South Wind(Fiscle Part-3), Norman Douglas [most important books of all time .TXT] 📗

Same Thing. And Hanged If

I Know What To Say."

 

Mr. Heard Made Up His Mind.

 

"Hanged If You Know? Then I'll Tell You. Write To Say That You Have Met

The Bishop Of Bampopo,  Who Seems A Perfectly Respectable Old Fellow.

Uncommonly Respectable! Tell Her You Rather Like Him. Tell Her She Can

Find Out All About Him In Crockford Or The Red Book. Tell Her That He

Will Be Happy To Correspond With Her,  If She Will Allow It. Tell Her

You Feel Sure He Will Look After You These Last Few Days,  Before We All

Go Away. Tell Her--Oh,  Everything Nice You Can Think Of. You'll Do That,

Won't You? And Now I Will Climb Any Mountain You Like. Where Are We

Going?"

 

"I Have Thought Of A Good Place. Rather High Up,  But Well Worth It. I

Feel Sure Something Funny Is Going To Happen To-Day. Don't You Notice A

Kind Of Demonic Influence In The Air?"

 

"I Notice A Kind Of Infernal Heat,  If That Is The Same Thing.

Seventy-Eight In This Room! You Will Have To Walk Slowly. I Am Not In

Good Condition Just Yet. Wait A Moment. I Must Take My Field-Glasses. I

Never Go Without Them."

 

Mr. Heard,  Resigned To His Fate,  Was Filled At The Same Time With

Anxiety. He Could Not Drive Keith's Words Out Of His Head. Perhaps

Denis Was Really Up To Some Mischief. Who Could Tell? His Eagerness--His

Curious Language! That Note Of Exaltation In His Voice. . . . And What

Did He Mean By Saying That Something Funny Would Happen? Was He

Contemplating--? Above All,  His Dread Of Being Unaccompanied! Mr. Heard

Was Aware That Persons Of Unbalanced Mind Are Apt To Experience Before

Some Critical Outbreak A Pathetic Horror Of Solitude,  As Though,  Dimly

Conscious Of What Was About To Happen,  They Feared To Trust Themselves

Alone.

 

He Meant To Keep A Sharp Eye On Denis.

 

Often,  In Later Times,  He Recalled That Trivial Conversation. Every

Word Of It Was Graven On His Memory. How More Than Strange That Denis

Should Have Dragged Him Away That Afternoon,  To That Particular Spot,

At That Very Hour! By What A String Of Accidents Had Everything

Happened. . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 33

 

 

 

 

It Was Nearly Two O'clock. To Step Out Of Doors Was Like Passing Into A

Furnace. Streets Were Deserted. The Houses Showed Glaring White Against

The Cobalt Of The Firmament; Their Inhabitants Lay Asleep Within,

Behind Closed Shutters. Heat And Silence Brooded Over The Land.

 

Climbing Slowly Aloft By A Lava-Paved Lane They Reached The

Bibliographer's Residence And Paused Awhile Near Its Entrance. Mr.

Heard Tried To Picture The Scholar's Life In This Two-Roomed Cottage;

He Regretted Having Had No Chance Of Visiting That Amiable Person In

His Own Abode. (Mr. Eames Was Chary Of Issuing Invitations.) A Life Of

Monastic Severity. There Was A Small Outhouse Attached To One Side Of

The Wall; It Was The Kitchen,  Denis Explained; Eames' Only Servant

Being A Boy Whom He Borrowed For An Occasional Morning's Work From A

Neighbouring Farm Which Supplied Him With Dairy Produce.

 

"It Isn't Often Used,  That Kitchen," Said Denis. "He Lives Mostly On

Bread And Milk. Does His Own Marketing In The Early Hours. I Met Him

One Day Before Breakfast,  Walking With A Large Brown Basket On His Arm.

Said He Was Buying Anchovies. There Was A Big Haul Of Them Overnight.

He Had Heard About It. A Penny A Pound,  He Said. I Noticed Some Lettuce

As Well. A Couple Of Oranges. Fine Chap! He Knows What He Wants."

 

The Bishop Looked Over The Gate. An Air Of Friendly Seclusion Reigned

In This Place. There Was No Pretence At A Garden--Not So Much As A Rose

Tree Or A Snapdragon; The Vines,  Of Daintiest Green But Sternly

Utilitarian,  Clambered Up To The Door-Lintel,  Invading The Very Roof.

He Pictured To Himself The Interior. Bare Walls And Floorings,  A Print

Or Two,  A Few Trunks And Packing Cases Utilized As Seats,  A Bookshelf,

A Plain Table Littered With Manuscripts; Somewhere,  In That Further

Room,  A Camp Bedstead Whereon This Man Of Single Aim And Purpose,  This

Monk Of Literature,  Was Even Then At Rest Like All Sensible Folks,  And

Dreaming--Dreaming,  Presumably,  Of Foot-Notes. Happy Mortal! Free From

All Superfluities And Encumbrances Of The Flesh! Enviable Mortal! He

Reduced Earthly Existence To Its Simplest And Most Effective Terms; He

Owed No Man Anything; He Kept Alive,  On A Miserable Income,  The Sacred

Flame Of Enthusiasm. To Aspire,  That Was The Secret Of Life. Thinking

Thus,  Mr. Heard Began To Understand The Bibliographer's Feeling For

Mrs. Meadows. She Lived For Her Child--He For His Work. They Were Alike;

Calm And Self-Contained,  Both Of Them; Incapable Of Illusions,  Of

Excesses In Thought Or Conduct.

 

Without The Doorway,  In A Small Triangle Of Shade,  Sat Is Fox-Terrier,

Alert,  Head Poised On One Side In Knowing Fashion,  Ready To Bark If The

Visitors Only Touched The Handle Of The Gate. Denis Remarked:

 

"He Told Me That Dog Was Sick The Other Morning,  Just Like Keith."

 

"It Had Probably Been Eating Something. I Suppose They Couldn't Be

Unwell,  Could They? What A Heat,  Denis! It's Addling My Old Brains.

More Slowly,  Please."

 

An Hour Went By. Fatigue Was Beginning To Tell Upon Mr. Heard. They Had

Left He Cultivated Ground Behind And Were Now Ascending,  By A Cindery

Track Of Pumice-Stone,  Among Grotesque Blocks Of Lava And Scoriae That

Glowed Like Molten Metal. Tufts Of Flowery Broom Scented The Air. The

Soil,  So Recently Drenched By The Miraculous Shower Of Rain,  Was Once

More Dry And Dusty; Its Fragile Flowers Wilted In The Sirocco. And

Still The Young Man Marched Ahead. Always Upwards! The Landscape Grew

More Savage. They Bent Round A Corner And Gound Themselves Skirting A

Precipice. The Bishop Glanced Down In Trepidation. There Lay The Sea,

With Not A Boat In Sight. As He Continued To Look The Horizon

Oscillated; The Ground Sank Under His Feet And Blue Waters Seemed To

Heave And Rise Up Towards Him. He Shut His Eyes In A Fit Of Dizziness

And Grasped A Rock. Its Burning Touch Revived Him.

 

Then On Again. Always Upwards.

 

"Do Walk A Little More Slowly," Said The Bishop,  Puffing And Wiping His

Face. "We Must Be Well Above The Level Of The Old Town By This Time. A

Wild Scramble. How Much Higher Are We Going?"

 

"Here We Are. This Is The Place I Meant."

 

"Charming,  I Must Say! But Aren't We A Little Too Near The Edge Of The

Cliff? It Makes Me Feel Funny,  As If I Were In A Balloon."

 

"Oh,  We'll Get Used To It. Let's Sit Down,  Mr. Heard."

 

Still Distrustful Of His Companion,  The Bishop Made Himself Comfortable

And Glanced Around. They Were High Up; The View Embraced Half The

Island. The Distant Volcano Confronting Him Was Wreathed In Sullen Grey

Smoke That Rose Up From Its Lava Torrent,  And Crowned With A Menacing

Vapour-Plume. Then An Immensity Of Sea. At His Feet,  Separated From

Where He Sat By Wide Stony Tracts Tremulous With Heat,  Lay The Old

Town,  Its Houses Nestling In A Bower Of Orchards And Vineyards. It

Looked Like A Shred Of Rose-Tinted Lace Thrown Upon He Landscape. He

Unraveled Those Now Familiar Thoroughfares And Traced Out,  As A Map,

The More Prominent Buildings--The Church,  The Municipality,  The Old

Benedictine Monastery Where Duke Alfred,  They Say,  Condescendingly

Invited Himself To Dine With The Monks Every Second Month In Such State

And Splendour That,  The Rich Convent Revenues Being Exhausted,  His

Highness Was Pleased To Transfer His Favours To The Neighboring

Carthusians Who Went Bankrupt In Their Turn; He Recognized Count

Caloveglia's Place And,  At The Furthest Outskirts,  The Little Villa Mon

Repos.

 

Where Was She Now,  His Cousin?

 

Reposing,  No Doubt,  Like All Sensible Folks.

 

And His Eye Wandered To The Narrow Pathway Along The Precipice Where He

Had Walked With Her In The Evening Light--That Pathway Which He Had

Suggested Railing In,  By Reason Of Its Dangers. A Section Of The

Horrible Face Of The Cliff Was Exposed,  Showing That Ominous

Coloration,  As Though Splotched With Blood,  Which He Had Noticed From

The Boat. The Devil's Rock! An Appropriate Name. "Where The Young

English Lord Jump Over. . . ."

 

It Was The Stillest Hour Of The Day. Not A Soul In Sight. Not A

Particle Of Shade. Not A Breath Of Air. A Cloudless Sky Of Inky

Blueness.

 

To Mr. Heard's Intense Relief Denis Had Settled Down,  Apparently For

Ever. He Lay On His Stomach Like A Lizard,  Immovable. His Head,

Sheltered By A Big Hat,  Rested Upon His Jacket Which He Had Rolled Up

Into A Sort Of Cushion; One Bare Sunburnt Arm Was Stretched To Its Full

Length On The Seared Ground. What A Child He Was,  To Drag One Up To A

Place Like This In The Expectation Of Seeing Something Unearthly! Mr.

Heard Was Not Quite Satisfied About Him. Perhaps He Was Only Feigning.

 

Time Passed. Do What He Would To Keep Awake,  The Bishop Felt His

Eyelids Drooping--Closing Under The Deluge Of Light. Once More There

Approached Him That Spirit Of Malevolence Brooding In The Tense Sunny

Calm,  That Baleful Emanation Which Seemed To Drain Away His Powers Of

Will. It Laid A Weight Upon Him. He Felt Into An Unquiet Slumber.

 

Presently He Woke Up And Turned Sharply To Look At His Companion. Denis

Had Not Stirred An Inch From His Voluptuous Pose. A Queer Boy. Was He

Up To Some Mystification?

 

The Landscape All Around Was Scarred And Deserted. How Silent A Place

Can Be,  He Thought. An Unhealthy Hush. And What A Heat! The Lava

Blocks--They Seemed To Smoulder And Reel In The Fiery Glare. It Was A

Deathly World. It Reminded Him Of Those Illustrations To Dante's

Inferno. He Thought To See The Figures Of The Damned Writhing Amid

Tongues Of Flame.

 

His Glance Fell Once More Upon The Villa Of His Cousin. Strange! There

Were Two Persons,  Now,  Walking Along The Edge Of The Cliff. Mere

Specks. . . . He Took Up His Glasses. The Specks Resolved Themselves

Into The Figures Of Mrs. Meadows And Mr. Muhlen.

 

The Devil! He Thought. What's The Meaning Of This?

 

They Were Moving Up And Down,  At The Same Spot Where He Had Moved Up

And Down With Her. They Seemed To Be On Friendly Terms With One

Another. Excellent Terms. It Looked As If They Were Laughing Now And

Then,  And Stopping Occasionally To Glance At Something,  Some Book Or

Other Object,  Which The Lady Carried In Her Hand. The Devil! At Times

His Cousin Seemed To Be Dangerously Near The Edge--He Caught His Breath,

Remembering That Sensation Of Giddiness,  Of Gulping Terror,  With Which

He Had Watched The Falcon Swaying Crazily Over The Abyss. She Was

Enjoying It,  To All Appearances. Then,  As They Retraced Their Steps,  It

Was The Man's Turn To Take The Outside Of The Path. He Suffered As

Little As She Did,  Evidently,  From Vertigo. Laughing,  And

Gesticulating. The Devil! What Were They Talking About? What Were They

Doing There,  At This Impossible Hour Of The Day? Five Or Six Times They

Went To And Fro; And Then,  Suddenly,  Something Happened Before Mr.

Heard's Eyes--Something Unbelievable.

 

He Dropped His Glasses,  But Quickly Raised Them Again. There Was No

Doubt About It. Muhlen Was No Longer There. He Had Disappeared. Mrs.

Meadows Was Walking Down Towards Her Villa,  In Sprightly Fashion,

Alone.

 

Mr. Heard Felt Sick. Not Knowing Exactly What He Was About,  He Began To

Shake Denis With Needless Violence. The Young Man Turned Round Lazily,

Flushed In The Face,

 

"Where--What--" He Began. "Rather Funny! You Saw It Too? Oh,  Lord!

You've Woke Me Up. What A Bother. . . . Why,  Mr. Heard,  What's The

Matter With You? Aren't You Feeling Well?"

 

The Bishop Pulled Himself Together,  Savagely.

 

"Touch Of The Sun,  I Daresay. Africa,  You Know! Perhaps We Ought To Be

Going. Give Me Your Arm,  Denis,  Like A Good Boy. I Want To Get Down."

 

He Was Dazed In Mind,  And His Steps Faltered. But His Brain Was

Sufficiently Clear To Realize That His Was Face To Face With An

Atrocious And Carefully Planned Murder.