The Giant Hand.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XI, Issue 30, 29 July 1893, Page 40

The Giant Hand.

ZEB'S"

EYERSON EGERTON.

WHEN I wa« at college I was thrown very much into the company of Arthur Pembroke, and we formed a warm attachment. He was a very sober, taciturn young fellow, who seemed to have no desire for a large circle of friends ; in fact, he was not generally liked. Bat I penetrated beneath this forbidding exterior and discovered a good, true heart, susceptible to the slightest emotions. There was something indefinite, something not to he understood, about him, however, which, though not repellent in any way, made his individuality quite distinct. I could never guess whether it were some hidden peculiarity, which he was constantly endeavouring to repress, or some grievous secret which weighed him down, that thus aided his melancholy nature in sepaiating him from sympathetic hearts. Yet he had many qualities that could not help but draw their admiration. In our last year he made the determination to go abroad for a thorough course of travelling after graduation. The Pembrokes were very wealthy, and he really did not know how to spend al! his money advantageously. Arthur’s father had long since died, leaving all his property in trust for his only child ; Arthur's mother was still alive, but very feeble. The family estates were a spacious tract of land in one of our old-fashionei townships, and the mansion was a great medheval like structure, which, after enduring for a century or more, was fast tumbling into decay. I visited there for a short time one vacation, and was much impressed by the grandeur and elegance of its interior. Arthur Pembroke and his mother inhabited the newest part of the house, which had been built on some forty years ago ; the remaining portion reared its crumbling tower far above the beautiful park of high old trees and rolling greensward which stretched away for miles to the nearest village. It was a home to have delighted the most sorrowful heart, and I did not see how Arthur could bear to stay away for years in foreign countries, leaving his mother alone. But he afterwards said that he thought it best because they differed so in character and tastes. I shall never forget the earnestness with which Arthur made me his parting request when we left college he was to sail the following day for Europe, and we were both quite affected by the approaching separation. My friend said : ‘ Ed, I know you have always noticed something about me which you could never quite understand, and I have never spoken to you about it either. It is som jibing that I cannot bear to reveal, because anyone else would think it so silly—would not comprehend it—would think I am a fool. But really I believe it is something that affects my life seriously. And I have been wanting to ask you to give me your word that if ever I telegraph you to come to me instantly you will do so. Ido not mean while I am abroad, because I would not have you travel that far—but after I return to this country.’ I said of course I would, and promised him faithfully, though wondering at the request. ‘You are the only friend I have, Ed,’ he added, ‘and if ever this thing that is hanging over me falls down, I know you will come to me.’ Five years passed away, I had entered the church and in parochial worries, had nearly forgotten Arthur Pembroke. At first we had corresponded, but that dropped off gradually, as is its wav, and finally ceased altogether. 1 lived in New York, and was truly happy in my busy metropolitan life. But one summer morning I was called back abruptly to the college world, which I seemed to have left a csntury ago. A telegram was brought me from my old friend. It ran : • Pembroke Park, June 18th, 188—. ‘ Please come here as quickly as possible. Remember your promise. ‘Arthur Pembroke.’ I sat revolving for a moment the happy memories which the familiar name called up ; then my mind reverted to what he had said when asking for that promise, and 1 realised that he must be in need or danger. I lost no time. An hour later found me whirling out of the Grand Central Depot, carrying only a small bag hurriedly packed. In due time the train pulled up at a small village which was nearest to Pembroke Park. A coach, with resplendent drivsr, was waiting for me at the station, and I soon rolled softly along through the woods under the arching branches of the great elms. As we passed through a couple of tall gateways which denoted the nearness of the mansion, I caught a glimpse of its castellated tower down a vista of trees. The grand old place seemed not to have changed in the slightest since I hail seen it seven years ago. Alighting, I was soon in the presence of my old friend ; he, at least, was changed. Bronzed, and somewhat altered in feature, with more of melancholy in bis look than there was in college days, Arthur Pembroke came in with the tame earnest smile and grasped my hand heartily. After our first greetings had passed, he informed me that his mother was dead—had passed away two months ago ; that he was present at the time, having returned from his travels only six weeks before. • Why, Arthur, you ought to have stopped and seen me after jou landed.’ I ejaculated, ‘ Why didn’t you?’ ■I thought of it, old fellow,’he answered, ‘but I was rather anxious about mother on account of the last letter I hail received, so I hurried up here. lam glad you have come so quickly ; I knew you would fulfil your promise.’ •Well, what is the matter? I thought probably you were sick. But you aren't, you look well.’ • I’ll tell you all about it after dinner to night The secret of my life has come down upon me, and I must have some one with me to help me. Till then let us put it off. How would you like a ride this afternoon ?'

I assented. After lunch in the stately dining hall we took a couple of mounts from the well-equipped stables and galloped over the beautiful driveways of the park. Arthur was in a strange mood. He told fully of hie travels and adv* ntures during the past five years, but was still nervous, so newhat preocupied, and out of spirits. At five we had returned and were in the drawing room talking over old times, when a visitor was announced —Dr. Griswell, from the neighbouring town. Arthur smiled at my look of wonder and said : * Show him in here - ’ Dr. Griswell entered—a portly, brisk-mannered old fellow. ‘ Well, Mr Arthur,’ he cried, ‘ I hope I don’t find you ill.’ ‘ I don’t know, doctor,’ answered Arthur, ‘ that’s what I want you to tell me.’ He then introduced us to each other. The good man sat down and proceeded to make a thorough examination of my friend. * Why, you don’t look sick, you don’t feel badly ; what's the matter with you ’’ he said. * I know it, but never mind,’ answered Arthur, * go ahead and sound my lungs and heart.’ After ten minutes the doctor sprang up and ejaculated : • You are as sound as a pin. I can’t find a thing the matter with yon—you’re the picture of health.’ * Thanks, doctor,’ replied my friend, ‘ that is all I wanted to know. I just wished to be assured of it. There is no possibility then that I could die within a day or two except by accident ?’ ‘ Not that I can see,’ said Dr. Griswell, drily. After a few minutes more conversation he left us, evidently quite puzzled as to why Arthur Pembroke had desired this examination. But he was not half as puzzled as I, and shared not the alarm which I felt. * For heaven’s sake, Arthur,’ 1 cried, ‘ tell me what this means!’ * No, not now,’ he shook his head ; ‘ after dinner I’ll tell you all of it. ’ That august meal was finally disposed of, and when om* wine and cigars were finished, Arthur arose and said : ‘ Well now, Ed, come along with me, please.’ We went through the long hall on the second storey and entered by a great door into the now seldom used, old portion of the house. Traversing a corridor or two, whose cracked, stained walls and lofty ceilings seemed to show forth dancing phantoms by the light which Arthur carried, we climbed a circular staircase, and entered a large room at the top It was nicely furnished and brightly illuminated, and warmed by a brisk fire in the fireplace. My friend closed the door and proceeded to lock and bar it heavily ; then he looked around and smiled at my evident astonishment. * This is one of the best rooms in the old building,’ he said, ‘ it is thirty years since it has been used. I had it all fitted up this morning.’ 1 looked around again more carefully. The cracked and crumbling condition of the ancient walls contrasted with the handsome furniture; the long, narrow windows were covered closely from top to bottom with thick dark curtains. In spite of the fire it was rather dismal. Then my gaze fell upon a lounge and a table near at hand, and I started ; they were covered with weapons of different sorts—rifles, daggers, revolvers and swords. * You had better take a couple of these,’ said Arthur, coming up at that moment. He seized two revolvers and belted them on, thrusting a long knife between them. A horrible thought occurred to me—l was imprisoned with a madman ! Then Arthur looked at my face and smiled again. ‘ No I am not mad,’ he said ; • don’t be afraid of me, old fellow • it is from outside that the danger is.’ I hardly knew what to think. My companion placed all of the arms on the table and drew it, with the lounge nearer the fireplace. ‘Lie down,’ he said, indicating the lounge, as he replenished the fire. ‘No, no,’ I replied, ‘ lie down yourself. I insist—now, tell me what you mean by danger from outside. Why have you brought me to this special room ’’ He lay down on a lounge and closed his eyes for a minute. ‘ It is all a long story—a long story,’ he said slowly. ‘Well, do begin, I am anxious.’ Arthur started up, looked earnestly at the fastenings of the single door and at the coverings of both windows seemed to travel with his gaze over every square foot of the room, and sank down again with a pale face. * 1 ha £ e 9ounded every in ch of the walls and ceiling and I, ’ . re can,,i be a “y opening !’ he said, mutteriugly. He pulled out his watch. ‘ Eight o’clock ! In ten hours it will be all over—well, here goes, Ed, for the whole truth. ‘ I shall have to go back five centuries, to the first historical account of my family. We are English, entirely so, as you know. Our ancestor was a plain Welsh countryman who enlisted in the army of Henry, Ear) of Richmond, as he advanced to meet Richard 111. ; I have told you that before In the memorable battle of Bosworth Field he had the fortune to be near Henry in the midst of the fray. When in spite of the personal prowess of Richard, his troops were beginning to waver, the Earl and those near him became engaged hand to hand ; one of the enemy aimed a terrific blow with a two handed sword at Henry’s head at a moment when he was unguarded. My ancestor, though a common soldier, by reason of the general melee, happened to be close at hand ; he saw the danger to his leader, realised there was no time to interpose his sword, darted forward and thrust his left arm to catch the blow. The hand was severed, but the coming King was saved. Henry did not forget it ; he made the common soldier a baronet and gave him a line estate. That was the origin of our’line • many generations in succession inhabited the old castle in

Essex, until it decayed and fell into other hands, and some of the Pembrokes moved over here. We dropped the title a hundred years ago. But the queer, the weird part of it all is this : Our ancestor, the Baronet, towards middle life, became melancholy and eccentric. He was often seized with strange fits of despondency, which no one could understand. But the night he died he called his eldest son to him, and told him the secret. It seemed that two years after the loss of his hand and his elevation in life, the Baronet was somewhat disturbed in a financial way ; he had invested in improvements and speculations, and was uncertain of the result. One night at this time he was sitting alone to a late hour, when an awful apparition shaped itself in the darkness above him, resolving slowly into a giant hand. It was a white, ghastly, bleeding member, which had been severed above the wrist. The Baronet, greatly frightened, recognized the gigantic appearance of the hand he had lost, and which the King had given him as his family crest. • The next day the crisis of tr's affairs occurred, but things took the right turn and his fortune was saved. After that, whenever anything important in its effect upon his life occurred, the giant hand appeared, always at night-time, to forewarn him. It did not indicate a favourable turn always, but seemed merely to premonisb the event. In this, bis last sickness, the baronet was alarmed by an ominous occurrence ; the spectre appeared to him upon two nights in succession. After that of the second night he called his son to him and told him all; the next night he died. ‘ The son, who now assumed the title and estates, was visited by the same spectre that had haunted his father ; through a long life it never ceased to forewarn him of any serious event. He communicated the secret to his eldest son long years before he died, and when that time came they both saw the giant hand appearing twice. That eldest son inherited the phantom—or the condition of mind which caused the illusion, whichever you may call it—and his son in turn received it. So it has gone for 400 years; the tale has not diminished in its intensity, nor the spectre in its fidelity. Its appearance twice in succession has always preceded death. ‘ I am the last Pembroke in the direct line of birthright. My father often repeated this story to me at an early age, and told me never to divulge it. I did not discover its reality until I went abroad for the first time five years ago. But the ghostliness of the history so emphasised by my parent had its natural effect upon my temperament; I grew up melancholy, self-immured, thinking myself as set apart from other men. It all so grew upon my mind that, as I realise, it made me rather peculiar; at college I had no true friend but you. And you never understood my moodiness as you must now.’ Arthur paused a minute ; a faint, creaking, straining noise seemed to resound through the old building. He turned white, grasped his revolver and waited breathlessly. One minute, two minutes passed—nothing more was heard. I happened to look at the ceiling, and was startled to observe that the cracks seemed to have lengthened and broadened greatly. But it must have been my imagination. Arthur leaned back, made an evident effort at composure, and said : ‘ I must hurry up, if I want to tell you all ; there is no knowing bow soon it will come. ’ I was too astounded by his story to make any answer, though none was needed. ‘Until I went abroad,’ he resumed, ‘I never saw the spectre. I had almost begun to disbelieve in it—to hope that I never would see it. It was summer time when I was in England, and I went down to spend a few days in one of the seashore resorts on the coast of the Channel. I met a young Englishman there, the son of a British army officer, and we became quite intimate. His father had spent most of his days in service in India, but had sent this son to England for education. He brought with him a Hindoo servant, who was so devoted that he would never leave him. This servant for some reason or other, did not like me, and was always eyeing me suspiciously. His master Henry and I used to take long walks together often, into the country or along the cliffs, but this Hindoo always accompanied us some distance behind. One day we made arrangements to walk on the morrow to a neighbouring village on the shore. That night, as I was alone reading, my lamp suddenly grew dim, and the apparition of the Giant Hand appeared before me. I was alarmed at the fearful sight, and felt that something momentous would occur the next day. Too surely the spectre had forewarned me. Although depressed in spirits, I set out with Henry on our tramp in the bright afternoon. We were traversing the grassy heights which overhang the sea, and had ventured quite near the edge ; the Hindoo was following us at a distance, as usual; we were admiring the beautiful surf and the wide circling of the seagulls—when suddenly the earth under my companion’s feet gave way, and he fell. He made a desperate grasp at me to save himself, and clutched my hand ; the impetus pulled me forward with a heavy plunge into a large rock that jutted from the cliff. I caught hold of it and saved myself; he let go and disappeared with a yell of agony into the sea I ‘ Stupefied by the terrible catastrophe, I had just risen to my feet when the Hindoo servant bounded up and, grasping me around the body, attempted to throw me over. Realising that he thought me guilty of murdering his master, I struggled hard for my life. We gradually neared the edge of the cliff; our exertions were fearful. In a moment be would have had me over it, when suddenly I obtained a hold on his neck, threw him back on the ground, and soon choked him into insensibility. ‘ I left him there, and, half wild with horror, started homeward. In half an hour I was at my hotel; fifteen minutes later found me rushing away on the express, trembling with the thought of being branded as a murderer, scrutinising every face for fear it should be my enemy. In the conflict of my emotions I hardly knew what I was doing ; my only impulse was to flee—and flee I did. ‘ I crossed to Europe without being stopped, and, strange to say, found no announcement of a murder in the papers. Then came the news that the Englishman’s servant had reported him as drowned accidentally. I did not know what to make of it. Then I reflected : This man is a Hindoo : he prefers to take revenge into his own hands rather than run any risk or delay through the authorities. He will follow me ; I will see him soon. And so it was. I went to Greece, Palestine, Egypt, and in each country I saw him. I have been entirely around the world in these last four years—and he has always followed me. Twice he has at-

tempted to kill me but each time the Giant Hand forewarned me, and I was on my guard. It is undoubtedly his lack of funds to follow closely that has enabled me to live so long ’ Arthur paused and sighed wearily. Through the thick walls and the muffled windows the wind could be heard soughing wildly among the high trees ; a storm had sprung up, and was increasing in violence every moment. My mind was in an utter confusion of ideas at the strange story he had told. But I began to see the meaning of this armed and hidden room. Arthur held up his hand and listened a moment intently ; again the faint creaking noise was heard—but it seemed rather like the swaying of the whole building than the movement of a human being. The storm roared louder out-

side. Suddenly I saw that the long ceiling had cracked from end to end, making an aperture of an inch in width ; I gasped and pointed to it. Arthur nodded. ‘We are under the old tower, and the wind is swaying it,’ he said ; * but don’t fear, the building is strong and can’t fall.’ He sank back on the couch again and looked at his watch. * Why, it is not very late ; there is time enough for almost anything to happen. * Three months ago, as I told you,’ he resumed. * I came here to see my mother in her last few days. 1 made as sure as possible that niv enemy did not follow me ; I have not seen him since I left Erance —and yet he is here to night—-

under this very roof probably—may be behind that very door.’ He pointed with a white face to tbe object indicated. ‘ And why do 1 know this ? Why ’ Why do I know that he will strike to night?' He started up, his features convulsed, his hands trembling violently, and seized me by the shoulders. 1 led him towards the conch, endeavouring to calm and soothe him, but in tbe deathly silence broken only by the wailing wind, I shrank with a nameless horror. ‘Listen I Two nights ago, in the quiet of my bedroom, the Giant Hand appeared to me, ghastlier, more bloody than ever before ! Last night it appeared again—the second time ! It pointed its gory linger to the final end of the kindred it has so steadfastly attended 1 The Spectre of four hundred years shall find its consummation in me—in the

last of its haunted family ! Before day dawns I shall be dead !’ My old friend fell back with glaring eyes, and was still. A wild chaos of unknown terror and doubt dashed thiough my numbing brain. The minutes fled swiftly by as I gazed at his form by the dying light. Then he moved and spoke : • I knew it was all useless -all in vain. Yet I have done it. I have selected this distant, unused room, blinded its windows, bolted it, armed it, called you to help me. I have dared to try to escape the death from which there is no escaping. I was well—wonderfully well —and strong, as you heard the doctor say. I saw that 1 must die by external violence ; and so I knew that the Hindoo was about to

strike. Look at my preparations to avoid him, yet I know that the end will come. * Ed, old fellow, forgive me ! I have called you to what may cost you your life as well as mine. I did not tbink of that before. Say you forgive me ’ Arthur started from his seat and grasped my hand fervently. Suddenly he became still, staring over my shoulder. The light died quickly away as by a long cold breath sweeping through the room. It was superuaturally silent. An awful unknown sensation came creeping over me, turning my head slowly around. A phosphorescent circle gleamed forth from the black corner, waxing brighter amt brighter till it dazzled the eyes. It vibrated, wavered, ami dissolved into the shape of a great shining hand. It grew fainter, yet more distinct, showing

the raw and bleeding end—the half closed fist. Then the index linger straightened out, and turning slowly, pointed at my companion. He fell back senseless in mv arms—it was gone. In a few moments I seemed to awake from a lethargy I placed my unconscious friend on the couch and strove to arouse him ; I piled wood on the fire and it leaiied up brightly once more. Arthur opened his eyes and looked quietly into mine as I bent over him. ‘ Arthur, dear fellow, rouse up, we will get through this,’ I said. He shooklhis head and smiled. ‘No, Ed, this will be

the end. You forgive me—l am glad. Hark, do you hear anything ?’ I etrained my ears. A great, shrieking wail of the tempest rose higher and higher like the cry of a murdered soul. The whole room quivered —then an awful crash—a mighty swaying. I leaped to my friend. The walls, the ceiling, caved in together, and all was dark.

The morning sun was faintly piercing the trees and lighting up the distant horizon, when a large party of men who had been working diligently for hours, drew forth two lifeless bodies from the wreck of the fallen castled tower. One was all that was left of the renowned Pembroke family—it had perished with its old abode. The other was not yet dead. Weeks of nursing, months of care, eventually brought me back to health. It is uot likely that the average man will believe the story of what I saw and heard that one wild night. It does not matter. I have told it once and all; and I wish never again to recall to mind the last visions of a friend who, in trying to escape the inevitable, enteied the more surely upon his doom.