{"id":1755,"date":"2013-07-13T01:37:05","date_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:37:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/?p=1755"},"modified":"2013-07-13T01:37:05","modified_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:37:05","slug":"14-stories-the-door-at-abelard-vol-03-04-collected-plays-and-stories","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/01-works-of-sri-aurobindo\/03-cwsa\/03-04-collected-plays-and-stories\/14-stories-the-door-at-abelard-vol-03-04-collected-plays-and-stories","title":{"rendered":"-14_Stories – The Door at Abelard.htm"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n\n\n
\n<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

\n <\/font><\/p>\n

\nCHAPTER I
\n<\/b><\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\nT<\/font>HE VILLAGE<\/font><\/b> of Streadhew lay just under the hill, a
\ncollection of brown solid cottages straggling through the
\npastures, and on the top of the incline Abelard with its
\ngables and antique windows watched the road wind and drop
\nslowly to the roofs of Orringham two miles away. For many centuries the house and the village had looked with an unchanged
\nface on a changing world, and in their old frames housed new
\nmen and manners, while Orringham beyond adapted itself and
\ncast off its mediaeval slough. The masters of Abelard lived with
\nthe burden of a past which they could not change.
\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
\nactivities incidental to his position with a punctilious conscientiousness, but withdrawn in soul from the life around him.
\nThat was since the death of his wife in childbirth followed soon
\nafterwards by the fading of the son to give whom she had died. Two daughters, Isabel and
\nAlo\u00ffse , survived. Stephen Abelard
\ndid not marry again; he was content that the old line should be
\ncontinued through the female side, and when his daughter Isabel
\nmarried Richard Lancaster, the younger son of a neighbouring
\ncountry family, he stipulated that the husband should first consent to bear the name of his wife’s ancestors. This attachment
\nto the old name was the one 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. <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 965<\/p>\n

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\n

\n

A strange series of accidents had helped to bring the
\nold family near to extinction. For the last hundred years no
\ndaughter-in-law of the house had been able to survive by many
\ndays the birth of her first male child. Girl-children had been born
\nand no harm had happened but some fatality seemed to attend
\nthe birth of a son. Stephen’s great-grandfather had male issue,
\nHugh and Walter, and one daughter, Bertha, who died tragically,
\nmurdered in her chamber, no one knew by whom. It was after
\nthis incident that the fatality seemed to weigh on the house and
\npopular superstition was not slow to connect the fatality with
\nthe deed. Hugh Abelard had already a wife and two sons at the
\ntime of the occurrence, but Walter was unmarried. One year
\nafter the tragic and mysterious death of his sister he brought a
\nbride 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
\ndid not 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
\nwho married into the fated house. So strong was the impression
\nmade upon Richard Abelard by this fate or this strong recurrent
\ncoincidence that when he married again, he would not allow
\nhis wife to enter the home of his ancestors. He bought a house
\nin the neighbouring county and lived there till his death from
\nan accident in the hunting-field. After him Stephen reigned, a
\nman modern-minded, full of energy and courage, who returned,
\nscornful of antiquated superstitions, to the old family house,
\nmarried and had two daughters, and then \u2014  well, coincidence
\ninsisted and the male child came and the mother, adored of her<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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\n

\nhusband, passed away. But there was no mystery about this
\ndeath. She died of collapse after childbirth, her life fought for by
\nskilful doctors, watched over by careful attendants, sleeplessly
\nguarded at night by her husband. A coincidence, nothing more. <\/p>\n

\nTherefore Isabel and Richard Lancaster Abelard came fearlessly to live at the fated house. The daughters of the house
\nhad been immune from any fatality, and when she became enceinte, no superstitious fears haunted the mind of any among
\nthe numerous friends and relatives who loved her for her charm
\nand her gaiety. About three months before the birth of the child could be expected her sister
\nAlo\u00ffse  married, not as the Abelards
\nhad hitherto done, into the neighbouring families, but, contrary
\nto all precedent, a young foreign doctor settled at Orringham,
\na man not only foreign, but of Asiatic blood. Popular as Dr.
\nArmand Sieurcaye was in the neighbourhood, the alliance had
\ncome with something of a shock to the countryside; for the
\nAbelards, though less wealthy than many, were the oldest of
\nthe county families. But neither Abelard nor his daughter were
\ntroubled with these prejudices. The young man had powerfully
\nattracted them both and the marriage was as much the choice
\nof the father as of the daughter. <\/p>\n

\nArmand Sieurcaye came from the south of France, and there
\nwas only the glossy blackness of his hair and the richer tint
\nof the olive in his face to suggest a non-European origin. His
\ngrandfather, son of the mixed alliance of a Maratha Sirdar with
\nthe daughter of a French adventurer in the service of Scindia,
\nhad been the first to settle in France purchasing an estate in
\nProvence with the riches amassed and hoarded by battle and
\nplunder on Indian soil. Armand was the younger of two sons
\nand had studied medicine at Nancy and then, driven rather by
\nsome adventurous strain in his blood than any necessity, sought
\nhis fortune abroad. He went first to Bombay, but did little there
\nbeyond some curious investigations which interested his keen,
\nsceptical and inquiring mind, but did not help his purse. At Bombay, he met John Lancaster, Richard’s brother, and was induced
\nby him to try his fortune in the English county town aided
\nby whatever local influence his friend, plucked by an almost<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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\n

\n

miraculous 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, a lucrative practice, and
\nAlo\u00ffse  Abelard.<\/p>\n

\nThe old house, bathed in spring sunshine, had little in it
\nof the ominous or weird to Armand Sieurcaye when with his
\nyoung wife he entered it for a lengthened stay in the month of
\nIsabel’s delivery. He was attracted by its old-world quaintness,
\nby the mass of the green ivy smothering the ancient walls, by
\nthe heavenward question of its short pointed towers; but there
\nwas nothing there to alarm or to daunt. Isabel had hurried to the
\nstudy to her father, and Armand guided by Richard Lancaster repaired to the room into which the domestics had already carried
\nhis belongings. <\/p>\n

\n“Awfully good of you to leave your practice and come,”
\nsaid Lancaster, “It’s a relief to have you. Herries is a fool and
\nI’m not used to the worry.” <\/p>\n

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

\n“Is there any trouble?” he asked lightly, “Isabel seems
\nstrong. There can’t be any reason for fear.” <\/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, “How do you like your
\nroom?” <\/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
\nthe walls and the unusual narrowness and length of the two
\nwindows that looked out on the grounds behind the house. His
\neyes fell on a door in the wall to his right hand. <\/p>\n

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

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

\nThe door attracted Armand’s attention strangely. Of some
\nslighter wood, not of the oak with which Abelard abounded, it <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 968<\/p>\n

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\n

\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 attempt
\nto turn the handle brought no result. <\/p>\n

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

\n“It’s a beastly house,” he cried. “When old Stephen dies, I’ll
\nsell it for a song.” <\/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. <\/p>\n

\nBut it occurred to him again when, returning from a solitary
\nwalk in the grounds, he chanced to look up at the angle of the
\nhouse occupied by his room and the locked closet or balcony. <\/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 confirmed the Doctor’s surmise that here was a later
\nexcrescence 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 <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 969<\/p>\n

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\n

\n

the house by the balcony. The possibility, no doubt, explained
\nthe locked door. Greatly relieved, he knew not why, Armand
\ncontinued his walk. But he thought of the door idly more than
\nonce before nightfall.<\/p>\n

\nThat night, Armand Sieurcaye, sleeping by the side of his
\nwife, was awakened by what seemed to him a noise in or outside
\nhis room. The lamp was burning low but nothing stirred in
\nthe dimness of the room. His eyes fell on the locked door and
\na disagreeable attraction rivetted them upon it; to his newly-awakened senses there 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
\nwoke, but this time a cold air upon him, and before he opened
\nunwilling eyes, he was aware of the door of his room being
\nsoftly opened and closed. Still the lamp burned, \u2014  the room
\nwas empty. Involuntarily his eyes sought the locked door. It was
\nswung back on its hinges, wide open! 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! <\/p>\n

\nCursing his nerves for fools Armand Sieurcaye leaped from
\nthe bed, turned up the lamp and, conquering a nervous reluctance the violence of which surprised him, stood, lamp in hand,
\nat the threshold of the darkness beyond. It was, as he had conjectured, a wide balcony walled in so as to form a habitable sitting
\nor sleeping-room in summer, and it seemed as such to have
\nbeen utilised; for a bare iron bedstead occupied the width of the
\nroom near the wall, an old armchair with faded and tarnished
\ncushions stood against the opposite end of the room. But the
\narched orifices were now heavily curtained with the thick folds
\nof the climbing ivy. Otherwise the room was entirely empty. He
\ndecided to look out from these windows into the moonlit world
\noutside. <\/p>\n

\nBut as he advanced into the room, he was aware of a growing disorder in his nerves which he could not control. It was <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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\n

\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
\nbare iron bed, of that faded armchair. In any case, he carefully
\nkept his full distance from both as he crossed the room to the
\nivied openings and thrusting aside part of those green curtains
\npeered into the night. A great world of dark green flooded with
\nmoonlight met his eyes. And then he noticed in the moonlight
\na man standing in the grounds of Abelard looking up at the
\nbalcony with a hand shading his eyes. It was Richard Lancaster
\nAbelard, heir of the old house, he who knew nothing of the door
\nand the balcony. And then the strong descendant of old French
\nand Maratha fighters recoiled as if he had received a blow. He
\ndid not look again but hastily crossed the balcony and entered
\nhis room casting a glance of loathing as he passed to each side
\nof him, once at the iron bed, once at the disused armchair. He
\ncould almost have sworn that a shadowy form lay propped upon
\nshadowy pillows on the old iron bed, that somebody looked at
\nhim ironically from the tarnished cushions of the chair. <\/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, resolutely; “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 is nothing strange in Richard Lancaster being out
\nthere 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 \u2014 <\/p>\n

nothing more, I tell you, nothing more.” <\/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 he
\nhad been a highly imaginative lad with a nervous system almost
\nas sensitive as an animal’s. But if Armand Sieurcaye had the
\nnervous temperament of the Asiatic mystic, his brain had been
\ninvincibly sceptical not only with the material French scepticism
\nbut with the merciless Indian scepticism which, once aroused,
\nis far more obstinate and searching than its grosser European<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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\n

\n

shadow. Refusing to accept second-hand proof, however strong,
\nand aware of his own rich nervous endowment, he had himself
\nexperimented in occult science with the double and inconsistent
\ndetermination to be rigidly fair to the supernatural and allow
\nit to establish itself if it existed, and, secondly, to destroy and
\ndisprove it for ever by the very fairness and thoroughness of
\nhis experiments. He had been able to establish as undoubtedly
\nexisting in himself a fair power of correct presentiment, but
\nagainst this he had to set a number of baulked presentiments; he
\ntherefore dismissed the gift as merely a lively power of divining
\nthe trend of events. He was also aware that his personal attractions and repulsions were practically unerring; but, after all,
\nwas not this merely the equivalent in man to the instinct which
\nso often warns children and animals of their friends and enemies? It was probable that the adventurous life of his Maratha
\nforefathers, compelled to be always on the alert against violence
\nand treachery, had stamped the instinct deep into the hereditary temperament of their issue. All the rest of the phenomena
\nvalued by occultists he had, he thought, proved to be sensory
\nhallucinations or inordinate subconscious cerebral activity.<\/p>\n

\nIn the course of his reflections he returned suddenly to his
\nimmediate surroundings and, with a start, looked towards the
\nbalcony-chamber. The door was closed, that had been open!
\nThere it stood shut, plain, dumb, denying that it had ever been
\nanything else. Amazed, Armand leaped to his feet, strode to
\nthe door and turned the handle, ignoring a cry within that
\ncommanded him to desist. The door yielded not; it was not
\nonly closed but locked. Was it possible for any human being to
\nhave crossed his room, closed that door and locked it, under his
\nvery eyes and yet without his knowledge? Then he remembered
\nthe completeness of his absorption and how utterly his mind
\nhad withdrawn into itself. “Nothing wonderful in that!” he
\nsaid. “How often have I been oblivious to time and space and
\ncircumstance outside when absorbed in a train of thoughts or
\nin an experiment.” The visitor must have thought him asleep in
\nthe easy chair and moved quietly. There was nothing more to be
\ndone that night and he returned, baffled, to his slumbers. <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 972<\/p>\n

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\n

\nThe first man he met next morning was Richard Lancaster
\nwho greeted him with his usual shallow and cheerful cordiality.
\nThere was no trace of yesterday’s disturbance in his look or
\ndemeanour. <\/p>\n

\n“Slept well?” asked Armand casually, but carefully watching
\nhis features. <\/p>\n

\n“Like a top!” answered Richard, heartily. “Didn’t raise my
\nhead once from the pillow from eleven to seven.” <\/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: <\/p>\n

\n“By the way, sir, is there a room next to mine? I noticed a
\nlocked door between.” <\/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 to
\nhis lips, but he put it down still untasted. <\/p>\n

\n“Disturbed?” he questioned, sharply. <\/p>\n

\n“Not at all,” parried Armand. “Why should I be?” <\/p>\n

\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 deliberateness. “The room you sleep in was the chamber
\noccupied by the unfortunate girl, Bertha Abelard, with whose
\nname scandal in her life and superstition after her death have
\nbeen busy. You’ve heard all that nonsense about the curse on
\nAbelard. 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.” <\/p>\n

\n“Why?” <\/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  ” <\/p>\n

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

\n <\/p>\n


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\n

\n

“And he \u2014  ”<\/p>\n

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

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

\n“Any cause?” <\/p>\n

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

\nArmand nodded. Hereditary weakness of the heart! It might
\nvery well be. But what then was Richard Lancaster or the
\nhallucination of him doing outside in the moonlight? <\/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’m only keeping her quarters clean for her.'” <\/p>\n

\nArmand remembered the stories in circulation in the county.
\nRumour had charged Walter Abelard with the responsibility
\nfor the death of his sister, partly on the ground of subsequent
\nincidents, partly on the impossibility of an outside assassin penetrating so far or, even supposing he entered, committing the
\ndeed and effecting his escape without leaving one trace behind.
\nWhy, there was the ivy. And even if the ivy were not so thick
\none hundred years ago, an agile man and a gymnast could easily
\nascend the porch to the arched orifices and descend again after
\nhis work had been done. <\/p>\n

\n“You are interested?” said Abelard, “well, we’ll go at once
\nand see the room.” And he rang for a servant to bring the key
\nof the ominous chamber. <\/p>\n

\nArmand had by this time almost convinced himself that his
\nnocturnal experience was only a peculiarly vivid and disagreeable dream. He followed Stephen with the expectation, \u2014  or was
\nit not the hope? \u2014  of finding the room quite other than he had
\nseen it in that uncomfortable experience. As Stephen Abelard
\nopened the door and light overcame its native dimness, the first
\nthing Armand saw was a bare iron bed in the width of the outer
\nwall, the next a faded armchair with tarnished cushions against <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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\nthe inner masonry. The room was dim by reason of the thickness
\nof the ivy choking its arched stone orifices. <\/p>\n

\nNo dream then, but a reality! Someone had twice entered
\nhis room, once to open, once to shut the door of ill omen. Was
\nit Mrs Roberts, somnambulist, vaguely drawn to the door she
\n..
\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
\nup at the room from outside and afterwards returned to shut
\nit? But on what conceivable impulse? Was it the memory of a
\nsomnambulist returning to Armand’s question of the morning?
\nThat was a very likely explanation and fitted admirably with all
\nthe circumstances. Or was his action in any way linked to those
\nnervous perturbations so new and out of place in this shallow,
\nconfident and ordinary nature? That was a circumstance into
\nwhich the theory did not fit quite so easily. A great uneasiness
\nwas growing on Armand Sieurcaye. In a supernatural mystery he
\ndid not believe, but he was too practised in life not to believe in
\nnatural human mysteries underlying the even surface of things.
\nHe knew that men of the most commonplace outside have often
\nbelied their appearance by their actions. A presentiment of dangerous and calamitous things was upon him, and he remembered
\nthat his presentiments had more often justified themselves than
\nnot. But to Stephen Abelard he said nothing; least of all did he
\nsay anything to Richard Abelard of that nocturnal outing which
\nhe had so glibly denied.<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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\n

<\/font>
\n<\/p>\n

\nCHAPTER II
\n<\/b><\/font><\/p>\n

\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. Yet nothing
\nfarther had happened of an unusual nature. Richard Abelard
\nwas often absent and distracted, a thing formerly unknown in
\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,
\nand then he invariably spoke with great satisfaction of the profound sleep he had enjoyed all night. Sieurcaye finally dismissed
\nthe presentiment from his mind. He had accepted the somnambulist theory; it was sleeplessness that was telling on Richard’s
\nnerves. The whole mystery received a rational explanation on
\nthat simple hypothesis. <\/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, but, though he had been accustomed all his life to light
\nslumbers, a sleep as profound as that of which Richard Lancaster
\nboasted, glued his head to the pillow. On this particular night
\nhis wife was not with him, for, to satisfy a caprice of Isabel’s,
\nshe was sleeping with her sister in their old nursery. Armand
\nturned on his pillow, noticed with the surprise of a half-sleeping
\nman the absence of his wife, then glanced about the room and
\nobserved that the door of his chamber was slightly open. A
\nmeaningless detail at first, the circumstance began to awaken a sort of indolent wonder \u2014  had
\nAlo\u00ffse  come into the room to
\nvisit his sleep and gone back to the nursery? Or was it Richard
\nthe somnambulist driven by the monomania of the locked room?
\nAnd then, as if galvanised by a shock of electricity, he sat up in
\nbed, suddenly, violently, and stared at the door with unbelieving
\neyes. It had come back to him that, before turning into bed,
\non the spur of some unaccountable impulse, he had locked his <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 976<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nroom and lain down wondering at his own purposeless action.
\nAnd there now was the door he had thus secured, open, with the
\nkey in the lock, challenging him for an explanation. Had he got
\nup himself in his sleep and opened it? Had he too grown a somnambulist? He remembered the profound slumber, so unusual to
\nhim, so similar to Lancaster’s, that had surprised him for the last
\nfew nights. Then an idea occurred to his rapidly working mind;
\nhe got out of bed, went to the inner door and turned the handle.
\nIt opened! He looked into the room with the iron bed. There was
\nno one there, only the bed and the armchair. Then he closed the
\ndoor, walked over to his own door, locked it, put the key under
\nhis pillow 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 idea,
\nwhat persistent fancy of sleep drove Richard Lancaster to the
\nominous chamber, forced him to devise entrance against every
\nobstacle and by such forbidden means? Armand shuddered as
\nhe remembered the story of Bertha Abelard’s death and his own
\ntheory of the means by which her assassin had gained entrance. <\/p>\n

\nAs he expected, he soon fell asleep. Rising the next morning, his first action was to walk over to the inner door and try
\nit. It was locked! Well, that was natural. Somnambulists were
\noften alert and keen-minded even beyond their waking selves
\nand Richard, foiled again by the locked door, had climbed up
\nonce more by the ivy to efface all proof of his nocturnal visit. <\/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. <\/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<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 977<\/p>\n

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\n

\n

invade your room. I keep my chatelaine at night under my
\npillow.”<\/p>\n

\n“You had it there last night?”<\/p>\n

\n“Armand! I am positive our ancestress has visited you. Yes,
\nlast night too.” And then suddenly, “Why, no, it was not. I put
\nit last night in the box where I kept my doll and my toys. Don’t
\nlook surprised, Armand. I’m a great baby still in many things
\nand I wanted to have everything last night just as it was when we
\nwere children. I was a very careful and jealous little housewife,
\nand before I slept I used always to lock up my chatelaine with
\nmy doll and playthings and treasure the tiny key of my box in a
\nlocket under my nightgown. I did all that last night. If you have
\nbeen haunted, I’m not responsible.”<\/p>\n

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

\n“I did not think of it till we went to bed. Only Alo\u00ffse  knew.”<\/p>\n

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

\n“Oh, it is only an idea I had,” he replied, and rapidly escaped
\nfrom farther question to the sitting-room set apart for himself and Alo\u00ffse .<\/p>\n

\nThe thing was staggering. Somnambulism did not make one
\nomniscient, and it was impossible that Richard Abelard should
\nhave known this arrangement of Isabel’s far-off childhood, extracted the key from his sleeping wife’s locket, the chatelaine
\nfrom the box and restored them undiscovered, when his need
\nwas finished. The theory involved such a chain of impossibilities and improbabilities that it must be rejected. And then, as
\nalways, a solution suggested itself. Richard Abelard must have
\ntaken, long ago, the impress of the key and got a duplicate of it
\nmade for his own secret use. But if so, what unavowable design,
\nwhat stealthy manoeuvres must such a subterfuge be intended
\nto serve? What legitimate need could Richard Abelard have of
\nthis secret and ominous exit or entry? Was it not Armand’s duty
\nto warn Stephen Abelard of proceedings that must conceal in
\nthem something abnormal, perilous or even criminal? But there<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
\nPage \u2013 978<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

<\/p>\n

\nwas the danger that Isabel might come to hear of it and receive
\na shock. Armand decided to wait till after her delivery. <\/p>\n

\nA knock at the door roused him from his thoughts and in
\nresponse to his invitation Richard Abelard himself entered. He
\nwalked up to the fireplace, flung himself into a chair opposite
\nArmand and jerked out abruptly:
\n“<\/p>\n

\nDr. Armand, you are a dab at medical diagnosis. Can’t you
\ntell me what’s the matter with me?” <\/p>\n

\n“Name your symptoms.” <\/p>\n

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

\n“What of the mind?” <\/p>\n

\n“Oh, how should I know? Dreams, imaginations, sensations, impulses. Yes, impulses.” He grew pale as he repeated the
\nword. <\/p>\n

\n“Can’t you be more precise?” <\/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.” <\/p>\n

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

\n“Steady!” he cried, “it’s a nervous disorder, of course, nothing more. But you are hiding something from me. That won’t
\ndo.” <\/p>\n

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

\n“Of course, I’ll prevent it. But you have got to be frank with
\nme. I must know everything.” <\/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, “It’s
\nthis beastly house,” he cried; “there’s something in it! There’s
\nsomething in it that ought not to be there.” <\/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 a
\nlonger spell of the sea.” <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 979<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\n“I’ll do it,” cried Richard Lancaster, “as soon as Isabel’s safe
\nthrough this, I’ll go. Thank you, Armand.” And with a look of
\ngreat relief on his face, he rose and left the room.\n<\/p>\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 shook from it the effects of the strain. There was
\nno danger for her and the child seemed likely to inherit the
\nrobust physique of his parents. As for Richard, he was joyous,
\nat ease and seemed to have put from him his idea of a flight from
\nAbelard.\n<\/p>\n

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

\n“Get up, Armand; dress and come. Do not disturb Alo\u00ffse .”\n<\/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 leaped upon him.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Isabel is dead,” he said briefly.\n<\/p>\n

\nWith a dull brain that refused to think Armand followed
\nthe father to the death chamber of his child. The wall lamp
\nwas flaring high above the bed. A night-lamp that no one had
\nthought to put out, burned on the toilette-table. In a chair far
\nfrom the bed Richard Lancaster with his face hidden in his hands
\nsat rocking himself, his body shaken by sobs. When Armand
\nentered, he uncovered his face, cast at him a tragic look from
\neyes full of tears, and went swaying from the room.\n<\/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 something <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 980<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\n

peculiar in the pose of the head and neck struck his awakened
\nbrain. He bent down suddenly, then rose as suddenly, his olive
\nface sallow with some strong emotion, strode to the toilette-table, seized the night-lamp and returning held it to Isabel’s neck. <\/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. <\/p>\n

\n

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

\n

“Armand!”<\/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
\ndiscover it \u2014  not even a trace, only an indication, but a sure
\nindication. The Japanese wrestlers know the device, but do not
\nimpart it except to those who are too self-disciplined to abuse
\nit. That is what has been done here.” <\/p>\n

\n

Stephen Abelard seized Armand’s shoulder with a tense,
\nviolent grip. “Armand,” he cried, “who besides yourself knows
\nof this means of murder?” <\/p>\n

\n

“John Lancaster knows it.” <\/p>\n

\n

Stephen’s hand fell limply 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.” <\/p>\n

\n

“It is best so,” replied Armand Sieurcaye. <\/p>\n

\n

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

\n

Armand did not return to his chamber, but went into his
\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, <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 981<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nfriend of Armand Sieurcaye, in the murder of Isabel Abelard?
\nWas it for his entry that Richard had provided, by the duplicate
\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 great
\ndog, Brilliant, lay at the bottom of the stairs and would not
\nallow any but an inmate to pass unchallenged. John Lancaster
\nwas 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.
\nIn a certain sense he himself was responsible for Isabel’s death.
\nHow wise were the Easterns in their rigid reticence when they
\ntaught only to prepared and disciplined natures the secrets that
\nmight be misused to harm mankind! And then his mind travelled
\nto Isabel and her sorrowful end slain in the supreme moment
\nof a woman’s joy by the husband she loved. What grim and
\ninexorable Power ruling the world, Fate, Chance, Providence,
\nhad singled out for this doom a girl whose whole life had been
\nan innocent shedding of sunshine on all who came near? Providence! He smiled. There were still fools who believed in an
\noverruling Providence, a wise and compassionate God! And then
\nthe insoluble problem returned to baffle his mind, what possible
\nmotive moved Richard to compass this heartless crime or John
\nto assist him?<\/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. <\/p>\n

\n“I should like a word with you, Richard,” he said. <\/p>\n

\nRichard turned on him, laughing with a terrible gaiety. “No
\nuse, Doctor Armand. You could not save me, you see. The thing
\nwas too strong. Mark my words, the thing will be too strong even
\nfor you.” And he strode to his room leaving Armand amazed on
\nthe staircase. <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 982<\/p>\n

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\n

Alo\u00ffse had elected to sleep that night with her dead sister’s
\nchild and Armand once more found himself alone in Bertha
\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
\nthe locked door open and someone traversing the room on a
\nmission of evil, a work of horror. He woke with a start, his
\nheart in him dull and heavy as lead and full of the conviction,
\nwhich it called knowledge, that the tragedy was not finished but
\nmore crimes mysterious and unnatural were about to pollute 
\nthe old walls of Abelard. Then his thoughts flew to Alo\u00ffse . He
\ndressed himself hastily and went to the room where she was 
\nsleeping. Alo\u00ffse  was asleep and the child’s nurse slept on a bed
\nsome five feet away, but Armand cast only a fleeting glance at
\nthe two women, for between the beds was the cradle of Isabel’s
\nchild and over it was a figure stooping, and as it lifted its face
\ntowards the opened door, he saw a face that was and yet was not
\nthe face of Richard Lancaster. Richard immediately moved over
\nto the door. As he neared, Armand drew away from it with the
\nfirst pang 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
\nthe child and began looking down on the heir of his house, the
\nlittle baby who was all that was left to him of Isabel. When he
\nturned from the cradle, Armand spoke.\n<\/p>\n

“Sir, you must do something about Richard.”\n<\/p>\n

Stephen looked at him. “Come to my room, Armand,” he <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 983<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nsaid, “We will talk there.” Before following Stephen, Armand
\nwoke the nurse and bade her watch over the child. “Lock the
\ndoor,” he added, “and keep it locked till I return.” As he went
\nthrough the corridors, he passed Richard’s room. The door was
\nopen, 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, it
\noccurred to him that he had unconsciously carried away in his
\nmind the impression that it was the figure of a woman. After the
\nfirst disagreeable feeling had passed, he shook the absurdity from
\nhim; it must have been the dressing-gown that gave him the idea
\nof a woman’s robe. After a brief talk with Stephen, the two were
\npulling in silence at the cigars they had lighted, when, perhaps
\nhalf an hour after his leaving the nursery, someone knocked
\nat the door and the nurse appeared and beckoned to Armand
\nSieurcaye. There was a look of terrible anxiety on her face that
\nbrought Armand striding to the door.\n<\/p>\n

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

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

\nThe nurse looked troubled. “I thought I did, though I could
\nnot understand why you wanted it; but it seems I can’t have
\nturned the key well. For when I dozed off for two minutes, I
\nwoke to find the door open.” Then she paused and added with
\ngreat hesitation. “And I almost felt, sir, as if I had noticed a
\nwoman in the room standing by the cradle, but I was too sleepy
\nto understand. It wasn’t Mrs Sieurcaye, for I had to wake her up
\n..
\nafterwards.”\n<\/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 anxious Alo\u00ffse  over the dead child who had thus so swiftly
\nfollowed his mother to the grave. And it was by the same way.\n<\/p>\n

\nThat morning Stephen Abelard spoke to his elder son-in-law. “Richard,” he said, “you will start for your sea-voyage
\ntoday. Take John’s yacht at Bristol. You need not wait for the <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 984<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\n

funeral nor mind what people will say. If I were you, I’ld have a
\ndoctor on board.” <\/p>\n

\n

Richard Lancaster was very calm and deliberate as he
\nreplied, “I had settled that, sir, before you spoke. I’m going on
\na long 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.” <\/p>\n

\n

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

\n

“The doctor can’t come,” said Richard, “And he wouldn’t
\nlike the voyage. I’m not mad, sir, \u2014  worse luck!” <\/p>\n

\n

The two sons-in-law of Stephen Abelard left the house-steps
\ntogether, Armand for a stroll in the grounds to steady his heated
\nbrain and his shaken nerves, Richard in the direction of the
\nstables. <\/p>\n

\n

When 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. <\/p>\n

\n

“Mr. Richard’s lying there,” he faltered, ” \u2014  shot!”
\n. <\/p>\n

\n

Armand 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? This
\ndeath dance of an incomprehensible fate which had struck down
\nmother, father and child in less than thirty hours? No gleam of
\nmotive, no shred of coherence illuminated the nightmare. His
\nreason stood helpless at last in the maze. It was the locked door,
\nhe thought, that opened and revealed nothing. But his reason
\ninsisted. Richard Abelard was mad, and in his madness he had
\nused the device John must have incautiously taught him to slay
\nwife and child; and this last act of self-slaughter was the natural
\nrefuge of a disturbed brain made aware by Armand’s looks and
\nby Stephen’s words of discovery. <\/p>\n

\n

Richard 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 tell
\n.<\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 985<\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

\nMr. Abelard and bring men here to carry him in.”
\n.\n<\/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
\nlater that he had time to take it out in his parlour and look at it.
\nAs he had suspected, it was a brief note in Richard’s handwriting,
\nand thus it ran, brief, pointed, tragic, menacing.\n<\/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 Alo\u00ffse , look to yourself!”\n<\/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.\n<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\nCHAPTER III
\n<\/b><\/p>\n

<\/font><\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\n[The story was abandoned here.<\/i>]\n<\/p>\n


\nPage \u2013 986<\/p>\n

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