PART II
THE SILVER MIRROR
Jan. 3.--This affair of White and Wotherspoon's accounts proves to be a
gigantic task. There are twenty thick ledgers to be examined and
checked. Who would be a junior partner? However, it is the first big
bit of 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 in time for the trial. Johnson said this morning that I should
have to get the 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 win out at the other side. It means office-work from ten
to five, and then a second sitting from about eight to one in the
morning. There's drama in an accountant's life. When I find myself
in the still early hours, while all the world sleeps, hunting through
column after column for those missing figures which will turn a
respected alderman into a felon, I understand that it is not such a
prosaic profession after all.
On Monday I came on the first trace of defalcation. No heavy game
hunter ever got a finer thrill when first he caught sight of the trail
of his quarry. But I look at the twenty ledgers and think of the jungle
through which I have to follow him before I get my kill. Hard work--but
rare sport, too, in a way! I saw the fat fellow once at a City dinner,
his red face glowing above a white napkin. He looked at the little pale
man at the end of the table. He would have been pale too if he could
have seen the task that would be mine.
Jan. 6.--What perfect nonsense it is for doctors to prescribe rest when
rest is out of the question! Asses! They might as well shout to a man
who has a pack of wolves at his heels that what he wants is absolute
quiet. My figures must be out by a certain date; unless they are so, I
shall lose the chance of my lifetime, so how on earth am I to rest?
I'll take a week or so after the trial.
Perhaps I was myself a fool to go to the doctor at all. But I get
nervous and highly-strung when I sit alone at my work at night. It's
not a pain--only a sort of fullness of the head with an occasional mist
over the eyes. I thought perhaps some bromide, or chloral, or something
of the kind might do me good. But stop work? It's absurd to ask such a
thing. It's like a long-distance race. You feel queer at first and
your heart thumps and your lungs pant, but if you have only the pluck to
keep on, you get your second wind. I'll stick to my work and wait for
my second wind. If it never comes--all the same, I'll stick to my work.
Two ledgers are done, and I am well on in the third. The rascal has
covered his 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 had
to. "Straining my nerves, risking a complete breakdown, even
endangering my sanity." That's a nice sentence to have fired off at
one. Well, I'll stand the strain and I'll take the risk, and so long as
I can sit in my chair 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 drove
me this second time to the doctor. I'll keep an exact record of my
symptoms and sensations, because they are interesting in themselves--
"a curious psycho-physiological study," says the doctor--and also
because I am perfectly certain that when I am through with them they
will all seem blurred 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 only as a change of thought after the endless figures.
There's an old silver-framed mirror in my room. It was given me by a
friend 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 a
large thing--three feet across and two feet high--and it leans at the
back of a side-table on my left as I write. The frame is flat, about
three inches across, and very old; far too old for hall-marks or other
methods of determining its age. The glass part projects, with a
bevelled edge, and has the magnificent reflecting power which is only,
as it seems to me, to be found in very old mirrors. There's a feeling
of perspective 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 see
nothing in it but the reflection of the red window curtains. But a
queer thing happened last night. I had been working for some hours,
very much against the grain, with continual bouts of that mistiness of
which I had complained. Again and again I had to stop and clear my
eyes. Well, on one of these occasions I chanced to look at the mirror.
It had the oddest appearance. The red curtains which should have been
reflected in it 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 the very grain of it. This opacity, when I stared hard at it,
appeared to slowly rotate this way and that, until it was a thick white
cloud swirling in heavy wreaths. So real and solid was it, and so
reasonable was I, that I remember turning, with the idea that the
curtains were on fire. But everything was deadly still in the room--no
sound save the ticking of the clock, no movement save the slow gyration
of that strange woolly cloud deep in the heart of the old mirror.
Then, as I looked, the mist, or smoke, or cloud, or whatever one may
call it, seemed to coalesce and solidify at two points quite close
together, and I was aware, with a thrill of interest rather than of
fear, that these were two eyes looking out into the room. A vague
outline of a head I could see--a woman's by the hair, but this was very
shadowy. Only the eyes were quite distinct; such eyes--dark, luminous,
filled with some passionate emotion, fury or horror, I could not say
which. 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 sat erect, passed my hand over my brow, and made a strong
conscious effort to pull myself together, the dim head faded into the
general opacity, the mirror slowly cleared, and there were the red
curtains once again.
A sceptic would say, no doubt, that I had dropped asleep over my
figures, and that my experience was a dream. As a matter of fact, I was
never more vividly awake in my life. I was able to argue about it even
as I looked at it, and to tell myself that it was a subjective
impression--a chimera of the nerves--begotten by worry and insomnia.
But why this particular shape? And who is the woman, and what is the
dreadful emotion which I read in those wonderful brown eyes? They come
between me and my work. For the first time I have done less than the
daily tally which I had marked out. Perhaps that is why I have had no
abnormal sensations tonight. Tomorrow 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 remain
with him if my own nerves break over it. The mirror would seem to be a
sort of barometer which marks my brain-pressure. Each night I have
observed that it had clouded before I reached the end of my task.
Dr. Sinclair (who is, it seems, a bit of a psychologist) was so
interested in my account that he came round this evening to have a look
at the mirror. I had observed that something was scribbled in crabbed
old characters upon the metal-work at the back. He examined this with a
lens, but could make nothing of it. "Sanc. X. Pal." was his final
reading of it, but that did not bring us any farther. He advised me to
put it away into another room; but, after all, whatever I may see in it
is, by his own account only a symptom. It is in the cause that the
danger lies. The twenty ledgers--not the silver mirror--should be
packed away 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 packed away
the mirror. I had an extraordinary experience with it last night.
And yet I find it so interesting, so fascinating, that even now I will
keep 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 books
preparatory to staggering off to bed, when I saw her there in front of
me. The stage of mistiness and development must have passed unobserved,
and there she was in all her beauty and passion and distress, as
clear-cut as if she were really in the flesh before me. The figure was
small, but very distinct--so much so that every feature, and every
detail of dress, are stamped in my memory. She is seated on the extreme
left of the mirror. A sort of shadowy figure crouches down beside her--
I can dimly discern that it is a man--and then behind them is cloud, in
which I see figures--figures which move. It is not a mere picture upon
which I look. It is a scene in life, an actual episode. She crouches
and quivers. The man beside her cowers down. The vague figures make
abrupt movements 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
very beautiful and quite young--not more than five-and-twenty, I should
judge. Her hair is of a very rich brown, with a warm chestnut shade
fining into gold at the edges. A little flat-pointed cap comes to an
angle in front, and is made of lace edged with pearls. The forehead
is high, too high perhaps for perfect beauty; but one would not have it
otherwise, as it gives a touch of power and strength to what would
otherwise be a softly feminine face. The brows are most delicately
curved over heavy eyelids, and then come those wonderful eyes--so large,
so dark, so full of over-mastering emotion, of rage and horror,
contending with a pride of self-control which holds her from sheer
frenzy! The cheeks are pale, the lips white with agony, the chin and
throat most exquisitely rounded. The figure sits and leans forward in
the chair, straining and rigid, cataleptic with horror. The dress is
black velvet, a jewel gleams like a flame in the breast, and a golden
crucifix smoulders in the shadow of a fold. This is the lady whose
image still lives in the old silver mirror. What dire deed could it be
which has left its impress there, so that now, in another age, if the
spirit of 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 I
looked more intently or as the vision defined itself more clearly,
I perceived what it was. It was the hand of a man, clenched and knotted
in agony, 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 that strenuous hand shone clear on the dark background, with a
sinister suggestion of tragedy in its frantic clutch. The man is
frightened-horribly frightened. That I can clearly discern. What has
terrified him so? Why does he grip the woman's dress? The answer lies
amongst those moving figures in the background. They have brought
danger 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 stared
as if in a theatre. But I could get no farther. The mist thinned.
There were tumultuous movements in which all the figures were vaguely
concerned. 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 the
visions depend entirely upon my own nervous state, for I sat in front of
the mirror for an hour tonight, with no result whatever. My soothing
day has chased them away. I wonder whether I shall ever penetrate what
they all mean? I examined the mirror this evening under a good light,
and besides the mysterious inscription "Sanc. X. Pal.," I was able to
discern some signs of heraldic marks, very faintly visible upon the
silver. They must be very ancient, as they are almost obliterated.
So far as I could make out, they were three spear-heads, two above and
one below. I will show them to the doctor when he calls tomorrow.
Jan. 14.--Feel perfectly well again, and I intend that nothing else
shall stop me until my task is finished. The doctor was shown the marks
on the mirror and agreed that they were armorial bearings. He is deeply
interested in all that I have told him, and cross-questioned me closely
on the details. It amuses me to notice how he is torn in two by
conflicting desires--the one that his patient should lose his symptoms,
the other that the medium--for so he regards me--should solve this
mystery of the past. He advised continued rest, but did not oppose me
too violently when I declared that such a thing was out of the question
until the ten remaining ledgers have been checked.
Jan. 17.--For three nights I have had no experiences--my day of rest has
borne fruit. Only a quarter of my task is left, but I must make a
forced march, for the lawyers are clamouring for their material. I will
give them enough and to spare. I have him fast on a hundred counts.
When they realize what a slippery, cunning rascal he is, I should gain
some credit 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 a fine record!
Jan. 18.--Headaches, nervous twitches, mistiness, fullness of the
temples--all the premonitions of trouble, and the trouble came sure
enough. And yet my real sorrow is not so much that the vision should
come as that it should cease before all is revealed.
But I saw more tonight. The crouching man was as visible as the lady
whose gown he clutched. He is a little swarthy fellow, with a
black-pointed beard. He has a loose gown of damask trimmed with fur.
The prevailing 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
tremulous and cowed to use it. Dimly now I begin to see the figures in
the background. Fierce faces, bearded and dark, shape themselves out of
the mist. There is one terrible creature, a skeleton of a man, with
hollow cheeks and eyes sunk in his head. He also has a knife in his
hand. On the 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 in appeal. So does the man on the ground. This youth seems to be
the arbiter of their fate. The crouching man draws closer and hides
himself in the woman's skirts. The tall youth bends and tries to drag
her away from him. So much I saw last night before the mirror cleared.
Shall I never know what it leads to and whence it comes? It is not a
mere imagination, of that I am very sure. Somewhere, some time, this
scene has 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 tenseness
within my brain, a sense of intolerable strain, which warns me that
something must give. I have worked myself to the limit. But tonight
should be the last night. With a supreme effort I should finish the
final ledger and complete the case before I rise from my chair. I will
do it. I will.
Feb. 7.--I did. My God, what an experience! I hardly know if I am
strong 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 my
diary. On the night of January 20 my nervous system finally gave
way, and I remembered nothing afterwards until I found myself three days
ago in this home of rest. And I can rest with a good conscience.
My work was done before I went under. My figures are in the solicitors'
hands. The hunt 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 I
would never look up until the last column had been added. And yet it
was fine self-restraint, for all the time I knew that wonderful things
were happening in the mirror. Every nerve in my body told me so. If I
looked up there was an end of my work. So I did not look up till all
was finished. Then, when at last with throbbing temples I threw down my
pen and raised my eyes, what a sight was there!
The mirror in its silver frame was like a stage, brilliantly lit, in
which a drama was in progress. There was no mist now. The oppression
of my nerves had wrought this amazing clarity. Every feature, every
movement, was as clear-cut as in life. To think that I, a tired
accountant, the most prosaic of mankind, with the account-books of a
swindling bankrupt before me, should be chosen of all the human race to
look upon such a scene!
It was the same scene and the same figures, but the drama had advanced a
stage. The tall young man was holding the woman in his arms.
She strained 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 her dress. A dozen of them were round him--savage men, bearded men.
They hacked at him with knives. All seemed to strike him together.
Their arms rose and fell. The blood did not flow from him-it squirted.
His red dress was dabbled in it. He threw himself this way and that,
purple upon crimson, like an over-ripe plum. Still they hacked, and
still the jets shot from him. It was horrible--horrible! They dragged
him kicking to the 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 it was 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 me stretched senseless before the silver
mirror, but I knew nothing myself until three days ago I awoke in the
deep peace of the doctor's nursing home.
Feb. 9.--Only today have I told Dr. Sinclair my full experience. He had
not allowed me to speak of such matters before. He listened with an
absorbed interest. "You don't identify this with any well-known scene
in history?" he asked, with suspicion in his eyes. I assured him that I
knew nothing of history. "Have you no idea whence that mirror came and
to whom it once belonged?" he continued. "Have you?" I asked, for he
spoke with meaning. "It's incredible," said he, "and yet how else can
one explain it? The scenes which you described before suggested it, but
now it has gone beyond all range of coincidence. I will bring you some
notes in the evening."
Later.--He has just left me. Let me set down his words as closely as I
can recall them. He began by laying several musty volumes upon my
bed.
"These you can consult at your leisure," said he. "I have some notes
here which you can confirm. There is not a doubt that what you have
seen is the murder of Rizzio by the Scottish nobles in the presence of
Mary, which occurred in March, 1566. Your description of the woman is
accurate. The high forehead and heavy eyelids combined with great
beauty could hardly apply to two women. The tall young man was her
husband, Darnley. Rizzio, says the chronicle, 'was dressed in a loose
dressing-gown of furred damask, with hose of russet velvet.' With one
hand he clutched Mary's gown, with the other he held a dagger.
Your fierce, hollow-eyed man was Ruthven, who was new-risen from a bed
of sickness. Every detail is exact."
"But why to me?" I asked, in bewilderment. "Why of all the human race
to me?"
"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 stood
in 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 you took 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 one has made a note upon the mirror as to whence it came. It was
the Palace of the Holy Cross."
"Holyrood!" I cried.
"Exactly. Your mirror came from Holyrood. You have had one very
singular experience, and have escaped. I trust that you will never put
yourself into the way of having such another."
