The Unspeakable Thing

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXI, Issue III, 18 July 1903, Page 152

The Unspeakable Thing

By HARRIS BURLAND, Author of

"Dacobra," Etc.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. This weird story opens on an island in the South Pacific, which is reached by Ennys Tredegar, the hero, and the rest of a shipwrecked crew. They find the place infested with myriads of spiders of all sizes, from huge to small. Gradually Tredegar’s companions disappear mysteriously, till there are only himself and one Hughes left. Wandering in th* bush they happen on an immense spider web, hanging to which are several of their late shipmates. At night these two are attacked by some frightful creature, and Hughes >s killed. Tredegar fixes himself a stronghold in a cave, and has another encounter with the creature, which escapes after a desperate struggle, but leaves in the white man’s hands a small metal disc, certain 'markings on which drive him to the conclusion that the horror which has taken the lives of his companions, is, or had been human. Tredegar is loft alone in helplessness and horror.

CHAPTER IV. Twelve inoniths (have elapsed sime the events summcinised above. We are now introduced to the heroine, Mavanwy Morgan, daughter of John Morgan, the ruined owner of Lyngias, an ancient Welsh country seat. Mavanwy is thinking of her absent lover, who has never been heard of since he left England a year back, and who is supposed

to be denid. No student of fiatiau needs to Im* told this lover is Ermys Tredegar. She is called to dress for dinner by her father and told to make herself specially cordial to one of the gireevts invited, namely, Cyrus W-aknoyd, an American millionaire, who has recently bought up a place in the district. He is, her father reminds her, in love with her, a>nd is alxout to urge the young main’s suit wheu his arrival with his brother brings the conversation to a close. After dinner, however, Walroyd proposes and is refused gently. Upon this he bursts into <a violent passion, and informs Mavanwy that he has Ixought everything her fiat her owns, his mortgaged land and the very house they live in. and that he could turn them out to-morrow. Mavanwy reiterates her refusal with contempt, and he returns this refusal by saying she shall marry him whether she likes i? or not. She answers him furiously, and would have struck him had she been able. Cyrus Wal■royd 'Laughed. This was a woman after Ms own. heart, and he Loved her all the more for this outbreak of passion. But a second later a look of horror crossed 'his face, bis jaw fell, and suddenly loosing her wrists he struck savagely at something that was running across one of Ids own hands. It was only a little harmless spider. But he had struck, as though it had been an adder. Nothing remained of it but a small blotch of blood. He rubbed his hand vigorously wiith his handkerchief, and removed oil traces of it. Tlien he looked up quickly to see if Mavanwy had noticed his action.

But she was several yards away from him. He In-sitatcd for a .moment, and then ‘turning -shairply he walked up the path, and reentered the house. CHAPTER V. Tredegar, given up for dead, turns up at this juncture. He drops like a bolt from the blue. Seated by his sweetheart’s side he tells his story in the firelight. Tells how he was rescued by a passing ship and how he reached home, but one thing h ■ withholds. He cannot tell of such horrors before Mavanwy. He does not tell of the horrors he saw on the island. When he shows them the metal disc, which proves to be gold, Morgan pronounces the markings on it to be early Welsh, and strangely enough they are similar to those on a ring given to him by Cyrus Walroyd. Walroyd wants jto secure the disc, but Tredegar will not part with it. Just as Tredegar and the two Walroyd brothers are taking their departure, a horrible face appears at the window. They give chase but are unable to solve the mystery, the object of their curiosity escaping them. CHAPTER VI. The Walroyds are renting Tredegar’s old home, and propose to buy it from him, but he refuses. Our hero becomes the

guest of the Walroyds at Tredegar Plan, and while there learns that Cyrus had proposed to Mavanwy, and Insulted her when she refused him.

CHAPTER Vl.—(Continued.)

His blood boiled with fury. He strode to the window, and, flinging it open, let the fresh night air cool his burning face. He did not notice that the window was already unlatchjed. Outside the wind rustled in the trees and in the ivy on the wall above him. Save for a distant lighthouse, the whole • land was dark. He was in no state to think. At any rate, Walroyd’s purchase of the Tredegar Estate was made impossible. He resolved to go to bed, and do nothing till his mind was more calm. He walked over to the door of the sitting-room and locked it. Then his eye fell on the whisky and soda Cyrus Walroyd had poured out for him. He drank half of it, turned out the electric lights, and closing his bedroom door, was in bed in less than ten minutes. In spite of the tumult of his mind he felt strangely drowsy, and was asleep in less than five minutes. When he woke

ap it was dark, and he had a splitting headache. He had a confused idea that .he had lost something, and was looking for it in the darkness of space. Then he thought he heard a sound in the next room, and reaching out his hand, he .turned down the switch of the electric fight. The room remained in darkness, and a sudden sense of fear came over him. He jumped out of bed, and, to his horror, found that he could hardly stand. His head swam, and he clutched the bed-post to save himself from falling. In a minute or two he recovered himself. Then, fumbling for the match-box in his Waistcoat pocket, he struck a light and examined the room. There was nothing to be seen. He looked round for a candle, but could not find one. The match burnt to his fingers, and again be was in darkness. All was silent, and he got back into his bed. Again he had a strange idea that he had lost something. Then he turned over and went to sleep. When he woke again it was still dark. Something was moving in the room. He stretched out his hand for the match-box which he had placed on a chair by his side. It had gone! He felt the chair all over carefully, and then readied down on the floor, but the match-box had disappeared. He sprang out of bed, and as he did so he heard the door creak. He rushed towards it, and groping for the handle, flung it open. He saw something dark against the grey patch of window, and heard something else moving in the room. He called out, but no one answered. The next minute the dark form had sprung from the window to the floor, and a moment later there was a sound of a scuttle, the erash of breaking furniture, a thud, and then a long horrible scream. He moved across the room with outstretched hands. In the confidence of his enormous strength he feared nothing. He only wished that he could see what was happening. Then something brushed past him. He grasped at it, but was too late. A dark form again showed against the window. In a second it was gone, and Tredegar heard the sound of footsteps on the stone paving beneath. In less than a minute the sounds had died away in the distance.

Then he remembered there was a match-box on the table with the cigars and glasses. He fumbled for it, and sent a decanter crashing to the floor. When he found the box he struck a light, and the dim, flickering flame showed him the prostrate body of a man. There was a candle on the mantel-piece. He lit it, and examined the motionless form. It was Cyrus Walroyd, and he was dead. In one hand he grasped a letter. Tredegar recognised the envelope. It was the letter he had received from Mavanwy that night. He tried to release it from the dead man’s fingers, but could not. Then something glittered on the floor a yard or two away. Tredegar picked it up. It was the half of the golden dise. He put it in his pocket. At that moment there was a sound of footsteps outside, and the voices of men talking eagerly together. The handle of the door was turned, but the door was locked, Then there was a thundering on the thick oak panels. Tredegar moved forward to turn the key. Then he suddenly stopped, and a look of horror came over his face. He saw the whole situation in a glanee. Cyrus Walroyd had been last seen by the footman in his rooms. The door was locked. Cyrus Walroyd was there still, and dead. In his hand was Alavanwy’s letter, telling Tredegar that Walroyd .was his worst enemy. The furniture was shifted and broken. The dead man had been killed by someone of enormous strength. The conclusion was obvious to an unprejudiced mind that knew nothing of the real facts of the case. There had been a quarrel about Mavanwy Morgan, and Tredegar had broken his rival’s back in an outburst of passionate jealousy and hatred. For a moment clear reasoning prevailed, and he resolved to open the door and prove his innocence. He saw that flight would confirm the suspicion of his guilt. Hut the effects of the drugged whisky had weakened his nerve. He hesitated, and then rushed to his bedroom. In less than three minutes he had thrown on his clothes and had resolved on a plan of action. It was fortunate that he had that day cashed a cheque for £25. He thrust the gold into his poeket. And all the time men thundered at the door and cried out to him to open it. He slipped quietly on to the window ledge and sprang to the ground. Somc-

one seized him, and he flung the fool with a erash against the stone wall. In a second he had disappeared into the woods and was making his way eastwards to the junction to catch the midnight mail. He knew he had a few minutes start. The man he had flung against the wall would be silent for a while, if indeed he ever spoke again. He hurried onwards in the darkness. There was no time to think. His only idea was to escape. Even Mavanwy was far from his thoughts. He was dizzy and confused. He could not think, nut he plunged forward through the night, as though all the hounds of hell were pursuing him through the dark and lonely woods.

Before he had gone very far he had changed his mind about getting in at the junction, and walked to a station three miles farther up the line. The down train went direct to Liverpool, and he took a ticket for that place. For twenty miles from where he entered it there was another junction where he could catch the London mail. He knew that before an hour had elapsed telegrams would be flying all over the country. This ruse would at any rate put his pursuers off the scent for an hour or two.

But before he had been a quarter of an hour in the train he bitterly repented the course he had taken. Every minute as his brain grew clearer he saw more plainly that lie had done the worst thing possible. However, it was too late to turn back. The harm had been done. The mere flight was sufficient to impress people with the idea of his guilt. It did not. matter whether he fled to the next village or to San Franeiseo. The evil thing was that he had fled at all. And so he resolved to go on to London. His only chance of concealment lay in the vastness of that great city. As fortune would have it, he was not penniless. He would at any rate be able to exist for a few weeks until he could find work. In the meantime the real murderer of Cyrus Walroyd might be discovered. If not —well he scarcely dared think of the future. But it had to be faced, and there, by himself in the ill-lighted third class carriage, he faced : t. He saw the long years of terror, the awful life of a hunted man, the separation from Mavanwy. the stain on his name. No. God would not permit it. He had not been saved-from the horrors of the island for this. The murderer would be found.

Every stop of the train brought its oytn terrors. At every station he expected to find policemen waiting for him. He could not decide whether he would offer resistance or go quietly with his captors. But he knew that if he resisted he would probably kill someone and be a murderer in very deed. However, no one interfered with him. He changed at the junction, and the train ran without a stop to a station twelve miles out of London. Here he got out, and for the first time was painfully aware of the fact that he had no luggage. It would be almost impossible to take a room. Landladies would eye him with suspicion. Then he suddenly bethought him of the Rowton Houses, of which he had often read. They were clean, comfortable, and cheap. He eould live in one of them in comparative comfort for several months. He went to a small shop and bought an ill-fitting suit of shoddy. Then he made his way to the Rowton House in Hammersmith, ehanged his clothes, pawned his old blue suit for half a crown, and set out to find work. That very evening he read of the murder of Cyrus Walroyd in the evening papers. There were long accounts of the dead man. and a minute description of hiinself. There was even a small woodcut of the Plas Tredegar. It was quite evident that the artist had never seen the place.

For several days particulars appeared in the papers, and it was the sensation of the week. Then it was forgotten, and the police were left to do their silent work without any undesirable advertisement of their plana and actions. Tredegar changed his name to John Edwards, and allowed his beard and moustache to grow.

CHAPTER VII.

A DEALER IN GEMS. In a dingy back room in one of the dingiest houses in River-street, S.E., an old man sat at a table by the window turning over the pages of a huge leather bound ledger. Outside the house the rain poured down pitilessly, and the grimy panes were streaked and splashed

with little rivulets of water. The small yard beneath was slowly forming itself into a miniature lake. Beyond it there was a grimy line of twisted and rusty railings. Beyond that a patch of gravel enclosed with more railings, and then a high wall with a single door in it. By climbing to the top of the house one could look over the wall and see that the river ran past it, and that the ships went to and fro unceasingly. The room was no more than twelve feet square. The furniture consisted of two kitchen ehairs, a deal table, and a large steel safe. The walls were completely covered with shelves that were littered with every conceivable object from a copper kettle to a Chinese idol. The dust lay thick on everything. Yet many a connoisseur would have been glad to blacken his fingers with it and rout out. the miscellaneous objects beneath. For among piles of rubbish—such things as sailors bring from foreign parts and sell for a few pence—there was more than one precious thing—an ivory of the sixteenth century, a Sevres cup and saucer, even perhaps a curiously wrought piece of silver or gold that had fallen through centuries of honour to an ignoble position in this lonely quarter of the globe.

And as the room was, so was the man who sat in it with his keen spectacled eyes glued to the dreary book in front of him. Mr Cantrip’s hair was grey and abundant, but his form was as small and withered as a shrivelled apple. His pale waxy face was covered with a two days’ growth of beard. His clothes were of the finest broadcloth, but so dirty and ill-kept that they would not have seemed out of place on a tramp. His linen was soiled and frayed, his hands grimy and stained with ink. He was not a pleasant person to look upon, yet there was something in his face that marked him out from the ordinary person of his type, something in the white sloping brow and the quick glance of the eyes that stamped him as a man who was something more than a mere trader. He, too, seemed part of the rubbish of this world, yet with perchance something in him that God. the Connoisseur, might unearth from the dust and cherish.

Every now and then he would look up and watch the. sleeting arrows of rain. Then he would take a stubbly piece of pencil from behind his ear and tick off an entry in his ledger. Drip! drip! tick! tick! Every drop seemed to him like a unit in the long column he was adding up and cheeking with the dirty little pencil. At the bottom of some of the pages they ran into six figures. His calculations were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said abstractedly, in a low tone of voice. There was another knock. He turned sharply in his ehair. “Come in,” he yell-

ed. “Why the devil don’t you come in!” The door opened and a woman enterShe was not more than 30 and of extraordinary loveliness. Her hair was the colour of red gold. Her eyes at first sight seemed to be almost black, but when the light fell upon them it can’t! be seen that they were in reality of a deep violet. Her skin was of that almost deathlike pallor that so often goes with auburn hair, and which Titian has painted in so many of his pictures. Amt it seemed somehow as though the rose tints of youth and health would have been out of keeping with the stateliness of heir beauty. SAveirnl magnificent rings sparkled on her fingers, and a single diamond of wonderful size and brilliance glittered like a star at her throat. She closed the door behind her, and advanced to where the old man still pored over his ledger. He had looked round at her, and then resumed his work. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and the dusty coat, glittered for a moment with the light of diamond and emeralds and rubies. “Well, father,” she said. “One hundred and seventy-nine thousand pounds fourteen shillings and five pence,” ho replied abruptly. “That is since January. Yet it ought to be five shillings and sixpence more. There is an error somewhere,” and he turned back the pages of the ledger and frowned. “Let me see them,” she whispered: “the last ones.” “They are pretty,” the old man replied with a chuckle. Then he drew something from his waistcoat pocket, and without taking his eyes from the ledger, handed a small key to the woman. She went over to the safe, and her eyes glittered with excitement. Then she moved the levers of a combination lock. “The word for to-day?” she queried. “Jones,” he replied curtly. “1 wish you wouldn’t interrupt me. I must find this error before tonight.” “Is your master so exact then?” she asked. “He is most exact,” he answered. “Won’t you tell me the name, father?” “Jones,’’ he yelled, turning round on her savagely. “The name of your master.” she persisted. “He has no name,” was the angry reply. “You can call him Jones. Perhaps you will see him some day.” And he returned to the long columns of figures. She set the letters of the lock to the required combination, turned the. key and swung the door open. Then she peered inside and tried to drag out a large black box. But it was too heavy

for her so she crouched down and opened the lid. For more than two minutes she looked at its contents without moving a muscle. Then a glad smile overspread her face, and she began to take out the articles one by one, and examine the. Everything was of gold—cups, bracelets, necklaces, crosses, sword hilts, rings, anklets, earrings—all of gold, all beautifully wrought, priceless treasures of some bygone age. She looked at each one lovingly and sighed. “To be melted down, 1 suppose!” she asked.

“All but six,” the old man replied. “They will fetch almost as much as the rest put together. It is a pity I cannot sell them all as they stand. But it would be impossible.” For a whole hour the two sat in silence, the father still looking for the lost five shillings and sixpence in the great ledger, and the dauhgter fingering the golden treasures. At last she replaced all the articles, closed the lid of the box and drew out a small wooden casket from the back of the safe. “The key of this ?’ she said, holding out the cube of dark wood, as if it were some divine gift. The old man snarled impatiently and handed her a tiny key. She opened the box and poured out its contents in her lap. The gems fell in a cascade of rainbow coloured light. Then she took up a double handful of them and let them trickle slow ly through her fingers, eagerly watching each drop of colour as it fell with a tiny click among its companions. Never had she seen so fair a display of jewels. It seemed to her that all the world must have been ransacked for these treasures that dropped one by one into her lap. Diamonds, while, brown and black, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, pearls, white and pink, amethysts, topaz, pink and yellow, beryls, cats’ eyes, turquoise—almost every gem of the earth was there, mingled together like shells in some corner of the beach, where the winds and waves have carried them from the deeps of a dozen seas.

Again and again she took them from her lap and watched them slide through her white fingers. Then through a rift in the clouds came a yellow shaft of sunlight. It fell on the woman’s beautiful face, and crowned her with gold. The jewels flashed out like coloured flames. The whole room seemed to sparkle with their light. Even the old man at the ledger turned round and blinked his eyes. The woman grasped two great handfuls of them and let them fall in a glittering cascade. “Fireworks!” the old man said. “I love fireworks. I always used to go to the Crystal Palace.” The woman laughed. Tire simile was hopelessly inept. The hunches of starrylight from the bombs and rockets were nothing like this, where every spark cost several pounds. She lifted them again and again, and sent them crashing down into a heap. Then the sunlight died away, and the room was grey with the evening twilight. “You can stop that,” the old man said, harshly. "You will ruin all the pearls. 1 daresay they’re all spoilt now. Pat them away.”

“I have not looked at them yet, father,” she replied. “I won’t let them fall again.”

He grunted and resumed his laborious task. She took up the gems one by one, tenderly now as though a touch would break them. When she had examined one, she placed it softly in the box. It was getting dark, and they no longer sparkled. But it seemed to her that each glowed with a soft radiance, and that the colouring came deep from the heart of every stone.

At last every one of them had been returned to the box. She stirred them a few times gently with her linger, and closed the lid with a sigh. Thin she rose to her feet, replaced the box in the safe, turned the key, and came back to her father’s side. He took the key Irom her without a word, and she stood there a few moments looking out into the gathering darkness. The rain had stopped, and the patch of sky above the high wall was tinged with a lurid crimson. Bhe moved forward, and, opening the window, drank in the fresh air. Beyond the wall she could hear the splashing of the waves’ against the small wooden jetty, and the cries of men calling from one barge to another, and the hooting of sirens, and the throb of paddles and •crews.

Then she started slightly, and looked intently at the wall. She could have sworn that she had seen the wooden door bend inwards as though someone were trying to push it open. She knew that it was locked. Before she could speak to her father the door splintered, broke in half, and fell in two pieces on to the gravel. Then the figure of a man appeared against the square patch of river beyond. He was in the shadow of the wall, and she could not see his faee, but she could see that he was tall and broadshouldered. The water ran down in streams from his clothes, and formed little pools at his feet. He paused for a second or two and glanced swiftly round. It was Emrys Tredegar. His pursuers were behind him. He had swum the river, and had walked into a trap. On both sides of him were high blank walls. In front of him the back of a dingy house, with a man and woman watching from the ground floor w-indow. He looked back and saw a boat coming swiftly across the water. As a matter of fact, it merely carried three men returning to their ship on this side of the river. But he did not know that, nor did he know that his pursuers had lost the trail, and were even then hunting the wharves half a mile nearer the sea. He saw the necessity for instant action, and in a few seconds he had decided what to do. He advanced to the spiked railings, vaulted over them with one hand, and moved towards the window.

As he advanced the old man saw the powerful build, the dripping clothes, and the haggard face of his visitor, and, quickly opening the drawer, laid his hand on the butt of a revolver. The woman drew back a little, and a frightened look crossed her face. Tredegar came up to the window. “What do you want?” the old man queried sharply, grasping the revolver more tightly in his hand. “I have fallen into the river,” Tredegar answered. “I am wet and exhausted. May I come in and wait while my clothes are being dried ? lam miles from home.” “You certainly cannot come in,” the old man answered. “Why have you come here? Why did you break in my door? WTiy are you standing there? Why don’t you go?” and his voice rose almost to a shriek. Tredegar did not move, but he gazed appealingly at the woman’s beautiful faee, which he could just see through the gathering darkness. She lowered her eyes and flushed. Then she raised them, and for a few seconds looked at the young man admiringly. Barely indeed had she seen so fine a specimen of manhood. Even the ill-fitting clothes could not conceal the strength and symmetry of his limbs. His voice, too, was the voice of a gentleman, and was strangely out of keeping with his rough face and cheap attire. She began to be interested. “Father.” she whispered. “He’s shivering with cold. We might let him in.” “No,” he cried. “No. Let him go

away,” and then in a lower voice, “You must be mad. Remember wbat we have got in the house.” “I will pay you well,” Tredegar said. “But I must come in,” and he moved towards the back door, prepared to break it open if necessary. “Lock it,” the old man screamed. Then he took out his revolver and levelled it at Tredegar’s head with a shaking hand. The latter saw the light on the barrel, and stopped. Then he glanced back at the patch of water, which showed through the broken door. There was no sign of his pursuers. He almost made up his mind to retire. But he was in a trap. There was no way out of it, save through the house, or by the river. He laughed. “Put that away,” he said. “I won’t harm you. I can’t get out of here except by the way I came, and I don’t fancy that. May I pass through the house.” There was the sound of oars elose to the wharf. He turned round with a look of terror, and then laid his hand on the handle of the door. “I shall let him in,” the woman said, decisively, and, leaving the room, she descended a few steps and unlocked the back door. “Come in,” she said; “I am not afraid of you.” “Thank you,” he replied simply. “I know all this is very unusual, but I am in a great difficulty. I will not stay. I must run. I am terribly cold,” and his teeth chattered as he spoke.

(To be continued.)