Bab Bab 11 · MESMER'S CHEST

. MESMER'S CHEST

After a couple of weeks had passed, the kite seemed to give Edgar Caswall

a new zest for life. He was never tired of looking at its movements. He

had a comfortable armchair put out on the tower, wherein he sat sometimes

all day long, watching as though the kite was a new toy and he a child

lately come into possession of it. He did not seem to have lost interest

in Lilla, for he still paid an occasional visit at Mercy Farm.

Indeed, his feeling towards her, whatever it had been at first, had now

so far changed that it had become a distinct affection of a purely animal

kind. Indeed, it seemed as though the man's nature had become corrupted,

and that all the baser and more selfish and more reckless qualities had

become more conspicuous. There was not so much sternness apparent in his

nature, because there was less self-restraint. Determination had become

indifference.

The visible change in Edgar was that he grew morbid, sad, silent; the

neighbours thought he was going mad. He became absorbed in the kite, and

watched it not only by day, but often all night long. It became an

obsession to him.

Caswall took a personal interest in the keeping of the great kite flying.

He had a vast coil of cord efficient for the purpose, which worked on a

roller fixed on the parapet of the tower. There was a winch for the

pulling in of the slack; the outgoing line being controlled by a racket.

There was invariably one man at least, day and night, on the tower to

attend to it. At such an elevation there was always a strong wind, and

at times the kite rose to an enormous height, as well as travelling for

great distances laterally. In fact, the kite became, in a short time,

one of the curiosities of Castra Regis and all around it. Edgar began to

attribute to it, in his own mind, almost human qualities. It became to

him a separate entity, with a mind and a soul of its own. Being idle-

handed all day, he began to apply to what he considered the service of

the kite some of his spare time, and found a new pleasure--a new object

in life--in the old schoolboy game of sending up "runners" to the kite.

The way this is done is to get round pieces of paper so cut that there is

a hole in the centre, through which the string of the kite passes. The

natural action of the wind-pressure takes the paper along the string, and

so up to the kite itself, no matter how high or how far it may have gone.

In the early days of this amusement Edgar Caswall spent hours. Hundreds

of such messengers flew along the string, until soon he bethought him of

writing messages on these papers so that he could make known his ideas to

the kite. It may be that his brain gave way under the opportunities

given by his illusion of the entity of the toy and its power of separate

thought. From sending messages he came to making direct speech to the

kite--without, however, ceasing to send the runners. Doubtless, the

height of the tower, seated as it was on the hill-top, the rushing of the

ceaseless wind, the hypnotic effect of the lofty altitude of the speck in

the sky at which he gazed, and the rushing of the paper messengers up the

string till sight of them was lost in distance, all helped to further

affect his brain, undoubtedly giving way under the strain of beliefs and

circumstances which were at once stimulating to the imagination,

occupative of his mind, and absorbing.

The next step of intellectual decline was to bring to bear on the main

idea of the conscious identity of the kite all sorts of subjects which

had imaginative force or tendency of their own. He had, in Castra Regis,

a large collection of curious and interesting things formed in the past

by his forebears, of similar tastes to his own. There were all sorts of

strange anthropological specimens, both old and new, which had been

collected through various travels in strange places: ancient Egyptian

relics from tombs and mummies; curios from Australia, New Zealand, and

the South Seas; idols and images--from Tartar ikons to ancient Egyptian,

Persian, and Indian objects of worship; objects of death and torture of

American Indians; and, above all, a vast collection of lethal weapons of

every kind and from every place--Chinese "high pinders," double knives,

Afghan double-edged scimitars made to cut a body in two, heavy knives

from all the Eastern countries, ghost daggers from Thibet, the terrible

kukri of the Ghourka and other hill tribes of India, assassins' weapons

from Italy and Spain, even the knife which was formerly carried by the

slave-drivers of the Mississippi region. Death and pain of every kind

were fully represented in that gruesome collection.

That it had a fascination for Oolanga goes without saying. He was never

tired of visiting the museum in the tower, and spent endless hours in

inspecting the exhibits, till he was thoroughly familiar with every

detail of all of them. He asked permission to clean and polish and

sharpen them--a favour which was readily granted. In addition to the

above objects, there were many things of a kind to awaken human fear.

Stuffed serpents of the most objectionable and horrid kind; giant insects

from the tropics, fearsome in every detail; fishes and crustaceans

covered with weird spikes; dried octopuses of great size. Other things,

too, there were, not less deadly though seemingly innocuous--dried fungi,

traps intended for birds, beasts, fishes, reptiles, and insects; machines

which could produce pain of any kind and degree, and the only mercy of

which was the power of producing speedy death.

Caswall, who had never before seen any of these things, except those

which he had collected himself, found a constant amusement and interest

in them. He studied them, their uses, their mechanism--where there was

such--and their places of origin, until he had an ample and real

knowledge of all concerning them. Many were secret and intricate, but he

never rested till he found out all the secrets. When once he had become

interested in strange objects, and the way to use them, he began to

explore various likely places for similar finds. He began to inquire of

his household where strange lumber was kept. Several of the men spoke of

old Simon Chester as one who knew everything in and about the house.

Accordingly, he sent for the old man, who came at once. He was very old,

nearly ninety years of age, and very infirm. He had been born in the

Castle, and had served its succession of masters--present or absent--ever

since. When Edgar began to question him on the subject regarding which

he had sent for him, old Simon exhibited much perturbation. In fact, he

became so frightened that his master, fully believing that he was

concealing something, ordered him to tell at once what remained unseen,

and where it was hidden away. Face to face with discovery of his secret,

the old man, in a pitiable state of concern, spoke out even more fully

than Mr. Caswall had expected.

"Indeed, indeed, sir, everything is here in the tower that has ever been

put away in my time except--except--" here he began to shake and tremble

it--"except the chest which Mr. Edgar--he who was Mr. Edgar when I first

took service--brought back from France, after he had been with Dr.

Mesmer. The trunk has been kept in my room for safety; but I shall send

it down here now."

"What is in it?" asked Edgar sharply.

"That I do not know. Moreover, it is a peculiar trunk, without any

visible means of opening."

"Is there no lock?"

"I suppose so, sir; but I do not know. There is no keyhole."

"Send it here; and then come to me yourself."

The trunk, a heavy one with steel bands round it, but no lock or keyhole,

was carried in by two men. Shortly afterwards old Simon attended his

master. When he came into the room, Mr. Caswall himself went and closed

the door; then he asked:

"How do you open it?"

"I do not know, sir."

"Do you mean to say that you never opened it?"

"Most certainly I say so, your honour. How could I? It was entrusted to

me with the other things by my master. To open it would have been a

breach of trust."

Caswall sneered.

"Quite remarkable! Leave it with me. Close the door behind you.

Stay--did no one ever tell you about it--say anything regarding it--make

any remark?"

Old Simon turned pale, and put his trembling hands together.

"Oh, sir, I entreat you not to touch it. That trunk probably contains

secrets which Dr. Mesmer told my master. Told them to his ruin!"

"How do you mean? What ruin?"

"Sir, he it was who, men said, sold his soul to the Evil One; I had

thought that that time and the evil of it had all passed away."

"That will do. Go away; but remain in your own room, or within call. I

may want you."

The old man bowed deeply and went out trembling, but without speaking a

word.