And this was what we saw.The furniture was in disorder, and on a couch lay an old man sleeping a heavy drunken sleep.His mouth was open and his breath came stertorously.The face was purple, and large purple veins stood out on the mottled forehead.His scanty white hair was draggled over his cheek.On the floor was a broken glass, wet stains still lay on the boards, and the place reeked of spirits.The four looked for a second--I do not think longer at him whom they would have made their king.They did not look at each other.With one accord they moved out, and Mr.
Fish, who was last, closed the door very gently behind him.
In the hall below Mr.Galloway turned to me."Our mission is ended, Mr.Townshend.I have to thank you for your courtesy."Then to the others, "If we order the coaches now, we may get well on the way to Verona ere sundown."An hour later two coaches rolled out of the courtyard of the Tre Croci.As they passed, a window was half-opened on the upper floor, and a head looked out.A line of a song came down, a song sung in a strange quavering voice.It was the catch I had heard the night before:
"Qu'est-ce qui passe ici si tard, Compagnons de la Marjolaine--e!"It was true.The company came late indeed--too late by forty years....
AVIGNON
1759
Hearts to break but nane to sell, Gear to tine but nane to hain;--We maun dree a weary spell Ere our lad comes back again.
I walk abroad on winter days, When storms have stripped the wide champaign, For northern winds have norland ways, And scents of Badenoch haunt the rain.
And by the lipping river path, When in the fog the Rhone runs grey, I see the heather of the Strath, And watch the salmon leap in Spey.
The hills are feathered with young trees, I set them for my children's boys.
I made a garden deep in ease, A pleasance for my lady's joys.
Strangers have heired them.Long ago She died,--kind fortune thus to die;And my one son by Beauly flow Gave up the soul that could not lie.
Old, elbow-worn, and pinched I bide The final toll the gods may take.
The laggard years have quenched my pride;They cannot kill the ache, the ache.
Weep not the dead, for they have sleep Who lie at home: but ah, for me In the deep grave my heart will weep With longing for my lost countrie.
Hearts to break but nane to sell, Gear to tine but nane to hain;--We maun dree a weary spell Ere our lad comes back again.
II
A LUCID INTERVAL
To adopt the opening words of a more famous tale, "The truth of this strange matter is what the world has long been looking for." The events which I propose to chronicle were known to perhaps a hundred people in London whose fate brings them into contact with politics.The consequences were apparent to all the world, and for one hectic fortnight tinged the soberest newspapers with saffron, drove more than one worthy election agent to an asylum, and sent whole batches of legislators to Continental cures."But no reasonable explanation of the mystery has been forthcoming until now, when a series of chances gave the key into my hands.
Lady Caerlaverock is my aunt, and I was present at the two remarkable dinner-parties which form the main events in this tale.I was also taken into her confidence during the terrible fortnight which intervened between them.Like everybody else, Iwas hopelessly in the dark, and could only accept what happened as a divine interposition.My first clue came when James, the Caerlaverocks' second footman, entered my service as valet, and being a cheerful youth chose to gossip while he shaved me.Ichecked him, but he babbled on, and I could not choose but learn something about the disposition of the Caerlaverock household below stairs.I learned--what I knew before--that his lordship had an inordinate love for curries, a taste acquired during some troubled years as Indian Viceroy.I had often eaten that admirable dish at his table, and had heard him boast of the skill of the Indian cook who prepared it.James, it appeared, did not hold with the Orient in the kitchen.He described the said Indian gentleman as a "nigger," and expressed profound distrust of his ways.He referred darkly to the events of the year before, which in some distorted way had reached the servants'
ears."We always thought as 'ow it was them niggers as done it,"he declared; and when I questioned him on his use of the plural, admitted that at the time in question "there 'ad been more nor one nigger 'anging about the kitchen."Pondering on these sayings, I asked myself if it were not possible that the behaviour of certain eminent statesmen was due to some strange devilry of the East, and I made a vow to abstain in future from the Caerlaverock curries.But last month my brother returned from India, and I got the whole truth.He was staying with me in Scotland, and in the smoking-room the talk turned on occultism in the East.I declared myself a sceptic, and George was stirred.He asked me rudely what I knew about it, and proceeded to make a startling confession of faith.He was cross-examined by the others, and retorted with some of his experiences.Finding an incredulous audience, his tales became more defiant, until he capped them all with one monstrous yarn.
He maintained that in a Hindu family of his acquaintance there had been transmitted the secret of a drug, capable of altering a man's whole temperament until the antidote was administered.It would turn a coward into a bravo, a miser into a spendthrift, a rake into a fakir.Then, having delivered his manifesto he got up abruptly and went to bed.
