The Last of the Legions and Other Tales of Long Ago Read online

  X

  THE SILVER MIRROR

  _Jan. 3._--This affair of White and Wotherspoon's accounts proves to bea gigantic task. There are twenty thick ledgers to be examined andchecked. Who would be a junior partner? However, it is the first big bitof business which has been left entirely in my hands. I must justify it.But it has to be finished so that the lawyers may have the result intime for the trial. Johnson said this morning that I should have to getthe last figure out before the twentieth of the month. Good Lord! Well,have at it, and if human brain and nerve can stand the strain, I'll winout at the other side. It means office-work from ten to five, and then asecond sitting from about eight to one in the morning. There's drama inan accountant's life. When I find myself in the still early hours, whileall the world sleeps, hunting through column after column for thosemissing figures which will turn a respected alderman into a felon, Iunderstand that it is not such a prosaic profession after all.

  On Monday I came on the first trace of defalcation. No heavy game hunterever got a finer thrill when first he caught sight of the trail of hisquarry. But I look at the twenty ledgers and think of the jungle throughwhich I have to follow him before I get my kill. Hard work--but raresport, too, in a way! I saw the fat fellow once at a City dinner, hisred face glowing above a white napkin. He looked at the little pale manat the end of the table. He would have been pale too if he could haveseen the task that would be mine.

  _Jan. 6._--What perfect nonsense it is for doctors to prescribe restwhen rest is out of the question! Asses! They might as well shout to aman who has a pack of wolves at his heels that what he wants is absolutequiet. My figures must be out by a certain date; unless they are so, Ishall lose the chance of my lifetime, so how on earth am I to rest? I'lltake a week or so after the trial.

  Perhaps I was myself a fool to go to the doctor at all. But I getnervous and highly-strung when I sit alone at my work at night. It'snot a pain--only a sort of fullness of the head with an occasional mistover the eyes. I thought perhaps some bromide, or chloral, or somethingof the kind might do me good. But stop work? It's absurd to ask such athing. It's like a long distance race. You feel queer at first and yourheart thumps and your lungs pant, but if you have only the pluck to keepon, you get your second wind. I'll stick to my work and wait for mysecond wind. If it never comes--all the same, I'll stick to my work. Twoledgers are done, and I am well on in the third. The rascal has coveredhis tracks well, but I pick them up for all that.

  _Jan. 9._--I had not meant to go to the doctor again. And yet I have hadto. "Straining my nerves, risking a complete breakdown, even endangeringmy sanity." That's a nice sentence to have fired off at one. Well, I'llstand the strain and I'll take the risk, and so long as I can sit in mychair and move a pen I'll follow the old sinner's slot.

  By the way, I may as well set down here the queer experience which droveme this second time to the doctor. I'll keep an exact record of mysymptoms and sensations, because they are interesting in themselves--"acurious psycho-physiological study," says the doctor--and also because Iam perfectly certain that when I am through with them they will all seemblurred and unreal, like some queer dream betwixt sleeping and waking.So now, while they are fresh, I will just make a note of them, if onlyas a change of thought after the endless figures.

  There's an old silver-framed mirror in my room. It was given me by afriend who had a taste for antiquities, and he, as I happen to know,picked it up at a sale and had no notion where it came from. It's alarge thing--three feet across and two feet high--and it leans at theback of a side-table on my left as I write. The frame is flat, aboutthree inches across, and very old; far too old for hall-marks or othermethods of determining its age. The glass part projects, with a bevellededge, and has the magnificent reflecting power which is only, as itseems to me, to be found in very old mirrors. There's a feeling ofperspective when you look into it such as no modern glass can ever give.

  The mirror is so situated that as I sit at the table I can usually seenothing in it but the reflection of the red window curtains. But a queerthing happened last night. I had been working for some hours, very muchagainst the grain, with continual bouts of that mistiness of which I hadcomplained. Again and again I had to stop and clear my eyes. Well, onone of these occasions I chanced to look at the mirror. It had theoddest appearance. The red curtains which should have been reflected init were no longer there, but the glass seemed to be clouded and steamy,not on the surface, which glittered like steel, but deep down in thevery grain of it. This opacity, when I stared hard at it, appeared toslowly rotate this way and that, until it was a thick white cloudswirling in heavy wreaths. So real and solid was it, and so reasonablewas I, that I remember turning, with the idea that the curtains were onfire. But everything was deadly still in the room--no sound save theticking of the clock, no movement save the slow gyration of that strangewoolly cloud deep in the heart of the old mirror.

  Then, as I looked, the mist, or smoke, or cloud, or whatever one maycall it, seemed to coalesce and solidify at two points quite closetogether, and I was aware, with a thrill of interest rather than offear, that these were two eyes looking out into the room. A vagueoutline of a head I could see--a woman's by the hair, but this was veryshadowy. Only the eyes were quite distinct; such eyes--dark, luminous,filled with some passionate emotion, fury or horror, I could not saywhich. Never have I seen eyes which were so full of intense, vivid life.They were not fixed upon me, but stared out into the room. Then as I saterect, passed my hand over my brow, and made a strong conscious effortto pull myself together, the dim head faded in the general opacity, themirror slowly cleared, and there were the red curtains once again.

  A sceptic would say, no doubt, that I had dropped asleep over myfigures, and that my experience was a dream. As a matter of fact, I wasnever more vividly awake in my life. I was able to argue about it evenas I looked at it, and to tell myself that it was a subjectiveimpression--a chimera of the nerves--begotten by worry and insomnia. Butwhy this particular shape? And who is the woman, and what is thedreadful emotion which I read in those wonderful brown eyes? They comebetween me and my work. For the first time I have done less than thedaily tally which I had marked out. Perhaps that is why I have had noabnormal sensations to-night. To-morrow I must wake up, come what may.

  _Jan. 11._--All well, and good progress with my work. I wind the net,coil after coil, round that bulky body. But the last smile may remainwith him if my own nerves break over it. The mirror would seem to be asort of barometer which marks my brain pressure. Each night I haveobserved that it had clouded before I reached the end of my task.

  Dr. Sinclair (who is, it seems, a bit of a psychologist) was sointerested in my account that he came round this evening to have a lookat the mirror. I had observed that something was scribbled in crabbedold characters upon the metal work at the back. He examined this with alens, but could make nothing of it. "Sanc. X. Pal." was his finalreading of it, but that did not bring us any further. He advised me toput it away into another room, but, after all, whatever I may see in itis, by his own account, only a symptom. It is in the cause that thedanger lies. The twenty ledgers--not the silver mirror--should be packedaway if I could only do it. I'm at the eighth now, so I progress.

  _Jan. 13._--Perhaps it would have been wiser after all if I had packedaway the mirror. I had an extraordinary experience with it last night.And yet I find it so interesting, so fascinating, that even now I willkeep it in its place. What on earth is the meaning of it all?

  I suppose it was about one in the morning, and I was closing my bookspreparatory to staggering off to bed, when I saw her there in front ofme. The stage of mistiness and development must have passed unobserved,and there she was in all her beauty and passion and distress, asclear-cut as if she were really in the flesh before me. The figure wassmall, but very distinct--so much so that every feature, and everydetail of dress, are stamped in my memory. She is seated on the extremeleft of the mirror. A sort of shadowy figure crouches down beside her--Ican dimly disc
ern that it is a man--and then behind them is cloud, inwhich I see figures--figures which move. It is not a mere picture uponwhich I look. It is a scene in life, an actual episode. She crouches andquivers. The man beside her cowers down. The vague figures make abruptmovements and gestures. All my fears were swallowed up in my interest.It was maddening to see so much and not to see more.

  But I can at least describe the woman to the smallest point. She is verybeautiful and quite young--not more than five-and-twenty, I shouldjudge. Her hair is of a very rich brown, with a warm chestnut shadefining into gold at the edges. A little flat-pointed cap comes to anangle in front and is made of lace edged with pearls. The forehead ishigh, too high perhaps for perfect beauty; but one would not have itotherwise, as it gives a touch of power and strength to what wouldotherwise be a softly feminine face. The brows are most delicatelycurved over heavy eyelids, and then come those wonderful eyes--so large,so dark, so full of overmastering emotion, of rage and horror,contending with a pride of self-control which holds her from sheerfrenzy! The cheeks are pale, the lips white with agony, the chin andthroat most exquisitely rounded. The figure sits and leans forward inthe chair, straining and rigid, cataleptic with horror. The dress isblack velvet, a jewel gleams like a flame in the breast, and a goldencrucifix smoulders in the shadow of a fold. This is the lady whose imagestill lives in the old silver mirror. What dire deed could it be whichhas left its impress there, so that now, in another age, if the spiritof a man be but worn down to it, he may be conscious of its presence?

  One other detail: On the left side of the skirt of the black dress was,as I thought at first, a shapeless bunch of white ribbon. Then, as Ilooked more intently or as the vision defined itself more clearly, Iperceived what it was. It was the hand of a man, clenched and knotted inagony, which held on with a convulsive grasp to the fold of the dress.The rest of the crouching figure was a mere vague outline, but thatstrenuous hand shone clear on the dark background, with a sinistersuggestion of tragedy in its frantic clutch. The man isfrightened--horribly frightened. That I can clearly discern. What hasterrified him so? Why does he grip the woman's dress? The answer liesamongst those moving figures in the background. They have broughtdanger both to him and to her. The interest of the thing fascinated me.I thought no more of its relation to my own nerves. I stared and staredas if in a theatre. But I could get no further. The mist thinned. Therewere tumultuous movements in which all the figures were vaguelyconcerned. Then the mirror was clear once more.

  The doctor says I must drop work for a day, and I can afford to do so,for I have made good progress lately. It is quite evident that thevisions depend entirely upon my own nervous state, for I sat in front ofthe mirror for an hour to-night, with no result whatever. My soothingday has chased them away. I wonder whether I shall ever penetrate whatthey all mean? I examined the mirror this evening under a good light,and besides the mysterious inscription "Sanc. X. Pal.," I was able todiscern some signs of heraldic marks, very faintly visible upon thesilver. They must be very ancient, as they are almost obliterated. Sofar as I could make out, they were three spear-heads, two above and onebelow. I will show them to the doctor when he calls to-morrow.

  _Jan. 14._--Feel perfectly well again, and I intend that nothing elseshall stop me until my task is finished. The doctor was shown the markson the mirror and agreed that they were armorial bearings. He is deeplyinterested in all that I have told him, and cross-questioned me closelyon the details. It amuses me to notice how he is torn in two byconflicting desires--the one that his patient should lose his symptoms,the other that the medium--for so he regards me--should solve thismystery of the past. He advised continued rest, but did not oppose metoo violently when I declared that such a thing was out of the questionuntil the ten remaining ledgers have been checked.

  _Jan. 17._--For three nights I have had no experiences--my day of resthas borne fruit. Only a quarter of my task is left, but I must make aforced march, for the lawyers are clamouring for their material. I willgive them enough and to spare. I have him fast on a hundred counts. Whenthey realise what a slippery, cunning rascal he is, I should gain somecredit from the case. False trading accounts, false balance-sheets,dividends drawn from capital, losses written down as profits,suppression of working expenses, manipulation of petty cash--it is afine record!

  _Jan. 18._--Headaches, nervous twitches, mistiness, fullness of thetemples--all the premonitions of trouble, and the trouble came sureenough. And yet my real sorrow is not so much that the vision shouldcome as that it should cease before all is revealed.

  But I saw more to-night. The crouching man was as visible as the ladywhose gown he clutched. He is a little swarthy fellow, with a blackpointed beard. He has a loose gown of damask trimmed with fur. Theprevailing tints of his dress are red. What a fright the fellow is in,to be sure! He cowers and shivers and glares back over his shoulder.There is a small knife in his other hand, but he is far too tremulousand cowed to use it. Dimly now I begin to see the figures in thebackground. Fierce faces, bearded and dark, shape themselves out of themist. There is one terrible creature, a skeleton of a man, with hollowcheeks and eyes sunk in his head. He also has a knife in his hand. Onthe right of the woman stands a tall man, very young, with flaxen hair,his face sullen and dour. The beautiful woman looks up at him inappeal. So does the man on the ground. This youth seems to be thearbiter of their fate. The crouching man draws closer and hides himselfin the woman's skirts. The tall youth bends and tries to drag her awayfrom him. So much I saw last night before the mirror cleared. Shall Inever know what it leads to and whence it comes? It is not a mereimagination, of that I am very sure. Somewhere, some time, this scenehas been acted, and this old mirror has reflected it. But when--where?

  _Jan. 20._--My work draws to a close, and it is time. I feel a tensenesswithin my brain, a sense of intolerable strain, which warns me thatsomething must give. I have worked myself to the limit. But to-nightshould be the last night. With a supreme effort I should finish thefinal ledger and complete the case before I rise from my chair. I willdo it. I will.

  _Feb. 7._--I did. My God, what an experience! I hardly know if I amstrong enough yet to set it down.

  Let me explain in the first instance that I am writing this in Dr.Sinclair's private hospital some three weeks after the last entry in mydiary. On the night of January 20 my nervous system finally gave way,and I remembered nothing afterwards until I found myself three days agoin this home of rest. And I can rest with a good conscience. My work wasdone before I went under. My figures are in the solicitors' hands. Thehunt is over.

  And now I must describe that last night. I had sworn to finish my work,and so intently did I stick to it, though my head was bursting, that Iwould never look up until the last column had been added. And yet it wasfine self-restraint, for all the time I knew that wonderful things werehappening in the mirror. Every nerve in my body told me so. If I lookedup there was an end of my work. So I did not look up till all wasfinished. Then, when at last with throbbing temples I threw down my penand raised my eyes, what a sight was there!

  The mirror in its silver frame was like a stage, brilliantly lit, inwhich a drama was in progress. There was no mist now. The oppression ofmy nerves had wrought this amazing clarity. Every feature, everymovement, was as clear-cut as in life. To think that I, a tiredaccountant, the most prosaic of mankind, with the account-books of aswindling bankrupt before me, should be chosen of all the human race tolook upon such a scene!

  It was the same scene and the same figures, but the drama had advanced astage. The tall young man was holding the woman in his arms. Shestrained away from him and looked up at him with loathing in her face.They had torn the crouching man away from his hold upon the skirt of herdress. A dozen of them were round him--savage men, bearded men. Theyhacked at him with knives. All seemed to strike him together. Their armsrose and fell. The blood did not flow from him--it squirted. His reddress was dabbled in it. He threw himself this way and that, purple uponcrimson, like an over-ripe plum. Still they
hacked, and still the jetsshot from him. It was horrible--horrible! They dragged him kicking tothe door. The woman looked over her shoulder at him and her mouth gaped.I heard nothing, but I knew that she was screaming. And then, whether itwas this nerve-racking vision before me, or whether, my task finished,all the overwork of the past weeks came in one crushing weight upon me,the room danced round me, the floor seemed to sink away beneath my feet,and I remembered no more. In the early morning my landlady found mestretched senseless before the silver mirror, but I knew nothing myselfuntil three days ago I awoke in the deep peace of the doctor's nursinghome.

  _Feb. 9._--Only to-day have I told Dr. Sinclair my full experience. Hehad not allowed me to speak of such matters before. He listened with anabsorbed interest. "You don't identify this with any well-known scene inhistory?" he asked, with suspicion in his eyes. I assured him that Iknew nothing of history. "Have you no idea whence that mirror came andto whom it once belonged?" he continued. "Have you?" I asked, for hespoke with meaning. "It's incredible," said he, "and yet how else canone explain it? The scenes which you described before suggested it, butnow it has gone beyond all range of coincidence. I will bring you somenotes in the evening."

  _Later._--He has just left me. Let me set down his words as closely as Ican recall them. He began by laying several musty volumes upon my bed.

  "These you can consult at your leisure," said he. "I have some noteshere which you can confirm. There is not a doubt that what you have seenis the murder of Rizzio by the Scottish nobles in the presence of Mary,which occurred in March, 1566. Your description of the woman isaccurate. The high forehead and heavy eyelids combined with great beautycould hardly apply to two women. The tall young man was her husband,Darnley. Rizzio, says the chronicle, 'was dressed in a loosedressing-gown of furred damask, with hose of russet velvet.' With onehand he clutched Mary's gown, with the other he held a dagger. Yourfierce, hollow-eyed man was Ruthven, who was new-risen from a bed ofsickness. Every detail is exact."

  "But why to me?" I asked, in bewilderment. "Why of all the human race tome?"

  "Because you were in the fit mental state to receive the impression.Because you chanced to own the mirror which gave the impression."

  "The mirror! You think, then, that it was Mary's mirror--that it stoodin the room where the deed was done?"

  "I am convinced that it was Mary's mirror. She had been Queen of France.Her personal property would be stamped with the Royal arms. What youtook to be three spear-heads were really the lilies of France."

  "And the inscription?"

  "'Sanc. X. Pal.' You can expand it into Sanctae Crucis Palatium. Some onehas made a note upon the mirror as to whence it came. It was the Palaceof the Holy Cross."

  "Holyrood!" I cried.

  "Exactly. Your mirror came from Holyrood. You have had one very singularexperience, and have escaped. I trust that you will never put yourselfinto the way of having such another."