Psyche

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　From Noughts and Crosses: Stories, Studies and Sketches.

　　"Among these million Suns how shall the strayed Soul find her wayback to earth?"* * * * * * *The man was an engine-driver, thick-set and heavy, with a short beardgrizzled at the edge, and eyes perpetually screwed up, because hislife had run for the most part in the teeth of the wind. The lashes,too, had been scorched off. If you penetrated the mask of oil andcoal-dust that was part of his working suit, you found areddish-brown phlegmatic face, and guessed its age at fifty.He brought the last down train into Lewminster station every night at9.45, took her on five minutes later, and passed through Lewminsteragain at noon, on his way back with the Galloper, as the porterscalled it.He had reached that point of skill at which a man knows every poundof metal in a locomotive; seemed to feel just what was in his enginethe moment he took hold of the levers and started up; and wasexpecting promotion. While waiting for it, he hit on the idea ofstudying a more delicate machine, and married a wife. She was thedaughter of a woman at whose house he lodged, and her age was lessthan half of his own. It is to be supposed he loved her.A year after their marriage she fell into low health, and her husbandtook her off to Lewminster for fresher air. She was lodging alone atLewminster, and the man was passing Lewminster station on his engine,twice a day, at the time when this tale begins.* * * * * * *People--especially those who live in the West of England--rememberthe great fire at the Lewminster Theatre; how, in the second Act ofthe Colleen Bawn, a tongue of light shot from the wings over theactors' heads; how, even while the actors turned and ran, a sheet offire swept out on the auditorium with a roaring wind, and the housewas full of shrieks and blind death; how men and women were turned toa white ash as they rose from their seats, so fiercely the flamesoutstripped the smoke. These things were reported in the papers,with narratives and ghastly details, and for a week all Englandtalked of Lewminster.This engine-driver, as the 9.45 train neared Lewminster, saw the redin the sky. And when he rushed into the station and drew up, he sawthat the country porters who stood about were white as corpses."What fire is that?" he asked one."'Tis the theayter! There's a hundred burnt a'ready, and the resttreadin' each other's lives out while we stand talkin', to get 'ponthe roof and pitch theirselves over!"* * * * * * *Now the engine-driver's wife was going to the play that night, and heknew it. She had met him at the station, and told him so, at midday.But there was nobody to take the train on, if he stepped off theengine; for his fireman was a young hand, and had been learning histrade for less than three weeks.So when the five minutes were up--or rather, ten, for the porterswere bewildered that night--this man went on out of the station intothe night. Just beyond the station the theatre was plain to see,above the hill on his left, and the flames were leaping from theroof; and he knew that his wife was there. But the train was nevertaken down more steadily, nor did a single passenger guess whatmanner of man was driving it.At Drakeport, where his run ended, he stepped off the engine, walkedfrom the railway-sheds to his mother-in-law's, where he still lodged,and went up-stairs to his bed without alarming a soul.In the morning, at the usual hour, he was down at the station again,washed and cleanly dressed. His fireman had the Galloper's enginepolished, fired up, and ready to start."Mornin'," he nodded, and looking into his driver's eyes, dropped thehandful of dirty lint with which he had been polishing. Aftershuffling from foot to foot for a minute, he ended by climbing downon the far side of the engine."Oldster," he said, "'tis mutiny p'raps; but s'help me, if I ride amile longside that new face o' your'n!""Maybe you're right," his superior answered wearily. "You'd best goup to the office, and get somebody sent down i' my place. And whileyou're there, you might get me a third-class for Lewminster."So this man travelled up to Lewminster as passenger, and found hisyoung wife's body among the two score stretched in a stable-yardbehind the smoking theatre, waiting to be claimed. And the day afterthe funeral he left the railway company's service. He had saved abit, enough to rent a small cottage two miles from the cemetery wherehis wife lay. Here he settled and tilled a small garden beside thehigh-road.* * * * * * *Nothing seemed to be wrong with the man until the late summer, whenhe stood before the Lewminster magistrates charged with a violent andcuriously wanton assault.It appeared that one dim evening, late in August, a mild gentleman,with Leghorn hat, spectacles, and a green gauze net, came saunteringby the garden where the ex-engine-driver was pulling a basketful ofscarlet runners: that the prisoner had suddenly dropped his beans,dashed out into the road, and catching the mild gentleman by thethroat had wrenched the butterfly net from his hand and belabouredhim with the handle till it broke.There was no defence, nor any attempt at explanation. The mildgentleman was a stranger to the neighbourhood. The magistratesmarvelled, and gave his assailant two months.At the end of that time the man came out of gaol and went quietlyback to his cottage.* * * * * * *Early in the following April he conceived a wish to build a smallgreenhouse at the foot of his garden, by the road, and spoke to thelocal mason about it. One Saturday afternoon the mason came over tolook at the ground and discuss plans. It was bright weather, andwhile the two men talked a white butterfly floated past them--thefirst of the year.Immediately the mason broke off his sentence and began to chase thebutterfly round the garden: for in the West country there is asuperstition that if a body neglect to kill the first butterfly hemay see for the season, he will have ill luck throughout the year.So he dashed across the beds, hat in hand."I'll hat 'en--I'll hat 'en! No, fay! I'll miss 'en, I b'lieve.Shan't be able to kill 'n if hor's wunce beyond th' gaate--stiddy, myson! Wo-op!"Thus he yelled, waving his soft hat: and the next minute was lyingstunned across a carrot-bed, with eight fingers gripping the back ofhis neck and two thumbs squeezing on his windpipe.There was another assault case heard by the Lewminster bench; andthis time the ex-engine-driver received four months. As before, heoffered no defence: and again the magistrates were possessed withwonder.* * * * * * *Now the explanation is quite simple. This man's wits were sound,save on one point. He believed--why, God alone knows, who enabledhim to drive that horrible journey without a tremor of the hand--thathis wife's soul haunted him in the form of a white butterfly or moth.The superstition that spirits take this shape is not unknown in theWest; and I suppose that as he steered his train out of the station,this fancy, by some odd freak of memory, leaped into his brain, andheld it, hour after hour, while he and his engine flew forward andthe burning theatre fell further and further behind. The truth wasknown a fortnight after his return from prison, which happened aboutthe time of barley harvest.A harvest-thanksgiving was held in the parish where he lived; and hewent to it, being always a religious man. There were sheaves andbaskets of vegetables in the chancel; fruit and flowers on thecommunion-table, with twenty-one tall candles burning above them; aprocessional hymn; and a long sermon. During the sermon, as theweather was hot and close, someone opened the door at the west end.And when the preacher was just making up his mind to close thediscourse, a large white moth fluttered in at the west door.There was much light throughout the church; but the great blaze came,of course, from the twenty-one candles upon the altar. And towardsthis the moth slowly drifted, as if the candles sucked her nearer andnearer, up between the pillars of the nave, on a level with theircapitals. Few of the congregation noticed her, for the sermon was astirring one; only one or two children, perhaps, were interested--andthe man I write of. He saw her pass over his head and float up intothe chancel. He half-rose from his chair."My brothers," said the preacher, "if two sparrows, that are sold fora farthing, are not too little for the care of this infiniteProvidence--"A scream rang out and drowned the sentence. It was followed by atorrent of vile words, shouted by a man who had seen, now for thesecond time, the form that clothed his wife's soul shrivelled inunthinking flames. All that was left of the white moth lay on thealtar-cloth, among the fruit at the base of the tallest candlestick.And because the man saw nothing but cruelty in the Providence ofwhich the preacher spoke, he screamed and cursed, till theyoverpowered him and took him forth by the door. He was wholly madfrom that hour.

　　THE END.