THE MADNESS OF JACOB STRANGE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2201, 7 May 1896, Page 42

THE MADNESS OF JACOB STRANGE.

£ STOKY OF THE SEW ZEALAND BUSH.

By Val Hibst.

In January 1895 I was enjoying a summer holiday in my usual fashion, by wandering Dn foot through the oaokwoods, professedly botanising, but in reality lazing, and steepIng my whole being in sunlight and icenery.

It is not alwayssnnshine however, even in midsummer. One afternoon, when in a part of the country that was entirely unknown to me, I was overtaken by a violent thunderstorm. The road, or track rather, was lined on either side by impassable scrub and a magnificent growth of forest trees. There were no eigas of habitation, and the absence boreboth of footmarks and of wheeltracks evidence that, for some unknown reason, the road was disused. According to bush calculation I was about six miles from my destination, a wayside hostelry called The Forest Inn. But bush miles, as a knew from experience, are an elastic quantity. In all probability four hours' tramp lay between me and dry clothes. I began to feel disheartened. I was wet to the skin — cay, beyond — to the very bones. My boots, fall of water, sloshed musically through the rank grass and rapidly-forming pools ; swayleg birch branches swished my face smartly and deluged me with unexpected showerbaths as with head half-buried in upturned coat-collar I hurried past.

Oh, for shelter I were it only a hollow tree or a forsaken whare. Hallo ! Eureka t !The wall of bush on the left breaks, and a great dealing meets my eyes. But what a desolation 1 A tumble-down fence Hues the road. Everywhere a new forest is springing tap to replace the old. Brambles, here, there, and everywhere, in a living network of greenery ewer up the unsightly blackened logs, festoon the gaunt arms of the dead trees, wind la graceful clinging folds round the Darkless trunks, and give the whole scene a weirdly fascinating beauty all its own. ' A baokwood's mystery I 80 many yean of sweat and toil— aye, and possibly •pjltttii— abjolnteljwMteai More mystery!

A pair of ohimneys— monuments of the firefiend — loom in sight, already wreathed round by the all-embracing brambles. On the right of them rows of fruit trees,--dead and dying, are all that remain of a once extensive orchard, while on tbe left ■a. s'uinber of sturdy Norway pines struggle gamely for matt 917 with native shrubs and brambles. Evidently this had been a homestead of some pretensions in its prime.

To my astonishment I noticed a narrow well-beaten path leading round the remains of ths house. I determined to explore it, thinking that some relio of an outbuilding might yet be left standing and would afford shelter. I began to feel a ourions anticipatory thrill, as one about to make a disoovery of some interest. Of a truth I was not disappointed.

The path, winding olrouitoasly among the bushes, ended at what appeared to be a mass of brambles of more than ordinary dimensions. It was a small outbuilding — evidently, the wash-house of by-gone days — covered completely by tbe übiquitous blackberry, and for that reason invisible from the road. The door swung on one hinge, half open. I pushed it wide and entered.

As I half suspected would be the case, I found it inhabited. In the open fireplace opposite the door a bright fire was burning ; a couple of pots swung over it by chains and hooks on the tables and the mantel were scattered a few utensils, hopelessly dirty; in a corner some rough sacking placed on tbe floor did duty as a bed. There were no chairs, but a couple of sawn blocks of wood like butchers' blocks Mtsnel rhe purpose. On the hearth lay a woodhen halt plucked, surrounded by feathers and down, while the hot, close air was pungent with the aorid smell of burnt' feathers. Such was the den I had discovered—the haunt, surely, of some outcast from society, some aotual Caliban, some beast-like man. Better the storm without than this uncanny refuge. I began to feel— must I confess it ?— just the least bit nervous, and was preparing to beat an undignified retreat when I heard the flip-flap of a person walking barefooted along tbe muddy path. My only avenue of escape was out off, so standing bolt upright againet the wall and half concealed by the open door I awaited events.

Another moment and I was transfixed with amazement and horror. This was neither man nor woman, neither brute nor human — a ghoul, indeed. Oan I describe him 2 Nay, not as I saw him, though his image is burnt indelibly in my brain, and in my dreams I see him often, even now, and again my flesh creeps, and a cold horror stiffens my limbs and almost stills the beating of my heart. Had I the pen of Dante I might succeed; but 110, even Dante could not depict the weirdness of that sight. Picture to yourself that filthy, darkened room, the flickering firelight making queerest lights and shadows onjthe grimy walls, and, standing in the doorway,' his body cast into strong relief by the light beyond, an old, old man, bent nearly double with age, with long grey hair streaming down in elf locks and wreathing itself fantastically with his shaggy beard; with hairy breast exposed ; round his loins a band of flax holding suspended a pair of ragged trousers scarcely reaching to his knees, and below. his fleahless legs and feet, mottled aud seamed where the water pouring down his body had worn channels in the accumulated dirt.

Without noticing my presence he oame straight on into the room, tossed down into a corner an armful of dead wood, and, seating himself en the floor before the fire, proceeded to finish the plucking of his bird. Ab he worked he muttered continually to himself, bursting at times into ghastly, mirthless, laughter that grated horribly on the ear.

The water, streaming from his body, formed pools and then runlets on the floor. Clouds of steam soared upward from his drying hair as he bent before the fire. But he seamed oonsciouß of nothing. All this time I had been standing e^ffly againßt the wall, afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe, lest I should attraot the madman's attention, for madman I was convinctd he was.

At last the tension became too muoh for me, and in endeavouring to eaee my position I made a slight noise.

Quick as thought the maniao leaped to his feet, sprang towards me, and seized my arm with his claw-like fingers. "You here?" he screamed— " you back again to torment me ? "

His eyes, protruding hideously, glared up into my face. Then he droppod my arm. "JTis not he," he muttered. "He is dead— dead. It cannot be. He is deadmurdered. Did I not see him die ? "

The thought of his deed seemed to let loose a flood of memories. His voioe changed to the pitiful wailing of a wild beast tbat has lost its mate. He" hugged his shrivelled arms to his breast, and swayed his body to and fro in a very paroxysm of grief. " She was my wife, my own little lassie; and she loved me once— me — me — till he came. And then— they thought I did not know. Fools 1 fools 1 Ourse himl— ourae him in the depths of hell 1 "

He literally spat the last words out in the intense vigour of hiß denunciation. Again his mood changed ; he burst into a grotesque dance, snapping his fingers in tbe air and chuckling with a hideous joy. VTheyv thought I had gone away— for days. I told them. Ha 1 ha !— not 1 1 not II I hid in the bush and watched them ! "

Again he wailed out: " Oh, lassie, my own little lassie 1 Curse him I— curse him in the depths of hell ! And she loved me once."

For a while he muttered to himself, his head sunk upon his breast. Then again; "Th«y were asleep. It was dark— pitoh dark ; no Btars, no moop. I piled straw all round the house. Ha 1 ha 1 a wedding ring of straw 1 They heard nothing. My dogs knew me and licked my hands." There was a fiendish gleam in bis eyes, and he reeled off his awful story with infinite gusto in the telling. " The house was a mass of flames. I cried to them to show themselves that I might see them die. He would, have left her to her fate, oursi him! A coward to the last 1 Bat I struck him with, a log, and he fell back. Corse him, curse him to the depths of helll" 1 1 tola to the door. w a. pa«ea out, Tbe

storm had ceased. The evening sun tinted the piled-up clouds with his own regal purple. The trees glistened with Nature's diamonds, the forest birds poured out their hearts in melody; and the horror of the scene I had just left passed from my mind like some nightmare dream.

When I reached the Forest Inn late that evening I pumped the landlord casually respecting the madman.

His name was Jacob Strange. He bad married, late in life, a wife 20 years bis junior. She proved unfaithful, though he did not know it until after her death. While he was away from home the house ca>. gat fire in the night-,, and his wife and her lover perished in the flames. The shock of it had driven him mad. Thus the publio opinion. I knew better. But I held my peace.