Force A Remedy

: The Crack Of Doom

"Get me out of this, I am stifled--ill," Miss Metford said, in a low

voice to me.



As we were hurrying from the room, Brande and his sister, who had joined

him, met us. The fire had died out of his eyes. His voice had returned

to its ordinary key. His demeanour was imperturbable, sphinx-like. I

murmured some words about the eloquence of the lecture, but interrupted

myself when I observed his complete indif erence to my remarks, and

said,



"Neither praise nor blame seems to affect you, Brande."



"Certainly not," he answered calmly. "You forget that there is nothing

deserving of either praise or blame."



I knew I could not argue with him, so we passed on. Outside, I offered

to find a cab for Miss Metford, and to my surprise she allowed me to do

so. Her self-assertive manner was visibly modified. She made no pretence

of resenting this slight attention, as was usual with her in similar

cases. Indeed, she asked me to accompany her as far as our ways lay

together. But I felt that my society at the time could hardly prove

enlivening. I excused myself by saying candidly that I wished to be

alone.



My own company soon became unendurable. In despair I turned into a music

hall. The contrast between my mental excitement and the inanities of the

stage was too acute, so this resource speedily failed me. Then I betook

myself to the streets again. Here I remembered a letter Brande had put

into my hand as I left the hall. It was short, and the tone was even

more peremptory than his usual arrogance. It directed me to meet the

members of the Society at Charing Cross station at two o'clock on the

following day. No information was given, save that we were all going on

a long journey; that I must set my affairs in such order that my absence

would not cause any trouble, and the letter ended, "Our experiments are

now complete. Our plans are matured. Do not fail to attend."



"Fail to attend!" I muttered. "If I am not the most abject coward on the

earth I will attend--with every available policeman in London." The

pent-up wrath and impotence of many days found voice at last. "Yes,

Brande," I shouted aloud, "I will attend, and you shall be sorry for

having invited me."



"But I will not be sorry," said Natalie Brande, touching my arm.



"You here!" I exclaimed, in great surprise, for it was fully an hour

since I left the hall, and my movements had been at haphazard since

then.



"Yes, I have followed you for your own sake. Are you really going to

draw back now?"



"I must."



"Then I must go on alone."



"You will not go on alone. You will remain, and your friends shall go on

without you--go to prison without you, I mean."



"Poor boy," she said softly, to herself. "I wonder if I would have

thought as I think now if I had known him sooner? I suppose I should

have been as other women, and their fools' paradise would have been

mine--for a little while."



The absolute hopelessness in her voice pierced my heart. I pleaded

passionately with her to give up her brother and all the maniacs who

followed him. For the time I forgot utterly that the girl, by her own

confession, was already with them in sympathy as well as in deed.



She said to me: "I cannot hold back now. And you? You know you are

powerless to interfere. If you will not come with me, I must go alone.

But you may remain. I have prevailed on Herbert and Grey to permit

that."



"Never," I answered. "Where you go, I go."



"It is not really necessary. In the end it will make no difference. And

remember, you still think me guilty."



"Even so, I am going with you--guilty."



Now this seemed to me a very ordinary speech, for who would have held

back, thinking her innocent? But Natalie stopped suddenly, and, looking

me in the face, said, almost with a sob:



"Arthur, I sometimes wish I had known you sooner. I might have been

different." She was silent for a moment. Then she said piteously to me:

"You will not fail me to-morrow?"



"No, I will not fail you to-morrow," I answered.



She pressed my hand gratefully, and left me without any explanation as

to her movements in the meantime.



I hurried to my hotel to set my affairs in order before joining Brande's

expedition. The time was short for this. Fortunately there was not much

to do. By midnight I had my arrangements nearly complete. At the time,

the greater part of my money was lying at call in a London bank. This I

determined to draw in gold the next day. I also had at my banker's some

scrip, and I knew I could raise money on that. My personal effects and

the mementos of my travels, which lay about my rooms in great confusion,

must remain where they were. As to the few friends who still remained to

me, I did not write to them. I could not well describe a project of

which I knew nothing, save that it was being carried out by dangerous

lunatics, or, at least, by men who were dangerous, whether their madness

was real or assumed. Nor could I think of any reasonable excuse for

leaving England after so long an absence without a personal visit to

them. It was best, then, to disappear without a word. Having finished my

dispositions, I changed my coat for a dressing-gown and sat down by the

window, which I threw open, for the summer night was warm. I sat long,

and did not leave my chair until the morning sun was shining on my face.



When I got to Charing Cross next day, a group of fifty or sixty people

were standing apart from the general crowd and conversing with

animation. Almost the whole strength of the Society was assembled to see

a few of us off, I thought. In fact, they were all going. About a dozen

women were in the party, and they were dressed in the most extravagant

rational costumes. Edith Metford was amongst them. I drew her aside, and

apologised for not having called to wish her farewell; but she stopped

me.



"Oh, it's all right; I am going too. Don't look so frightened."



This was more than I could tolerate. She was far too good a girl to be

allowed to walk blindfold into the pit I had digged for myself with full

knowledge. I said imperatively:



"Miss Metford, you shall not go. I warned you more than once--and warned

you, I firmly believe, at the risk of my life--against these people. You

have disregarded the advice which it may yet cost me dear to have given

you."



"To tell you the truth," she said candidly, "I would not go an inch if

it were not for yourself. I can't trust you with them. You'd get into

mischief. I don't mean with Natalie Brande, but the others; I don't like

them. So I am coming to look after you."



"Then I shall speak to Brande."



"That would be useless. I joined the Society this morning."



This she said seriously, and without anything of the spirit of bravado

which was one of her faults. That ended our dispute. We exchanged a

meaning look as our party took their seats. There was now, at any rate,

one human being in the Society to whom I could speak my mind.



We travelled by special train. Our ultimate destination was a fishing

village on the southern coast, near Brande's residence. Here we found a

steam yacht of about a thousand tons lying in the harbour with steam up.



The vessel was a beautiful model. Her lines promised great speed, but

the comfort of her passengers had been no less considered by her builder

when he gave her so much beam and so high a freeboard. The ship's

furniture was the finest I had ever seen, and I had crossed every great

ocean in the world. The library, especially, was more suggestive of a

room in the British Museum than the batch of books usually carried at

sea. But I have no mind to enter on a detailed description of a

beautiful pleasure ship while my story waits. I only mention the general

condition of the vessel in evidence of the fact which now struck me for

the first time--Brande must have unlimited money. His mode of life in

London and in the country, notwithstanding his pleasant house, was in

the simplest style. From the moment we entered his special train at

Charing Cross, he flung money about him with wanton recklessness.



As we made our way through the crowd which was hanging about the quay,

an unpleasant incident occurred. Miss Brande, with Halley and

Rockingham, became separated from Miss Metford and myself and went on in

front of us. We five had formed a sub-section of the main body, and were

keeping to ourselves when the unavoidable separation took place. A

slight scream in front caused Miss Metford and myself to hurry forward.

We found the others surrounded by a gang of drunken sailors, who had

stopped them. A red-bearded giant, frenzied with drink, had seized

Natalie in his arms. His abettor, a swarthy Italian, had drawn his

knife, and menaced Halley and Rockingham. The rest of the band looked

on, and cheered their chiefs. Halley was white to the lips; Rockingham

was perfectly calm, or, perhaps, indifferent. He called for a policeman.

Neither interfered. I did not blame Rockingham; he was a man of the

world, so nothing manly could be expected of him. But Halley's cowardice

disgusted me.



I rushed forward and caught the Italian from behind, for his knife was

dangerous. Seizing him by the collar and waist, I swung him twice, and

then flung him from me with all my strength. He spun round two or three

times, and then collided with a stack of timber. His head struck a beam,

and he fell in his tracks without a word. The red-haired giant instantly

released Natalie and put up his hands. The man's attitude showed that he

knew nothing of defence. I swept his guard aside, and struck him

violently on the neck close to the ear. I was a trained boxer; but I had

never before struck a blow in earnest, or in such earnest, and I hardly

knew my own strength. The man went down with a grunt like a pole-axed

ox, and lay where he fell. To a drunken sailor lad, who seemed anxious

to be included in this matter, I dealt a stinging smack on the face

with my open hand that satisfied him straightway. The others did not

molest me. Turning from the crowd, I found Edith Metford looking at me

with blazing eyes.



"Superb! Marcel, I am proud of you!" she cried.



"Oh! Edith, how can you say that?" Natalie Brande exclaimed, still

trembling. "Such dreadful violence! The poor men knew no better."



"Poor fiddlesticks! It is well for you that Marcel is a man of violence.

He's worth a dozen sheep like--"



"Like whom, Miss Metford?" Rockingham asked, glaring at her so viciously

that I interposed with a hasty entreaty that all should hurry to the

ship. I did not trust the man.



Miss Metford was not so easily suppressed. She said leisurely, "I meant

to say like you, and this over-nervous but otherwise admirable boy. If

you think 'sheep' derogatory, pray make it 'goats.'"



I hurried them on board. Brande welcomed us at the gangway. The vessel

was his own, so he was as much at home on the ship as in his country

house. I had an important letter to write, and very little time for the

task. It was not finished a moment too soon, for the moment the last

passenger and the last bale of luggage was on board, the captain's

telegraph rang from the bridge, and the Esmeralda steamed out to sea.

My letter, however, was safe on shore. The land was low down upon the

horizon before the long summer twilight deepened slowly into night. Then

one by one the shadowy cliffs grew dim, dark, and disappeared. We saw no

more of England until after many days of gradually culminating horror.

The very night which was our first at sea did not pass without a strange

adventure, which happened, indeed, by an innocent oversight.