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Chapter 11. Where Silas Linden Comes into His Own · The Land of Mist

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Chapter eleven of the Land of Mist. This is a LibriVox recording. All
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LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,
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please visit LibriVox dot org. Read by Kay James. The Land of Mist
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by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, where Silas Linden comes into his own Chapter eleven,
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where Silas Linden comes into his own. Silas Linden, prize fighter and
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fake medium, had had some great days in his life, days crowded with
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incidents for good or evil. There was the time when he had backed rosalind
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at one hundred to one in the Oaks, and had spent twenty four hours
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of brutal debauchery on the strength of it. There was the day also when
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his favorite rite uppercut had connected in most accurate and rhythmical fashion with the protruded
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chin of bull Wardell of White, whereby Silas put himself in the way of
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a Lonsdale Cup and a try for the championship. But never in all his
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varied career had he had such a day as this supreme one. So it
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is worth our while to follow him to the end of it. Fanatical believers
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have urged that it is too dangerous to cross the path of spiritual things when
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the heart is not clean. Silas Lindon's name might be added to their list
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of examples, but his cup of sin was full and overflowing. Before the
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judgment fell. He emerged from the room of Algernon Mayley with every reason to
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know that Lord Roxton's grip was as muscular as ever. In the excitement of
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the struggle, he had hardly realized his injuries. But now he stood outside
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the door, with his hand to his bruised throat and a hoarse stream of
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oaths pouring through it. His breast was aching also where Malone had planted his
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knee, and even the successful blow which had struck Melee down had brought retribution,
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for it had jarred that injured hand of which he had complained to his
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brother. Altogether. If Silas Lindon was in a most cursed temper, there
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was a very good reason for his mood. I'll get you one at a
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time, he growled, looking back with his angry pig's eyes at the outer
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doors of the flats. You wait, my lads, and see. Then
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with sudden purpose, he swung off down the street, It was to the
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Bardsley Square police station that he made his way, and he found the jovial,
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rubicund, black mustached Inspector Murphy seated at his desk. Well what do
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you want, asked the inspector in no friendly voice. I hear you got
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that medium right and proper. Yes we did. I learn he was your
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brother. That's neither here nor there. I don't hold with such things in
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any man. But you got your conviction. What is there for me in
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it? Not a shilling? What wasn't an eye that gave the information?
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Where would you have been if I had not given you the office? If
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there had been a fine, we might have allowed you something. We would
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have got something too, Mister Melrose sent him to jail. There is nothing
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for anybody. So you say, I'm damn sure you and those two women
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got something out of it. Why the hell should I give away my own
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brother for the sake of the likes of you. You'll find your own bird
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next time. Murphy was a cholera command with a sense of his own importance.
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He was not to be bearded. Thus, in his own seat of
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office, he rose with a very red face. I'll tell you what Silas
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Lindon, I could find my own bird and never move out of this room.
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You had best get out of this quick or you may chance to stay
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here longer than you like. We've had complaints of your treatment of those two
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children of yours, and the children's protection folk are taking an interest. Look
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out that we don't take an interest too. Silas Lindon flung out of the
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room with his temper hotter than ever, and a couple of rum and waters
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on his way home did not help to appease him. On the contrary,
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he had always been a man who grew more dangerous in his cups. There
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were many of his trade who refused to drink with him. Silas lived in
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one of a row of small brick houses named Bolton's Court, lying at the
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back of Tottenham Court Road. His was the end house of a cul de
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sac, with the side wall of a huge brewery beyond. These dwellings were
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very small, which was probably the reason why the inhabitants, both adults and
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children, spent most of their time in the street. Several of the elders
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were out now, and as Silas passed under the solitary lamp post, they
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scowled at his thick set figure. For though the morality of Bolton's court was
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of no high order, it was nonetheless graduated, and Silas was at zero.
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A tall Jewish woman, Rebecca Levi, thin, aquiline and fear side,
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lived next to the prize fighter. She was standing at her door now
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with a child holding her apron. Mister Lindon, she said, as he
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passed them. Children of yours want more care than they get. Little Margaret
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was in here today. That child don't get enough to eat. Mind your
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own business. Curse you, growled Silas. I've told you before now not
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to push that long, sheeny beak of yours into my affairs. If you
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was a man, I'd know better how to speak to you. If I
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was a man, maybe you wouldn't dare speak to me. So I says,
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it's a shame, Silas Lindon, the way them children is treated.
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If it's a police court case, I'll know what to say. Oh go
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to hell, said Silas, and kicked open his own unlatched door. A
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big, frowsy woman with a shock of dyed hair and some remains of a
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florid beauty, now long over ripe, looked out from the sitting room door.
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Oh it's you, is it? Said she? Who did you think
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it was the Duke of Wellington? I thought it was a mad bullock maybe
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got straying down the lane and buttoned down our door. Funny, ain't you?
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Maybe? I am, But I ain't got much to be funny about,
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not a shillin' in the house, nor so much as a pine of
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beer. And these damn children of yours forever upsettin me? What have they
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been a doin of asked Silas with a scowl. When this worthy pair could
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get no change out of each other, they usually united their forces against the
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children. He had entered the sitting room and flung himself down in the wooden
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arm chair. They've been seeing number one again? How do you know that?
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I heard him saying something to or about it? Mother was there,
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he says. Then afterwards he had one of them sleepy fits. It's in
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the family, yes, it is, retorted the woman. If you hadn't
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sleepy fits, you'd get some work to do like other men. Oh shut
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it, woman, What I mean is that my brother Tom gets them fits.
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And this lad of mine is said to be the living image of his
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uncle. So he had a trance hattie, What did you do? The
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woman gave an evil grin. I did what you did? What the sealing
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wax? Again? Not much of it, just enough to wake him.
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It's the only way to break him of it. Silas shrugged his shoulders.
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Have a care, my lass. There is talk of the police, and
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if they see those burns, you and I may be in the dock together.
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Silas Lindon, you are a fool. Can't apparent correct his own child?
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Yes, but it ain't your own child. And stepmothers has a bad
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name. See there's that jew woman next door. She saw you when you
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took the clothes rope to little Marjorie last washing day. She spoke to me
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about it, and again today about the food. What's the matter with the
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food? The greedy little bastards. They had a bunch of bread when I
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had my dinner, a bit of real starv and would do him no harm,
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and I'd have less sauce. What has Willy sauced you? Yes,
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when he woke up after you'd dropped the hot sealing wax on him, Well,
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I did it for his good, didn't I? It was to cure
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him of a bad abbot. What did he say, cursed me good and
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proper. He did all about his mother, what his mother would do to
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me. I'm damn well sick of his mother. Don't say too much about
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Amy. She was a good woman, so you say, now, Silas
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Lindon, But by all accounts you had a queer way of showing it when
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she was alive. Hold your jawwoman, I've had enough to vex me today
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without you starting your tantrums. You're jealous of the grave. That's what's the
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matter with you, and her brats can insult me as they like me.
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That has cared for you these five years. No, I didn't say that.
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If he insulted you, it's up to me to deal with him.
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Where's that strap? Go fetch him in. The woman came across and kissed
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him. I've only you, Silas. Oh hell, don't muck me about
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it. I'm not in the mood. Go and fetch Willie in. You
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can bring Marjorie also. It takes the sauce out of her also, for
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I think she feels it more than he does. The woman left the room,
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but was back in a moment. He's off again, said she It
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fair gets on my nerve to see him. Come here, Silas, have
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a look. They went together into the bat kitchen. A small fire was
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smoldering in the grate. Beside it. Huddled up in a chair sat a
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fair haired boy of ten. His delicate face was upturned to the ceiling.
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His eyes were half closed and only the whites visible. There was a look
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of great peace upon his thin, spiritual features. In the corner, a
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poor, little, cowed might of a girl a year or two younger was
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gazing with sad, frightened eyes at her brother. Looks awful, don'ty,
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said the woman. Don't seem to belong to this world. I wish to
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God he'd make a move for the other. He don't do much good ear
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here? Wake up, cried Silas. None of your foxin wake up?
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Do you hear? He shook him roughly by the shoulder, but the boy
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still slumbered on the backs of his hands, which lay upon his lap,
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were covered with bright scarlet blotches. My word, you've dropped enough hot wax
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on him. Do you mean to tell me, Sarah it took all that
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to wake him. Maybe I dropped one or two extra for luck. He
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does aggravate me that I can hardly hold myself. But you wouldn't believe how
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little he could feel. When he's like that, you can owl in his
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ear. It's all lost on him. See here she caught the lad by
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the hair and shook him violently. He groaned and shivered. Then he sank
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back into his serene trance. Say, cried Silas, stroking his stubbled chin
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as he looked thoughtfully at his son. I think there is money in this
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if it is handled to rights. What about a turn on the halls,
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eh, the boy wonder? Or how is it done? There's a name
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for the bills. Then folk know his uncle's name, so they will be
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able to take him on. Trust. I thought you was going into the
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business yourself. That's a wash out, snarled Silas. Don't you talk of
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it. It's finished, been caught out already. I tell you not to
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talk about it. Woman, The man shouted. I'm just in the mood
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to give you the hiding of your life. So don't you get my goat,
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or you'll be sorry. He stepped across and pinched the boy's arm with
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all his force. By Christ, he's a wonder. Let us see how
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far it will go. He turned to the sinking fire, and with the
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tongs he picked out a half red ember. This he placed on the boy's
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head. There was the smell of burning hair, then of roasting flesh,
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and suddenly, with a scream of pain, the boy came back to his
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senses. Mother, mother, he cried. The girl in the corner took
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up the cry. They were like two lambs bleating together. Damn your mother,
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cried the woman, shaking Marjorie by the collar of her frail black dress.
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Stop squalling, you little stinker. She struck the child with her open
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hand across the face. Little Willie ran at her and kicked her shins until
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a blow from Silas knocked him into the corner. The brute picked up a
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stick and lashed the two cowering children while they screamed for mercy and tried to
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cover their little bodies from the cruel blows. You stop that, cried a
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voice in the passage. It's that blasted jewics, said the woman. She
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went to the kitchen door. What the hell you doing in our house?
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Stop it quick, or it will be the worse for you if I hear
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them children cry out once more. I'm off for the police. Get out
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of it. Stop it, I tell you. The frowsy stepmother bore down
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in full sail, but the lean, lank jewess stood her ground. Next
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instant they met Missus Silas. Lindon screamed and staggered back, with blood running
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down her face, where four nails had left as many red furrows. Silas,
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with an oath, pushed his wife out of the way, seized the
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intruder round the waist, and slung her bodily through the door. She lay
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in the roadway with her long, gaunt limbs sprawling out like some half slain
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fowl. Without rising. She shook her clenched hands in the air and screamed
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curses at Silas, who slammed the door and left her. While neighbors ran
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from all sides to hear particulars of the fray. Missus Lindon, staring through
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the front blind, saw with some relief that her enemy was able to rise
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and to limp back to her own door, when she could be heard delivering
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a long, shrill harangue as to her wrongs. The wrongs of a jew
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are not lightly forgotten, for the race can both love and hate. She's
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all right, silence. I thought maybe you had killed her. It's what
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she wants, the damned canting sheeny. It's bad enough to have her in
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the street without her daring to set foot inside my door. I'll cut the
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hide off of that young Willie. He's the cause of it all. Where
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is he? They ran up to their room. I heard them lock the
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door. A lot of good that will do them. I wouldn't touch him
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now, Silas, the neighbors is all up and about, and we needn't
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ask for trouble. You're right, he grumbled. It will keep till I
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come back. Where are you going down to the Admiral Vernon. There's a
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chance of a job as Sparrin partner to long Davis. He goes into training
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on Monday and needs a man of my weight. Well, i'll expect you
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when I see you. I get too much of that pub of yours.
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I know what the Admiral Vernon means. It means the only place at God's
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earth where I get any peace or rest, said Silas, A fat lot
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I get or have ravad since I married you. That's right, Grouse away,
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he growled. If Graus had made a man happy, you'd be the
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champion. He picked up his hat and slouched off down the street, his
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heavy tread resounding upon the great wooden flap which covered the cellars of the brewery.
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Up in a dingy attic, two little figures were seated on the side
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of a wretched straw stuffed bed, their arms enlacing each other, their cheeks
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touching, their tears mingling. They had to cry in silence, for any
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sound might remind the ogre downstairs of their existence. Now and again one would
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break into an uncontrollable sob, and the other would whisper, hush, hush,
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oh hush. Then suddenly they heard the slam of the outer door,
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and that heavy trod booming over the wooden flap. They squeezed each other in
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their joy. Perhaps when he came back, he might kill them, but
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for a few short at least they were safe from him. As to the
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woman, she was spiteful and vicious, but she did not seem so deadly
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as the man. In a dim way, they felt that he had hunted
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their mother into her grave and might do as much for them. The room
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was dark save for the light which came through the single dirty window. It
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cast a bar across the floor, but all round was black shadow Suddenly,
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the little boy stiffened, clasped his sister with a tighter grip, and stared
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rigidly into the darkness. She's coming, he muttered, She's coming. Little
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Marjorie clung to him. Oh, Willie, is it mother? It is
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a light, a beautiful yellow light. Can you not see it, Marjorie?
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But the little girl, like all the world was without vision to her,
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all was darkness. Tell me, Willie, she whispered in a solemn
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voice. She was not really frightened. For many times before had the dead
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mother returned in the watches of the night to comfort her stricken children. Yes,
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yes, she is coming now, Oh mother mother, What does she
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say, Willie? Oh she is beautiful. She is not crying, she
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is smiling. It is like the picture we saw of the angel. She
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looks so happy, dear dear mother. Now she is speaking. It is
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over, she says, it is all over. She says it again.
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Now she beckons with her hand. We are to follow. She has moved
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to the door. Oh, Willie, I dare not. Yes, yes,
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she nods her head. She bids us fear nothing. Now she has
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passed through the door. Come, Marjorie, come, or we shall lose
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her. The two little mites crept across the room, and Willie unlocked the
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door. The mother stood at the head of the stair, beckoning them onwards.
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Step by step, they followed her down into the empty kitchen. The
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woman seemed to have gone out. All was still in the house. The
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phantom still beckoned them on. We are to go out, oh Willie,
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we have no hats. We must follow match. She is smiling and waving.
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Father will kill us for this. She shakes her head. She says,
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we are to fear nothing. Come. They threw open the door and
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were in the street. Down the deserted court, they followed the gleaming,
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gracious presence, and through a tangle of low streets, and so out into
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the crowded rush of Tottenham Court Road. Once or twice amid all that blind
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torrent of humanity, some man or woman blessed with the precious gift of discernment
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would start and stare as they were aware of an angel presence, and of
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two little white faced children who followed behind the boy with fixed absorbed gaze,
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the girl glancing ever in terror over her shoulder. Down the long street they
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passed, Then again amid the humbler dwellings, and so at last to a
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quiet, drab line of brick houses. On the step of one, the
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spirit had halted. We are to knock, said Willie, Oh Willie,
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what shall we say? We don't know them. We are to knock,
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he repeated, stoutly. Brettet. It's all right, match. She is
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clapping her hands and laughing. So it was that missus tom Lindon, sitting
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lonely in her misery and brooding over her martyr in jail, was summoned suddenly
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to the door and found two little apologetic figures outside it. A few words,
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a rush of woman's instinct, and her arms were round the children.
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These battered little skiffs, who had started their life's voyage so sadly, had
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found a harbor of peace, where no storm should vex them more. There
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were some strange happenings in Bolton's Court that night. Some folk thought they had
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no relation to each other, one or two thought they had The British law
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saw nothing and had nothing to say. In the second last house, a
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keen hawklike face peered from behind a window blind into the darkened street. A
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shaded candle was behind that fearful face dark as death, remorseless as the tomb.
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Behind Rebecca Levi stood a young man whose features showed that he sprang from
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the same oriental race. For an hour, for a second hour, the
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woman had sat without a word, watching, waiting. At the entrance to
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the court, there was a hanging lamp which cast a circle of yellow light.
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It was on this pool of radiance that her brooding eyes were fixed.
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Then suddenly she saw what she had waited for. She started and hissed out
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a word. The young man rushed from the room and into the street.
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He vanished through a side door into the brewery, drunken Silas Lindon was coming
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home, he was in a gloomy, sulken state of befuttlement. A sense
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of injury filled his mind. He had not gained the billet he sought.
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His injured hand had been against him. He had hung around the bar waiting
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for drinks, and had got some, but not enough. Now he was
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in a dangerous mood. Woe to the man, woman, or child who
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crossed his path. He thought savagely of the jewess who lived in that darkened
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house. He thought savagely of all his neighbors. They would stand between him
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and his children. Would they he would show them the very next morning,
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he would take them both out into the street and strap them within an inch
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of their lives. That would show them all what Silas Lyndon thought of their
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opinion. Why should he not do it now? If he were to waken
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the neighbors up with the shrieks of his children, it would show them once
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for all that they could not defy him with impunity. The idea pleased him.
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He stepped more briskly out. He was almost at his door when it
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was never quite clear how it was that the cellar flap was not securely fastened
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that night. The jury were inclined to blame the brewery, but the coroner
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pointed out that Lyndon was a heavy man, that he might have fallen on
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it if he were drunk, and that all reasonable care had been taken.
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It was an eighteen foot fall upon jagged stones, and his back was broken.
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They did not find him till next morning. For curiously enough, his
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neighbor, the Jewess, never heard the sound of the accident. The doctor
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seemed to think that death had not come quickly. There were horrible signs that
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he had lingered down in the darkness, vomiting blood and beer. The man
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ended his filthy life with a filthy death. One need not waste words or
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pity over the woman whom he had left. Relieved from her terrible mate,
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she returned to that music hall stage from which he, by force of his
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virility and bull like strength, had lured her. She tried to regain her
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place with high, high Hi. I'm the Dernier Cree, the girl with
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the cartwheel hat, which was the ditty which had won her her name.
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But it became too painfully evident that she was anything but the Dernier Cree,
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and that she could never get back. Slowly she sank from big halls,
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too small halls, from small halls, two pubs, and so ever,
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deeper and deeper, sucked into the awful, silent quicksands of life, which
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drew her down and down, until that vacuous painted face and frousy head were
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seen no more. End of Chapter eleven.