{"id":160,"date":"2013-07-13T01:26:17","date_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:26:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/?p=160"},"modified":"2013-07-13T01:26:17","modified_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:26:17","slug":"58-the-door-at-abelard-vol-07-collected-plays-part-ii-volume-07","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/01-works-of-sri-aurobindo\/01-sabcl\/07-collected-plays-part-ii-volume-07\/58-the-door-at-abelard-vol-07-collected-plays-part-ii-volume-07","title":{"rendered":"-58_The Door at Abelard.htm"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n
\n

\n
\nThe Door at Abelard <\/font><\/p>\n

<\/b> <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nT<\/font><\/b>HE
\n<\/b><\/font><\/p>\n

village of Streadhew lay just under the
\nhill, a collection of brown solid cottages straggling through the
\npastures, and on the top of the incline Abelard with its gables
\nand antique windows watched the road wind and drop slowly to
\nthe roofs of Orringham two miles away. For many centuries
\nthe house and the village had looked with an unchanged face on
\na changing world, and in their old frames housed new men and
\nmanners, while Orringham beyond adapted itself and cast off
\nits mediaeval slough. The masters of Abelard lived with the
\nburden of a past which they could not change.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nStephen Abelard of Abelard, the last male of his line, had
\nlived in the house with the old gables for the past twenty years
\nmixing formally in the society of his equals, discharging the activities incidental to his position with a punctilious conscientious-
\nness, but withdrawn in soul from the life around him. That was
\nsince the death of his wife in childbirth followed soon afterwards
\nby the fading of the son to give whom she had died. Two
\ndaughters, Isabel and Aloyse, survived. Stephen Abelard did not
\nmarry again; he was content that the old line should be continued through the female side, and when his daughter Isabel
\nmarried Richard Lancaster, the younger son of a neighbouring country family, he
\nstipulated that the husband should first consent to bear the name of his wife’s ancestors. This attachment
\nto the old name was the only thing known in the lord of the old
\nhouse that belonged to the past. For Stephen Abelard, in spite
\nof his spiritual aloofness, was a man forward in thought with a
\nkeen emancipated intellect which neither present nor past dogma
\ncould bind, and gifted with a high courage to act according to
\nthe light that he had.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nA strange series of accidents had helped to bring the old
\nfamily near to extinction. For the last hundred years no
\ndaughter-in-law of the house had been able to survive by many<\/font>
\n<\/font> <\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131025<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\ndays the birth of her first male child. Girl-children had been
\nborn and no harm had happened, but some fatality seemed to
\nattend the birth of a son. Stephen’s great grandfather had male
\nissue, Hugh and Walter and one daughter. Bertha, who died
\ntragically, murdered in her chamber, no one knew by whom. It
\nwas after this incident that the fatality seemed to weigh on the
\nhouse and popular superstition was not slow to connect the fatality with the deed. Hugh Abelard had already a wife and two sons
\nat the hour of the occurrence, but Walter was unmarried. One
\nyear after the tragic and mysterious death of his sister he brought
\na bride home to Abelard and in yet another year a son had been
\nborn to him. But only seven days after the birth of her child
\nMary Abelard was found dead in her room, possibly from some
\nunexplained shock to the heart, for she was strong and in good
\nhealth when she perished, and Walter, unhinged by the death of
\nhis young wife, went into foreign lands where he too died. The
\ntongues of the countryside did not hesitate to whisper that he
\nonly paid in his affliction the penalty of an undetected crime.
\nHugh’s sons grew up and married, but the same fatality fell upon
\nthe unions they had contracted, they died early and their sons did
\nnot live to enjoy the estate they successively inherited. Then
\nWalter Abelard’s son came with his wife and daughter and took
\npossession. Stephen was born two years later and within three
\ndays of his birth his mother had shared the fate of all women who
\nmarried into the fated house. So strong was the impression made upon Richard
\nAbelard by this fate or this strong recurrent coincidence that when he married again, he would not allow his wife
\nto enter the home of his ancestors. He bought a house in the
\nneighbouring county and lived there till his death from an accident in the hunting-field. After him Stephen reigned, a man
\nmodern-minded, full of energy and courage, who returned, scornful of antiquated superstitions, to the old family house, married
\nand had two daughters, and then\u2014well, coincidence insisted
\nand the male child came and the mother, adored of her husband,
\npassed away. But there was no mystery about this death. She
\ndied of collapse after childbirth, her life fought for by skilful
\ndoctors, watched over by careful attendants, sleeplessly guarded<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131026<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nat night by her husband. A coincidence, nothing more.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nTherefore Isabel and Richard Lancaster
\nAbelard came fearlessly to live at the fated house. The daughters of the house had
\nbeen immune from any fatality, and when she became enceinte,
\nno superstitious fears haunted the mind of any among numerous
\nfriends and relatives who loved her for her charm and her gaiety. About three
\nmonths before the birth of the child could be expected her sister Aloyse married, not as the Abelards had hitherto
\ndone, into the neighbouring families, but, contrary to all precedent, a young foreign doctor settled at Orringham, a man not
\nonly foreign, but of Asiatic blood. Popular as Dr. Armand
\nSieurcaye was in the neighbourhood, the alliance had come
\nwith something of a shock to the countryside, for the Abelards,
\nthough less wealthy than many, were the oldest of the country
\nfamilies. But neither Abelard nor his daughter were troubled
\nwith these prejudices. The young man had powerfully attracted
\nthem both and the marriage was as much the choice of the
\nfather as of the daughter.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand Sieurcaye came from the south of France, and there
\nwas only the glossy blackness of his hair and the richer tint of the
\nolive in his face to suggest a non-European origin. His grand-
\nfather, son of the mixed alliance of a Maratha Sirdar with the
\ndaughter of a French adventurer in the service of Scindia, had
\nbeen the first to settle in France purchasing an estate in Provence
\nwith the riches amassed and hoarded by battle and plunder on
\nIndian soil. Charles was the younger of two sons and had studied
\nmedicine at Nancy and then, driven rather by some adventurous
\nstrain in his blood than any necessity, sought his fortune abroad.
\nHe went first to Bombay, but did little there beyond some
\ncurious investigations which interested his keen, sceptical
\nand inquiring mind, but did not help his purse. At Bombay,
\nhe met John Lancaster, Richard’s brother, and was induced
\nby him to try his fortune in the English country town aided
\nby whatever local influence his friend, plucked by an almost
\nmiraculous cure from the grip of a fatal disease, could afford
\nhim in gratitude for the saving of his life. In twelve months
\nArmand Sieurcaye had won for himself universal popularity,<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131027<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\na lucrative practice, and Aloyse Abelard.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nThe old house, bathed in spring sunshine, had little in it of
\nthe ominous or weird to Armand Sieurcaye when with his young
\nwife he entered it for a lengthened stay in the month of Isabel’s
\ndelivery. He was attracted by its old-world quaintness, by the
\nmass of the green ivy smothering the ancient walls, by the heaven-
\nward question of its short pointed towers; but there was nothing
\nthere to alarm or to daunt. Isabel had hurried to the study to her
\nfather, and Armand guided by his brother-in-law Richard
\nLancaster repaired to the room into which the domestics had
\nalready carried his belongings.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Awfully good of you to leave your practice and come,"
\nsaid Lancaster, "It’s a relief to have you. Harris is a fool and I’m
\nnot used to the worry."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand looked at him with some surprise. He had not
\nexpected even so much of nervousness in his cheerful, vigorous,
\ncommonplace brother-in-law.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Is there any trouble?" he asked lightly, "Isabel seems
\nstrong. There can’t be any reason for fear."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Oh, there isn’t. But I tell you, I’m not used to the worry,"
\nand, then, starting off from the subject \u2014 "How do you like your
\nroom?"<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand had not looked at his room, but he looked at it
\nnow. It was a comfortable, well-furnished room with nothing
\napparently unmodern about it except the old oak panelling of the walls and the
\nunusual narrowness and length of the two windows that looked out on the grounds behind the house. His eyes
\nfell on a door in the wall to his right hand.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"What’s there?" he asked. "I thought this room was the last
\nat this end of the house."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"I haven’t any idea," was the indifferent answer. "It can’t
\nbe anything more than a balcony or closet."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nThe door attracted Armand’s attention strangely. Of some
\nslighter wood, not of the oak with which Abelard abounded, it
\nwas carved with great plainness and struck him as more modern
\nthan the rest of the house. Still it was not precisely a modern
\ndoor. He walked over to it to satisfy his curiosity, but the<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131028<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nattempt to turn the handle brought no result.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Locked?" questioned Lancaster, a little surprised. He too
\nsauntered over and turned the handle in vain.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"I hope it’s not a haunted chamber," said Armand, making
\nthe useless attempt again. He had spoken carelessly and was not
\nprepared for the unwonted ebullition that followed his words.
\nRichard’s face darkened, he struck the floor with his heel,
\nangrily.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"It’s a beastly house," he cried, "When old Stephen dies,
\nI’ll sell it for a song."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nMore and more surprised, Armand turned to look closely
\nat his brother-in-law. It might be his fancy which told him that
\nthe young man’s face was paler than ordinarily, and an uneasy
\nrestless look leaped from time to time into the shallowness of
\nhis light blue eyes. It was certainly his fancy which said that
\nRichard looked as an animal might look when it is aware of
\nsome hidden enemy hunting it. He dismissed the imagination
\nimmediately, and put away from him the thought of the door.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nBut it occurred to him again when, returning from a solitary
\nwalk in the grounds, he chanced to look up closer at the angle
\nof the house occupied by his room and the locked balcony.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nA corner of wall there did jut out beyond what he judged
\nto be the limit of his room and then curved lightly round and
\nformed a porch supporting a small room that could not have
\nbeen more than eight feet by twelve in size; over the room a
\npeaked tower. The erection was meant to imitate and harmonise
\nwith the older pointed towers of the building, but a slight observation
\nconfirmed the Doctor’s surmise that here was a later excrescence inharmoniously added for some whim or personal
\nconvenience. But the ivy was unusually thick on this side and
\neven covered the great carved and high-arched orifices that all
\nalong the length of the erection did duty for windows. It must
\nthen be rather in the nature of a closed balcony than a room.
\nIt struck him casually how easy it would be for an intruder to
\nclimb up the strong thick growths of ivy from outside and enter
\nthe house by the balcony. The possibility, no doubt, explained
\nthe locked door. Greatly relieved, he knew not why, Armand<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131029<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\ncontinued his walk. But he thought of the door idly more than
\nonce before nightfall.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nThat night, Armand Sieurcaye, sleeping by the side of his
\nwife, was awakened by what seemed to him a noise in or out-
\nside his room. The lamp was burning low but nothing stirred
\nin the dimness of the room. His eyes fell on the locked door and
\na disagreeable attraction rivetted them upon it; to his newly- awakened senses
\nthere seemed to be something weird and threatening in the plain mass of wood. With a violent effort he flung
\nthe fancy from him and sought slumber again, the noise that
\nawakened him was possibly some figment of senses bewildered
\nby sleep. He knew not after how long an interval he again woke,
\nbut this time a cold air upon him, and before he opened un-
\nwilling eyes, he was aware of the door in his room being softly
\nopened and closed. Still the lamp burned, \u2014 the room was
\nempty. Involuntarily his eyes sought the locked door. It was
\nwide open swung back on its hinges! And if the closed door
\nhad alarmed something sensitive and irrational within him, how
\nmuch ghastlier, more menacing seemed that open rectangle with
\nthe pit of darkness beyond!<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nCursing his nerves for fools Armand Sieurcaye leaped from
\nthe bed, turned up the lamp and, conquering a nervous reluctance
\nthe violence of which surprised him, stood, lamp in hand, at the
\nthreshold of the darkness beyond. It was, as he had conjectured, a wide balcony
\nwalled in so as to form a habitable sitting or sleeping-room in summer, and it seemed as such to have been utilised;<\/font>
\n<\/font>for a bare iron bedstead occupied the width of the room near the
\nwall, an old armchair with faded and tarnished cushions stood
\nagainst the opposite end of the room. But the arched orifices
\nwere now heavily curtained with the thick folds of the climbing
\nivy. Otherwise the room was entirely empty. He decided to look
\nout from these windows into the moonlit world outside.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nBut as he advanced into the room, he was
\naware of a growing disorder in his nerves which he could not control. It was
\nnot fear, so much as an intense horror and hatred \u2014 of what
\nhe could not determine, but, it almost seemed to him, of that bare
\niron bed, of that faded armchair. In any case, he carefully kept<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131030<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nhis full distance from both as he crossed the room to the ivied
\nopenings and thrusting aside part of those green curtains peered
\ninto the night. A great world of dark green flooded with moon-
\nlight met his eyes. And then he noticed in the moonlight a man
\nstanding in the grounds of Abelard looking up at the balcony
\nwith a hand shading his eyes. It was Richard Lancaster Abelard,
\nheir of the old house, he who knew nothing of the door and the
\nbalcony. And then the strong descendant of old French and
\nMaratha fighters recoiled as if he had received a blow. He did
\nnot look again but hastily crossed the balcony and entered his
\nroom casting a glance of loathing as he passed to each side of
\nhim, once at the iron bed, once at the disused armchair. He
\ncould almost have sworn that a shadowy form lay propped
\nupon shadowy pillows on the old iron bed, that somebody
\nlooked at him ironically from the tarnished cushions of the chair.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nWondering at himself Armand put on a dressing-gown and
\nsat down in an easy chair. "I must have it out with my nerves,"
\nhe said, resolute. "Whoever entered my room and opened the
\ndoor, will, I feel sure, return to close it. I will wait, I will see him
\nand prove to my nerves what unspeakable superstitious idiots
\nthey are. There was nothing strange in Richard Lancaster being
\nout there in the moonlight; no doubt, he could not sleep and was
\ntaking a stroll outside to help pass away some sleepless hours.
\nWhat I saw in him was an optical effect of the moonlight
\n\u2014 nothing more, I tell you, nothing more."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nFor about half an hour he kept his vigil. As he sat his mind
\nleft its present surroundings and turned to the experiments in
\noccultism he had conducted in Bombay. From his childhood
\nhe had been a highly imaginative lad with a nervous system
\nalmost as sensitive as an animal’s. But if Armand Sieurcaye had
\nthe nervous temperament of the Asiatic mystic, his brain had
\nbeen invincibly sceptical not only with the material French
\nscepticism but with the merciless Indian scepticism which, once
\naroused, is far more obstinate and searching than its grosser European shadow.
\nRefusing to accept second-hand proof, however strong, and aware of his own rich nervous endowment,
\nhe had himself experimented in occult science with the double<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131031<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nand inconsistent determination to be rigidly fair to the super-
\nnatural and allow it to establish itself if it existed, and secondly,
\nto destroy and disprove it for ever by the very fairness and thoroughness of his experiments. He had been able to establish as
\nundoubtedly existing in himself a fair power of correct presentiment, but against this he had to set a number of baulked presentiments ; he therefore dismissed the gift as merely a lively power of
\ndivining the trend of events. He was also aware that his personal
\nattractions and repulsions were practically unerring; but, after
\nall, was not this merely the equivalent in man to the instinct
\nwhich so often warns children and animals of their friends and
\nenemies? It was probable that the adventurous life of his
\nMaratha forefathers, compelled to be always on the alert against
\nviolence and treachery, had stamped the instinct deep into the
\nhereditary temperament of their issue. All the rest of the phenomenon, valued by the occultists, he had, he thought, proved to
\nbe sensitive hallucinations or inordinate subconscious cerebral
\nactivity.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nIn the course of his reflections he returned suddenly to his
\nimmediate surroundings and, with a start, looked towards the
\nbalcony-chamber. There it stood shut, plain, dumb, denying that
\nit had ever been anything else. The door was closed, that had been
\nopen! Amazed, Armand leaped to his feet, strode to the door
\nand turned the handle, ignoring a cry within that commanded
\nhim to desist. The door yielded not; it was not only closed but
\nlocked. Was it possible for any human being to have crossed
\nhis room, closed that door and locked it, under his very eyes and
\nyet without his knowledge ? Then he remembered the completeness of his absorption and how utterly his mind had withdrawn
\ninto itself. "Nothing wonderful in that!" he said. "How often
\nhave I been oblivious to time and space and circumstances out-
\nside when absorbed in a train of thought or in an experiment!
\nThe visitor must have thought me asleep in the easy chair and
\nmoved quietly." There was nothing more to be done that night
\nand he returned baffled to his slumbers.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nThe first man he met next morning was Richard Lancaster
\nwho greeted him with his usual shallow and cheerful cordiality.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131032<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nThere was no trace of yesterday’s disturbance in his look or
\ndemeanour.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Slept well?" asked Armand casually, but
\ncarefully watching his features.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Like a top!" answered Richard, heartily. "Didn’t raise
\nmy head once from the pillow from eleven to seven."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nWondering Armand passed him and entered the library.
\nStephen Abelard sat deep in the pages of a book; a cup of tea
\nstood untasted beside his elbow. After some ordinary conversation suggested by the book, Armand suddenly questioned his
\nfather-in-law,<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"By the way, sir, is there a room next to mine? I noticed a
\nlocked door between."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nStephen Abelard’s eyes narrowed a little and he looked at
\nhis questioner before he replied. He had raised the cup of tea
\nto his lips but he put it down still untasted.
\n"Disturbed?" he questioned, sharply.
\n"Not at all," parried Armand, "Why should I be?"
\n"Why indeed? You don’t believe in the supernatural. Who
\ndoes ? But in our nerves and imaginations we are all of us the
\nfools our ancestors made us. I had better tell you." Stephen
\nAbelard began sipping his tea and then pursued with a careful
\ndeliberateness. "The room you slept in was the chamber occupied by the unfortunate girl. Bertha Abelard, with whose name
\nscandal in her life and superstition after her death have been
\nbusy. You’ve heard all that nonsense about the curse on Abe-
\nlard. I need not repeat the rubbish. But this is true that only
\ntwo people have slept in the balcony-chamber since her death.
\nOne was a guest, and he refused to sleep there after the first
\nnight."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Why?"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Nervous imaginations! Somebody resenting his presence,
\nsomebody in the armchair opposite. What will not men imagine?
\nThe other was Hugh Abelard’s youngest son and he \u2014"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nA shade crossed the face of the master of the house.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"And he \u2014"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Was found dead in the iron bed the next morning."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131033<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nArmand Sieurcaye quivered like a horse struck by the lash. He restrained himself.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Any cause?"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Failure of the heart. The Abelards are subject to failure of
\nthe heart. Might it not have happened equally in any other
\nroom? It has so happened, in fact, more than once."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand nodded. Hereditary weakness of the heart! It might
\nvery well be. But what then was Richard Lancaster or the hallucination of him doing outside in the moonlight ?<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Since that death, out of deference to prejudices the balcony
\nis kept locked and opened twice a week only when Roberts takes
\nthe key of the door from Isabel and cleans up. Roberts has no
\nnerves. She believes in the ghost, but argues she, ‘Miss Bertha
\nwon’t hurt me; I am only keeping her quarters clean for her’ ".<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand remembered the stories in circulation in the country. Rumour had charged Walter Abelard with the responsibility for the death of his sister, partly on the ground of subsequent incidents, partly on the impossibility of an outsider assassin
\npenetrating so far or, even if supposing he entered, committing
\nthe deed and effecting his escape without leaving one trace be-
\nhind. Why, there was the ivy. And even if the ivy were not so
\nthick one hundred years ago, an agile man and a gymnast could
\neasily ascend the porch to the arched orifices and descend again
\nafter his work had been done.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"If you are interested", said Abelard, "well, we go at once
\nand see the room." And he rang for a servant to bring the key
\nof the ominous chamber.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand had by this time almost convinced himself that his
\nnocturnal experience was only a peculiarly vivid and disagreeable
\ndream. He followed Stephen with the expectation \u2014 or was it
\nnot the hope ? \u2014 of finding the room quite other than he had seen
\nit in that uncomfortable experience. Stephen Abelard opened the
\ndoor and light overcame its native dimness. The first thing
\nArmand saw was a bare iron bed in the width of the outer wall,
\nthe next a faded armchair with tarnished cushions against the
\ninner masonry. The room was dim by reason of the thickness of
\nthe ivy choking its arched stone orifices.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131034<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nNo dream then but a reality! Someone had twice entered his
\nroom, once to open, once to shut the door of ill omen. Was it
\nMme. Roberts, somnambulist, vaguely drawn to the door she
\nalone was accustomed to unlock? But where at night could she
\nget the key ? For it was, Stephen had said, with Isabel Abelard.
\nAgain, it was as if a blow struck him. For, if the key was with
\nIsabel, only Richard Lancaster could easily have got it from her
\nat night, only he or she could have made that nocturnal entry.
\nAnd it was Richard Lancaster he had seen under the balcony
\nwhen he looked out into the moonlight. Was it the heir of the
\nhouse who had entered, opened the door, gone out to look up at
\nthe room from outside and afterwards returned to shut it? But
\non what conceivable impulse ? Was it the memory of a somnambulist returning to Armand’s question of the morning? That was
\na very likely explanation and fitted admirably with the circumstances. Or was his action in any way linked to those nervous
\nperturbations so new and out of place in this shallow, confident
\nand ordinary nature ? That was a circumstance into which the
\ntheory did not fit quite easily. A great uneasiness was so growing
\non Armand Sieurcaye. In a supernatural mystery he did not
\nbelieve, but he was too practised in life not to believe in natural
\nhuman mysteries underlying the even surface of things. He knew
\nthat men of the most commonplace outside have often belied
\ntheir appearance by their actions. A presentiment of dangerous
\nand calamitous things was upon him, and he remembered that
\nhis presentiments had more often justified themselves than not.
\nBut to Stephen Abelard he said nothing, least of all did he say
\nanything to Richard Abelard of that nocturnal outing which he
\nhad so glibly denied.<\/font> <\/font> <\/p>\n

\nII<\/b><\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nAnother week had passed by, but Armand’s nerves were not
\nreconciled to the door of ill omen that looked nightly at him
\nwith the secret of Bertha Abelard’s death behind it. Nothing
\nfarther had happened of an unusual nature. Richard Abelard<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131035<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nwas often absent and distracted, a thing formerly unknown to
\nhim, and his speech was occasionally irritable, but there was
\nnothing out of the ordinary in his action. He walked, smoked,
\nshot, rode, hunted, played billiards and read the light literature
\nthat pleased him, without any deviation from his familiar habits.
\nArmand noticed that on some days he was entirely his old self, and
\nthen he invariably spoke with great satisfaction of the profound
\nsleep he had enjoyed all night. Sieurcaye finally dismissed the
\npresentiment from his mind. He had accepted the somnambulist
\ntheory; it was sleeplessness that was telling on Richard’s nerves.
\nThe whole mystery received a rational explanation on that simple
\nhypothesis.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nTwo nights after he arrived at this cheerful conclusion, he
\nwoke at night for the first time after the experience of the open
\ndoor. Every night he had thought of watching for the somnambulist, though he had
\nbeen accustomed all his life to light slumbers, but a sleep as profound as that of which Richard Lancaster
\nboasted, glued his head to the pillow. On this particular night his
\nwife was not with him, for, to satisfy a caprice of Isabel’s, she was
\nsleeping with her sister in the old nursery. Armand turned on
\nhis pillow, noticed with the surprise of a half-sleeping-man the
\nabsence of his wife, then glanced about the room and observed
\nthat the door of his chamber was slightly open. A meaningless
\ndetail at first, the circumstance began to awaken a sort of indolent
\nwonder \u2014 had Aloyse come into the room to visit his sleep and
\ngone back to the nursery ? Or was it Richard the somnambulist
\ndriven by the monomania of the locked room ? And then, as if
\ngalvanised by a shock of electricity, he sat up on bed, suddenly,
\nviolently, and stared at the door with unbelieving eyes. It had
\ncome back to him that, before turning into bed, on the spur of
\nsome unaccountable impulse, he had locked his room and lain
\ndown wondering at his own purposeless action. And there now
\nwas the door he had thus secured open, with the key in the lock,
\nchallenging him for an explanation. Had he got up himself in
\nhis sleep and opened it? Had he too grown a somnambulist? He
\nremembered the profound slumber, so unusual to him, so similar
\nto Lancaster’s, that had surprised him for the last few nights.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131036<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nThen an idea occurred to his rapidly working mind; he got out of
\nbed, went to the inner door and turned the handle. It opened!
\nHe looked into the room with the iron bed. There was no one
\nthere, only the bed and the armchair. Then he closed the door,
\nwalked over to his own door, locked it, put the key under his
\npillow and got-, into bed again. His heart was beating a little
\nfaster than usual as he lay gazing at the door of Bertha Abelard’s
\ndeath-chamber. And then a very simple explanation flashed on
\nhim. Baulked by the locked door, Richard had climbed up by the
\nivy from outside and effected his entry from Bertha’s chamber.
\nBut Isabel was not with Richard tonight \u2014 how could he have
\ngot possession of the key ? Well, conceivably Isabel might have
\nleft her keys by oversight in her own chamber, or the somnambulist might have entered the nursery and detached what he
\nneeded from his wife’s chatelaine. But what settled waking
\nidea; what persistent fancy of sleep drove Richard Lancaster to
\nthe ominous chamber, forced him to devise entrance against
\nevery obstacle and by such forbidden means ? Armand shuddered
\nas he remembered the story of Bertha Abelard’s death and his
\nown theory of the means by which her assassin had gained
\nentrance.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nAs he expected, he soon fell asleep. Rising
\nthe next morning, his first action was to walk over to the inner door and try it.
\nIt was locked! Well, that was natural. Somnambulists were often
\nalert and keen-minded even beyond their waking selves and
\nRichard, foiled again by the locked door, had climbed up once
\nmore by the ivy to efface all proof of his nocturnal visit.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand contrived that morning to be alone with Isabel in
\norder to ask her where she kept the key of Bertha Abelard’s
\nchamber. She turned to him with laughing eyes.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"You are not haunted, Armand? No? It’s always with me
\nand the ghost, if she’s there, must get through solid wood to
\ninvade your room. I keep my chatelaine at night under my
\npillow."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"You had it there last night?"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Armand! I am positive our ancestress has visited you.
\nYes, last night too." And then suddenly, "Why, no, it was not.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131037<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nI put it last night in the box where I kept my doll and my toys.
\nDon’t be surprised, Armand. I’m a great baby still in many
\nthings and I wanted to have everything last night just as it was
\nwhen we were children. I was a very careful and jealous little
\nhouse-wife, and before I slept I used always to lock up my chatelaine with my doll and playthings and treasure the tiny key of
\nmy box in a locket under my night-gown. I did all that last night.
\nIf you have been haunted, I’m not responsible."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Did you tell anybody what you were going to do?"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"I did not think of it till we went to bed. Only Aloyse
\nknew."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Does anybody else know of this habit of your childhood?"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Only Roberts and papa. They don’t remember, probably.
\nI had forgotten it myself till last night. What is puzzling you,
\nArmand?"<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Oh, it is only an idea I had," he replied, and rapidly escaped from further question to the sitting-room set apart for
\nhimself and Aloyse.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nThe thing was staggering. Somnambulism did not make
\none omniscient, and it was impossible that Richard Abelard should have known
\nthis arrangement of Isabel’s far-off childhood, extracted the key from his sleeping wife’s locket, the
\nchatelaine from the box and restored them undiscovered, when
\nhis need was finished. The theory involved such a chain of impossibilities and improbabilities that it must be rejected. And
\nthen, as always, a solution suggested itself \u2014 Richard Abelard
\nmust have taken, long ago, the impress of the key and got a
\nduplicate of it made for his own secret use. But if so, what an
\nunavowable design, what stealthy manoeuvres must such a
\nsubterfuge be intended to serve! What legitimate need could
\nRichard Abelard have of this secret and ominous exit or entry? Was it not
\nArmand’s duty to warn Stephen Abelard of proceedings that must conceal in them something abnormal, perilous or
\neven criminal? But there was the danger that Isabel might come
\nto hear of it and receive a shock. Armand decided to wait till
\nafter her delivery.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nA knock at the door roused him from his thoughts and in<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131038<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nresponse to his invitation Richard Abelard himself entered. He walked up to the fireplace, flung himself into a chair opposite
\nArmand and jerked out abruptly,<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Dr. Armand, you are a dab at medical diagnosis. Can’t
\nyou tell me what’s the matter with me?"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Name your symptoms."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"You’ve seen some of them yourself. I’ve observed you
\nnoticing me. But that’s nothing. It’s the mind."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"What of the mind?"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Oh, how should I know? Dreams, imaginations, sensations, impulses. Yes, impulses." He grew pale as he repeated
\nthe word.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Can’t you be more precise?"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"I can’t; the thing’s vague." He paused a moment; and then
\nhis features altered, a look of deep agony passed over them.
\n"Somebody is hunting me," he cried, "somebody’s hunting me."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nA great dread and sickness of the heart seized upon Armand
\nSieurcaye as he looked at his brother-in-law.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Steady!" he cried, "it’s a nervous disorder, of course,
\nnothing more. But you are hiding something from me. That
\nwon’t do."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Nerves ? Don’t tell me I’m going mad! <\/b> Or if I am, prevent
\nit, for Isabel’s sake."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Of course, I’ll prevent it. But you have got to be frank
\nwith me. I must know everything."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nA visible hesitation held Richard for a few seconds, then
\nhe said, "I’ve told all I can think of, all that’s definite. "-Then,
\nsuddenly, striking the arm of his chair with his closed hand,
\n"It’s this beastly house," he cried, "There’s something in it!
\nThere’s something in it that ought not to be there."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"If you think so, you must leave it till your nerves are restored. Look here, why not take John’s yacht and go for a cruise,
\noh, to America, if you like, \u2014 or to Japan ? Japan will give you
\na longer spell of the sea."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"I’ll do it," cried Richard Lancaster, "as soon as Isabel’s
\nsafe through this, I’ll go. Thank you, Armand." And with a
\nlook of great relief on his face, he rose and left the room.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131039<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nArmand had not much time to ponder over this singular
\ninterview, though certain phrases Richard had used kept ringing
\nin his brain; for that night the pangs of childbirth came upon
\nIsabel and she was safely delivered of a male child. An heir was
\nborn to the dying house of Abelard. The strong health of Isabel
\nAbelard easily hook from it the effects of the strain. There was
\nno danger for her and the child seemed likely to inherit the robust physique of his parents. As for Richard, he was joyous, at
\nease and seemed to have put from him his idea of a flight from
\nAbelard.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nBut on the third night after the delivery Armand Sieurcaye
\nhad troubled dreams and wandered through strange afflictions;<\/font>
\n<\/font>the rustling of a dress haunted him; a pang of terror; a movement
\nof agony seemed to come from someone’s heart into his own, and
\nthere was a laughter in the air he did not love. And in the grey of
\nthe autumn morning, Stephen Abelard with a strange look in his
\neyes stood by his side.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Get up, Armand, dress and come. Do not disturb Aloyse."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nIn three minutes Armand was outside on the landing where
\nStephen Abelard was pacing to and fro under the whip of the
\nsorrow that had lashed upon him.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Isabel is dead," he said briefly.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nWith a dull brain that refused to think Armand followed
\nthe father to the death-chamber of his child. The wall lamp was
\nflaring high above the bed. A night lamp that no one had thought
\nto put out, burned on the toilette table. In a chair far from the
\nbed Richard Lancaster with his face hidden in his hands sat rocking himself, his
\nbody shaken by sobs. When Armand entered, he uncovered his face, cast at him a tragic look from eyes
\nfull of tears, and went swaying from the room.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand stood at the bedside and looked at the dead girl.
\nAs he looked, a pang of fear troubled his heart, for his practised
\nperceptions, familiar with many kinds of death gave him an
\nappalling intimation. Isabel had not died easily! Then some-
\nthing peculiar in the pose of the head and neck struck his
\nawakened brain. He bent down suddenly, rose as suddenly, his
\nolive face yellow with some strong emotion, strode to the<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131040<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\ntoilette table, seized the night-lamp and returning held it to
\nIsabel’s neck.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"What is it?" asked Stephen Abelard. One could see that
\nhe was holding himself tight to meet a possible shock. Armand
\ncarefully put back the lamp where it had stood and returned to
\nthe bedside before he answered. In the shock of his discovery
\nhe had forgotten his surroundings, forgotten to whom he was
\nabout to speak.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"It is a murder," he said, slowly and mechanically.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Armand!"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"It is a murder," he continued, unheeding the cry of the
\nfather, "I cannot be mistaken. And effected by unusual means.
\nThere is a spot in the body which has only to be found by the
\nfingers and receive a peculiar pressure and a man dies suddenly,
\nsurely, with so light a trace only the eyes of the initiate can discover it \u2014 not even a trace, only an indication, but a sure indication. The Japanese wrestlers know the device, but do not impart
\nit except to those who are too self-disciplined to abuse it. That
\nis what has been done here."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nStephen Abelard seized Armand’s shoulder with a tense,
\nviolent grip. "Armand," he cried, "Who besides yourself knows
\nof this means of murder?"<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"John Lancaster knows it."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nStephen’s hand fell simply from his son-in-law’s shoulder.
\nAfter a time he said in a voice that was again calm, "Armand,
\nmy child died of heart failure as so many of the Abelards have
\ndone."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"It is best so," replied Armand Sieurcaye.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Now go, Armand," continued Stephen quietly, "go and
\nleave me alone with my child."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand did not return to his chamber, but went into the
\nsitting-room, lighted a candle and sat, looking at the chair in
\nwhich Richard Abelard had consulted him only three days ago.
\nJohn Lancaster, Richard’s brother, who alone near Orringham
\nknew of the Japanese secret! What share had John Lancaster,
\nfriend of Armand Sieurcaye, in the murder of Isabel Abelard ?
\nWas it for his entry that Richard had provided by the duplicate<\/font>
\n<\/font> <\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131041<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nkey, by his strange and perilous manoeuvres with the ivy and
\nthe balcony room? But why not open the front door for him,
\nor leave unshuttered one of the lower windows, a much easier
\nand less dangerous passage? Then he remembered that the
\ngreat dog. Brilliant, lay at the bottom of the stairs and would
\nnot allow any but an inmate to pass unchallenged. John Lancaster was his friend, his benefactor, but Armand knew the man, a
\nreckless flamboyant profligate capable of the most glorious and
\nself-immolating actions and capable equally of the most cruel
\nand cynical crimes. He remembered, too, how he himself had
\ntaught John that peculiar trick of the Japanese art of slaying. In a
\ncertain sense he himself was responsible for Isabel’s death. How
\nwise were the Eastern in their rigid reticence when they taught
\nonly to prepared and disciplined natures the secrets that might
\nbe misused to harm mankind! And then his mind travelled to
\nIsabel and her sorrowful end slain in the supreme moment of
\na woman’s joy by the husband she loved. What grim and inexorable Power ruling the world. Fate, Chance, Providence, had
\nsingled out for this doom a girl whose whole life had been an
\ninnocent shedding of sunshine on all who came near! Providence ! He smiled. There were still fools who believed in an over-
\nruling Providence, a wise and compassionate God! And then the insoluble problem
\nreturned to baffle his mind, what possible motive moved Richard to compass this heartless crime or John to
\nassist him?<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nAll that day of sorrow Richard was absent from the house,
\nand Armand had no chance of probing him. It was late at night,
\nabout eleven, that he entered. Armand met him on his way to
\nhis room, candle in hand.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"I would like a word with you, Richard," he said.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nRichard turned on him, laughing with a terrible gaiety.
\n"No use. Doctor Armand. You could not save me, you see.
\nThe thing was too strong. Mark my words, the thing will be too
\nstrong even for you." And he strode to his room leaving Armand
\namazed on the staircase.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nAloyse had elected to sleep that night with her dead sister’s
\nchild, and Armand once more found himself alone in Bertha<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131042<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nAbelard’s chamber with no companion except the locked door,
\naccomplice perhaps in the tragedy that had darkened the house.
\nAgain his slumbers were troubled and he dreamed always of the
\nlocked door open and someone traversing the room on a mission
\nof evil, a work of horror. He woke with a start, his heart in him
\ndull and heavy as lead and full of the conviction, which it called
\nknowledge, that the tragedy was not finished but more crimes
\nmysterious and unnatural were about to pollute the old walls
\nof Abelard. Then his thought flew to Aloyse. He dressed him-
\nself hastily and went to the room where she was sleeping. Aloyse
\nwas asleep and the child’s nurse slept on a bed some five feet
\naway, but Armand cast only a fleeting glance at the two women,
\nfor between the beds was the cradle of Isabel’s child and over
\nit was a figure stooping, and as it lifted its face towards the
\nopened door, he saw a face that was and yet was not the face of
\nRichard Lancaster. Richard immediately moved over to the
\ndoor. As he moved, Armand drew away from it with the first
\npang of absolute terror in his heart he had ever experienced
\nsince his childhood. Richard Lancaster noted the emotion and
\nit seemed to amuse him, for he laughed. And again there was
\nsomething in the laugh that was not in the laugh of Richard
\nLancaster or of any human mirth to which Armand Sieurcaye
\nhad ever listened. As soon as Richard had left the room, Armand
\nalmost ran to the door, locked it and sat down at his wife’s
\nbedside shaking with an excitement he could not control. He
\nsoon recovered hold of his nerves, but he did not leave the room
\nand its unconscious inmates. He sat there motionless till at four
\no’clock in the morning a light knock at the door startled him.
\nWhen he opened it, Stephen Abelard entered. He took Armand’s
\npresence as a matter of course and went calmly to the side of the
\nchild and began looking down on the heir of his house, the little
\nbaby was all that was left to him of Isabel. When he turned from
\nthe cradle, Armand spoke.<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Sir, you must do something about Richard."
\nStephen looked at him. "Come to my room, Armand," he
\nsaid, "We will talk there." Before following Stephen, Armand
\nwoke the nurse and bade her watch over the child. "Lock the<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131043<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\ndoor," he added, "and keep it locked till I return." As he went
\nthrough the corridors, he passed Richard’s room. The door
\nwas open, but the room absolutely dark; still his practised eyes
\nperceived in the doorway a figure standing, which drew back
\nwhen he looked at it, obviously not the figure of Richard, for it
\nwas shorter, slenderer. When he was entering Stephen’s room,
\nit occurred to him that he had unconsciously carried away in his
\nmind the impression that it was the figure of a woman. After
\nthe first disagreeable feeling had passed, he shook the absurdity
\nfrom him; it must have been the dressing-gown that gave him
\nthe idea of a woman’s robe. After a brief talk with Stephen, the
\ntwo were pulling in silence at the cigars they had lighted, when,
\nperhaps half an hour after his leaving the nursery, someone
\nknocked at the door and the nurse appeared and beckoned to
\nArmand Sieurcaye. There was a look of terrible anxiety on her
\nface that brought Armand striding to the door.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Will you come, sir?" she said, "I don’t know what’s the
\nmatter with the child."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Did you lock the door?" asked Armand, as they went.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nThe nurse looked troubled. "I thought I did, though I
\ncould not understand why you wanted it. But it seems I can’t
\nhave turned the key well. For when I dozed off for two minutes,
\nI woke to find the door open." Then she paused and added with
\ngreat hesitation. "And almost felt, sir, as if I had noticed a
\nwoman in the room standing by the candle, but I was too sleepy
\nto understand. It wasn’t Mrs. Sieurcaye, for I had to wake her
\nup afterwards."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nA woman! And the locked door that opened! Armand
\ngroaned, he could understand nothing, but he knew what he
\nwould find even before he bent with the already awakened and
\nanxious Aloyse over the dead child who had thus so swiftly
\nfollowed his mother to the grave. And it was by the same way.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nThat morning Stephen Abelard spoke to his elder son-in-
\nlaw "Richard," he said, "you will start for your sea-voyage
\ntoday. Take John’s yacht at Bristol. You need not wait for the
\nfuneral nor mind what people will say. If I were you, I’ld have a
\ndoctor on board."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131044<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nRichard Lancaster was very calm and deliberate as he
\nreplied, "I had settled that, sir, before you spoke. I’m going on a
\nlong journey and I’m going direct, not by Bristol nor in the
\nyacht. As you suggest, I’ll not wait for the funeral and I’m past
\ncaring what people will say."<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Don’t forget the doctor," insisted Stephen.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"The doctor can’t come," said Richard. "And he would not
\nlike the voyage. I’m not mad, sir, \u2014 worse luck!" The two sons-in-law of Stephen Abelard left the house-steps together, Armand
\nfor a stroll in the grounds to steady his heated brain and his
\nshaken nerves, Richard in the direction of the stables.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nWhen Armand was returning to the house, a pale-faced
\ngroom ran up to him and pointed in the direction of the great
\navenue of stately trees before Abelard.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Mr. Richard’s lying there," he faltered, "\u2014shot!"<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nArmand stood stock-still for a moment, then ran to the
\nspot indicated. Of this last tragedy he had had no presentiment.
\nWhat was it? What was this maddening and bloody tangle?
\nThis death-dance of an incomprehensible fate which had struck
\ndown mother, father and child in less than thirty hours? No
\ngleam of motive, no shred of coherence illuminated the night-
\nmare. His reason stood helpless at last in the maze. It was the
\nlocked door, he thought, that opened and revealed nothing.
\nBut his reason insisted. Richard Abelard was mad, and in his
\nmadness he had used the device John must have incautiously
\ntaught him to slay wife and child; and this last act of self-slaughter was the natural refuge of a disturbed brain made
\naware by Armand’s looks and by Stephen’s words of discovery.<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nRichard Abelard lay dead on the grass by the avenue, shot
\nthrough the heart and the revolver lay fallen two feet from his
\noutstretched and nerveless hand. Armand bending to assure
\nhimself that life was extinct, caught sight of a small piece of
\npaper lying close to the knee of the dead man. When he rose, he
\nturned to the groom, "Mr. Richard’s dead," he said, "go and
\ntell Mr. Abelard and bring men here to carry him in."<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nThe man reluctantly departed and Armand caught up the
\npaper and put it swiftly into his pocket. It was not till an hour<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131045<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nlater that he had time to take it out in his parlour and look at
\nit. As he had suspected, it was a brief note in Richard’s hand-
\nwriting, and thus it ran, brief, pointed, tragic, menacing:<\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\n"Armand, you knew! But it was not I, God is my witness,
\nI am not guilty of murder. I can say no more; but in mercy to
\nAloyse, look to yourself!"<\/font> <\/font><\/p>\n

\nFor a long time Armand Sieurcaye held in his hand the dead
\nman’s mysterious warning. Then he flung it into the fire and
\nwatched its whiteness blacken, shrivel and turn into ashes.<\/font>
\n<\/font> <\/p>\n

\n(Incomplete)<\/i><\/font>
\n<\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage \u20131046<\/font><\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/table>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Door at Abelard     THE village of Streadhew lay just under the hill, a collection of brown solid cottages straggling through the pastures,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-160","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-07-collected-plays-part-ii-volume-07","wpcat-6-id"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/160","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=160"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/160\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=160"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=160"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=160"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}