Hangmans Holiday (5 page)

“He is a good man,” said Dominique, “and a skilful doctor, but an evil like that is beyond his power to cure. You are not afraid, Martha?”

“Why should I be afraid? The Evil One cannot harm
me
. I have no beauty, no wits, no strength for him to envy. And the Holy Relic will protect me.”

Her wrinkled fingers touched something in the bosom of her dress.

“You come from the house yonder?” asked Langley.

She eyed him suspiciously.

“The señor is not of our country?”

“The gentleman is a guest, Martha,” said the landlord hurriedly. “A learned English gentleman. He knows our country and speaks our language as you hear. He is a great traveller, like the American doctor, your master.”

“What is your master’s name?” asked Langley. It occurred to him that an American doctor who had buried himself in this remote corner of Europe must have something unusual about him. Perhaps he also was an ethnologist. If so, they might find something in common.

“He is called Wetherall.” She pronounced the name several times before he was sure of it.

“Wetherall? Not Standish Wetherall?”

He was filled with extraordinary excitement.

The landlord came to his assistance.

“This parcel is for him,” he said. “No doubt the name will be written there.”

It was a small package, neatly sealed, bearing the label of a firm of London chemists and addressed to “Standish Wetherall, Esq., M.D.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Langley. “But this is strange. Almost a miracle. I know this man. I knew his wife, too—”

He stopped. Again the company made the sign of the cross.

“Tell me,” he said in great agitation, and forgetting his caution, “you say his wife is bewitched—afflicted—how is this? Is she the same woman I know? Describe her. She was tall, beautiful, with gold hair and blue eyes like the Madonna. Is this she?”

There was a silence. The old woman shook her head and muttered something inaudible, but the daughter whispered:

“True—it is true. Once we saw her thus, as the gentleman says—”

“Be quiet,” said her father.

“Sir,” said Martha, “we are in the hand of God.”

She rose, and wrapped her shawl about her.

“One moment,” said Langley. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled a few lines. “Will you take this letter to your master the doctor? It is to say that I am here, his friend whom he once knew, and to ask if I may come and visit him. That is all.”

“You would not go to that house, excellence?” whispered the old man fearfully.

“If he will not have me, maybe he will come to me here.” He added a word or two and drew a piece of money from his pocket. “You will carry my note for me?”

“Willingly, willingly. But the señor will be careful? Perhaps, though a foreigner, you are of the Faith?”

“I am a Christian,” said Langley.

This seemed to satisfy her. She took the letter and the money, and secured them, together with the parcel, in a remote pocket. Then she walked to the door, strongly and rapidly for all her bent shoulders and appearance of great age.

Langley remained lost in thought. Nothing could have astonished him more than to meet the name of Standish Wetherall in this place. He had thought that episode finished and done with over three years ago. Of all people! The brilliant surgeon in the prime of his life and reputation, and Alice Wetherall, that delicate piece of golden womanhood—exiled in this forlorn corner of the world! His heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeing her again. Three years ago, he had decided that it would be wiser if he did not see too much of that porcelain loveliness. That folly was past now—but still he could not visualise her except against the background of the great white house in Riverside Drive, with the peacocks and the swimming-pool and the gilded tower with the roof-garden. Wetherall was a rich man, the son of old Hiram Wetherall the automobile magnate. What was Wetherall doing here?

He tried to remember. Hiram Wetherall, he knew, was dead, and all the money belonged to Standish, for there were no other children. There had been trouble when the only son had married a girl without parents or history. He had brought her from “somewhere out west.” There had been some story of his having found her, years before, as a neglected orphan, and saved her from something or cured her of something and paid for her education, when he was still scarcely more than a student. Then, when he was a man over forty and she a girl of seventeen, he had brought her home and married her.

And now he had left his house and his money and one of the finest specialist practices in New York to come to live in the Basque country—in a spot so out of the way that men still believed in Black Magic, and could barely splutter more than a few words of bastard French or Spanish—a spot that was uncivilised even by comparison with the primitive civilisation surrounding it. Langley began to be sorry that he had written to Wetherall. It might be resented.

The landlord and his wife had gone out to see to their cattle. The daughter sat close to the fire, mending a garment. She did not look at him, but he had the feeling that she would be glad to speak.

“Tell me, child,” he said gently, “what is the trouble which afflicts these people who may be friends of mine?”

“Oh!” She glanced up quickly and leaned across to him, her arms stretched out over the sewing in her lap. “Sir, be advised. Do not go up there. No one will stay in that house at this time of the year, except Tomaso, who has not all his wits, and old Martha, who is—”

“What?”

“A saint—or something else,” she said hurriedly.

“Child,” said Langley again, “this lady when I knew—”

“I will tell you,” she said, “but my father must not know. The good doctor brought her here three years ago last June, and then she was as you say. She was beautiful. She laughed and talked in her own speech—for she knew no Spanish or Basque. But on the Night of the Dead—”

She crossed herself.

“All-Hallows Eve,” said Langley softly.

“Indeed, I do not know what happened. But she fell into the power of the darkness. She changed. There were terrible cries—I cannot tell. But little by little she became what she is now. Nobody sees her but Martha and she will not talk. But the people say it is not a woman at all that lives there now.”

“Mad?” said Langley.

“It is not madness. It is—enchantment. Listen. Two years since on Easter Day—is that my father?”

“No, no.”

“The sun had shone and the wind came up from the valley. We heard the blessed church bells all day long. That night there came a knock at the door. My father opened and one stood there like Our Blessed Lady herself, very pale like the image in the church and with a blue cloak over her head. She spoke, but we could not tell what she said. She wept and wrung her hands and pointed down the valley path, and my father went to the stable and saddled the mule. I thought of the flight from bad King Herod. But then—the American doctor came. He had run fast and was out of breath. And she shrieked at sight of him.”

A great wave of indignation swept over Langley. If the man was brutal to his wife, something must be done quickly. The girl hurried on.

“He said—Jesu-Maria—he said that his wife was bewitched. At Easter-tide the power of the Evil One was broken and she would try to flee. But as soon as the Holy Season was over, the spell would fall on her again, and therefore it was not safe to let her go. My parents were afraid to have touched the evil thing. They brought out the Holy Water and sprinkled the mule, but the wickedness had entered into the poor beast and she kicked my father so that he was lame for a month. The American took his wife away with him and we never saw her again. Even old Martha does not always see her. But every year the power waxes and wanes—heaviest at Hallow-tide and lifted again at Easter. Do not go to that house, señor, if you value your soul! Hush! they are coming back.”

Langley would have liked to ask more, but his host glanced quickly and suspiciously at the girl. Taking up his candle, Langley went to bed. He dreamed of wolves, long, lean and black, running on the scent of blood.

Next day brought an answer to his letter:

“
DEAR LANGLEY
,—Yes, this is myself, and of course I remember you well. Only too delighted to have you come and cheer our exile. You will find Alice somewhat changed, I fear, but I will explain our misfortunes when we meet. Our household is limited, owing to some kind of superstitious avoidance of the afflicted, but if you will come along about half-past seven, we can give you a meal of sorts. Martha will show you the way.

Cordially,

STANDISH WETHERALL
.”

The doctor’s house was small and old, stuck halfway up the mountainside on a kind of ledge in the rockwall. A stream, unseen but clamorous, fell echoing down close at hand. Langley followed his guide into a dim, square room with a great hearth at one end and, drawn close before the fire, an armchair with wide, sheltering ears. Martha, muttering some sort of apology, hobbled away and left him standing there in the half-light. The flames of the wood fire, leaping and falling, made here a gleam and there a gleam, and, as his eyes grew familiar with the room, he saw that in the centre was a table laid for a meal, and that there were pictures on the walls. One of these struck a familiar note. He went close to it and recognised a portrait of Alice Wetherall that he had last seen in New York. It was painted by Sargent in his happiest mood, and the lovely wild-flower face seemed to lean down to him with the sparkling smile of life.

A log suddenly broke and fell in the hearth, flaring. As though the little noise and light had disturbed something, he heard, or thought he heard, a movement from the big chair before the fire. He stepped forward, and then stopped. There was nothing to be seen, but a noise had begun; a kind of low, animal muttering, extremely disagreeable to listen to. It was not made by a dog or a cat, he felt sure. It was a sucking, slobbering sound that affected him in a curiously sickening way. It ended in a series of little grunts or squeals, and then there was silence.

Langley stepped backwards towards the door. He was positive that something was in the room with him that he did not care about meeting. An absurd impulse seized him to run away. He was prevented by the arrival of Martha, carrying a big, old-fashioned lamp, and behind her Wetherall, who greeted him cheerfully.

The familiar American accents dispelled the atmosphere of discomfort that had been gathering about Langley. He held out a cordial hand.

“Fancy meeting
you
here,” said he.

“The world is very small,” replied Wetherall. “I am afraid that is a hardy bromide, but I certainly am pleased to see you,” he added, with some emphasis.

The old woman had put the lamp on the table, and now asked if she should bring in the dinner. Wetherall replied in the affirmative, using a mixture of Spanish and Basque which she seemed to understand well enough.

“I didn’t know you were a Basque scholar,” said Langley.

“Oh, one picks it up. These people speak nothing else. But of course Basque is your speciality, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I daresay they have told you some queer things about us. But we’ll go into that later. I’ve managed to make the place reasonably comfortable, though I could do with a few more modern conveniences. However, it suits us.”

Langley took the opportunity to mumble some sort of inquiry about Mrs. Wetherall.

“Alice? Ah, yes, I forgot—you have not seen her yet.” Wetherall looked hard at him with a kind of half-smile. “I should have warned you. You were—rather an admirer of my wife in the old days.”

“Like everyone else,” said Langley.

“No doubt. Nothing specially surprising about it, was there? Here comes dinner. Put it down, Martha, and we will ring when we are ready.”

The old woman set down a dish upon the table, which was handsomely furnished with glass and silver, and went out. Wetherall moved over to the fireplace, stepping sideways and keeping his eyes oddly fixed on Langley. Then he addressed the armchair.

“Alice! Get up, my dear, and welcome an old admirer of yours. Come along. You will both enjoy it. Get up.”

Something shuffled and whimpered among the cushions. Wetherall stooped, with an air of almost exaggerated courtesy, and lifted it to its feet. A moment, and it faced Langley in the lamplight.

It was dressed in a rich gown of gold satin and lace, that hung rucked and crumpled upon the thick and slouching body. The face was white and puffy, the eyes vacant, the mouth drooled open, with little trickles of saliva running from the loose corners. A dry fringe of rusty hair clung to the half-bald scalp, like the dead wisps on the head of a mummy.

“Come, my love,” said Wetherall. “Say how do you do to Mr. Langley.”

The creature blinked and mouthed out some inhuman sounds. Wetherall put his hand under its forearm, and it slowly extended a lifeless paw.

“There, she recognises you all right. I thought she would. Shake hands with him, my dear.”

With a sensation of nausea, Langley took the inert hand. It was clammy and coarse to the touch and made no attempt to return his pressure. He let it go; it pawed vaguely in the air for a moment and then dropped.

“I was afraid you might be upset,” said Wetherall, watching him. “I have grown used to it, of course, and it doesn’t affect me as it would an outsider. Not that you are an outsider—anything but that—eh? Premature senility is the lay name for it, I suppose. Shocking, of course, if you haven’t met it before. You needn’t mind, by the way, what you say. She understands nothing.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t quite know. Came on gradually. I took the best advice, naturally, but there was nothing to be done. So we came here. I didn’t care about facing things at home where everybody knew us. And I didn’t like the idea of a sanatorium. Alice is my wife, you know—sickness or health, for better, for worse, and all that. Come along; dinner’s getting cold.”

He advanced to the table, leading his wife, whose dim eyes seemed to brighten a little at the sight of food.