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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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THE night before the last expedition of her holiday Stella was oppressed by a sense of impending catastrophe. She looked at the noisy crowd of young people in the hotel lounge with a feeling of responsibility.
Ought she warn them of their danger?
Her common sense told her that she had no facts to offer them; she probably was exaggerating the windy boasting of an egomaniac. Many young men had attacks of Red rash, yet developed into normal, good citizens. It was mainly youth's recognition that the social system is not perfect.
Yet from the first Ivan Morgan gave her the impression of being an enemy to society. He reminded her of some mad machine, driven by gusts of class hatred, and he made no secret of his views.
Tired from her train journey and seated by herself in the lounge, she noticed at once that the slovenly young man with famished eyes and spikes of black hair was also an outsider. No one spoke to him or took the slightest notice of him. He slumped in his chair, his arms folded and his eyes scorching the face and figure of a beautiful blonde who was taking part in a hectic game of pool.
When Stella tried vainly to attract the attention of a waiter he crossed over to her side.
"Waste of time to ring." His voice grated unpleasantly. "Since the millionaires have condescended to honor this hotel with their patronage, ordinary visitors must wait on themselves or go without."
"Then it's an abominable scandal." Stella spoke sharply, for she wanted her coffee. "I shall complain to the agency when I get back. I've paid for service."
"Don't." Ivan made a dramatic gesture which revealed black-rimmed nails. "Don't blame the waiters. They're only the spineless victims of the rotten capitalist system which must be smashed if we want to build a brave new world."
STELLA soon discovered that he could reel off that kind of
speech without any encouragement, but she listened to him and
even drew him out—partly because she was an intelligent
girl who liked to study types of humanity and partly because she
was sorry for him. When he learned that she had a job on the
staff of a big London hotel, he claimed her sympathy as a fellow
worker.
She soon grasped the facts of his grievance. The hotel was shut during the winter and was only full for six weeks in the summer; during the rest of the time it was run on a skeleton staff for the benefit of such tourists as took out-of-season holidays.
The village was miles away from a railway station, but was an excellent center from which to explore the numerous historic ruins—abbeys and chateaux—set amid wild and picturesque scenery. Probably for that reason a party of riotous young people in a fleet of luxury cars had suddenly swooped down for lunch and then—on impulse—had decided to make it their headquarters.
Coming in the dead season they proved a little gold mine to the proprietor and not unnaturally the staff became demoralized. Money flowed constantly into the bar and waiters reaped a rich harvest of tips. The handful of ordinary visitors went to the wall.
Stella, however, was swift to prove her mettle, for she forced a surly waiter to bring her coffee. While she drank it she smoked a cigarette, while she studied the crowd.
THEY seemed much alike—young, attractive, high spirited,
and strangers to any form of inhibition or restraint. Apparently
unconscious of any one outside their own circle, they behaved as
though this particular hotel had been created for their pleasure
and use. It was plain that they believed that they were roughing
it in the wilds, and their joking remarks were so frank that
Stella thought it was fortunate that the waiters could not
understand English.
The proprietor, who was a linguist, merely shrugged and smiled at his cash register, but Ivan took up the cudgels for him and literally spurted venom as he harangued Stella.
"Look at that swilling mob of drunken swine. They know nothing. They don't know the meaning of hunger, or pain, or fear. They're stuffed with food instead of ideas.... But if I were to hurl a bomb into their midst they'd be nothing but bloody rags."
"You'd be blown up, too," Stella reminded him.
"What of it? Death's nothing. Life's nothing." His eyes smouldered. "But what a scoop. The heirs to millions all here together. What a blow to strike at capitalism. The man who did that would be a hero."
"He'd be a murderer."
"No. An avenger. These millionaires are mass murderers. See that girl." He pointed to the beautiful blonde. "That's Mitzi Cross, heiress to sweated millions. She's a human being, like myself. Yet she doesn't know I'm made of flesh and blood, too. When we meet she doesn't see me. If I speak to her she doesn't hear. I hate her."
THE boredom of her first evening was typical of the days to
follow and it soon became plain to Stella that this special
holiday was not a success. The millionaires—to use Ivan's
collective title for sake of convenience—disorganized the
hotel. They claimed the easiest chairs, monopolized the billiard
table, exacted preferential treatment for meals and baths. Hot
water ran tepid, and the best dishes were declared "off."
They were chaperoned by a depressed elderly lady who remained mostly invisible, partly from rheumatism and partly from dread of making an acquaintance. This fear was unfounded, for the other guests usually retired to their own rooms for refuge. They were all of them quiet, pleasant people and included an American family, two English women school-teachers, and several French and Belgian married couples.
As Stella was an attractive girl and used to attention, she grew rather bored and resentful. Ivan soon got on her nerves, especially when she discovered that her pity was wasted on a swollen self-conceit. After she had made it clear that free love was mud to her he left her alone.
All his attention was concentrated on the millionaires, and in particular the heiress, Mitzi Cross. He devoured her with glittering eyes which missed no movement of her slim figure, and strained his ears to catch every word of her fluting high-pitched voice. When she laughed he shivered as though the sound touched an exposed nerve.
"I believe it's an inverted passion," thought Stella. "It's unhealthy."
But gradually she, too, became affected by the adverse conditions, both spiritual and climatic. Although the weather was bad she went on daily motor excursions because the hotel was so uncomfortable. The landscape looked savagely depressing, viewed through sheets of torrential rain, and she left the car only to stumble through melancholy ruins which smelt of moldy damp.
Presently she began to sleep badly from lack of air and exercise. The village lay deep in a tree-lined valley, so that from her bedroom window she could see only a wall of sodden foliage. After her light was switched off she lay staring out at the gloom until she fell asleep, often to dream of oubliettes and medieval torture.
She had reached the point of deciding to cut her loss and return to England and was actually on her way to the bureau when to her surprise a member of the millionaires' party asked her to play billiards with him.
Before the game was over she had not only shed her depression but was pledged to stay out her fortnight. The young man, whose name was Lewis Gough, had an interesting personality besides charm. She discovered that in spite of his father's wealth he was a keen worker and a clever chemist.
Her pleasure, however, was partly spoiled by the presence of Ivan, who sat and stared fixedly at Lewis and herself as though they were a pair of performing fleas, hopping about for his ironic amusement. The next time she met him he cut her dead.
Although this extraordinary behavior was a relief, since it rid her of his company, she expected a sense of discomfort and also of unmerited guilt. Ivan's clap-trap speeches were usually ridiculous, but his silence got on her nerves. It changed him into the unknown—a figure of sinister and inscrutable menace.
But as gradually she was drawn into the outer ring of the charmed circle she thought about him less, even while he remained in the background of her consciousness.
TWO days before the end of her holiday she had just returned
from a motor trip with Lewis and was standing on the bridge over
the river when she was startled by the sound of Ivan's harsh
voice.
"Are you going to the caves tomorrow?"
"Yes," she replied, stressing her smile to show him that she was still friendly. "Are you?"
"What does that matter to you? I'm not your new friend—the millionaire."
"O, don't be silly. If you mean Mr. Gough, he's not a millionaire. And he probably works harder than you."
"Probably. But not between meals... I came to give you a warning. Don't go tomorrow."
Her heart gave a little leap.
"Why not?" she asked.
Ivan stared down at the swirl of the soupy rain-swollen current and smiled darkly, as though he were dipped in the turgid depths of his imagination.
"These rich people feel secure," he said, "because they always herd in crowds. They're cowards who find safety in numbers. But suppose an—accident—happened tomorrow they would be trapped in the bowels of the mountain."
"What could happen?"
"The light might be cut off. They're all at the mercy of some poor devil, but they'll never give one thought to him. Suppose he was one of us? They would be left in pitchy darkness—And then—anything might happen."
As she listened Stella's imagination galloped away with her, so that she gasped with a sense of blind, choking horror, as though some one had crept behind her and smothered her in a black cloth. Before her common sense returned Ivan had turned away.
While she was dressing for dinner she was shocked to discover how shaken she was by the episode. Her fingers trembled and she hunted for garments after she had put them on. Presently she opened her suit-case and drew out her book of return tickets.
As she checked the stages of her journey home the fear coiled around her heart, raised its ugly head.
"Suppose these are never used. Suppose I don't go back."
Even while she told herself that Ivan's threats were ridiculous she knew that one thoughtless or irresponsible person could precipitate a catastrophe. Ivan was incapable of clear thought. His head was a clouded broth of revolutionary phrases. He talked glibly of death, but knew nothing of life.
They were at the mercy of a child—an idiot—a drunkard—who walked amid piles of gunpowder, flourishing a lighted taper.
Suddenly she decided to trust to her instinct and not go to the caves. It was lowering her flag of superstition, but in the circumstances the excursion would prove a penance instead of a pleasure.
After she made the decision she felt happy again. Dinner was quite a festive meal and she ordered a bottle of wine to mark the occasion. But afterward, as she looked around the lounge, to her dismay, her sense of responsibility awoke.
TO-NIGHT some freak had prompted the millionaires to appear in
full evening dress. Hitherto, as though to mark the difference
between the other quests and themselves, they had not changed for
dinner, appearing in the breeches and shorts of the daytime.
Although they were now far too ornate for the occasion they were exceedingly good to look at. The girls were like a swarm of brilliant butterflies, quivering with color and life. Mitzi was alluring and exquisite in an amazing backless gown of black velvet; her nails and lips were vivid coral, and the loose waves of her silvery hair shimmered like moonlight.
"They have something which is beautiful," thought Stella. "They have youth."
She glanced anxiously at Ivan, who was glowering at Mitzi as he sprawled in one of the chairs which the millionaires had grown to regard as their especial property. Presently he was tackled by one of Mitzi's special young men whom every one called "Pony."
This youth was the richest member of the party and incidentally not a favorite dish with Stella; he was spoilt, sophisticated, and brainless. His grin was confident as he spoke to Ivan.
"I say, Miss Cross wants her chair. Do you mind frightfully?"
"I do," snarled Ivan. "But if she's bought the chair she shall have it when she shows me the receipt."
The youth started, stared, and then turned away with a shrug.
"Was that necessary?" asked Stella, speaking to Ivan in a low, soothing voice. "Why do you let these people make you unhappy? Soon you'll never see them again. Forget them."
"I can't." His voice was choked with passion. "Look at them. Dancing, drinking, laughing. They are always laughing."
"And you're jealous because they laugh. You could laugh, too."
"I'm not a hyena nor yet a grinning ape. Look at that girl. You're a worker. Have you ever worn a dress like hers?"
"No, but I don't envy her. You and I have the luck because we have jobs, while these people are all on the dole. They must be so bored. Can't you realize you're above them? You have personality—power."
It was second nature with Stella to smooth rough places. Her hotel experience had taught her to regard dissatisfied guests as so many fractious children to be calmed. She fed Ivan with spoonfuls of grossest flattery through sheer force of habit.
It came to her as a shock of surprise when he swallowed her bait.
"You're right," he said. "I am above them. I'll show them. I'll show them."
"I can influence him," she thought as she watched him rise to his feet. She felt something of the thrill of the engine-driver when he controls a runaway machine.
"I'm going to give her one last chance," said Ivan. "It is in her power to save the lot of them."
Still acting in the grand manner he crossed to Mitzi, made a low bow, and pointed in the direction of his empty chair
"It's your's," he said Mitzi accepted the courtesy with quite a gracious nod and half a smile. But even as Stella drew a deep breath of relief the girl gingerly picked up the greasy cushion —against which Ivan's head had rested—and pitched it on the floor.
As it was not clean the action might have been a precaution to protect her frock. Besides, Mitzi was the kind of girl who threw things about. But Ivan construed it as a deadly insult.
His lips quivered with fury as he strode from the lounge. There was a burst of laughter as he went, but Stella shuddered, for she had seen his eyes.
She started at the sound of Lewis' voice.
"That young man!" she replied. "He's class-conscious and not quite normal. I feel he's dangerous. Miss Cross offended him just now. Could you persuade her to say something decent to him?"
"Wouldn't if I could. I know his type. Harmless. All the fellow wants is to be a hero and pose in the limelight... Come on. Dance, little lady, dance."
So Stella danced and tried to forget her fears. She told herself that it was hopeless to try to control the situation. In any case it was not her business. In two days' time she would never see any of these people again.... Life went on.
On her way up to bed she met Ivan on the narrow staircase. He was carrying a suit-case and his face was white and his eyes glazed as though he had been drinking!"
"Are you going away?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied thickly. "I've been kicked out of the hotel by the blasted millionaires."
"What do you mean?"
"I complained to the proprietor about their filthy behavior. And he had the damned insolence to tell me to go.... Me!"
The triumph of his laugh and the bravado of his swagger told Stella that the ultimate disaster had happened. He was now a martyr to his cause.
She tossed sleeplessly in bed, a prey to every kind of foreboding fancy, and when at last she dropped into a doze she had horrible nightmares of dark places. She was drowning into the darkness. Choked in the darkness. Crushed by the darkness. Sinking down into the bottomless gulfs of darkness.
It was a relief to wake up and see the rare sunlight streaming through her window and to remember that she was not going to the caves.
But all the same she could not shake off a sense of her own responsibility. During café complet she felt a pang whenever she looked around the restaurant. The young people were in the highest spirits and their shouts of laughter tore at her heart.
She told herself that they were going to their doom like sacrificial lambs. It was true that they were graceless, noisy lambs, but they were so unconscious of any overhanging fate. Their faces had the bloom of youth; some of the boys had only begun to shave; they were merely spoiled, reckless babes.
She alone was forewarned and had any influence over Ivan. At a critical moment she might prove the driver, able to control a mad machine. One word might mean all the difference between life and death. If she stayed safely at the hotel and later heard of some catastrophe in the caves she would never be able to forgive herself —or to forget. Presently Lewis crossed to her table. "Change your mind and come to the caves." he pleaded. "It is our last excursion together. Come for me."
As Stella looked at his clear eyes and the clean cut corners of his mouth she suddenly realized that he meant more to her than she had guessed. In that moment she changed her mind. "All right," she said. "I'll go."
Although the rest of the party were in the highest spirits, Stella felt as though she were in the tumbril on her way to the guillotine as the car tore through the sunlit countryside. When they arrived at the village, which was the starting point of their expedition, the little train was already waiting by the side of the road. But Mitzi and her crowd, with whoops of glee, rushed to get drinks at the hotel, outside which stood the usual painted iron tables and chairs.
Stella seated herself beside the two English school teachers. One was tall and rather gloomily handsome; the other was a little, pale girl in glasses, with a vivid face and an astounding store of information.
"What are we waiting for?" complained the tall teacher.
"Those boys who are drinking," replied her little friend. "People like that spoil things for every one."
Stella mentally agreed with her. Although Ivan was not on the train she held her breath with suspense, fearing every second to see him hurry down the street. But at last, to her joy, the train began slowly to move. It jolted through the town and then ran under a tunnel of shady trees. An amber river flowed beside the avenue, but gradually its water gleamed below them as the engine chugged up the hillside.
AS they climbed higher and higher through the gaps in the
rocks they had visions of the country spread out below like a
painted map. The scarlet of poppies and yellow of mustard made
bright splashes, amid the multi-shades of green, while the
shadows of racing clouds swept across in tremulous blue and
purple patches.
The journey was short and soon the conductor came and took Stella's ticket. Thinking he had made a mistake she held it firmly as she explained that she wanted it for the return journey.
"Pas de retour," he said.
"Sounds ominous." laughed the little school mistress. "'No return.' He means we don't go back by train. We walk back inside the mountain to our starting point."
Although the explanation was sound Stella felt absurdly depressed by the incident, as though the conductor's words were prophetic. "No return." The phrase rang in her head as she got out of the train. The rest of the tourists were crowding to look over the lip of a Dantesque gorge at the source of the river, which foamed in a dark boil through the rocks far below.
Turning away with a shudder she followed her companions down a slippery path which zig-zagged along the base of the mountain until the entrance to the caves was reached.
She looked nervously around her as she passed through the turnstile, dreading to see Ivan's white, sneering face. Although he was apparently not among the crowd of sightseers, his absence did not reassure her altogether.
"Perhaps he's already Inside." she thought, "waiting."
In a kind of nightmare she entered the maze of passages and caves with which the mountain was honeycombed. From the beginning of the expedition her mind was so heavy with apprehension that she received but a confused impression of her surroundings. The marvels of the stalactites were lost upon her; she could only plod through cracks in the rocks, along galleries, and I up and down endless steps. She was dimly aware of dripping walls, of corners of fantastic draperies, of what appeared to be guttering stone-altar candles, but she could neither admire nor wonder. She could only endure.
"How far is it to the end?" she asked faintly.
"About two and a half miles," replied the little teacher.
THE tourists straggled on in a long thin line like ants on
march. Sometimes they clustered together in some chamber while
the guide explained its formation, in three languages, which did
not include English. Stella's brain was too dull to attempt to
translate; she was only fretted by the repetition, although she
recognized the standardized jokes by the bursts of laughter.
All the time she was acutely on the alert—waiting for some horror which might await them round the next bend. The shattering roar of an explosion—the rumbling avalanche of rocks sealing their tombs—the thick, choking blackness.
"Tired?" asked Lewis.
"O, no. But the air's rather thick, isn't it?"
"A bit dead probably. We're getting pretty deep in."
He put his hand through her arm to help her as they scrambled onward. The tourists went in pairs or single file along the narrow paths. Most of them were silent. Some were feeling the strain of the stagnant atmosphere and of climbing steps; some were bored; some were memorizing what they saw.
But there were others who were oblivious of their surroundings and carrying on as usual. These included Mitzi and her young men who, following precedent, regarded the mountain as their private property. They chased each other down the flights of steps with shouts and laughter, pushing aside the other tourists without ceremony.
Stella's feeling of oppression deepened as they got further inside the mountain. Sometimes when they walked over the tongues of rock they caught glimpses of a black river boiling down below.
At one point where it was wide and oily it was spanned by a bridge. The guide halted to name it the River Styx and to make jokes about hell in three different languages.
"Looks pretty foul," remarked Lewis. "I shouldn't care to swim in it. Would you?"
"I can't," Stella confessed. "It's awful, but somehow I never got the chance. I suppose I'm unique."
"No, you aren't. Mitzi can't swim either. She'll do any stunt in the air, but she's always had a dread of water. Some sort of complex."
THE expedition had now become a test of endurance. They
appeared to wind eternally through cracks of rocks or stop in the
caves during a ghastly period of explanation. Everything seemed
calculated to draw out the agony. The guide had so many
regulation jokes to be cracked; there were theatrical effects of
colored flares to be admired; musical chimes and echoes were
evoked to heighten the effect of the grottos.
Presently Stella noticed a man who was always running ahead of the party.
"He turns on the lights before we come and then goes back and switches them of again," explained the little teacher.
"I don't commend their economy," grumbled her tall friend. "If a light fused we should be left in the dark."
A memory stirred in Stella's brain. Some poor devil.... Suppose he was one of us." To stifle it she spoke to the little school teacher:
"Are we near the end?"
"Yes," was the comforting reply. "But we've got to wait and have refreshments first."
THE subterranean café reminded Stella of a foretaste of the
infernal regions, with its waitresses and the members of the
orchestra all in scarlet, and the weird, echoing music. Tortured
by the delay, she was trying to swallow a cup of bitter black
coffee when she suddenly saw Ivan looking down from an upper
balcony.
Only his face was revealed by the red flare, so that he seemed to swim in space. The light accentuated its bony structure and the hollows of his eyes making him resemble a corpse awaiting burial.
Like a spirit of evil he brooded in gloating triumph over the abyss.
At last his enemies were in his power.
Stella could imagine the drunken dreams which flooded his brain. He would believe it to be a glorious deed to hurl a bomb into their midst. With one gesture entire nests of capitalists and blood-suckers would be wiped out. The others who perished would be merely incidental to the sacrifice.
He would be a hero—and die a martyr's death. He would be photographed and paragraphed in the press. Beyond that his thoughts would not go.
"I must get to him. I must speak to him before it's too late.'
As the thought flashed across Stella's mind he disappeared. She tried to scramble in his direction just as the little teacher called out to her that they were moving on again. Afraid to be lost in the ramifications of the caves, she had to turn and follow the party through other passages until they reached a wooden dock which was built over a stretch of black, still water. On it floated a huge, clumsy craft, rather like a barge.
"In a few minutes we shall be outside," explained the little teacher. "We just float down the river. Jump in. I wish people wouldn't push."
The tourists crowded forward while the boatmen helped them into the barge. They were packed together so closely that the boat seemed to sink down almost below the level of the water
"We're not enough for two boats, so they're making one do," remarked the little teacher.
STELLA could see nothing of her party because of the
intervening heads, although she could judge the whereabouts of
Mitzi, who was shouting to Pony to sit beside her. As he tried to
rise the barge lurched perilously and every one yelled to him to
keep still.
But in that moment of shifting positions Stella had a glimpse of Ivan's white face and staring eyes. They had taken death on board. They began to slide slowly through the water, leaving the lighted dock for the semi-gloom of the tunnel. She could see its lofty, dripping roof as they crawled onward foot by foot. Each moment the light drew dimmer until it suddenly went out altogether.
The eclipse was greeted with laughter and faint screams of excitement.
"They always do this," said the little teacher. "We shall drift around the bend and then we shall see the daylight at the end of the tunnel, like blue fire."
Stella listened in an agony of terror. At last she realized why Ivan had withheld the bomb of which he talked. This was the opportunity for which he had waited. The darkness.
EACH minute seemed to hold an eternity of dread. She could
hear the trickling and gurgling of water—the creaking of
timber. And then—the catastrophe happened within three
seconds. The barge rocked with a sickening lurch as some one rose
to his feet. There was shouts of "Sit down," but almost in the
same moment the boat keeled completely over and she felt herself
slipping down through the water.
It was like her dream—a choking agony in the darkness. Pandemonium raged all around her as people fought and struggled, while a mad medley of limbs thrashed and kicked in every direction. Just as her fingers touched the slimy boards of the barge she felt a violent blow under her chin and dropped down into an abyss of blackness.
WHEN she opened her eyes she was lying on the grass, staring
up into a dazzling blur of light. Gradually the landscape stopped
floating about like bits of a jig-saw puzzle and reassembled
itself into definite shapes of trees, fields, and people. She saw
the barge—now righted on the sunlit river—and heard
excited voices and shouts of laughter.
Then she smiled into Lewis' concerned eyes.
"Am I drowned?" she asked.
"No, just a spot damp," was the reply "You were knocked out in the scram.
"Were any lives lost?" she whispered as she shuddered at the memory.
"Of course not. At one time things looked a bit ugly. People lost their heads because of the dark. But when the light came on we soon got things sorted out."
"But it might have been a tragedy. You see, I was right about Ivan. He was dangerous."
"But that chap didn't scuttle the boat," explained Lewis. "It was that fool, Pony, trying to cross to Mitzi. No, the Mad Mullah fished her up and now's she's telling the world he's her hero. I told you all he wanted was the limelight. Look at him, lapping it all up."
As Stella followed his pointing finger she could hardly believe the evidence of her eyes. Shouting and laughing with excitement—Ivan was the central figure of his group. His thin cheeks were flushed and his fingers snapped as he spouted like a stump-orator. One arm was thrown around Mitzi, who literally clung to him, for she was a girl who never did things by halves.
But later that evening, looking into the swirl at the soupy river, he made his confession to Stella.
"I did upset the barge. The other chap got up afterward. I gripped Mitzi. I meant to drag her down with me and hold her under until we were both drowned. But when she put her arms around my neck and cried out I—I couldn't. Something got hold of me."
Stella understood. This youth who had walked and talked daily with death, for the first time had been gripped by the mighty force of life.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
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If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
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