The Garden of Memories

by Henry St. John Cooper

And then the pent up love and longing, the hunger of the time of waiting found expression. She stooped to him, she put her arms about him, she drew his head to her breast and held him closely, a radiant joy in her heart, knowing him to be what he was, worthy, well worthy of all her love, knowing him to be simple and brave, strong and tender, and even though brave, still afraid, afraid of temptation and his man's weakness.

So she held him and blessed him and her heart was filled with a great love and gratitude.

Faint though the starlight was, yet the watcher away among the shadows could see them indistinctly and seeing them fell naturally into error. For how should he dream that it was husband and wife he spied on? He watched them presently move slowly away, the man with his arm about the woman, she with her head against his shoulder, and the man waiting in the darkness smiled, wondering how long would this last, how long before Kathleen knew?

He watched them till they were gone, swallowed up in the soft darkness, and then he moved, he turned slowly towards the house. The vigil was over, but he frowned in thought. How should Kathleen know, how could she be made aware of this? And then—he heard a sound, the soft pad of a foot behind him and had no time to turn for even as he would have swung round, something leaped upon him and clung to him. A hand gifted with a curious strength sought for and found his throat, and finding it gripped and gripped.

He fought, struggling madly, he tried to tear away that terrible hold, yet it was like trying to unbend bars of steel. He fought at those gripping, clinging fingers till his brain grew dazed, till the dark night swam about him. He could feel on his neck the hot quick breathing of his enemy.

A hoarse scream, a shriek that ended in a choking, gasping sob broke from the strangling throat, a scream of agony and of terror. For he, brave man though he was, felt a mad, horrible fear of the silent, the unseen thing that was seeking to rob him of his life.

Kathleen threw up her head. "Allan, Allan darling, did you hear? Hush, listen, what was that?"

"Only a screech owl beloved, and oh my Kathleen, to hear you call me——" he paused and was silent, for there came a repetition of the sound, but this time fainter, the strangling cry of a man in agony, hoarse despairing, spent and gasping, ending in sudden silence, followed by the sound of a fall.

"Kathleen go, run to the house, there is something wrong—send help!" And then he turned and dashed into the darkness, in the direction whence came the sound. Scarsdale was down, he lay face downward on the stone paving and with his last strength, his last effort was seeking to unlock those fingers from his throat, but his movements were weakening, the man was done, as near to death as a man can be and yet still live, and on his back there crouched a figure, the figure of a small mean man, whose wondrous strength was all contained in those hooked fingers that were choking the life out of the jerking, labouring body.

"Pleasant spoken 'ee be—aye wonderful pleasant spoken 'ee du be!" The creature was chuckling, was laughing, his eyes seemed to burn with strange fires.