Act 5 — PROSCENIUM

Tragedy is an imitation, not only of a completed action, but also of an action exciting pity and terror.—Aristotle.

Drayton and Conway were carried into the hall where they could receive the benefit of the cold wind. The little party abandoned the saloon in silence, Flora being supported by her uncle. Biron, after bending once more over the charred remains in the fire, joined them, closing and fastening the door behind him. The late mummers regarded each other with a curious suspicion, scarcely daring to speak, and feeling as though they had awakened from a drugged sleep. Already one of the company was missing. Dr. Berry had gone back to his solitude; and after a short interval the Juxons followed.

At last the survivors were able to regard the Strath with undistorted judgment. It appeared to them an impossible residence, damp, windy, and tottering. It had no more romance than an old barn filled with curiosities; it was a tumbledown museum, filled with draughts and dust, a place for owls and rats like the ruined parsonage house of Queensmore.

Drayton was the first to recover and stand upon his feet. Several more minutes elapsed before Conway was restored to consciousness. Both were depressed, troubled by nausea, and tormented by blistered faces. Neither had the slightest recollection of what he had undergone. Indeed the entire life of those past months remained a blank sheet unwritten on by time. There were memories of a dream-like nature, which could not be framed in words.

Refreshments were placed in the dining-room, and there the company betook itself, sane, human, and no longer theatrical. Presently Mr. Biron gave the tale, as he knew it, of the masks, from their creation by Joseph Falk, toy-maker of Nuremberg, to his own unexpected and dramatic arrival that night. He told them how his great-grandfather had entombed the horrible things in the vault—where, owing to decay of the flooring in the ante-room, Drayton had discovered them—and then had disappeared leaving the Strath to become impregnated with the rival influences. “From certain records handed down to me,” Biron proceeded, “I am convinced that these masks must have exerted a fearful power. They would have influenced not only this house and garden, but the surrounding country and its inhabitants also.”

“You have told us a strange story. You must forgive me when I say it is not easy to accept,” said Mr. Price in a bewildered voice. “I knew there was something unnatural here, indeed everybody knew that, but the curious part about it was that no one ever thought of organizing any active crusade against the Strath. I do not know what has been going on to-night. I am only painfully conscious of my aching limbs.”

“Do you suggest that my friend and myself have been under the control of these masks all the summer?” asked Conway.

“I say also you may consider yourselves fortunate in having escaped,” Biron answered. “Fine weather would have been favourable to you. During the long dark nights of winter you might have lost your reason and committed suicide. I speak from my small knowledge of the masks.”

“What brought you here in time to save us?”

“I can answer that,” said Drayton, coming forward, his face still bearing the comedian’s leer. “I pawned the masks which used to hang in your room in town. I wanted to tell you, but for some reason or other could not. It was a mean thing to do, but I wanted to reach you, and had no money.”

“You could not have rendered your friend a better service,” said Biron. “It is owing to your action I am here. I had offered a reward for information which might lead to the discovery of the originals. It was the least I could do to atone for my ancestor’s irresponsible conduct—I do him the credit of believing it to have been so. Unfortunately I was away from my home in Naples when the information was sent, or I should have been here much earlier.”

“You are right when you suggest that this neighbourhood has suffered,” said Mr. Price thoughtfully. “Everyone has left it, except those who are tied to the land. A little village yonder called Queensmore lies in ruins. Sheep-farming has been a failure. As for this valley of Thorlund, it has remained indifferent to everything. The villagers could talk of nothing but the Strath.”

Conway moved across to the wall and taking down the wooden copies of the masks turned them thoughtfully between his hands.

“They are harmless,” said Biron with his cadaverous smile.

Conway made no reply. Removing one of the logs he placed the masks in the hottest part of the fire and savagely watched the process of immolation.

“Flora, we must go,” said the old squire, lifting himself stiffly. “Take your last look at the inside of the Strath, for I doubt if you will ever see it again.”

“Indeed you may not, Miss Neill,” said the owner. “The house is coming down, and the wilderness outside shall be reclaimed.”

As the uncle and niece were about to take their departure Biron bent his bony figure to whisper into the squire’s ear, “If this young lady has been much under the influence of the masks I should advise you to send her away for a change of scene.”

At that warning the old gentleman looked at his niece and noticed the heaviness of her eyes. He dimly wondered what would have befallen her, and himself, had the masks been permitted to live, but dismissed the thought because it was not a pleasant one. He wished the men good-night and turned to leave the house for ever.

But Flora as she shook hands with Conway could not refrain from confessing in a low voice, “I think I have learnt something here.”

Biron, who was near, overheard and said, “I have always believed that there was good as well as evil in the power—or shall I call it the teaching?—of the masks. Unfortunately they could only impart that teaching, or we could only receive it, in a manner that was full of danger both to body and mind.”

“And we never knew anything about it,” said Mr. Price solemnly. “That is the strangest thing of all.”

“We know nothing of the influence which controls us in the state before birth or in the conditions after bodily death,” said Biron. “I have discharged the duty of my life,” he went on. “The masks are destroyed. Results must live after them, but I am content to know they cannot claim any more victims. I rejoice with all my heart at your escape.”

When Mr. Price and Flora had gone the three men continued to speak upon the subject which was uppermost in their minds; and presently it was Biron’s turn to listen while Conway spoke upon his uncle’s fate. When he had concluded, having indeed very little to state, the attenuated man took up the matter with interest.

“You tell me your uncle was found dead in this place, under conditions which precluded the possibility of anyone having placed violent hands upon him. You say also that the police, after making every effort to discover a murderer, were forced to relinquish their search for lack of material upon which to work. But surely the truth is obvious. Your poor uncle came to Joseph Falk’s end. He destroyed himself.”

“No,” cried both the listeners together, and Conway added, “it was shown at the inquest he had been strangled.”

“Not hanged?”

“He was discovered lying across the threshold of the hall-door.”

“Then here we have a mystery,” said Biron. “Some material influence must have been brought into requisition that night. You must give me time to think over it. And now with your permission, I will walk through the house.”

“We will go with you. It will be as new to us as to you,” said the owner grimly.

They made a tour of inspection throughout the Strath from cellars to attics. Upstairs the walls were mildewed and gaping with cracks. Room after room of the dead house they examined, scarcely venturing to speak during that solemn survey; until they entered a bedroom which contained an immense four-post bedstead hung about with a filthy valance. Part of the wall had broken away, and the wind howled inward, lashing the ivy against the loosening brickwork. Upon a table they saw a floriated cross and near it a book in shagreen covers. Conway picked up the book, and glanced through it idly, and pushed it into his pocket. Biron drew back the draperies and looked into the bed which was piled with clothes half-eaten by grubs. “My faith,” he muttered, “There should be some remote influence haunting this house even now.”

“I will tell you what I know of its history, if you will come downstairs,” said the owner. Then he turned to his friend and asked, “Drayton, do you think we have been living here without anyone to look after us? You may remember, but I cannot.”

“Wasn’t there a girl, or an old woman?” said the writer dubiously. “I seem to remember a tall girl, with a very serious brown face and quantity of black hair, and an old woman who was always grumbling.”

Upon going downstairs part of the mystery was solved; for they found in the kitchen the rachitic dame, who had served them, fast asleep in a crazy chair. Nancy Reed had gone, and at that time was running with the wind back to her late home at Kingsmore, a wild girl again, and her mind in borderland.

Venturing to re-enter the saloon the men found that the atmosphere had cleared. The fire which had destroyed the last remains of the criminal and the mountebank was burning low. More logs were piled upon the rotten irons, and then Conway gave his visitor a true account of the history of the Strath down to the end of the eighteenth century, mentioning what he knew of Sir John Hooper’s villainous career and punishment, and the story of his daughter’s misery. “This book, which I picked up in the bedroom above, seems to be Winifred Hooper’s journal,” he concluded.

The guest reached out his arm and having taken the tragic record passed his eyes hurriedly across its pages. Presently he began to read extracts aloud. Their interest increased. Biron lingered over a page, and from that point read on continuously, wherever the writing was legible. The two men drew closer and leaning forward listened intently, while the candles guttered down to their sockets, and the fire burnt to an angry red.

It was midnight, and the wild wind was at its height, rushing overhead and howling down the passages. Still the three men sat motionless, and Biron’s voice, enriched by its foreign accent, read on, lifting as it neared the last pages because of the noises in the house. Occasionally Conway started, or Drayton averted his eyes hurriedly from the black window. For the first time the Strath appeared to them haunted indeed. The shadowy visitor’s voice faltered once, then sounded strongly as it read:

“And now I am alone with the God who called me upon this scene. My dog is dead. He has been ailing for many days, and this evening, when I went to care for him as my poor skill permitted, he lifted his head and licked my hand, shivered and moaned and died. The body lies beside me. No longer will he spring up and growl when a footfall sounds along my passage. No longer will he stand before me to protect me from my father, snarling and showing his white teeth when he beholds the whip which is not for him. Dear faithful friend, good-night.

“It is strange that while we cannot by any means foretell the future we may yet feel the approach of calamity. During this last week, when listening in the silence of this room, I have felt the nearness of disaster. Will the omen fail? It matters so little. I am able to bear misfortune because accustomed to it, but any unexpected happiness might stop my heart for ever. Were Geoffrey to stand before me now I should neither laugh nor speak. Like my poor dog I could only kiss his hand and die. I would embrace a phantom were it his. I am a philosopher, and my crucible is filled with adversity out of which I strive all night to win knowledge, not of the world, nor of its hidden forces, nor of the stars which shine above, but an answer to my heart which goes on asking, ‘What is love?’ Is it a morning cloud melted by the sun, or a flower scattered by the breeze, or is it a rock which defies the storm? Is it made of dreams, loose-clinging stuff, falling from the body at a touch? Or is it an immortal essence, imbruing the soul through time and space and change?

“None can answer me, and indeed I care not. I doubt whether to-morrow’s sun will rise upon the hills. I fail when I try to trust in life eternal. I resign my confidence in ministering spirits and my hope in Heaven. I am not even assured of my own existence. I pass to and fro, without sound, with so little substance, haunting this house like some unhappy ghost. Have I indeed ceased to be material? Is there anything that I may believe in? Yes, there is one thing. I believe in the reality of fear.

“Geoffrey is but the memory of a long past time. I must speak to that I see and feel and hear, to the indifferent and unresponsive objects of this daily prison, to the drifting clouds and the whirling wind. There is life in the wind and strength. It passes on, the same, yet not the same, changing its cry, now howling, now falling to a sob, now rushing like a madman, now crawling snake-like. And I can hear the trees roaring like the sea. So I address the wind, and the trees, and my poor friend’s body, and all else that I can see and hear, because faith can do no more.

“It must be hard on midnight. I dare not think what may be taking place outside. The house is filled with shadows. It is like a cave beaten by the waves. Walking in the garden to-day I heard voices beyond the wall, and three strange men rode beside the gates, cloaked and long-booted, and one had a deep scar along his cheek, and all were armed. One muttered, as he nodded to this garden, ‘We may trap the old fox to-night.’ They passed on, along the high road in the direction of Kingsmore, and I knew it was I who had brought them. The villagers will not warn my father, because they hate him. His fate rests with me, his only child, and he is condemned for Geoffrey’s sake.

“I have been to the head of the stairs because I thought I heard a disturbance. Old Deborah is walking about the hall, beating her hands together. Deborah loves my father, because she nursed him as a boy. She saw me, and frowned, and began to snuff the candles that she might persuade me she was not anxious. She muttered, ‘ ’Tis a mighty wind, and bad luck to him who’s caught in it.’ Then she went to the door and I heard her say, ‘That’s the coach. And that’s the noise of—get you to your room,’ she cried, starting back and shaking her hand at me. ‘Get you away.’ So I came back, and am now straining my ears at every sound.

“Now I could hear were I stone deaf. The end has come. The terrible night! First the noise of furious galloping. There was the clang of the iron gate, the galloping again, and voices shouting; and after that a lantern flashed its light upon the side of the house. One horse crossed this light, my father’s mare flecked with foam, then another and that was Reed’s big grey, and then a third. What have they done? There has been murder upon the highway. The third horse carried a body slung across the saddle. They passed, were gone, and then a voice I know too well shouted, ‘Rub the mare dry, unsaddle her, and turn her into the field. Here, fool, you have dropped your mask. Burn it, and throw these pistols into the moat, and clean that sword. Then come into the house, for you and I must have a word together.’

“I can hear the beating of my heart. The awful night! Why did I not escape. Better the cold plantation than my father’s fury. All is silent now, apart from the wind—but there! It is the door. A wild voice shouts, ‘Deborah, bring brandy-wine and plenty of hot water.’ God grant he may forget me.

“Again I have listened in the passage. The hall-door was pushed open and the man Reed entered—I knew him by his oaths. He was breathing thickly and struggling with some burden, which he let down upon the floor, or dropped it rather, for I heard it roll and settle with dreadful heaviness.”

As Biron spoke that last word, there came from above the sound of a body, falling heavily, so as to shake the house. Without lifting his eyes, or moving in his seat, he read calmly on:

“Then a brawling began between the man and the master. Their words I could not often catch, but I heard my father’s voice, shaking with fear and rage. ‘Burn it,’ he shouted. ‘Or, if there be not time, hide it away in the girl’s bedroom.’ What Reed replied I could not hear, but I imagine he told my father there could be no cause for hurry, as he is a dense besotted creature, with a mind set upon strong liquors, a man too incapable of feeling to know fear. Their voices became hoarse mutterings, and now I hear the clinking of glasses and the rattling of flasks. I can write almost unmoved, and yet that horrible feeling of calamity impending remains, and when I look upon my bed I seem to see a cold sheet, and a shape, and a solemn candle burning at the head. Is that the shape of the poor wretch they have murdered to-night? No, it is too thin and small, and I think I discover a lock of fair hair upon the pillow. Well, there is but one more page remaining to this book.

“Again I hear the note of disagreement. They have always been violent in their cups. The voices are raised higher. There is none here they need fear. Still no sound from without. They have been favoured by the wind and the darkness of the night, and thus have again escaped. But there—a blow. Surely a blow, and now, ‘Traitor! Spy! Informer!’ There is death in that voice. The clash of swords! Oh God! they are fighting like beasts. Let me not be the cause of any man’s death, be he highwayman or murderer. Now I understand the reason of that fight which must end in death. My father knows that his guilt has been discovered. His return was a flight. Those cloaked long-booted men are perhaps even now upon his track, and he believes that his companion has betrayed him, and, half-drunk, half-mad, cannot listen to denial. And I am the informer. And I dare not go down, dare not face him as he is, dare not tell him that his accomplice is innocent, dare not tell him it was I. Oh, the clamour, the ringing, the clashing of those swords! The shrieks of the wind, and that awful breathing! Silence, but the whole house seems to be shuddering. There is a hollow sound in the hall, rising and swelling along the passage, louder every moment, and now, ‘Open, in the King’s name.’

“Torches are flaring in the garden. The house is surrounded. That beating upon the door continues, or is it the beating of my heart? But the same stern voice demands admission, and my wretched father shouts in terror, as he feels the shadow of the gallows creeping across his head, and blunders about the saloon, and now into the hall, past the rebounding door, and now he is upon the stairs, and I can hear a dragging and a heaving and two dead heels rattling from step to step. Oh, merciful God! He is coming here to hide the body, and I cannot bear it, I cannot look upon it. They are breaking down the door, battering it in with a heavy log, and won it gives with a noise of thunder, and the avengers rush in shouting at their loudest, ‘Surrender, in the King’s name!’ ”

The three men started fearfully, but not a sound escaped their lips, when there rose above the wind a terrific noise in the neighbourhood of the hall-door, a crashing thunderous riot, as though that door had indeed been crushed inwards and the human hounds were hunting in the house. The reader’s thin face quivered, as his tongue concluded the last wild words upon the final page:

“Let them seize him upon the stairs. He has reached the corridor, gasping in his terror. He is dragging no longer, but carrying. He enters this passage, shouting my name. They hear him. The house rocks as they rush up the stairs. ‘I have brought him. Take him. Hide him away.’ What does he mean? Will he reach the roof and fling himself down? He is here, panting outside my door. Again he is dragging the dreadful thing, and now I must look upon that, and upon him. He flings himself against the door…”

As the record ended with that blotted word, a fearful crash shook the ground, the house tottered, and suddenly the saloon wall opened peacefully, and men caught glimpses of a wild watery moon between two lack shuddering fringes of ivy.

“Run!” shouted Biron, dropping his hands and the time-worn book. “The house is falling upon us.”