The Sand-walker
by Fergus Hume
I make no endeavour to explain this experience.
Explanation of it is impossible. I can conceive
no theory upon which to base even the most
slender attempt. It baffles me, it has always
baffled me and it will continue to baffle
me. Yet the impress of the thing loses nothing
of its vividness with time.
It is as clear before me now, as it was within
a few hours of its event. I believe I heard
a ghost knocking; I am certain I saw a ghost
moving. “Indigestion, fancy, an overwrought
and distorted brain,” you will say, no doubt.
I wish I could think it was. But it wasn’t.
The sequel to that glimpse of the dead was
too terrible, the cause too pertinent to the
effect, to permit for one moment of any attribution
to disorder, mental or alimentary. No, what
I saw was actual self-existent. I will set
down the facts for you as they occurred, and
you shall explain them away — if you can.
Then, if you remain unconvinced — go to
Gartholm, by the German Ocean, and hear what
the folk there have to say. They are a stodgy
people, incapable utterly of the most insignificant
hyperbole. They will tell you this tale plainly
as I tell it to you. They believe as I believe.
It was in the summer of '96. I was travelling
in “woollens” for the great Huddersfield
firm of Carbury and Crank. Furnished with
a gig and a fast-trotting mare, it was my
duty to exploit the more scattered parts of
the country, where the railroad was still
unknown and civilisation, as we use the term,
tarried a while.
Gartholm is the name given to a certain wide,
low-lying plain, shut in from the North Sea
by mile upon mile of sandhills. They are heaped
up like hummocks along the coast. It was along
a kind of causeway running straight through
many miles of grain that I drove that hot
July. I had never been in these parts, and
I rejoiced at such ample evidence of fertility.
It argued prosperity for those around; hence
good business for myself and my employers.
I made up my mind to remain there for at least
a month. I left in less than half that time.
As if the plain itself were not sufficiently
damp and low-lying, the village of Gartholm
had been built in a kind of central depression,
immediately beside the river. In other respects
it differed but slightly from the ordinary
English village, save that there was no inn.
Close by the tower of the rubble-built church
there was a pot-house, licensed for the sale
of liquor “to be drunk on the premises,”
but I failed there to get sleeping room either
for myself or Tilly, my weary mare.
Darkness was close upon us and I was worn
out with my day’s drive. There seemed little
prospect of comfort, even had I gained admittance
to this miserable hovel. But that was denied
me. The landlord, a bulky monumental lump
of indolence, stood in the doorway and effectually
blocked all entrance. A dozen or so of idlers
collected to admire Tilly and amuse themselves
at my expense. And I realised that there were
worse fates than that of being cast upon an
uninhabited island, even in this England of
ours at the close of the nineteenth century.
While I was in this plight, arguing with the
landlord and endeavouring to arrive approximately
at the sense of his dialect, a being, human
by contrast to those around, made his appearance
from out the crowd, and approached my gig.
He turned out to be the village schoolmaster,
and those around called him “Muster Abram.”
“You are looking for a lodging?” he said,
in a smooth and (by comparison) strangely
civilised voice.
“I am,” I replied, soothing Tilly, who,
small blame to her, in no wise appreciated
her immediate surroundings. “I’m Dick
Trossall, C.T. to Carbury and Crank, if you’ve
ever heard of ‘em in this forsaken hole.”
“C.T.?” repeated Master Abraham interrogatively,
cocking his one eye (he had lost the other)
which was as bright as any robin’s.
“Commercial Traveller,” said I in explanation;
“or bagman if you like it better. You don’t
comprehend Queen’s English I see in these
parts.”
“Hardly; when so abbreviated. But if it
really be board and lodging you seek, you
can get that only from Mrs. Jarzil at Beach
Farm.”
There was a murmur from those at hand, as
he said the name, and, I thought, a somewhat
dubious expression upon the faces of one or
two. I did not on the whole, feel drawn towards
Mrs. Jarzil and her farm, and I looked at
the schoolmaster enquiringly. Utterly ignoring
this, and vouchsafing me no reply, he proceeded
straightway to climb into my gig, without
so much as “by your leave.” There was
neither modesty nor undue hesitancy about
Master Abraham.
“We will get on then to Mrs. Jarzil’s
farm,” said I. A touch from the whip and
Tilly was off at a good spanking trot in the
direction Master Abraham had indicated. In
a few moments we were out of sight of the
hangers-on and driving through the street
into another causeway similar to the first.
In the distance we could see the house lying
under the lee of the sandhills. A dismal sort
of place it seemed, and wholly solitary.
“Yes, yonder is Beach Farm,” said the
schoolmaster, “and Mrs. Jarzil —” He
stopped suddenly, so that I turned to look
at him.
“What on earth is the matter with Mrs. Jarzil?”
“Nothing, nothing — I was merely wondering,
not so much if she could, as whether she would,
accommodate you. You see Mrs. Jarzil had some
trouble with her last lodger. He was a botanist.
He called himself Amber — Samuel Amber.
Some two years ago it was; he boarded at the
Beach Farm, then suddenly he disappeared.”
“Disappeared? Good Lord! what do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. He walked out of yonder
house one night, and never returned.”
We were close to the house now. It loomed
up suddenly in the mist, which lay thick and
heavy over the sandhills. I felt horribly
depressed. Apart from the intense gloominess
of the surroundings, the damp and darkness
and desolation, all of which had perhaps more
than their due effect upon my jaded nerves,
I was conscious of an indefinite sense of
uneasiness. This one-eyed creature at my elbow
made me decidedly uncomfortable. I have not
a robust nervous system at the best of times,
and he with his sinister innuendoes was fast
gaining a hold upon me.
“There was a daughter, you see,” he went
on, before I could speak.
“Oh, there was a daughter, was there?”
I repeated somewhat relieved. It might be,
after all, that he was nothing more than a
mere scandal-monger. I fervently hoped so.
“Yes; and Mr. Amber made love to her — at
least so it is supposed. At all events she
disappeared, too.”
“At the same time as the man?”
“Lottie was her name,” continued Master
Abraham, utterly heedless of my query, “and
a pretty pink and white creature she was,
with the loveliest golden hair. I used to
call her Venus of the Fen. She was at the
Farm when Amber first arrived. After a while
he left, and she with him. He did not return
for a twelvemonth, and then only to — to
disappear.”
“What on earth are you telling me all this
rigmarole for? I don’t care twopence for
any of your Ambers and Lotties or Venuses
either, for that matter. If the girl was as
pretty as you say, I don’t blame the man
for going off with her. I presume she was
a willing party to the arrangement.”
“Mrs. Jarzil will have it that Amber forced
her daughter to elope with him. You see he
returned a year later — alone.”
“Well, what explanation did he make?”
“None — none whatever.”
“And what did the lady have to say to that?”
“Nothing. Amber took up his residence at
the Farm as before, and remained there until
— until he disappeared.”
Upon my soul I was beginning to feel thoroughly
scared.
“Do you mean to tell me that Mrs. Jarzil
got rid of him by foul play?”
“Oh, dear me, no; nothing of the kind. Mrs.
Jarzil is a most religious woman.”
“Then what the; perhaps you will kindly
make yourself clear. For what reason do you
retail to me this parcel of rubbish?”
“Only this.” He laid his skinny hand upon
my arm. We were turning into the drive which
led up to the house. He pointed with the other
hand towards the sand-ridge.
“Only what?”
The man nodded. Then he whispered to me. “The
Sand-Walker, you know.”
An elderly woman had come to the door and
was standing there. The chief thing I noticed
about her was her determinedly masculine appearance.
For the rest she was a veritable study in
half tone. Her hair, her dress, her complexion,
in fact everything about her, was of various
shades of grey. Her mouth denoted a vile if
not a violent temper.
My reception was anything but cordial; in
fact at the outset she refused altogether
to take me in, but under the persuasive eloquence
of Master Abraham she relented so far as to
agree to board me by the week at what to me
seemed an exorbitant charge. She was evidently
grasping as well as religious — a highly
unpleasant combination I thought. But in the
circumstances I had no option but to accept
the inevitable. It was a case of any port
in a storm.
As I proceeded to drive round to the stable
to put up Tilly — a thing which I invariably
attended to myself — Master Abraham accompanied
me. And somehow I was glad of even his company.
There was not a living soul about. I asked
him why this was.
“Mrs. Jarzil keeps no servants,” he replied.
“She has not kept any since Lottie and Mr.
Amber went away; or rather, to be precise,
since Mr. Amber disappeared.”
“How is that?”
“She can get none to come here — or to
remain if they do come. They are afraid of
the Sand-walker.”
I asked him point blank what he meant. But
I could get nothing out of him.
“Whatever you do, don’t go on to the beaches
at dusk,” was all he said. Then he vanished.
I say vanished advisedly, for though I ran
after him to the door for the moment I could
see no sign of him; I rushed on round the
corner of the house, and came plump on to
Mrs. Jarzil.
“Master Abraham!” I gasped.
Then Mrs. Jarzil pointed down the road, and
I saw a flying figure disappearing into the
darkness.
“Why does he run off like that?” I asked.
I began to think I was losing my senses.
“Every one runs from Beach Farm,” replied
the woman in the coolest manner possible,
and with that she left me staring in amazement.
I don’t think anyone could dub me a coward,
but this place unnerved me. Both within and
without the house all was mysterious, weird,
and uncanny. My spirits sank to zero and my
nerves were strung up to a tension positively
unendurable. Even the bright light from the
kitchen fire filled me with apprehension.
I could not touch food or drink.
Mrs. Jarzil, gliding about the room, in no
wise reassured me. Masculine and ponderous
as she was, the deftness and stealthiness
of her movements were uncomfortably incongruous.
She spoke not a word. She totally ignored
my presence. I began to loathe the woman.
But I determined that anything was better
than the horrible suspense I was enduring.
So I went straight for the thing which was
making havoc of me.
“What is the Sand-walker, Mrs. Jarzil?”
At the moment she was polishing a dish cover.
As I spoke it crashed on the floor. I never
saw a woman turn quite so pale as she did
then.
“Who has been talking to you about the Sand-walker?”
“Master Abraham,” was my answer. By this
time she was visibly shaking.
“Fool!” she exclaimed. “A triple fool,
and dangerous, too. See here, you Mr. Trossall.
I am willing to board you, but not to answer
your silly questions. And if you don’t like
my house and my ways, you can leave them both.
I can do without you. God knows I have had
enough of boarders.” Though it was rash,
and for all I knew dangerous, willy-nilly
the name Amber slipped my tongue. But she
had regained her self-possession now, and
laughed contemptuously as she picked up the
dish cover.
“I see Abraham’s been telling you my story.
It is not a very pretty story, is it? Yes,
Mr. Amber was a scoundrel. He carried off
my daughter Lottie to London. Ay, and he had
the boldness, too, to return here after his
wickedness. I said nothing. It was my duty
to forgive him, like a Christian, and I did.
Although a mother, I am a Christian first.
Poor Lottie! Poor child! I wonder where she
is now.”
“Do you know where Mr. Amber is?”
“Yes, Abraham told you no doubt that he
disappeared. One would think he had been caught
up into the moon; the way the fools round
here talk. Yet the explanation is perfectly
simple. The man was accustomed to walk on
the Beaches at night. There are quicksands
there, and he fell into one.”
“How do you know that?”
“I found his hat by one of the worst of
them. He had sunk. I am glad he did. He ruined
my life and Lottie’s. But ‘Vengeance is
Mine; I will repay saith the Lord.’ ”
“And this Sand-walker; who, what is it?”
“That does not concern you. I have told
you enough. I am not going to answer all your
silly questions,” she reiterated.
Not another word would she say. Still I felt
somewhat relieved. Abraham had contrived to
surround with an atmosphere of mystery what
after all was purely an accident. I saw that
now; and I was able to go to bed in a much
more tranquil state of mind than I would otherwise
have done.
My room was just off the kitchen. I hadn’t
been in it more than half an hour when I heard
Mrs. Jarzil at her devotional exercises. I
could hear her reading aloud certain Biblical
extracts of a uniformly comminatory character.
Her voice was peculiarly resonant and booming.
Her choice seemed to me to range from Deuteronomy
to Ezekiel and back again. “And Thine eye
shall not pity; but life shall go for life,
eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand,
foot for foot.”
“And the earth opened her mouth and swallowed
them up; they and all that appertained to
them went down alive into the pit, and the
earth closed upon them.”
“The wicked are overthrown and are not.”
So for half an hour or more she went on, until
I was in a cold perspiration. Then she knelt
down and prayed, I was in hopes she had unbosomed
herself for the night at all events. But then
followed such a prayer as I have never heard.
The ban of Jeremiah was a blessing to it.
She cursed Amber, dead though he was. She
cursed her daughter and called down upon her
unfortunate head such visitations that I confess
I shuddered. The woman was raving; yet all
the time I could hear her sobbing, sobbing
bitterly. The whole thing was ghastly, revolting.
I would have given anything to get away.
At last she ceased, and, I presume, went to
bed; though how she could sleep after such
an indulgence was a marvel to me. But perhaps
now that she had so assuaged her wrath, exhaustion
if not relief would follow. I hoped so. At
all events she was quiet. After a while I
got up, to make sure that my door was securely
fastened. Then I scrambled back to bed, and
fell into an uneasy fitful doze. So I got
through the long night. I never once slept
soundly, and when I awoke in the morning I
felt but little refreshed.
With the light came the sense of shame. I
was inclined to deal severely with myself
for my — as they now appeared to me — absurd
apprehensions of the previous night. I made
up my mind then and there that I should be
a downright coward if I carried out my determination
to leave the place. My room was comfortable,
and the food was good. And I rated myself
roundly for being such an impressionable booby.
Besides, I knew enough to make me curious
to know more.
Albeit as silent as ever, I found Mrs. Jarzil
civil and composed enough at breakfast. So
although I had not succeeded in getting rid
wholly of my aversion to the place, I started
off in quest of business, saying that I would
return about five o’clock.
I soon found out that so far as business went,
at all events, I had fallen on my feet. The
very excellent woollen goods of Messrs. Carbury
and Crank appealed to these fen dwellers.
They were a rheumatic lot. But that was more
the fault of the locality than of themselves.
At any rate the local dealers seized upon
my samples with avidity, and I booked more
orders in the day than I was accustomed to
do in a week in some places. I returned therefore
that evening to the Beach Farm in the best
of spirits, but at the gate I encountered
Master Abraham. He soon reduced them to a
normal level.
“Well, how did you sleep?” he said, I
thought with a twinkle in his eye.
“Like a top, of course; I always do.”
“You heard nothing at your window?”
“Of course not. What should I hear?”
“Then you didn’t go on to the Beaches?”
“Certainly not, I was only too glad to get
to bed. Besides, were you not at particular
pains to advise me against going there?”
“Yes, perhaps I was; and I repeat my advice.
If you do, it will come to you at the window.”
“What in heaven’s name do you mean, man?”
“I mean the Sand-walker.”
At that moment Tilly made a bound forward
— she hates standing — and there was nothing
for it but to let her go. The schoolmaster
took himself off, and I drove up to the door.
But I silently swore at that skinny Abraham
for bringing back to me the uneasy feelings
of the previous night. His warning still rang
in my ears. I could not get rid of it. I was
determined I would not pass the night in ignorance.
I resolved to take the bull by the horns and
face whatever there was to face then and there.
After a “high tea” (that was between six
and seven o’clock) I mentioned casually
to Mrs. Jarzil that I was going for a stroll.
She neither bade me go nor stay; so over the
sandhills at the back of the house I scrambled
until I found myself on the sea shore.
The beach was very dreary. All was still,
save for the gentle swash of the wavelets
breaking in upon the ribbed sand. There was
but little wind. To right and left of me there
stretched an interminable vista of sand, vanishing
only to blend itself in the distance with
the heavy mists, which even at that season
of the year hung around. The little land-locked
pools were blood-red with reflection of the
sun. Though the off-shore of the sea and sun
were ablaze with crimson light, I felt an
awful sense of desolation as I sat there in
the dip of a sand-hill watching the departing
sun ring its changes on the spectrum. The
crimson merged to amethyst, the amethyst to
pearl, until in sombre greyness the light
shut down upon the lonely shore.
A mad purposeless impulse seized me. With
a whoop I ran down the firm sand to the brink
of the water. I stood there for some moments
looking out to sea. When I turned, the mists
were thick even between me and the sand-hills.
Darkness came down fold over fold. Every moment
the fog became more damp and clammy, the sense
of desolation more intense. I was isolated
from all that was human; from God for aught
I knew.
Then I thought of the quick-sands — of Mr.
Amber — of Mr. Amber’s hat found lying
there; and I ran back, as I thought, to the
sand hills. But I must have moved circuitously,
for I could not reach even their friendly
shelter. I lost my bearings hopelessly. Where
the sea or where the hills I knew not. I rushed
first this way, and then that, heedless and
without design, intent only on escaping from
the enshrouding mists, from the awesome desolation.
Suddenly the sands quaked under me. I stopped.
The fate of Korah and his brethren flashed
through my mind. My heart drummed loudly in
the stillness. The mists grew thicker, the
night darker. Then it was I saw It beside
me.
At first I thought it was mortal — human
— for its shape was that of a man. With
an exclamation of thankfulness I endeavoured
to approach it. But try as I might, I could
not get near it. It did not walk, it did not
glide, it did not fly. It simply melted in
the mist, yet always visible, always retreating.
That was the horror of the Thing.
My flesh creeped. I felt an icy cold through
every pore of my skin. With awful insistence
it was borne in upon me I was in the presence
of the dead. Yet I was powerless. I could
utter no cry. I could not even stop myself.
On, on I went following that melting receding
thing, until suddenly my foot stumbled on
a sand-hill. Then It became mist with the
mist, and I saw It no more. I scrambled up
the hill and wept like a child.
How I reached the Beach Farm I cannot tell.
I stumbled, blind with terror into the lamplight
of the kitchen. I almost fell into Mrs. Jarzil’s
arms. She uttered no word of surprise, but
sat there staring at my terror-stricken face
and quivering limbs, silent and unsympathetic.
At last she spoke.
“You have seen the Sand-walker?”
“In God’s name what is it?”
“God has nothing to do with the Sand-walker,”
she replied. “It is wholly of hell.”
I could speak no more that night. By help
of some raw spirit I managed to pull myself
together sufficiently to scramble into bed.
The very sheets were a comfort to me; at all
events they were between me and It.
I was utterly exhausted, and for a few hours
I slept. I awoke suddenly with every nerve
on the stretch, every sense acute almost beyond
bearing. Mrs. Jarzil was vociferating in the
kitchen, and sobbing between whiles. Then,
as surely as I am a man and a Christian, I
heard three loud knocks upon the window-pane.
Mrs. Jarzil turned her imprecations into prayer.
In her deep voice she boomed out verses from
the Psalms: “Hear my cry, O God; attend
unto my prayer.”
I could stand it no longer. I flung myself
out of bed, wrapped the coverlet around me,
and rushed into the kitchen. Mrs. Jarzil was
kneeling. Her face poured with perspiration.
She paused as I appeared. There were three
loud knocks at the door.
“What — O God, what is it?” I cried.
“The Sand-walker.”
Then she prayed again: “I will abide in
Thy tabernacle for ever. I will trust in the
cover of Thy wings.
I made for the door, but Mrs. Jarzil seized
me by the arm.
“Don’t let him in, don’t let him in.
He wants me. It is Amber, I tell you. It is
Amber.”
“Amber! The Sand-walker!”
“Yes, yes. He is the Sand-walker. He wants
me — down on the Beaches. If you open the
door I am bound to go. He draws me; he compels
me. But the Lord is my strength, and shall
prevail against the powers of hell.”
I had to prevent her from unbarring the door.
She flung herself upon it and fumbled with
the lock in frenzy. I dragged her back fearful
lest she should admit the thing outside. Gradually
she grew more calm, until at last she stood
before me with a composure almost as terrible
to behold as had been her frenzy.
“I have resisted the Devil, and he is fled!”
she said. “You can go to bed now, Mr. Trossall.
You will be disturbed no more. There will
be no more knocking, no — more — knocking.”
She caught up the candle to go. I detained
her till I took a light from it. Then I went
to bed. I kept the light burning all night,
but there was no more knocking.
Next morning not a word passed between us
about what had occurred. I ate my breakfast
and drove off to my business. In the main
street I met Abraham. I hailed him.
“Is there no other place where I can find
a lodging?” I asked him.
“Ah! so you have been on the Beaches?”
“Yes. I was there yesterday evening.”
“You have seen the Sand-walker?”
“For God’s sake don’t speak of it,”
I said. For it terrified me even in the open
day — here with the sunshine hot upon me.
“And you have heard the knocking?”
“Yes, I have heard everything — seen everything;
let that suffice. Can I find another lodging,
I ask you?”
“No; there is none other in the district.
But why need you fear. It is she, not you,
the Sand-walker wants, ay, and he’ll get
her one night”
“You know this Sand-walker, as you call
him, is Amber.”
“All Gartholm knows that. He has been walking
for a year past now on the Beaches. No one
would go there now for any money you could
offer them — at least not after sun-down.
I warned you, you remember.”
“I know you did. But nevertheless I went,
you see. And this Sand-walker saved my life.
For he led me back to the sand hills when
I had lost myself hopelessly in the fog.”
“It’s not you he wants, I tell you, it’s
she.”
“Why does he want her?” I asked.
The man’s tone was very strange.
“Ask of the quicksands!” he replied; and
with that disappeared in a hurry. I was getting
quite accustomed to this, and would have been
surprised had he taken his leave in anything
approaching a rational manner.
Now, you may perhaps hardly credit it, but
I tossed a shilling then and there to decide
my action in the immediate future. “Heads
I go, tails I stay.”
The coin spun up in the sunlight. Tails it
was. So I was to remain, and in that devil-haunted
house. Well, at all events I was doing a brisk
trade. There was some comfort in that.
During the next ten days I drove for miles
over the district, and did uncommonly well
everywhere. I found that the legend of the
Beach Farm was universally familiar, and they
all shook their heads very gravely indeed
when they learned that I lodged there. In
fact, I am not at all sure that this was not
of assistance to me rather than otherwise.
I became an object of intense interest, and,
no doubt, of sympathy had I known it.
After that terrible night, there was a lull
in the torment of the Sand-walker. Occasionally
it rapped at the door or the window, but that
was all. As for me I walked no more on the
Beaches.
But the time was near at hand when the Devil
would have his own. It came one evening about
six o’clock. There had been heavy rain,
and the marshy lands were flooded and the
mists were thick around. Overhead all was
opaque and grey, and the ground was sodden
under foot. I was anxious to get home, and
Tilly was doing all she knew.
“On arrival I looked after her as was my
wont, first and foremost. When I had made
her comfortable for the night I returned to
the kitchen. To my surprise I found Mrs. Jarzil
in conversation with a girl, in whom from
Abraham’s description, meagre though it
had been, I had no difficulty in recognising
his Venus of the Fen. She was certainly pretty.
I agreed with Abraham there. She was crying
bitterly, whilst her mother raged at her.
They both stopped short as I entered — a
sense of delicacy, no doubt.
“Whatever is the matter?” I asked, surveying
the pair of them.
“Oh, sir, you are mother’s new lodger,
aren’t you?” said the girl. “Master
Abraham told me as she had one. Do please
ask her to hear reason, do, I implore you,
sir.”
“I will allow no one to interfere with my
private aflairs,” said Mrs. Jarzil, stamping
her foot. “If you are wise you will not
seek to make public your disgrace.”
“There is no disgrace. I have done nothing
to be ashamed of, I tell you.”
“No disgrace? No disgrace in allowing yourself
to be beguiled by that man — to be fooled
by his good looks and soft speeches?”
“What do you mean, mother? I have nothing
to do with Mr. Amber.”
“Liar, you ran away with him. What more
could you have to do with him, I should like
to know?”
Lottie’s spirit rose, and with it the colour
to her cheeks. “I ran away with him? Indeed
I did nothing of the kind. It was you who
made me run away. You treated me so cruelly
that I determined to go into service in London.
I was sick to death of your scolding, and
your preaching and praying, and this dismal
house, and these horrible mists, and never
a soul to speak to, sick to death of it I
tell you. That’s why I went. Mr. Amber indeed!”
(this with a toss of her head). “I have
more taste than to take up with the likes
of him. I met him as he was leaving here.
I was walking, and he offered me a lift —”
“Abr’am saw you; Abr’am saw you both!”
interrupted her mother savagly. “He told
me you had eloped with the man.”
“That was a lie. I parted from Mr. Amber
at the London railway station. From that time
to this I have never set eyes upon him. For
my own sake I made him promise to hold his
tongue.”
“He did — he did!” cried Mrs. Jarzil,
wildly. “God help him and me, he did. He
returned here, but he said nothing — made
no explanation. I believed he had ruined you.
Now, oh now, I see it all. And you have ruined
me.”
“Oh, mother, what do you mean?”
“Why did you not let him speak? Oh, why
did you not write and explain. I believed—I
thought he had robbed me of you— and I revenged
myself upon him.
“Revenged yourself?” I cried. I began
to have an inkling of what was coming. But
Mrs. Jarzil paid no heed to me. She shook
Lottie furiously.
“Do you know what your silence has cost
me?” (She was beside herself now). “It
has cost me my soul — my soul, I say. Oh,
why did you let me believe him guilty? I killed
him. I murdered him for your sake. It was
not vengeance, it was not justice, it was
crime — crime and evil.”
“You — killed — Mr. Amber?
“Yes; I killed him. I swore he should pay
for what he had done. His own curiosity did
for him. I played upon it. I lured him to
the quicksands.”
“The quicksands?” I repeated, horrified.
“I placed a lantern on the brink of the
most dangerous of them,” the woman continued,
feverishly. “He used habitually to walk
on the Beaches at dark. His curiosity did
the rest. He had to see what that light was.
I knew he would. It was the last light he
ever saw in this world. Yes, you call it murder.
It was murder. But it was your fault — your
fault. And now he walks, and taps at the door
for me. He wants me; he wants me. I thought
I had justice on my side — that I was avenging
your disgrace; and I fought with my soul;
oh, how I fought! But now — I see he is
right. It is I who must now be punished. I
must go. I must go. Oh, God be merciful to
me, a sinner.”
Lottie lay stretched on the floor. She had
fainted. I placed myself between her mother
and the door. I dared not let her out.
“Where would you go?” I cried, seizing
her by the arm and frustrating a desperate
effort to get away. She was fairly demented,
and seemed possessed of strength almost demoniacal.
“To the Beaches — to my death. Let me
go — let me go. An eye for an eye, I say—a
tooth for a tooth. That is the law of God.
Hark! Listen! He calls — he calls me.”
(I could hear nothing but the howling of the
wind.) “I must go, I must go, I must —”
She was too quick for me. Before I had time
to stop her she was away into the desolate
night. I rushed after her. In her present
condition there was no knowing what she might
do. Clearly her mind was unhinged. I could
hardly see for the rain. It was nearly dark
too. But on through the mire and the mist
I went. I jostled up against a man. It was
Abraham. I remembered it was he who had caused
all this, and with the thought I lost control
of myself. I gripped him by the throat.
“You dog — you liar! Lottie the girl has
come back!”
“I—I—I know!” he gasped. “I was
coming up to see her. Leave, me alone. What
do you mean by this?”
“You deserve it, and more, you villain.
You know well the girl did not go with Amber.
You lied to her mother; you made her think
so. You were in love with her yourself. The
man’s death lies at your door more than
at hers. She has gone to the Beaches — to
her death, I tell you — unless she is stopped.”
Then I realised that I was wasting time. I
hastened on, regretting deeply that my feelings
had so got the better of me just then.
It was blowing half a gale, though it was
not till I had crossed the sandhills that
I realised it. Then the full blast of the
wind struck me. It was as much as I could
do to keep my feet. I could not see the woman
anywhere, though I peered into the gloom until
my head swam. Not a sign of her or any living
creature could I see. There was nothing but
the roar of the wind and the sea, and the
swish of the driving rain.
Then I thought I heard a cry — a faint cry.
I ploughed my way down in the direction whence
I fancied it came. I became aware that Abraham
had followed me. He was close behind me. Together
we groped blindly on.
“He’ll get her this time!” shouted the
man.
“Come on! Come on!” I roared at him. “Yonder
she is.”
“And yonder the Sand-walker.”
The wretch hung back. Then a gust of wind,
more concentrated and more fierce than before,
seemed to rend an opening in the fog. Two
shadows could be seen fluttering along — one
a man of unusual height, the other a woman,
reeling and swaying. She followed the Thing.
As we gazed, a light appeared in the distance,
radiant as a star. Its brilliance grew, and
spread far and wide through the fog. The tall
figure moved up to and past the light — the
other following, always following.
She staggered and flung up her arms, and a
wild and despairing cry rang out above the
elements. And the light gradually died away,
and the wind howled on, driving the mists
across the sinking figure.
Slowly she sank into the sand, deeper and
deeper. One last terrible moan reached us
where we were, then she disappeared. For the
moment the storm seemed to hush. Then all
was darkness.
