A Tribute of Souls

A TRIBUTE OF SOULS

PRELUDE

The affair of Carlounie, a village in Perthshire, Scotland, has become notorious throughout the world. The name of its late owner, his remarkable transformation, his fortunate career, his married life, the brooding darkness that fell upon his mind, the flaming deed he committed, its appalling outcome, and the discovery of his body by Mr. Mackenzie, the minister of the parish, sunk in a pool of the burn that runs through a wooded ravine near his house—all these things are fresh in the memory of many. It has been supposed that he discovered an intrigue between his wife, Kate, formerly a hospital nurse, and his tenant, Hugh Fraser of Piccadilly, London. It has been universally thought that this discovery led to his final act. The following pages, found among his papers, seem to cast a very different light on the matter, suggesting a medieval legend rather than a modern history.

It may be added that careful inquiries among the inhabitants of Carlounie have revealed that no one ever saw or heard of the grey traveller mentioned in Alistair Ralston's narrative.

I

THE STRANGER BY THE BURN

Can a fever change a man's whole nature, giving him powers he never had before? Can he enter it impotent, starved, naked, and emerge from it potent, satisfied, clothed with possibilities that are wonders, miracles to him? It must be so; it is so. And yet—I must go back to that sad autumn day when I walked beside the burn. Can I write down my moods, my feelings of that day and the days that followed? And if I can, does that power of pinning the butterfly of my soul to the board—does that power also bud and blossom from a soil mysteriously fertilized by illness? Formerly, I could as easily have flown to the summit of cloud-capped Schiehallion as set down on paper even the smallest fragment of my mind. Now—well, let me see, let me further know my new, my marvelous self.

Yes, that first day! It was autumn, but only early autumn. The leaves were turning on the birch and rowan trees. At dawn, mists stood around to veil the rising sun. At evening, they gathered like a pale troop of shadowy mutes to attend his descent to the underworld. It was a misty season, through which the bracken on the hillsides of my Carlounie glowed furtively in browns and oranges; and my mind, my whole being, seemed to move in mists. I was just twenty-two, an orphan, master of my estate, a Scottish laird, and my own governor. And some idiots envied me then, as many begin to envy me now. I remember a ghastly old man who clapped me on the shoulder and, with an unnecessary oath, swore I was "a lucky youngster." I, with my thin, sickly body, my burning, weakly, starved, yet ambitious soul—lucky! I broke into a harsh laugh and longed to kill the babbling beast.

It was the next day, in the afternoon, that I took that book—my Bible—and went forth alone to the long den where the burn hides and cries its presence. Yes, I took Goethe's Faust and my own complaining spirit out into the mist with my misty, clouded mind. My cousin Gavin wanted me to go shooting. He laughed and teased me about my ill luck the previous day, when I had missed every bird and become the joke of my own keepers. I turned and railed at him, telling him to leave me alone. As I went, I heard him mutter, "That wretched little fellow! To think he owns Carlounie!" Now he sings a different tune.

With Faust in hand and hatred in my heart, I went out into the delicately chilly air, down the winding garden paths, through the creaking iron gate.

I came to wilder land, uneven, grass-covered, strewn with grey granite boulders among which coarse ferns grew. The black-faced sheep flicked their broad tails at me, then lowered their greedy mouths to their damp, endless meal. I heard the thin, distant cry of a hawk poised somewhere in the mist. The hills, clothed in the death-like glory of bracken, loomed around me like a phantom procession passing through desolate places. Then I heard the voice of the burn—that voice which is even now forever in my ears. To me that day it was the voice of one alive; and it is alive to me now. I descended the sloping hill with my lounging, weak-kneed gait, at which those who called me master had so often looked with contempt. (I was often tired then.) I descended until I reached the edge of the tree-fringed den, and the burn was loud in my ears.

I could see it leaping here and there—ivory foam among the dripping larches and silver-stemmed birches, ivory foam among the deep brown and flaming orange bracken, and in that foam a voice calling me to come down into its hiding place, away from men, away from the creatures I hated because I envied them, because they were stronger than I, because they could do what I could not. Gavin, Dr. Wedderburn, my tenants, the smallest farm boy, the grooms, the little leaping peasants—I hated them all. And then I obeyed the voice of the ivory foam and went down into the burn's hiding place.

It ran through strange, secret places where the mists hung in wet wreaths. I seemed in another world within its lair. On the steep banks stood sentinel trees like shadows, some with tortured shapes. As I turned to look straight up the hill of the burn's descent, the mountain from which it came closed the view relentlessly. A soft gloom hemmed us in—me and the burn that talked to me. We two were out of the world I hated and longed to have at my feet. We were in another world, full of murmuring and restless calm; and now that I was at the water's edge, the ivory face, the speaking lips, the ivory heart that beat against my sick, weary heart were varied and changed. As thoughts streak a mind, the clear amber of pools among rocks streaked the continuous foam that marked the water's leaps toward the valley.

The silence of those pools was brilliant, like pauses for thought in a great career of action; and their silence spoke to me, mingling with the voice of the foam. The course of the burn is broken by rocks shaped by water into a hundred forms. Some are mossy, yellow and green, velvet to the touch, covered with droplets; some are gaunt and naked, sharp-edged and dry. The burn avoids some with cunning grace, dashes against others as if in a fury of emotion, caresses others gently, and would linger if nature allowed. This army of rocks gives the burn its charm of variety, filling its voice with a whole gamut of expression, for each boulder shapes the water's note differently.

It ripples over small round stones with a child's purl; from hollow-bosomed stones it gains a crooning melody; through pointed rocks it chatters frivolously into dark pools under birches, where trout dart like sinister shadows and insects dance in autumn's gloom; and when it leaps from a great slab, its voice is loud, defiant, shrieking with a banshee's triumph—yet with an undercurrent of woe. The burn has many voices among the rocks, under ferns and birches, in brooding mists and shadows, between steep green banks. Many voices that can sing, when they choose, one song, again and again—monotonously—again!

So, on that sad autumn day, I was with the burn in its hiding place—cool, damp, fretful. Carlounie sank from sight. My garden, the wilder land, the moors where my incompetence had roused contempt—all lost to view. I was away from all men in that narrow, tree-shrouded cleft. I sat on a rock, stretched out my legs, and rested my heels on another. Beneath my legs, the clear brown water glided. I listened to its murmur. It did not occur to me that water could utter words like men. The murmur was suggestive but inarticulate. I had come to be alone and think. My mind's murmur spoke to the burn's; and, as ever, it lamented and cursed.

Why was I pursued by incompetence of mind and body? Why was I bruised by Providence? Why had I been given a soul that could not express itself in the frame of a coward, a weakling, a thin, nervous, dwarfish, almost deformed creature? If my soul matched my body, all might be well. I would accept my limits, never know rebellion, never understand my own disease. I would never aspire like a flame, longing to burn clearly or flicker out. Instead, I would gutter like a cheap candle, ignorant of my obscurity. But my soul was not that kind, so I was the most miserable of men. God or the Devil had made me ill-shaped, physically despicable, with a face to match. My limbs were shrunken, unresponsive. I couldn't ride, box, fence, or shoot. When I walked, I was clumsy. Yet my body was complete—a wretch. The real tragedy was in my mind, where self-consciousness and ambition coiled like vipers. I knew myself and longed to be other.

I watched my own failings as from a tower. In company, I envied Gavin's athleticism and Wedderburn's intellect. I hated them for their gifts. My body could do nothing; my soul nothing except observe and comprehend its own impotence, envy and pine. Could never be? Wait. Remember that's only what I thought then, sitting on the rock, watching the water slip between my knees.

My despair seemed to peak that day. Something—vitriol?—ate into me, to my very heart. To be stunted yet desire height, to be dwarf yet wish to be giant, to be stupid yet long for genius, to be ugly yet yearn for beauty, to have no power yet pine to dominate—that is hell. I was in hell that autumn day. I clenched my thin hands, ground my teeth, and cursed God as the burn chattered. I damned every man who could do what I could not. The paroxysm left me white and feeble. Suddenly, the burn's voice seemed distant. I took up Faust and mechanically began to read: "Scene III—The Study. Faust entering with the poodle." Soon Goethe's spell took me. I was in the Gothic chamber, heard the poodle snarl, the spirits whisper, and saw Mephistopheles emerge from vapor. The bargain was struck. I heard Faust's voice: "Let us the sensual deeps explore... Plunge we in Time's tumultuous dance, In the rush and roll of circumstance."

Then the Student's tones: "Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum." The cloak spread, Faust wafted away. I dropped the book on the cold rock; it felt hot. My head fell, and I dreamed of Faust's glories. Then—yes, then—the burn's voice, as from leagues away, sang like a fairy: "If it was so then, it might be so now." I scarcely heeded at first, but the song grew louder, insistent. I heard it: "If it was so then, it might be so now." At last I listened. I came to myself and stared into the mist, gathering thicker as night fell. I trembled, rose, climbed the bank. The sheep scattered lazily. I passed through the iron gate. Carlounie seemed altered, triumphant. The burn's voice faded, yet as I reached the door, I heard it faintly: "If it was so then, it might be so now." In the hall, Gavin and Dr. Wedderburn stood talking; I shivered, though my cheeks burned.

From that moment, not a day passed without my visiting the burn. It summoned me, always singing those words. From my window, I could faintly hear it. Each dawn I listened; each night I leaned out. In storm or stillness, the burn sang on.

Sometimes I fancied it was a madman's voice, or a siren's cry, or a spirit from my heart—and at that I shuddered. My visits were noted. One morning Gavin said roughly, "Why the devil are you always sneaking off to that ditch when you should practice to conquer your deficiencies? Even the keepers' children laugh at you. Try to shoot straight and be a man." I stared and said, "You don't understand everything." Dr. Wedderburn, my former tutor, said kindly, "Alistair, action is better for you than thought. Leave the burn alone. You go there to brood. Try to work; work is the best man-maker after all." To him I said, "Yes, I know," and flew in the face of his advice. The burn's voice meant more than any man's. So autumn died slowly in mist. I often felt ill. Perhaps the fever was already upon me. I wish I knew. Was it crawling in my veins? Nestling in my heart and brain?

During that period, life seemed alien, and I moved apart in a remote world full of the burn's music and vague clouds. Looking back, I know it. In late autumn, I paid my last visit before illness seized me. The cold of early winter was in the air, and a great stillness. It was afternoon when I left, walking slowly with my awkward gait. My face was white and drawn, my lips twitching. I carried not Goethe but an old book on transcendental magic. The burn's voice had led me to study it. I took it down. Why? Perhaps to introduce my live thing to this writing on the black art? I shivered in the damp cold. The burn seemed to roar the sentence I had heard so often, and my heart echoed: "It might be so now." Gaining the edge, I watched the foam. Pools were clouded with flood water and dead leaves. My body pulsed with those words. "Why not now?" I murmured, sneering at myself. I glanced furtively around.

Grey emptiness, wet trees, cold rocks—no one near. I was hidden, and twilight was falling. I opened my book and read that he who would evoke the Devil must choose a solitary and condemned spot. The burn was solitary; surely condemned by my despair. I took off my shoes, bared my feet, kept my head covered. I gathered sticks and leaves, lit a fire. The mist closed in; the flames crackled. The burn's voice seemed to mingle with the fire, both imitating human speech. With a stick, I traced a Goetic circle in the sandy soil. I paused often, glancing uneasily, seeing only mists and water.

At last, the time came. Standing in the circle at Amasarac, I said the formula of the Grand Grimoire, ending: "Jehosua, Evam, Zariat, natmik, Come, come, come." My voice died. Only the burn answered. I repeated louder, adding menaces. Still nothing. But I thought I heard sheep scatter as if someone approached. There were no footsteps. I made a final effort, crying: "Chavajoth! Chavajoth! Chavajoth! I command thee by the Key of Solomon and the great name Semhamphoras." Sweat broke on my forehead; pulses leaped.

Then I heard cracking in the dead wood up the burn, and sheep scattering again. My hair stirred. The noise of water was intolerably loud. Brushwood snapped nearer.

Then in the mist and twilight, I saw a slim figure standing motionless—vague but less than a shadow. It seemed a man or youth in a grey suit, almost indistinguishable from the mist. My fire's flames bent toward it as if saluting. I was seized with fear, but cried out: "What is that? What is it?"

"Only a stranger who has missed his way on the mountain and wants to go on to Wester Denoon."

The voice was young, like a boy's, clear and level. A tourist—that was all! "Can you direct me?" I gave directions slowly, still confused. But he didn't leave. "What are you doing by this fire? I heard your voice calling when I was a long way off." Strangely, I didn't resent it; I felt compelled to tell the truth. "Raising the Devil!" he said. "And did he come?" "No, of course not. You must think me mad." "And why do you call him?" A sudden desire to confide overcame me. I poured out my misery—my impotence, my dreams of Faust, my pact. When I finished, the boy's voice answered: "They say that in these modern days Satan has grown exigent. It is not enough to dedicate your own soul; you must also pay a tribute of souls to the Caesar of hell." "A tribute of souls?" "Yes. You must bring the mystic number, three souls to Satan." I laughed. "I could never do that. I have no power to seduce anyone."

"But if you received new powers, would you use them to win three souls to Lucifer?" "Yes," I said earnestly. "I swear I would." The boy's voice laughed. "Quomodo cecidisti, Lucifer! When thou canst not contrive to capture souls for thyself! But your words have, perhaps, sealed the bond. For as we can never go back from things we have done, it may be that sometimes we can never go back from things we have said." He moved past me into the twilight, and I never saw his face. The wind seemed to turn with him, and my fire's flames leaned after him as his steps died away. Then I heard singing in my ears and drums in my brain. I sank by the fire. My fever came upon me like a giant. Gavin and Dr. Wedderburn found me delirious and carried me back to Carlounie.

II

THE SOUL OF DR WEDDERBURN

To emerge from a great illness is sometimes dreadful, sometimes divine. For some, the return from death's door is a progress of despair, feeling unable to face the world again. For others, it is a marvelous reawakening, a rapture. One might suppose I feared the world, but my convalescence was like a beautiful dream of rest beneath which riot stirred. A simile: my calm was like the earth's calm on the edge of spring, with riot preparing beneath. I alone felt that within this womb of inaction lay action, developing silently. This knowledge was my secret. It came one night when I lay awake in the lamplight. The nurse, Kate Walters, sat by the fire reading Jane Eyre. I woke thirsty and reached for a tumbler of lemonade. Suddenly a thought struck me. I kept my arm rigidly extended, the glass poised on my palm. "How long my arm is! And how strong!" Formerly it had been short, weak.

Now—after illness—it should be weak, but I felt joy in a physical act for the first time in my life. An absurd act, perhaps, but with it came triumph. I held the glass for five minutes, and joy blossomed. I drank as if toasting. I fingered my arm; it was that of a strong man. Surprise forced an exclamation. Kate looked up, but I feigned sleep. I saw amazement on her face; later I knew it was my new voice. After that, convalescence was rapture mixed with awe. The fever had wrought magic, developing my physical powers astoundingly. Lying there, I felt the dwarf expand into a giant. A bodily spring came about. My limbs grew large and strong, muscles like an athlete's. I was conscious of latent energy. But this was followed by a greater marvel.

One afternoon, Dr. Wedderburn came to see me. He had been away and hadn't visited since my delirium. He was a short, spare man with a brick-red face, lively dark eyes, and greying hair. His self-possession bordered on self-satisfaction, and he often showed contempt for those less intellectual. I had often withered under his sarcasm, hating him. Now, when I heard his knock, a rage of self-contempt seized me. He entered softly, but on seeing me, he cried aloud with amazement: "Boy—boy, what's come to you?" Then, lowering his voice, he sat and stared. "It's a miracle," he said. "What is?" I asked petulantly. "The voice, too—the voice!" "Why do you say that? Of course I've been ill—of course I'm changed." "Changed! Look at yourself—and praise God, Alistair." He handed me a mirror.

For the first time I saw my face: it was now beautiful, features smoothed, mouth firm, eyes alight. I pretended to see no change. "Well, what is it?" I dropped the glass. The doctor was confused. "Your look of health startled me." Suddenly I wanted to argue with him, to defeat him in debate. I leaned on my elbow. "And why should I praise God?" He seemed amazed. "Because you are a Christian and have been brought back from death." "You think God did that?" "Alistair, do you dare to blaspheme?" I felt like a cat playing with a mouse. My lips curved in mockery, yet I swear I spoke in mischief, not evil. I praised the Devil, and forced him to listen. I compared good and evil, used arguments of atheism, quoted names, and treated the doctrine of sin with eloquent skill. I even dared to say that the only hope lay in Satanism. When I finished, I expected him to rebuke me, but he sat puzzled.

At last he muttered, "The miracle of Balaam; verily, the miracle of Balaam." I waited, then said, "Why don't you controvert me?" He looked at me with fear. "Alistair, where have you been visiting when you lay mad? In what dark place have you gathered destruction? With whom have you been talking?" Suddenly I thought of the grey stranger and laughed. "The grey traveller taught me all I've said." "The grey traveller? Who may he be?" But I refused to answer, and soon he left, uneasy.

In his eyes I saw the change in my intellect, as in the mirror I saw my face. The fever had caused both soul and body to blossom. I trembled with joy. Had Fate relented? I longed for, yet feared, full recovery. The doctor didn't return. The days passed; my convalescence strengthened under Kate Walters's care—a fresh, pure, pious soul. At last I was well and knew my new self. I had grown taller, put forth muscles. I went out with Gavin, shot so well he was filled with admiration, rode and schooled his horses. The keepers who had mocked were at my feet. I rejoiced in my strength. But I asked myself—what does this mean? The days of miracles are over, yet this is a miracle. And in a miracle, is there not a gleam of terror? I leave my body now and turn to Dr. Wedderburn.

He didn't come to me, but I felt a desire to visit him. Something drew me to the Manse. I resisted, but a chance word made me yield. Since my illness, I had avoided church, so I missed seeing him. One day, leaning against a wall, I heard two ploughmen gossip: "The doctor's failing. He was haverin' last Sabbath without logic." "Ay, he's greatly changed." I hurried to the Manse. It was a cold grey house among weary sycamores. The minister's study was on the right. A maid admitted me with a suppressed grin. I found Dr. Wedderburn pacing, talking to himself. He was startled to see me. His gaze was troubled, his manner tremulous. We sat by the fire with tea and hot cakes. He stared at me, but made no remark on my change, nor I on his—which was startling. His face was scarlet and puffed, his mouth worked, his eyes had a drunkard's look. But most striking was his abstinence: he drank tea but ate no hot cakes, breaking a custom.

I felt pity, not inferiority. Then he put down his cup with a shaking hand and said abruptly: "And what have you come for, Alistair? To go on with what you've begun? Well, I'm ready for you." His voice was full of timorous irritation. "I've thought it all out, and I can combat you, wherever you've got your fever-mind and tongue." I knew what he meant—and why I had come. My pity died; a cruel rapture dawned. We fell into theological discussion. He was desperately nervous, fighting like a drowning man. At last, with a cry, he threw up his hands: "God forgive you, Alistair, for what you're doing! God forgive you—murderer, murderer!" I was chilled. "Murderer!" I repeated. "Of a soul, of a soul," he said. "The poisoned dagger of doubt—you've plunged it into me, boy. Curse you, curse you!" I was thunderstruck. I had deliberately defamed his idols, but I hadn't expected such an effect. Had I—a boy—overthrown his faith?

The thought thrilled with triumph and horror. He got up, trembling. "Away from me—away," he cried. I left, fascinated. In the garden, I saw a thin moon. I paced the lane, watching his window. After an hour, the door banged, and he came out bareheaded, walking in the garden, bemoaning aloud. I heard his awful complaints—doubts, pleas for a sign, even blasphemy. He prayed to the Devil. He wept alone under the sycamores. It was a new agony, and it wrung my heart. I watched until dawn.

Soon his parishioners noticed his change. Gossip spread of his drinking and nocturnal wanderings. His congregation dwindled. I alone followed the fading of his career, understanding the hell within him. Often I heard his night-thoughts. One summer night, near midnight, I went furtively to the Manse. The night was dark and still. I saw a light in his window, the blind up. I crept to the side and looked in. He sat at the table with a pen, manuscript, a Bible, a whiskey bottle, and a glass. He was drunk, writing a sermon. It was bizarre and tragic. He drank, then swept the Bible's leaves, murmuring, "Let me die the death of the righteous." He wrote, then pushed the sheet away. He drank again, poured whiskey on the Bible, laughed. He couldn't read, grew angry, drank until the bottle was empty, and staggered out. I leaned in, grabbed the fallen sheet. It was covered with one sentence repeated: "There is no God!"

He returned with another bottle, drank greedily. I knew he was killing himself. I wanted to stop him, but only watched. Why? He fell forward across the Bible with a choking noise, struggled, broke the table, crashed—the lamp went out. Darkness and silence.

Papers recorded a minister's shocking death. They didn't record this. As I stole home, I heard light, tripping footsteps ahead of me, as of a youth. I paused; they paused. I hurried; they hurried. I ran; I saw no one. I called "Stop!" No reply. Fear ran over me. The steps entered Carlounie's grounds, reached the house. I stopped, struck a match, held it out—but saw nothing. I heard someone hasten across the gravel toward the burn, and then the rush of startled sheep. Just as they had scattered on the day I spoke with the grey traveller.

III

THE SOUL OF KATE WALTERS

It is more than two years since I wrote down any incident. Two years ago I seemed a stranger to myself. Today an intimacy has grown between myself and that detached observer within me. I am at home with my power, accustomed to my strength. From my fever I rose like a giant. Long ago my world recognized my influence. Yet sometimes I stare at myself aghast, seized with terrible fancies. I think of the burn's voice, of that childish ceremony on its bank, of the grey youth. I muse on Faust, the Wandering Jew, monstrous legends. Can it be that I, too, shall become a legend? Is my power malign? Do not white faces whirl about my progress like dead leaves? Do I not hear a symphony of despairing cries? Boys with shattered hopes, men with broken faiths, women with love turned to gall—do they not crowd about my chariot wheels? Or is it vain fancy? Here and there one rises like a drowned corpse. Dr. Wedderburn was the first.

Kate Walters is the second—Kate Walters.

When my convalescence was advanced, she left Carlounie and returned to Edinburgh. Months later I heard she was at a hospital there. A year and a half passed before I saw her again. Her fresh, pure face had nearly faded. Yet she had attended my transformation, lifted me in her arms when I was nothing. How strange are the relations between invalid and nurse!

When I chanced to meet her again, I had no thought of this. I had come to Edinburgh on business concerning a mine discovered on my estate, which was making me rich. After business, I stayed to amuse myself, having many friends. One, a medical student, invited me to tour the wards. There I met Kate Walters, still fresh and calm. She didn't recognize me until I spoke; then she was astonished at my physique. She told me she was engaged to a Hugh Fraser, a handsome, rich, steady youth who loved her tenderly. I congratulated her. Her blushing face was beautiful. I invited her to tea; she accepted. I felt a bond of friendship. As we left, my friend joked, but I was half in love with her love for Hugh. She came to tea and talked of him so fascinatingly that I wanted to keep her. The evening was sweet, so I suggested a stroll on Calton Hill. She agreed. There is an influence that lives outdoors, that walks with shadows.

I felt that once outside, our intimacy deepened. We climbed the steps and joined the couples walking above the world—all lovers. I pointed this out, saying, "Hugh Fraser should be here, not I." She smiled, and I drew her arm within mine. "We must appear to be as they are," I said. "You seem to understand us very well," she replied, leaving her arm. The mention of "us" chilled me, as if I were outside a magic circle. I pressed her arm gently and whispered, "Tell me how lovers feel at such a time."

From Calton Hill at night, one sees a sea of yellow lights. That night I fancied the sea spoke to me, urging me to prosecute my will, stirring a strange romance. I know that when I parted from Kate, I bent and kissed her. I know she looked up startled, even terrified, but found no voice to rebuke me. I know I didn't leave Edinburgh as planned. And I know I had no ill intent. I was caught in a net. There are influences—the Tsars of empires of souls. They must be obeyed. Once invoked, there is no free will. I tremble as I write, but I neither hear nor see my master.

I need not tell all the story. I stamped deceit on Kate's nature, expelled her love for Hugh, planted passion for me. All this time Hugh knew nothing. As I had taken possession of Dr. Wedderburn's mind, so I took possession of Kate. My strength drew her—she who had known me puny. I won the doctor by mind; this girl by body. When I tired of her, the gentle woman became a tigress. I said I must go to London, suggesting we part. I added that it was well Hugh knew nothing of his betrayal. "Why?" she cried. "Because—some day—" I paused. She understood, and the tigress sprang. But upon that hurricane followed a strange calm. Kate is now almost cold but sweet. She has acquiesced in my departure, agreed about Hugh. More, she has written asking him to come, urging their marriage, and I am to bear the letter. She insists I must see her future husband. So the tragedy of Dr. Wedderburn won't repeat. I shall not hear strange footsteps.

A year ago I left Edinburgh with Kate's letter. On the train south, I congratulated myself. I had stepped between her and calm happiness, but now I had withdrawn—in time. He wouldn't know she had changed. In this letter Hugh would read the summons to his future. I forgot that no soul can retreat from knowledge to ignorance.

Hugh Fraser's rooms were in Piccadilly. Upon arrival, I wrote him a note. He replied cordially, inviting me to call. That evening I drove to his rooms, feeling excitement and moral exultation. Ridiculously, I felt as if I were performing a paternal act, blessing these children. Arriving, I was shown in. I remember the room, Hugh's eager attitude, his cigarette, the fox terrier's bark. Hugh was almost twenty-four, tall, slim, with dark eyes full of cheer, short curling hair, fine features. A boy. He sprang forward, welcoming me for Kate's sake. I handed him the letter. His face flushed; he refrained from reading immediately, but talked of her. I understood his deep love. I hinted at the contents. "What!" he exclaimed. "She wants to hasten our marriage at last!" His eyes radiated. "You're a good chap to bring this," he said. "Read it," I urged. He did, reluctantly, then complied.

As he read, his face changed from morning to starless night—old, haggard, black. He stared at me blankly. "You know what is in this letter, you say?" "I—I thought so," I answered, growing cold. "Well, read it, will you?" I took the paper and read: "DEAR HUGH,—Make the man who brings you this letter marry me. If you don't, I will kill myself; for I am ruined. KATE." I looked at him over the letter, and we stared in silence.

A month later I was married to Kate Walters.

IV

THE SOUL OF HUGH FRASER

It may seem strange that my influence on Hugh Fraser followed such a situation, but everything since I met the grey boy has been strange. My treachery must have made him hate me. At first he did. When I promised to marry Kate, he left. After the wedding, he couldn't stay away. He forgave us, wrote a friendly letter, suggesting we forget the past. "Why should I not see you sometimes?" he concluded. "I only wish you both good." Poor boy! It was ordained. One winter day his carriage arrived at Carlounie. I welcomed him on the very spot where those light footsteps had paused on Dr. Wedderburn's dark night. The burn's faint sound mingled with our greetings.

The boy had changed—aged, grave, heavier, less ready in speech. But his manner was friendly, and it was plain Kate still had his heart. They met quietly, but a flush passed from his cheek to hers as they touched hands. So Fate's wheels began to turn.

My fortunes had greatly changed. I was rich; my mine proved a gold mine. All worldly things went well. Now, I believe mighty circumstances are born tiny. Usually we don't notice their birth. But I felt the shadow's first coming. I said to myself, "This is a birthday."

I had built a new Manse for the new minister. The old Manse stood empty. One winter's day, Hugh, Kate, and I walked past it. It was a black and white day of frost. As we neared, Hugh asked, "Who lives in that old house?" "Nobody," I said. He looked doubtful. "But the garden?" "Is deserted." "Hardly," he said, pointing. "Look!" "Yes," said Kate, growing pale. I looked, seeing only rank grass. But their eyes followed some invisible object. "The old man makes himself at home," Hugh said. "He's gone into the summer-house now." "Yes," Kate repeated, with fear. I felt the air chill. "That house is unoccupied," I repeated shortly. We walked on in silence, but I seemed to hear lamenting.

A day later Fraser said, "Why is that old house shut up?" "Who would occupy it? If I could get a tenant—" "I'll take it," he said. "You can let me some shooting." I had an instinct to keep it empty, but fought it as unreasonable. How seldom instincts are unreasonable! "All right," I said. When Kate heard, she went pale but made no objection. Hugh rented it, furnished, engaged servants, enlarged stables. Dr. Wedderburn's study became his den. When I looked in the window, I saw Fraser smoking or playing with setters. The sight turned me sick.

My relations with Kate were cold. My passion had died before marriage; hers languished after. Perhaps shame killed her love. Sometimes I fancied bitterness transformed her. But I didn't trouble—my affairs prospered, my health abounded. Yet I had moments of alarm connected with the Manse's dweller.

If Hugh changed when he read that letter, he changed far more after moving in. At times he bore a curious likeness to someone dead. An old man's manner came upon him.

Once, glancing in the study window, I saw him lounging over a table with a pen; the spectacle threw me into disorder. I struck the glass. "What—what are you writing?" I cried. He opened the window. "Only a letter to town," he said in wonder. "Not a sermon?" I blurted. "A sermon? Why should I?" I forced a laugh. "You live in a Manse. Dr. Wedderburn wrote his sermons there."

That evening I asked Kate, "Don't you think Fraser looks very old at times?" "I haven't observed it," she said coldly.

Soon Fraser, once godly, became averse to religion. He declared his views changed, started atheistic propaganda. He said much evil had been wrought by faith in Carlounie. I began to combat his views. I asked why he chose this role. He answered: "Why should I clear away these beliefs? Because they were woven by my predecessor. Didn't the minister live and die there? Sometimes I feel he recanted in his last hour and his influence fell on me, imposing this mission." As he spoke, he plucked at his face with an old habitual action of the doctor's. I barely restrained a cry. Nevertheless, I felt impelled to fight his atheism—I who had sown destruction in Dr. Wedderburn. But it was as if my own act conquered me. An emanation from the dead man clung to that accursed place, seized Fraser, and spread tyranny. And whom did it take first? Kate.

Whatever our beliefs, we must acknowledge that the pulse in life's heart is reparation.

Kate originally had faith, hope. In my worst moments I never tried to destroy that; even in her fall she'd kept her religion. The memory of the doctor held me back from attacking another's faith. I didn't think much about my future.

But now, after a short absence, I returned to find Kate infected with Fraser's ideas. She declined church, saying she'd rather act on her real convictions. They gloried openly. I was appalled. I set myself to quench the fire.

I fought my former self, fought the spectre that haunted the Manse—originally raised from the burn at my summons. Am I mad? Oh, the eternal horror that springs from one lawless action! Hugh was enveloped by the dead soul's influence. Through him it seized Kate, and thus the mystic number was made up—three souls bound. In the first I planted death, and so in the second and third. Now, thrusting backward through Kate and Hugh, I fought a dead man. But as the doctor's influence had once dominated mine, so it now dominated me from the tomb. He had a drear revenge. He had died an undoubting unbeliever, and now he returned to slay me. The spectre at the Manse defied me.

Slowly I grew to know all this. Sometimes worldly affairs occupied me, my health delighted me. I was as Faust in his monstrous youth. But there came a time when the spectre touched me. Then I rose to battle, trembling at the thought of the grey boy's words about the Caesar of hell and the tribute of three souls.

One evening, taking tea with Fraser, he began railing against faith. Kate listened eagerly, a filthy fire in her eyes. I was silent. Soon his gestures grew like the dead doctor's—throwing hands abroad, striking knees. I felt the doctor declaimed in the firelight. I broke in, defending religion. He turned on me, scattering my contentions, growing old with a rumbling voice, lashing with sarcasm, belaboring me into silence. All the while Kate sat by, and I seemed to see her soul sinking down to hell like a hawk dropping into a dark cleft. In desperation, Fraser struck his hand down on mine. I cried out: "God forgive you, Fraser, for what you're doing—murderer! murderer!" Scarcely had I spoken than I knew I had borrowed the very words of Wedderburn to me. A cold came over me. This reversal was too ironic. I heard the doctor chuckling in Hades. I sprang up and fled into the night, leaving them together.

But the spectre pursued me; I heard its footsteps and laughter. I sickened with fear. The next day I told Fraser he must leave; I would build him a lodge elsewhere. "No," he said, "I've grown to love the old place; I never feel alone there." I looked into his eyes. "I would rather pull down the Manse." He touched his lease. "You cannot, my friend."

I cannot do anything I want. I am driven on a dark road.

Soon after, I received a visit from Mr. Mackenzie, the new minister—young, fervent, but not knowledgeable. He was distressed. His flock was becoming infected with atheism from the old Manse. Children lisped it; lovers talked it; youths chattered; even the old began to doubt. He cried for me to turn Fraser out. "What is his rent to you compared with immortal souls? Away with him!" I mentioned the lease. He stammered, "A lease! But—but—your own wife—she—" "I do not discuss her," I said sternly. He was nearly crying. I felt sorry. "I can do nothing." His words were true. Carlounie's soul was devoured by plague. The evil fame spread. I could think of nothing else. I fell into silence, ceased to stir abroad. I felt Carlounie should keep quarantine. I forbade Kate to drive beyond my estates. "I never wish to," she said. I knew she was happy where Fraser was. He had her soul. He aged, bore evil's stamp. I brooded.

Whatever I started, I returned to the Manse. I had given death to Dr. Wedderburn in return for life; now his spirit spread death. This is my conviction. The influence of the departed clings to roof, walls, floors. To kill it, one must destroy its home. It was my duty. This thought consumed me. I tried to oust Fraser, but he wouldn't go. He stood by his lease.

Oh God, I have my excuse for what I've done! I meant to be a saviour! I would have restored Fraser and Kate. But the grey traveller fought against me. I declare I am guiltless. In these last moments, I write the truth. This is the truth.

Overwhelmed with the idea that Carlounie must be rescued, I determined secretly on the destruction of the Manse. But I must first ensure Fraser was away and his household gone. I suggested Fraser spend a week with me, give his maids a holiday. He accepted, drawn by his passion for Kate. He dismissed them and moved over. Kate was now an avowed atheist, and they were continually together. I heard them say they had broken the ties that bound Christians, and they smiled at each other. I didn't know why. I prepared for my deed of redemption, resolved to go by night and set the Manse ablaze. It stood alone, and country people slept soundly. I calculated none would see the flames until dawn, when the Manse would be destroyed. Such was my belief.

V

THE RETURN OF THE GREY TRAVELLER

I write these last words after midnight, toward dawn. Before light is grey, I shall be gone to the burn to meet him, the grey traveller. He is there waiting. He has come back. I go to meet him, and I shall never return. Carlounie will know my face no more. All is done as he ordained. My words have been deeds. He said we can never go back from things we have said. So it is.

According to my intention, I chose a night for the destruction. The house was old, would burn like tinder. I would break in through the study window, never shuttered. I would set fire at several points, escape in darkness. By dawn, the accursed place would be a ruin. I looked for a new era. Fool! I looked to lift the spectre's influence from Fraser and Kate, to see my people sane, the minister calm. I was happy and serene when the black night came. That night Kate pleaded a headache and went early. She asked me not to bid her goodnight. Unsuspecting, I agreed. Soon Fraser, heavy with fatigue, also went to bed. I was alone. It wasn't yet time. I must wait.

The time seemed long. Once I fancied I heard a movement; again footsteps on gravel. I told myself I was nervous. At last the hour came. I drew on my thickest coat, took my hat and a heavy stick, opened the door, and stepped out. It was cold and still. The burn's voice was loud. I walked along the road. Scarcely had I gone a few yards when I thought someone followed. I stopped and listened—nothing. I went on, again aware of faint footsteps. I turned quickly but saw no one. I continued, but all the way to the Manse I seemed to hear steps behind me. I entered the lane and arrived at the house. To my astonishment, a light glimmered in the study window, then went out. I thought my fancy played tricks. I paced the lane for half an hour, still tracked. Finally, after midnight, I summoned courage to approach. The steps seemed to stop at the gate. I paused at the door and listened. Did the spectre know? I felt no fear.

I moved to the window, but a mad idea made me try the door. It was unlocked. The opening sent a shiver through me. I reasoned that Fraser's servants had forgotten to bar it. I struck a match and lit a candle. I entered the study softly, looking about. I saw nothing but furniture. No spectre. I set fire to the room, then others, leaving a trail of flames. When I reached the garden, the ground floor was ablaze. Now came the incredible event.

I waited in the darkness to watch my work. The flames grew to a glare, the crackle to a roar. A mighty relief ran through me. Thus I burned my past! The base was red-hot when I heard a great shout from the sky. Light sprang in an upper window. Glass smashed, and I saw two arms shoot out, a figure framed in glare. I thought it was the spectre—the doctor's tortured features. But then I seemed to see another figure behind him struggling, and to hear a woman's scream. The flames leaped to the roof. The floors fell. The figures disappeared.

Trembling, I turned to go. I hastened toward home, enveloped in darkness. Then a terrible sensation came. I heard no footsteps, yet I knew something walked beside me—a slim figure pressing against me. It seemed affectionate. I cried out and stretched my arms, but found nothing. My horror was that this creature was well disposed toward me. I wanted its hatred, but it loved me. I almost heard it bless me. I broke into a run, reached Carlounie's gate, but the thing was with me, full of joy. At the house door, I faced around and cried, "Who is it that walks with me?" A voice I knew—young, clear, level, a little formal—answered, "It is I." The grey traveller. I leaned against the door. "What do you want of me?" "I come to thank you." "What have I done?" "You have brought the tribute money." I didn't understand. "No. One soul I may have destroyed, but two I have saved tonight.

For I have slain the spectre that preyed on them and set them free." The voice said, "Go into the house and see." I turned to enter, and as I did, I heard footsteps heading toward the burn, and a fading voice: "And then come to me." I heard the rush of sheep.

Filled with nameless fear, I entered and went to Kate's room. The lamp burned dimly on an empty bed. What could this mean? I stole to Fraser's room; it was also empty, but on the quilt lay a paper. I read, with the burn's sound in my ears: "You stole her from me. I take back my own. Tonight we stay at the old Manse. Tomorrow we shall be far away. HUGH FRASER." The paper dropped. A woman's scream rang in my ears above the roar of flames. I understood.

The tribute money has been paid. I go down to the burn. The grey traveller is waiting for me.