Fragment

II

THE LIGHT IN THE WOODS

My first week passed uneventfully. I was called out twice only, on trivial cases, and I put in my spare time exploring the neighbourhood generally. I was jaded with city life, and hospital work in particular, and it was a perfect tonic to do nothing. I was too lazy even to fish, though an excellent trout stream ran not far from the house, through the woods at the back. Neighbours were not likely to trouble me, nor I them. So far I had had but little intercourse with the people about, except for professional visits and the usual country exchange of greetings when I drove into the town for my mail. In Lennox's time this task had fallen to Peter, but it was some years since I had enjoyed the use of a horse, and I took pleasure in these short trips.
The housekeeper was subdued but efficient; she looked after my wants methodically enough and rarely offered conversation, which suited me. With Peter I got on all right. As Lennox had said, he was docile, willing and capable, and did his work reliably. He seemed devoted to the mare, and would converse with her at great length over the morning grooming.
Lennox had a fairly good library. In ways the house was comfortable enough, and I fancy he must have had some small private income in addition to the proceeds of his practice.
I had my first tiff with Pete when I had been there nearly a fortnight. Kerosene had given out; the oilman had omitted to call as usual, and Mrs. Searle, the housekeeper, only made me aware of the deficiency at supper-time. After the meal I ordered Peter to hitch up and drive down to the village to get it.
To my utter amazement he refused almost point-blank to go. He had a lot of work to do; the buggy wasn't washed down yet; the mare hadn't finished her feed. He'd go first thing in the morning.
"Nonsense, Pete," I said. "The oil's wanted now. The mare hasn't done five miles today, and it'll do her good! You washed the buggy this afternoon, because I saw you."
"Dat so, sah?" He rubbed his head. "Yes, I specs dat's so, now I think. I dis-remembered it."
"Then hurry up. You can be back by eight."
His eyes rolled on me.
"But it done get dark by eight, sah!"
"Well, you can take the carriage lamps!"
"I ain't gwine take no kerridge lamps—no, sah! All de time I wuk fur Doc' Lennox he ain' ask me to do no thing like that—no, sah; an' ef he ask me now I ain' gwine do it."
"But you've driven the doctor at night, you fool, time and again!" I cried, losing patience with him. "Don't stand there and tell me lies!"
He kept his ground, obstinate, deferential.
"Yessir, I done druv Doc' Lennox. I ain' sayin' nothin' 'bout that. I'se gwine drive you, doctah, ef yoh ask me, but I ain' gwine no village affer dark tonight ter git no ker'sine. I ain' gwine monkeyin' wi' no ha'ants, an' I d'want no ha'ants monkeyin' wid me!"
That potent darkie word "ha'ants" gave me a clue. I strode out into the kitchen to Mrs. Searle.
"What's this nonsense with Peter? What is he afraid of?" I asked her.
Mrs. Searle's grey faded eyes rested on me a moment inquisitively. Then she went on with her dish-washing.
"I reckon Peter's scared of the dark, sir," she answered civilly. "Them niggers is jest like that! The oil can wait, as well as not. There's more'n I thought, or I wouldn't have mentioned it to you."
"It isn't going to wait," I said. "I'm not going to have this absurdity in any house I live in!"
I went back to Pete in the dining-room. I had left the doors purposely open, and I swear he fairly squirmed when he saw me come in.
"Now, Pete," I said. "You put the mare in at once. You're going after that oil and I'm going with you, if you're such a holy coward that you're afraid to drive a mile of road after dark alone!"
If I had hoped to shame him, it was without result.
"All right, sah!" he answered grandly, though I saw the relief in his eyes. "Ef you'se gwine I'se gwine. Dey ain' no one gwine call me no cowa'd, doctah!"
He went off to put the mare in, and in ten minutes I heard the grate of wheels before the house. It was already dark outside, but a moon was rising, and before we had driven far the carriage lamps were scarcely needed. Pete was subdued; I think he was trying to preserve his dignity in silence. I was tempted to a lecture, but remembered what Lennox had said of the futility of trying to combat darkie superstition. I was sure that Pete still carried his beloved rabbit foot, and I hope it gave him comfort on the drive.
We reached the village, took in our can of oil, which Pete stowed under the buggy seat, and started to drive back. The moon was full overhead now, but obscured more or less by fleeting clouds. I saw Pete glancing several times at the buggy lamps. Presently he slackened the reins a little.
"I reckon we mought put dem out now, sah! Dey ain' no need er dem lamps to see by."
"As you like, Pete. Get down and put them out. I'll hold the reins."
"I ain't got no need er gittin' out, sah! I kin raich 'em from here."
He leaned over the splashboard at some inconvenience and extinguished the lamps, it seemed to me with unnecessary alacrity. I could not put his anxiety down altogether to the price of kerosene.
"What's your worry about those lamps, Pete?" I asked.
He turned guileless yet uneasy eyes upon me.
"Dey jest ain' no sainse burnin' 'em! Dey worry a pusson drivin' dem lamps do."
I let it go as one of his unplumbed darkie mysteries, and we drove on. We were just entering upon the densest stretch of wood between the house and the village when a curious sound caught my ears. It was like the scrambling rush of some big bird through the trees to the left of us; a night-hawk, probably, though the confused wing-flaps were more like a turkey-buzzard. Coming unexpectedly on the silence it startled me, but before I could turn to Pete he had dropped the reins and flung himself upon me, a frenzied babbling lump. He clung and muttered, while I strove to hold him off, and the mare, taking fright at the moment, sent the light buggy rocking from side to side on the road. I gave the man a push that nearly threw him out. Once free of his clutch it was only a moment's work to secure the reins, but we shaved a bad accident by the skin of our teeth. Luckily we were not far from the house. My grip startled Pete into sanity—it was at least flesh and blood that had him there—and by the time I had pulled the mare to a standstill before the gate he was able to get out, shaking still miserably from head to foot, and seize the bridle.
Between us we got the mare unharnessed and into the stable. She was in a lather over head and shoulders, and I stood over the cringing Pete while he rubbed her down. I think he never ceased praying the whole time.
Whatever the noise was that had frightened him—and I put it down to no worse than an owl at the most—it had frightened him thoroughly. There was no use attempting reason or rebuke with the abject tooth-chattering being that followed me to the house, and I sent him to bed with a grim reminder that I would talk to him on the morrow. He did not go up immediately, however. For a long while I heard his voice in confabulation with Mrs. Searle in the kitchen, where I did not doubt he had made haste to secure every door and window against the outside air.
I lit a pipe and threw myself down in an armchair in the surgery, where I had been in the habit of spending the last few evenings, putting things to rights after my own fashion. If Pete's superstition was going to obsess him to this extent my summer was likely to be a lively one! No bird that ever flew was sufficient to justify the extraordinary state into which he had thrown himself. Whiskey might be at the root of it, despite Lennox's faith; I had kept him under my eye in the village, but I knew that no human vigilance is sharp enough to keep a darkle from drink if he has the tendency. The sideboard was usually unlocked, but tomorrow I determined to take the key into my own possession.
Wanting something to read, and to lazy to go back into the sitting-room, I fell to examining the contents of the surgery bookshelves. There were the usual array of medical books, some new, some old; apparently Lennox had kept himself more or less up to date. At one end, on the upper shelf, were several volumes on mental diseases, "Lunacy and its Causes," Hoffman's "Congenital Insanity," and one or two recent pathological treatises that I knew only by title. There was a well-known medical work on criminology among them also, and from their number and disposition, and the several paper bookmarks that caught my eye here and there, I judged that this particular study must have had some attraction for Lennox. There was nothing, however, that interested me for the moment, or that promised cheerful reading. I had not come down here to dive into works on mental disorders or the bound reports of Lunacy Commissions as preliminary to passing a healthful holiday, and I fell back on a month-old magazine that was lying on the surgery table.
When I had finished it I turned the lamp slightly down and went out on the porch, with the idea of trying to locate again the noise that had caused such catastrophe that evening.
The woods about were very still; not a leaf moved. The silence had an intensity that was almost oppressive. Clouds had gathered, obscuring the moon, and it was quite dark.
Presently, above the line of the farther tree-tops, a gleam of light shot up. It moved and swept, like a white arm outstretched against a black curtain. So near as I could judge, it came from the direction of Sliefer's dam, a point some two miles away, and at first glimpse I thought it might be a fire, but the whiteness of it put that out of the question. It had the appearance of a crude searchlight, but it was less definite in ray and moved less steadily. More than anything else, it reminded me of those "jackies" that children love to make with a bit of prism refracted on a wall.
For several minutes I watched it, then, as suddenly, it was extinguished, twitching back into darkness, and I turned and went indoors. ×