She took from her neck a
small golden trinket and laid it there also; and then, seizing the two,
threw them into the stream that ran by. Then she took my hand in hers
and spoke: ‘Naught but blood in this guilty place,’ and turned away. I
caught hold of her and asked her to tell me more. After some
hesitation, she said: ‘Alas! alas! I see you lying at your husband’s
feet, and his hands are red with blood.’”

Gerald did not feel at all at ease, and tried to laugh it off. “Surely,” he said, “this woman has a craze about murder.”

“Do not laugh,” said Mary, “I cannot bear it,” and then, as if with a
sudden impulse, she left the room. Not long after Joshua returned, bright and cheery, and as hungry as a
hunter after his long drive. His presence cheered his wife, who seemed
much brighter, but she did not mention the episode of the visit to the
gipsy camp, so Gerald did not mention it either. As if by tacit consent
the subject was not alluded to during the evening. But there was a
strange, settled look on Mary’s face, which Gerald could not but
observe. In the morning Joshua came down to breakfast later than usual. Mary had
been up and about the house from an early hour; but as the time drew on
she seemed to get a little nervous and now and again threw around an
anxious look. Gerald could not help noticing that none of those at breakfast could
get on satisfactorily with their food. It was not altogether that the
chops were tough, but that the knives were all so blunt. Being a guest,
he, of course, made no sign; but presently saw Joshua draw his thumb
across the edge of his knife in an unconscious sort of way. At the
action Mary turned pale and almost fainted. After breakfast they all went out on the lawn. Mary was making up a
bouquet, and said to her husband, “Get me a few of the tea-roses,
dear.”

Joshua pulled down a cluster from the front of the house. The stem
bent, but was too tough to break. He put his hand in his pocket to get
his knife; but in vain. “Lend me your knife, Gerald,” he said. But
Gerald had not got one, so he went into the breakfast room and took one
from the table. He came out feeling its edge and grumbling. “What on
earth has happened to all the knives—the edges seem all ground off?”
Mary turned away hurriedly and entered the house. Joshua tried to sever the stalk with the blunt knife as country cooks
sever the necks of fowl—as schoolboys cut twine. With a little effort
he finished the task. The cluster of roses grew thick, so he determined
to gather a great bunch. He could not find a single sharp knife in the sideboard where the
cutlery was kept, so he called Mary, and when she came, told her the
state of things. She looked so agitated and so miserable that he could
not help knowing the truth, and, as if astounded and hurt, asked her:

“Do you mean to say that _you_ have done it?”

She broke in, “Oh, Joshua, I was so afraid.”

He paused, and a set, white look came over his face. “Mary!” said he,
“is this all the trust you have in me? I would not have believed it.”

“Oh, Joshua! Joshua!” she cried entreatingly, “forgive me,” and wept
bitterly. Joshua thought a moment and then said: “I see how it is. We shall
better end this or we shall all go mad.”

He ran into the drawing-room. “Where are you going?” almost screamed Mary. Gerald saw what he meant—that he would not be tied to blunt instruments
by the force of a superstition, and was not surprised when he saw him
come out through the French window, bearing in his hand a large Ghourka
knife, which usually lay on the centre table, and which his brother had
sent him from Northern India. It was one of those great hunting-knives
which worked such havoc, at close quarters with the enemies of the
loyal Ghourkas during the mutiny, of great weight but so evenly
balanced in the hand as to seem light, and with an edge like a razor. With one of these knives a Ghourka can cut a sheep in two. When Mary saw him come out of the room with the weapon in his hand she
screamed in an agony of fright, and the hysterics of last night were
promptly renewed. Joshua ran toward her, and, seeing her falling, threw down the knife
and tried to catch her. However, he was just a second too late, and the two men cried out in
horror simultaneously as they saw her fall upon the naked blade. When Gerald rushed over he found that in falling her left hand had
struck the blade, which lay partly upwards on the grass. Some of the
small veins were cut through, and the blood gushed freely from the
wound. As he was tying it up he pointed out to Joshua that the wedding
ring was severed by the steel. They carried her fainting to the house. When, after a while, she came
out, with her arm in a sling, she was peaceful in her mind and happy. She said to her husband:

“The gipsy was wonderfully near the truth; too near for the real thing
ever to occur now, dear.”

Joshua bent over and kissed the wounded hand. The Coming of Abel Behenna


The little Cornish port of Pencastle was bright in the early April,
when the sun had seemingly come to stay after a long and bitter winter. Boldly and blackly the rock stood out against a background of shaded
blue, where the sky fading into mist met the far horizon. The sea was
of true Cornish hue—sapphire, save where it became deep emerald green
in the fathomless depths under the cliffs, where the seal caves opened
their grim jaws. On the slopes the grass was parched and brown. The
spikes of furze bushes were ashy grey, but the golden yellow of their
flowers streamed along the hillside, dipping out in lines as the rock
cropped up, and lessening into patches and dots till finally it died
away all together where the sea winds swept round the jutting cliffs
and cut short the vegetation as though with an ever-working aerial
shears. The whole hillside, with its body of brown and flashes of
yellow, was just like a colossal yellow-hammer. The little harbour opened from the sea between towering cliffs, and
behind a lonely rock, pierced with many caves and blow-holes through
which the sea in storm time sent its thunderous voice, together with a
fountain of drifting spume. Hence, it wound westwards in a serpentine
course, guarded at its entrance by two little curving piers to left and
right. These were roughly built of dark slates placed endways and held
together with great beams bound with iron bands. Thence, it flowed up
the rocky bed of the stream whose winter torrents had of old cut out
its way amongst the hills. This stream was deep at first, with here and
there, where it widened, patches of broken rock exposed at low water,
full of holes where crabs and lobsters were to be found at the ebb of
the tide. From amongst the rocks rose sturdy posts, used for warping in
the little coasting vessels which frequented the port. Higher up, the
stream still flowed deeply, for the tide ran far inland, but always
calmly for all the force of the wildest storm was broken below.