He found his face two inches from anotherâa broad, olive-coloured countenance with two splendid black moustachios and two enormous chestnut-coloured eyes.
“My dear sir, friend, mister,” said this face, “I beg pardon exceedingly if I have disturbed your repose, but could I speak with the custodian, curator, guardian of your museum?”
“I am afraid the museum is shut,” Owen said. He did not want, if he could help it, to disclose the fact that his grandfather was not there.
“Heigh-ho, alack, yes, I have already ascertained as much from your notice,” agreed the visitor. “But the gentleman whom I wish to interrogate, catechize, moot, frisk, reconnoitreâMr. Hughesâis he within?”
“He can't see you,” Owen said stoutly, “He is engaged at present.”
“O lud, lud! And will he never be at liberty, scot free, out of harness?”
“I do not think he will be free tonight, sir. May I take your name and make an appointment for you to see him tomorrow?”
“There would be no chance of a peep, just one glimpse, glance, espial, at all your beautiful treasures and antiquities while I am here?”
“Oh, not a chance at all, I am afraid, sir. Mr. Hughes is very strict about opening hours.”
“Lackadaisy! Of this I have been apprised, advised, tipped the wink. In that case, as I would not wish to do anything obreptitious, please to tell him that the Seljuk of Rum will do himself the honour of waiting on Mr. Hughes tomorrow at ten precisely.”
“The Seljuk of Rum?”
“If you please! And until then I will wish you the top of the night, my dear sir.”
The black moustachios parted to reveal a brilliant flash of white teeth, the large face nodded (bringing into view a section of a high cap made of black, tightly curled fur) and then the visitor turned on his heel and was gone.
Owen, puzzled, anxious, and very much wondering if this mysterious caller had believed him when he said that Mr. Hughes was engaged, shut the peephole again and made his way back to the library.
The harp stood, for the present, on the big table in this room which, since Mr. Hughes's unwelcome introduction of sleepers' tickets, was little used. Regardless of his
grandfather's prohibitions, Owen carefully removed the canvas cover from the harp and stood for a few moments admiring it. It was not the full-sized modern instrument, tall as a man, but a travelling harp, the sort used by Henry VIII, about two foot six inches high, which was intended to be balanced on the player's knee.
Owen, who loved mathematics, thought of it as a triangle which had been blown by the wind so that one side had bellied out and up, giving a line like that of a ship's prow. The maker had evidently seen this likeness, too, because the frame, which was richly carved with leaves and fruit, had a kind of figurehead at the top corner, staring up and ahead, away from the player. The metal of the frame was tarnished with age and dirt to a bronzed dark green, nearly black, and the snapped strings hung curled in fantastic twists and tendrils. But although the harp was dirty and broken, Owen thought it one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, and he could not forbear passing his hand round the graceful flowing lines of the frame, and then plucking with the tip of his finger at the last remaining string. The sound it gave out was low but piercingly clear; it seemed to fill the whole room with echoes. Glancing nervously over his shoulderâbut no one was thereâOwen lifted the pillar of the harp and tucked his letter underneath so that one corner showed, then replaced the cover which protected the harp from dust and damp.
He had no intention of violating his trust by going off and leaving the museum unguarded; he meant to slip away as soon as Mr. Hughes had retired to bed. Meanwhile, as he was very weary, he crouched on the floor; he thought there would be less chance of his dropping off to sleep on
the ice-cold flags than if he sat on a chair. Reading was forbidden, so he recited to himself all the poems his mother had taught him.
When he had gone through all his stock he tried to recall the prophecy that Arabis had quoted that afternoon:
When the Whispering Mountain shall scream aloud
And the Castle of Malyn ride on a cloud,
Then Malyn's lord shall have and hold
The ⦠something ⦠harp of gold â¦
⦠Then shall the despoiler, that was so proud
Fall headlong down from the Devil's Leap â¦
What could the lines mean? The Whispering Mountain was another name for Fig-hat Ben, the mountain that lay between Pennygaff and the next town, Nant Agerddau. Owen knew that it was called
whispering
ây mynydd sibrwdâbecause inside the mountain, in the cave known as Devil's Leap, there was a hot spring which constantly gave off steam and made a bubbling, or whispering sound. In bygone days the place was thought to be haunted by ellyllionâghosts who stretched long skinny arms out of the water and pulled you inâif not by Y bwci-bo, Old Horny himself. But now people went there to take the waters for their rheumatism, and the little town, Nant Agerddau, had sprung up in the rocky glen below the cave. But how could a mountain scream aloud? And who was the despoiler who would fall from the Devil's Leap? The Leap itself was a great gulf, boiling with steam, inside the cave, whose depths no man had ever dared to plumb. And the Castle of Malyn was of course at Port Malyn, on the coast,
ten miles away. How could it ride on a cloud? Puzzling over these mysteries, Owen tried to remember the last lines. Something about the Harp of Teirtu â¦
Then shall the Children from darkness creep
(what children? what darkness?) and something or
other about disaster?
And the Harp of Teirtu find her master.
Â
It did sound as if the harp were in some way definitely connected with the Marquess of Malyn. Which was a pity, as by Arabis's account he certainly did not deserve to possess such a treasure.
Owen gave a deep unconscious sigh, that was half a yawn. His eyes closed. With a guilty start he forced them open and sat upright, but in a few minutes his head was nodding forward again.
“Arabis,” he murmured, nine-tenths asleep. “Arabis ⦠no use waiting at ⦠Devil's Leap ⦔
Then, gently and silently as sand falls in an hour-glass, he toppled sideways on to the floor and lay curled up, fast asleep, underneath the table. One slow tear trickled from his cheek to the dusty flagstone on which it was pillowed.
His slumber was so profound that he never heard the crunch of footsteps outside, nor the cautious creak of the back door as it slowly began to open.
T
he Dragon of Gwaun was a small, glum-looking inn which stood just below the bridge, on a narrow piece of flat land rather too close for comfort to the foaming Gaff. Heavy drinking was beyond the means of the people of Pennygaff, and anyway discouraged by Mr. Morgan the landlord, and this was just as well: a man whose legs were led astray by mead or cider so that they carried him into the river could easily be swept into a pothole and never be seen again until his body floated past the wharves of Port Malyn and out round the Shambles Lighthouse on its rock. For more than half its course the river Gaff ran underground.
From the centre of the bridge it was possible to look down into the coffee-room window. Old Mr. Hughes did so, pausing in his brisk march; the room was much more brightly lit than usual, which was what had caught his attention; clusters of candles burned everywhere. A man stood at the window looking out; he could not have seen
much for all outside would have appeared dark to him, but Mr. Hughes had a clear view of his face, which was illuminated by the candle he held. It was a handsome face, though singularly lacking in expression; the well-formed eyebrows curved upwards like the markings on a tiger's forehead. The nose was straight and the mouth somewhat thin. Due to the candle-light, a sort of halo seemed to encircle the man's head because of the fairness of his hair, which appeared either white or yellow. He wore a loose gown of saffron velvet and stood looking out, or listening to the voice of the river as it rushed by in the dark. Then, with an impatient movement, he rattled the curtain across, and old Mr. Hughes went on into the crowded public room of the inn.
This was not a place he would ever have entered from choice; he stood distastefully eyeing the clumsy wooden tables, marked with wet circles from beer-mugs, and the sawdust floor.
“Fancy now!” said Dai potman, a little sad-faced red-eyed man with a glassy drop hanging permanently at the end of his nose. “Mr. Owen Hughes the museum, isn't it? Honoured we are, indeed. And what can I do for you, Mr. Hughes? A drop of mead, will it be, to keep out the chill?”
“Nothing to drink,” snapped Mr. Hughes. “I have an appointment with his grace the Marquess of Malyn at half past seven.”
“Indeed to be sure now, is that so? Wait, you, then, Mr. Hughes bach, be so good, while I find out if his lordship is ready to receive you.”
Looking much more respectful, Dai potman disappeared through an inner door, while Mr. Hughes tucked his hands
under his coat-tails and turned his thoughts inwards, ignoring the people round him.
A hush had fallen when he entered. The men who were sitting there did not look at him; they pointedly stared into their mugs, but at length one voice muttered,
“What's
he
want to come here for?”
And another suggested,
“Come to sell us some sleepers' tickets, maybe!”
There was a rumble of laughter. “Wake up, Dada!” they told one grey-bearded old man who was nodding over his pint of osey. “Have to pay to sleep these days, man!”
At this moment Dai potman returned. Through the open door behind him a high, weary voice could be heard saying,
“Let him kick his heels for half an hour or so, then. Tell him, fellow, that I do not choose to see him yet.” And the voice added in a lower tone, but still audibly, to someone else in the other room, “Persons of that insolent, hotheaded kidney sometimes cool off if they are left to reflect for a period.”
“Indeed, indeed, that may well be so,” agreed another voice, rich, treacly, and rather foreign in its intonation.
Dai closed the door behind him and said shortly to Mr. Hughes's, “His lordship's having his dinner now, just, and can't be disturbed yet awhile.”
A snigger ran round the room at Mr. Hughes's discomfiture. Just then Mr. Morgan the landlord (father of Hwfa) came in. He was a burly, cheerful, independent man, much surprised and not altogether pleased at all the high-class custom which had suddenly favoured his inn.
“Well now, if it isn't Mr. Owen Hughes the museum!”
he said. “And what can we offer you this wet evening, Mr. Hughes, my little one?”
“Nothing to drink, Mr. Morgan, thank you,” old Mr. Hughes replied, somewhat put out. “I am waiting till his grace the Marquess is free to see me.”
“Take a little something indeed you should, though! A drop of osey, now, or a drop of perwy? Licensed premises these are, fair play! Poor dealing it is, by my way of thinking, to use up space in a man's house and bring him no custom, look you.”
Broad grins spread over the faces in the bar. Somebody called out, “Sell him a sleeper's ticket, Davy!”
“Oh, very well, if that is how you feel, I will wait outside!” snapped the goaded Mr. Hughes, and he stomped off into the rain, amid roars of derision.
“Hwchw!” said Mr. Morgan, pretending surprise. “Touchy, he is.”
“No loss, him,” one of the customers said. “Small need to grieve over such a dried-up bit of old lemonrind. What with his worship the Marquess and all that great tribe of servants he have brought, not to speak of the Ottoman gentleman and his servant, there's a fortune you must be making this night, Davy man.”
“Thankful I'd be without the whole pack of them,” Mr. Morgan grumbled. “Reckon they are all like hounds on the trail of our holy harp.”
“Hush, man!” Dai said, and made a warning gesture towards the corner where a thin, white-faced young man, who seemed utterly exhausted, was slumped across a table sleeping with his head on his arms.
“Gwr drwg,” Mr. Morgan said. “
He
wouldn't waken for
the trump of doom, and who's to wonder, forced to run like a stag in front of his lordship's carriage all the livelong day? Black shame it is, indeed.”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
“Say one thing for the Ottoman gentleman, I will,” Mr. Morgan went on. “Treats his servant very civil, and all here too. âHis lordship's compliments,' I say to him, âand will you be so kind as to let him have the coffee-room to himself after dinner for a couple of hours?' âO, no inconvenience at all,' says he, â'tis the time for my evening prayer, now, just, and after, I'll take a stroll round to see the sights of your fine town, Mr. Morgan, bach.'”
“And what sights will those be, I am wondering?” Dai said. “The stocks and the gallows and the new Habakkuk chapel?”
“Monastery, he was asking about. âCan you tell me,' he says, âwhere I can find the monks of the Order of St. Ennodawg?' âAll dead and gone these many years,' I tell him, âand their bones and their monastery crumbled to dust down there on the island.' â0, wbwb,' says he, very sad, âand there was I hoping to have talk with their Reverences!'”
âHoping to have our harp out of here, more like,” growled Dai.”Vultures, the pair of them. There's his lordship, with a whole castleful of gold treasures, they sayâwhy should he think himself entitled to our harp, pa herwydd?”
“Always the way with rich folk, that is,” Mr. Morgan said gloomily. “Everything he do want in the whole world, Lord Malyn has; all that's left now is something to want,
and
that
is the fiercest kind of wanting; no wonder he have such a desperate hunger for our harp.”
“Get it he will, for sure,” said the old greybeard, finishing his osey and standing up. “Had his will from birth, that one, and nobody in this town able to stand up to him, I am thinking. Only one ever took courage to say no to him, and that was a woman, at Pontyprydd, and they do tell that he's never spoken to another since, because of the hate and spite that was in him from her refusal. Not a maidservant will he have at Caer Malyn, and quick with his whiplash at any child that comes near him, but extra quick if that child is a girl. Eh well. Bad times we have now, indeed. Back home, me.”
The street door swung to behind him.
“Never spoke to a woman since, maybe” said a new voice, “but there was a woman once spoke to him.” Everybody started, because it was the young footman, who had half woken, raised his head from the table, and looked drowsily about him. “Dying, she was, see, and he had her carried from the lodge where the gatekeeper's wife was tending her. Out into the snow, and came down himself to see he was obeyed. âWoe to you, Malyn,' she says, lifting her weak hand. âWoe to the rooftree and those beneath it, woe to the platter and the food on it, woe to the stock in the barn (both live and dead), woe to the hands that wrought this deed and the mind that planned it, may they frizzle in hell for ever!' A fine, rousing curse it was. And he not a groat the worse, from that day to this.”
“Never mind, boy,” said Mr. Morgan. “His time will come.”
The young footman's head dropped back on his arms,
and the talk, in lowered voices, went elsewhere.
In half an hour's time the Marquess signified that he was ready to receive his visitor, and Mr. Hughes was shown in, considerably wetter, shaking the rain off his shovel hat.
He found the coffee-room almost transformed by brilliant carpets and cushions. Numerous little gold ornaments were strewn about and a table set with a handsome gold dinner service had been pushed back against the wall. A huge fire burned in the hearth, and a gold-brocaded sofa stood before it. On this reclined the Marquess, who had finished supper some time since, and was now brooding over wine and nuts and a dish of quinces and peachesâbrought, like the furniture, in the baggage coach that had followed his chaise.
He looked up, yawning, at Mr. Hughes's entrance, as if this were an irksome interruption to an evening's pleasure, and not the interview for which he had travelled three hundred miles from his town house, through mountains and bad weather.
He was a tall man, not yet much past middle age. Seen close to, almost everything about him appeared paleâhis fine thin lips were colourless, so was his skin. His hair looked as if it had been bleached by weather or ill-health. His long delicate hands were whiter than the lace ruffles which fell over them. Only his eyes had colourâthey were a deep, clear, burning yellow, like the eyes of a tiger, dark-rimmed, with pupils as small as peppercorns. He held a long, slender but heavy piece of gold chain, and played with it, pouring it from one hand to the other.
Mr. Hughes met the strange eyes unflinchingly, and made a small, stiff bow.
“Ah yes,” his lordship murmured in a high, fatigued voice, stirring with a careless hand among two or three papers which lay on a small table beside him. “You are the curator of the museum here, I believe? Mr.âHumphries?”
“Hughes.”
“I have your letter here, somewhere,” said the Marquess, yawning again. “I cannot imagine why you did not send me the harp as I requested. You have put me to a deal of trouble, Mr. Hughes; I have been obliged to come all the way from London on this errand, and I greatly dislike visiting Wales in the winter.”
Mr. Hughes stood silent.
Then, in quite another tone, astonishingly different, much deeper, harsh, and resonant, the Marquess suddenly demanded,
“Well? Have you brought it with you now? Where is the harp?”
“I have not brought it,” Mr. Hughes said stiffly.
“Why not?” The Marquess was quiet again, he stared at Mr. Hughes with narrowed eyes, and his hands stirred gently among the folds of his velvet robe, the gold chain sparkling between them. “Why have you not brought it when I explicitly instructed you to do so? Pray understand: I
want
that harp. It will form the key-piece in my collection of gold articles.”
“I have not brought it becauseâexcuse me, sirâI am not yet fully convinced of your lordship's title to it.”
His lordship's tigerish eyebrows flew up. He stood,
overtopping the small, spare Mr. Hughes by some six inches.
“You say that to
me
?” He began to pace to and fro. It was an odd characteristic of Lord Malyn that, although he always appeared fatigued, he never seemed able to keep still, but was in continual, languid, restless motion; whereas Mr. Hughes, with a sailor's economy of effort, moved only when it was needful and then in a brisk, neat, finished manner.
“I do, sir.” Mr. Hughes looked the Marquess firmly in the eye.
“You are aware that I own all the land hereabouts and anything found on it?”
“Excuse me again, sirânot the island in the river Gaff. That, I have discovered, was made over to the monks of the Order of St. Ennodawg two hundred years ago, by a grant from your ancestor the first marquess. The grant was made in perpetuity.”
The Marquess paused in his pacing and suddenly swung round, the gold chain dangling from one hand. Mr. Hughes noticed that its clasp was fashioned in the form of a snake's head with tiny onyx eyes.
“Ah noâmy dear Mr. Hughes,” Lord Malyn said softly. “Not in perpetuity. That is where you mistake.”
Mr. Hughes stood his ground. “The town records have it so, your lordship.”