"I see," says Kennaston, intently regarding his fingernails: "they must have been highly enjoyable social outings, all around."
"They must have been worse than family reunions," put in Mrs. Kennaston, and affected to shudder.
"Indeed, there are certain points of resemblance," I conceded, "in the general atmosphere of jealous hostility and the ruthless digging-up of what were better left buried."
Then Kennaston asked carelessly, "But how could such absurd superstitions ever get any hold on people, do you suppose?"
"That would require rather a lengthy explanation – Why, no," I protested, in answer to his shrug; "the Sabbat is not inexplicable. Hahn-Kraftner's book, or Herbert Perlin's either, will give you a very fair notion of what the Sabbat really was – something not in the least grotesque, but infinitely more awe-inspiring than is hinted by any traditions in popular use. And Le Bret, whom bookdealers rightly list as 'curious'-"
"Yes. I have read those books, it happens. My uncle had them, you know. But"- Kennaston was plainly not quite at ease-"but, after all, is it not more wholesome to dismiss such theories as fantastic nonsense, even if they are perfectly true?"
"Why, not of necessity," said I. "As touches what we call the 'occult,' delusion after delusion has been dissipated, of course, and much jubilant pother made over the advance in knowledge. But the last of his delusions, which man has yet to relinquish, is that he invented them. This too must be surrendered with time; and already we are beginning to learn that many of these wild errors are the illegitimate children of grave truths. Science now looks with new respect on folk-lore -"
"Mr. Kennaston," says Moira, laughing, "I warn you, if you start Dick on his hobbies, he will talk us all to death. So, come into the house, and I will mix you two men a drink."
And we obeyed her, and – somehow – got to talking of the recent thunderstorms, and getting in our hay, and kindred topics.
____________________
Yes, it was much the usual sort of late-afternoon call customarily exchanged by country neighbors. I remember Moira's yawning as she closed the cellarette, and her wondering how Mrs. Kennaston could keep on rouging and powdering at her age, and why Kennaston never had anything in particular to say for himself?
"Do you suppose it is because he has a swelled head over his little old book, or is he just naturally stupid?" she wanted to know.
Book Sixth
"Alas! the sprite that haunts us
Deceives our rash desire;
It whispers of the glorious gods,
And leaves us in the mire:
We cannot learn the cipher
Inscribed upon our cell;
Stars taunt us with a mystery
Which we lack lore to spell."
"Alas! the sprite that haunts us
Deceives our rash desire;
It whispers of the glorious gods,
And leaves us in the mire:
We cannot learn the cipher
Inscribed upon our cell;
Stars taunt us with a mystery
Which we lack lore to spell."
I
Sundry Disclosures of the Press
SUCH as has been described was now Felix Kennaston's manner of living, which, as touches utilitarian ends, it might be wiser forthwith to dismiss as bred by the sickly fancies of an idle man bemused with unprofitable reading. By day his half of the sigil lay hidden in the library, under a pile of unused bookplates. But nightly this bit of metal was taken with him to bed, in order that, when held so as to reflect the candlelight – for this was always necessary – it might induce the desired dream of Ettarre; and that, so, Horvendile would be freed of Felix Kennaston for eight hours uninterruptedly.
In our social ordering Felix Kennaston stayed worthy of consideration in Lichfield, both as a celebrity of sorts and as the owner of four bank-accounts; and colloquially, as likewise has been recorded, he was by ordinary dismissed from our patronizing discussion as having long been "queer," and in all probability "a dope-fiend," In Lichfield, as elsewhere, a man's difference from his fellows cannot comfortably be conceded except by assuming the difference to be to his discredit.
Meanwhile, the Felix Kennaston who owned two motors and had money in four banks, went with his wife about their round of decorous social duties; and the same Felix Kennaston, with leisured joy in the task, had completed The Tinctured Veil – which, as you now know, was woven from the dreamstuff Horvendile had fetched out of that fair country – very far from Lichfield – which is bounded by Avalon and Phæacia and Sea-coast Bohemia, and the contiguous forests of Arden and Broceliande, and on the west of course by the Hesperides.
Then, just before The Tinctured Veil was published, an accident happened.
Fate, as always frugal of display, used simple tools. Kennaston, midway in dressing, found he had no more mouthwash. He went into his wife's bathroom, in search of a fresh bottle.
Kathleen was in Lichfield for the afternoon, at a card party; and thus it was brought about that Kennaston found, lying in the corner of her bathroom press, and hidden by a bottle of Harrowby's No. 7 Dental Delight, the missing half of the sigil of Scoteia – the half which Ettarre had retained. There was no doubt about it. He held it in his hand.
"Now, that," said Felix Kennaston, aloud, "is rather curious."
He went into the library, and lifted the little pile of unused bookplates; and presently the two pieces of metal lay united upon his wife's dressing-table, between the manicure-set and the pincushion, forming a circle not quite three inches in diameter, just such as he had seen once upon the brow of Mother Isis, and again in the Didascalion when Ptolemy of the Fat Paunch was master of Egypt.
"So, Kathleen somehow found the other half. She has had it from the first… But naturally I never spoke of Felix Kennaston; it was forbidden, and besides, the sigil's crowning grace was that it enabled me to forget his existence.
And the girl's name in the printed book is Alison. And Horvendile is such an unimportant character that Kathleen, reading the tale hastily – I thought she simply skimmed it! – did not remember that name either; and so, did not associate the dream names in any way with my book, nor with me… She too, then, does not know – as yet… And, for all that, Kathleen, the real Kathleen, is Ettarre -'whatever flesh she may wear as a garment!'… Or, rather, Ettarre is to Kathleen as Horvendile – but am I truly that high-hearted ageless being? Eh, I do not know, for we touch mystery everywhere. I only know it is the cream of the jest that day by day, while that lean, busy sharp-eyed stranger, whose hands and lips my own hands and lips meet daily, because this contact has become a part of the day's routine -"