?’

  Dan Vesey nodded over his potage Madeleine.

  ‘I think so—I hunted it up last night. I’ll tell it you later—when we get to the usual coffee stage. But it’s nothing like such a thrill as Hellier’s—only just an ethereal, evanescent little story called “Robin’s Rath”.’

  ‘So ye’re goin’ to buy Robin’s Rath, young lady?’

  Ellen Vandermyl raised her arched brows with a touch of hauteur at the old man’s tone. Not the daughter of a hundred earls, but of one immensely wealthy pork-packer who could deny her nothing, even to the purch
ase of Ghyll Hall, she had, as have so many American women of bourgeois birth, the tiny feet and delicate complexion that is generally considered the heritage of the aristocrat alone. Now she tapped a smart brogued shoe with an equally smart cane as she answered old Giles’s question, with a little note of asperity in her voice:

  ‘Of course I am—I have—it goes with Ghyll Hall! Besides, when I get a path made it will make a perfect short cut to the golf-links.’

  There was a sudden stir and rustle among the group of villagers; with one accord they looked at old Giles—and there was a pointed little silence. Flushing with annoyance, Ellen glanced from one face to another. Her one wish was to get on well with the villagers of this tiny lovely village, Ghyllock, which seemed to live in the shelter of the old manor-house, Ghyll Hall, for centuries the seat of the Ruddocks, and now passing, like so many other many-memoried old houses, into the hands of the stranger. An only child, her father wax in her hands, the pretty spoilt American beauty had passed through Ghyllock only once, on a motor tour, and seeing the wonderful old house set in miles of green woods and meadows and fields, had given her father no peace till he offered to buy it for her—much as he would have endeavoured to buy the moon, had she wanted it! The grounds ran down to a narrow belt of woodland, thick with undergrowth, the tangling green luxuriance that had never known shears or pruning knife—Robin’s Rath. Beyond lay the golf links, within easy walking distance of the Hall when the path mentioned should be cut—certainly it seemed a good idea, and there was some reason for Ellen’s puzzled annoyance at the sudden silence that greeted her remark. Even the landlord of the picturesque inn, The Goose with the Golden Eggs, lounging in the shadow of his own doorway to listen to the gossip under the great elm tree outside, put down his mug of beer and stared at her curiously. She spoke sharply, addressing old Giles, whose heavy white brows were drawn down over his intent old eyes in a heavy frown.

  ‘What in the world’s the matter? You all look as if I’d threatened to kill somebody!’

  ‘Ye’re cutting a path through the Rath?’ Giles’s voice was a little raised so that all might hear the enormity proposed. Ellen flushed angrily now, and spoke, settling her pointed chin more decidedly into her vivid blue woollen scarf.

  ‘Certainly I am—it’s the quickest way to the links. Is there any reason why I should not?’

  Everyone was listening intently now, and Giles gave an odd laugh, still studying her under his shaggy brows.

  ‘No, missy; no real reason. But ye shudna’ try—ye shudna’ try!’

  ‘Why on earth?’ Ellen was getting both thoroughly ruffled and a little alarmed now. The old man sent a swift glance round at the circle of interested faces.

  ‘Robin’s Rath never bin touched, Missy. If ye’ll tek an old man’s advice ye’ll leave it be—Robin’s Rath’s better as it is.’

  ‘Aye—aye, right enough.’ ‘Leave it be, Miss—better leave it be.’

  A confused chorus of voices from the watching group all gravely eyeing her, emphasised the old man’s words, and with a quick angry shrug and laugh Ellen turned away, pushing the ends of the scarf into the front of her grey tweed jacket.

  ‘Really, you are talking nonsense! I shall do what I choose with the place—sorry if it annoys you, but I really see no sense in what you say against the idea of cutting a path through a piece of wild land! Good day. . . .’

  Her slim figure disappeared round the turn of the lane, and old Giles shrugged his shoulders as he took up his pipe again.

  ‘No sense?—well, well! Happen she’ll see sense before ’tes too late—happen she mayn’t; then the Lord help her, for she’s a pretty piece enough.’

  Ellen Vandermyl strode briskly along the narrow lane, still warm and flushed with annoyance at the recent little encounter. Her firm chin was set, and her dark eyes rather hard under their evenly marked brows. She was rather cross with herself also for becoming angry at what was, after all, a show of interest in her doings, which interest, up to the present, the villagers had been sadly devoid of, greatly to her vexation. She was quite determined to marry and settle down into an English country lady—the husband question could be settled later, though doubtless ‘Papa’ would arrange that as easily as he had this, the purchase of the ‘seat’, wonderful Ghyll Hall. Ellen had, beneath her greedy little modern tastes, a genuine sense of the beautiful and as she walked across the meadow-path homewards her eyes lighted with appreciation. The Hall faced her, far up the sloping side of the hill, backed by dark woods, and at the foot of the grounds, running into the lush water-meadow that she was crossing, the wide tangled woodland of Robin’s Rath, a long narrow copse, cut the grounds of the Hall from the meadow like a dark ribbon of green wilderness. Usually Ellen took the twisting path that led round the end of the Rath into the road that passed the Hall gates, but now just at the bend she stopped, and staring through the rough fence into the Rath, muttered something impatient to herself about the crass stupidity of the villagers. It would be so easy to cut a straight path through this—it couldn’t be more than a hundred and fifty to two hundred yards across, and one walked straight into the meadow and thence to the links. Absurd, the Ruddocks never doing it—of course the undergrowth was woefully thick and obviously hadn’t been touched for centuries, but a couple of good men with bill-hooks would soon do the job. Suddenly, Ellen jumped. Against a dark tree-trunk, only a few yards away, a man stood chewing a grass blade, hands in the pockets of his green corduroys, his eyes on her.

  ‘Goodness!’ It annoyed Ellen to be surprised, and she reflected with embarrassment that he must have been standing there all the time and overheard her irritable remarks about the villagers. He was only a keeper, probably, but it was none the less annoying to feel foolish, and Ellen’s colour was considerably heightened when she spoke again. ‘Here! Who are you, and what are you doing on my land?’

  The man removed the grass-blade and spoke, one hand still in his pocket, and a pair of odd, quick eyes on her. His voice was rather brusque.

  ‘Your land, hey, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, mine.’ Her voice was brusquer, and the man laughed suddenly, with a lazy amusement.

  ‘Yours?—sorry, Miss! I never knew. . . . Don’t look cross at me, Missy. I’m only a keeper!’ Again the tone of lazy amusement, and to her great vexation Ellen found her colour rising again beneath the casual gaze of the stranger’s eyes. True, he called her ‘Miss’, but somehow with a tone as if he found it rather amusing to do so. . . . Before she could speak again, suddenly with a quick lithe movement, he was at the fence, his long brown hands near to hers. He wore a green leather cap, very damaged and old, pulled over his eyes, and his eyes were light brown, almost yellow, and quick and bright as a bird’s.

  ‘Come in, Miss! You’ve never been into Robin’s Rath yet, I’ll go bail—not for all you’re cutting a pathway through it!’ Somehow, against her will, Ellen found herself scrambling over the fence and standing, a little breathless and scratched, on the other side. The man in green was but little taller, and they faced each other, feet deep in thick tussocky grass. Ellen compressed her lips hard and clutched at her vanishing dignity; somehow it seemed childish and puerile under the man’s dancing eyes, but she stuck to her pose doggedly.

  ‘Er—no, I haven’t had time to go through it—but if, as I suppose, you are one of Sir George Ruddock’s keepers, perhaps you had better show me the best place to cut a path down to the meadow. . . . You are a keeper here, I suppose?’

  The man in green was leading the way deep into the dusky heart of the Rath—standing aside, he held a branch away as he replied.

  ‘Yes. . . . I’m a keeper here. Been her long enough, Missy. Longer than you’d think!’

  ‘How long?’ persisted the girl. The man’s manner pricked her curiosity. He spoke the rough country dialect certainly, but still with an air of engaging nonchalance, as if he did it on purpose. . . . Was he a Ruddock? Come back in disguise to look after the lands of his fathers? Ellen’s imagination, fed full o
n cinemas, French novels, and the yellow Press of her country, ranged excitedly among a thousand dramatic possibilities. . . . Turning to the man in green, changing her tactics, she found him looking down at her with a disconcerting little smile—she looked away, suddenly discomfited, and immediately exclaimed in astonished admiration:

  ‘How lovely!’ They faced a narrow little glade, thick with bluebells—the blue flood ran like spilt colour about the trunks of the trees as far as eye could see; the dark tree-trunks and the shiver of pale young leaves above their heads were speckled and splashed with golden flecks and pools and spangles—for an enchanted moment Ellen stared, then turned to the man in green, leaning negligently up against a tree, his rough suit almost one with the mossy bark. He nodded, his eyes intent on hers.

  ‘Yes. ’Tes good enough, eh? And right here, Missy, is where you were goin’ to cut the path. ’Tis the narrowest part of Robin’s Rath.’

  Ellen started. So this was it, was it? Another attempt on the part of these idiotic village people to influence her into leaving the Rath alone? Very cleverly done, she would admit—but what impertinence! Now just to show them she couldn’t be dictated to she would insist on having the path cut, though a moment ago she had been on the verge of changing her mind. . . . Turning round, she laughed sharply, her chin in the air, and an acid remark on her tongue, but it died away unspoken as she met the strange keeper’s odd light eyes. She felt somehow curiously embarrassed beneath the calm, quizzical gaze of this brown-faced fellow in the shabby green corduroys—biting her lips, she tossed her pretty spoilt head and caught back her dignity as lady-of-the-manor. Her tone as she spoke was delicately condescending.