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The striding place by Gertrude Atherton Wigel
continental and attached, tired early of grouse

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shooting, to stand propped against a
sod fence while his host's workmen routed up

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the birds with long poles and drove
them towards the waiting guns. Made him

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feel himself a parody on the ancestors
who had roamed the moors and forests of

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this west riding of Yorkshire in hot
pursuit of game worth the killing. But

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when in England in August, he
always accepted whatever proffered for the season,

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and invited his host to shoot pheasants
on his estates in the south. The

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amusements of life, he argued,
should be accepted with the same philosophy as

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its ills. It had been a
bad day. A heavy rain had made

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the moor so spongy that it fairly
sprang beneath the feet, whether or not

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the grouse had haunts of their own, wherein they were immune from rheumatism,

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the bag had been small. The
woman, too, were an unusually dull

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lot, with the exception of a
new minded debutante who bothered Wagel at dinner

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by demanding the verbal restoration of the
vague paintings on the vaulted roof above them.

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But it was no one of these
things that sat on Weagel's mind,

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as when the other men went up
to bed, he let himself out of

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the castle and sauntered down to the
river. His intimate friend, the companion

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of his boyhood, the chum of
his college days, his fellow traveler in

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many Lands, the man for whom
he possessed stronger affection than for all men,

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had mysteriously disappeared two days ago,
and his track might have sprung to

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the upper air for all trace he
had left behind him. He had been

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aghast on the adjoining estate during the
past week, shooting with the fervor of

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the true sportsman, making love in
the intervals to Adeline Kavan, and apparently

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in the best of spirits. As
far as was known, there was nothing

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to lower his mental mercury, for
his rent roll was a large one.

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Miss Cavan blushed whenever he looked at
her, and being one of the best

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shots in England, he was never
happier than in August. The suicide theory

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was preposterous, all agreed, and
there was as little reason to believe him

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murdered Nevertheless, he had walked out
of march Abbey two nights ago without hat

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or overcoat, and had not been
seen since the country was being patrolled night

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and day. A hundred keepers and
workmen were beating the woods and poking the

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bogs on the moors, but as
yet not so much as a handkerchief had

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been found. Weigel did not believe
for a moment that Wyat Gifford was dead,

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and although it was impossible not to
be affected by the general uneasiness,

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he was disposed to be more angry
than frightened. At Cambridge, Gifford had

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been an incorrigible, practical joker,
and by no means had outgrown the habit.

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It would be like him to cut
across the country and his evening clothes,

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board a cattle train, and amuse
himself touching up the picture of the

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sensation in west Riding. However,
Wakel's affection for his friend was too deep

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to companion with tranquility in the present
state of doubt, and instead of going

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to bed early with the other men, he determined to walk until ready for

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sleep. He went down to the
river and followed the path through the woods.

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There was no moon, but the
stars sprinkled their cold light upon the

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pretty belt of water flowing placidly plast
wood, and between green masses of overhanging

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rocks or sloping banks, tangled with
tree and shrub leaping occasionally over stones with

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the harsh notes of an angry scold
to recover its equanimity. The moment the

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way was clear again, it was
very dark in the depths where Ragel trod.

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He smiled as he recalled a remark
of Gifford's. An English wood is

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like a good many other things in
life, very promising at a distance,

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but a hollow mockery when you get
within. You see daylight on both sides,

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and the sun freckles the very bracken. Our woods need the night to

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make them seem what they ought to
be, what they once were before our

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ancestors descendants demanded so much more money
in these so much more various days.

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Weigel strolled along, smoking and thinking
of his friend, his pranks, many

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of which had done more credit to
his imagination than this, and were calling

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conversations that had lasted the night through. Just before the end of the London

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season, they had walked the streets
one hot night after a party discussing the

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various theories of the soul's destiny.
That afternoon they had met at the coffin

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of a college friend whose mind had
been a blank for the past three years.

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Some months previously they had called at
the asylum to see him. His

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expression had been senile, his face
imprinted with the record of debauchery. In

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death. The face was placid,
intelligent, without ignoble lineation, the face

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of the man they had known at
college. Wagel and Gifford had had no

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time to comment there, and the
afternoon and evening were full, but coming

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forth from the House of Festivity together
they had reverted almost at once to the

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topic I cherish the theory. Giffert
had said that the soul sometimes lingers in

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the body after death, during madness. Of course, it is an impotent

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prisoner, albeit a conscious one.
Fancy it's agony and its horror. Of

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what more natural than that when the
life spark goes out, the tortured soul

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should take possession of the vacant skull
and triumph once more for a few hours

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while old friends look their last.
It has had time to repent, while

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compelled to crouch and behold the state
of its work, and it has shrived

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itself into a state of comparative purity. If I had my way, I

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should stay inside my bones until the
coffid had gone into its niche, that

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I might obviate from my poor old
comrade the tragic and personality of death.

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And I should like to see justice
done to it as it were, to

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see it lowered among its ancestors,
with the ceremony and solemnity that are its

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due. I'm afraid that if I
dissevered myself too quickly, I should yield

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to curiosity and hasten to investigate the
mysteries of space. You believe in the

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soul as an independent entity, then
that it and the vital principle are not

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one and the same. Absolutely,
the body and the soul are twins.

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Life comrades, sometimes friends, sometimes
enemies, but always loyal. In the

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last instance, some day, when
I am tired of the world, I

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shall go to India and become a
Mahatma, solely for the pleasure of receiving

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proof during life of this independent relationship. Suppose you were not sealed up properly

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and returned after one of your astral
flights to find your earthly part unfit for

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habitation. It is an experiment I
don't think I should care to try,

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unless even juggling with soul and flesh
had palled, That would not be an

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uninteresting predicament. I should rather enjoy
experimenting with broken machinery. The high,

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wild roar of water suddenly smote upon
a Wagel's ear, and checked his memories.

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He left the wood and walked out
on the huge slippery stones which nearly

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closed the river wharf at this point, and watched the waters boil down into

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the narrow pass with their furious,
untiring energy. The black quiet of the

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woods rose high on either side.
The stars seemed colder and whiter. Just

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above. On either hand, the
perspective of the river might have run into

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a rayless cavern. There was no
lonelier spot in England, nor one which

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had the right to claim so many
ghosts, if ghosts there were. Wakele

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was not a coward, but he
recalled uncomfortably the tales of those that had

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been done to death in the Strid. Footnote one. This striding place is

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called the Strid, a name which
it took of yore a thousand years hath

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it borne the name and its shell. A thousand more Wordsworth's Boy of Egremont

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had been disposed of by the practical
Whittaker, but countless others, more venturesome

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than wise, had gone down to
that narrow boiling course, never to appear

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in the still pool. A few
yards beyond below the great rocks which formed

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the walls of the strid was believed
to be a natural vault, on to

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whose shelves the dead were drawn.
The spot had an ugly fascination. Wakele

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stood, visioning skeletons uncoffined and green, the home of the eyeless things which

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had devoured all that had covered and
filled that rattling symbol of man's mortality.

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Then fell to wondering if any one
had attempted to leap the strait of late

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it was covered with slime. He
had never seen it look so treacherous.

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He shuddered and turned away, impelled
despite his manhood to flee the spot.

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As he did so, something tossing
in the foam below the fall, something

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as white yet independent of it,
caught his eye and arrested his step.

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Then he saw that it was describing
a contrary motion to the rushing water,

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an upward backward motion, Wagl stood
rigid, breathless. He fancied he heard

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the crackling of his hair. Was
that a hand? It thrust itself still

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higher above the boiling foam, turned
sidewise, and or frantic fingers were distinctly

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visible against the black rock beyond.
Wakel's superstitious terror left him. A man

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was there, struggling to free himself
from the suction beneath the strid swept down

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doubtless but a moment before his arrival. Perhaps as he stood with his back

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to the current, he stepped as
close to the edge as he dared.

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The hand doubled, as if in
imprecation, shaking savagely in the face of

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that force which leaves its creatures to
immutable law, then spread wide again,

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clutching, expanding, crying for help
as audibly as the human voice. Wakel

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dashed to the nearest tree, dragged
and twisted off a branch with his strong

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arms, and returned as swiftly to
the strid. The hand was in the

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same place, still gesticulating as wildly. The body was undoubtedly caught in the

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rocks below, perhaps already half way
along one of those hideous shelves. Weagel

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let himself down upon a lower rock, braced his shoulder against the mass beside

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him, Then, leaning out over
the water, thrust the branch into the

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hand. The fingers clutched at it
convulsively. Wagel tugged powerfully, his own

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feet dragged perilously near the edge.
For a moment he produced no impression.

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Then an arm shot above the waters. The blood sprang to Weagl's head.

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He was choked with an impression that
the strid had him in her roaring hold,

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and he saw nothing. Then the
mist cleared, The hand and arm

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were nearer, although the rest of
the body was still concealed by the foam.

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Weagl peered out with distended eyes.
The meager light revealed in the coff's

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links of a peculiar device. The
fingers clutching the branch were as familiar.

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Weagel forgot the slippery stones, the
terrible death if he stepped too far.

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He pulled with passionate will, and
muscle memories flung themselves into the hot light

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of his brain, trooping rapidly upon
each other's heels, as in the thought

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of the drowning. Most of the
pleasures of his life, good and bad,

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were identified in some way with this
friend. Scenes of college, days

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of travel where they had deliberately sought
adventure, and stood between one another and

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death upon more occasions than one.
Of hours of delightful companionship, among the

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treasures of art and others in the
pursuit of pleasure flashed like the changing particles

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of kaleidoscope. Wagle had loved several
women, but he would have flouted in

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these moments the thought that he had
ever loved any woman as he loved Wyatt

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Gifford. There were so many charming
women in the world, and in the

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thirty two years of his life,
he had never known another man to whom

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he had cared to give his intimate
friendship. He threw himself upon his face.

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His wrists were cracking, the skin
was torn from his hands. The

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fingers still gripped the stick. There
was life in them. Yet suddenly something

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gave way. The hand swung about, tearing the branch from Weagel's grasp.

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The body had been liberated and flung
outward, though still submerged by the foam

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and spray. Weagel scrambled to his
feet and sprang along the rocks, Knowing

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that the danger from suction was over, and that Gifford must be carried straight

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to the quiet pool. Gifford was
a fish in the water and could live

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under it longer than most men.
If he survived this, it would not

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be the first time that his pluck
and science had saved him from drowning.

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Weagle reached the pool. A man
in his evening clothes floated on it.

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His face turned towards a projecting rock
over which his arm had fallen upholding the

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body. The hand that had held
the branch hung limply over the rock,

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its white reflection visible in the black
water. Wagl plunged into the shallow pool,

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lifted Gifford in his arms, and
returned to the bank. He laid

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the body down and threw off his
coat, that he might be the freer

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to practice the methods of resuscitation.
He was glad of the moment's respite.

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The valiant life in the man might
have been exhausted in that last struggle.

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He had not dared to look at
his face to put his ear to the

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heart. The hesitation lasted but a
moment. There was no time to lose.

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He turned to his prostrate friend.
As he did so, something strange

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and disagreeable, smote his senses.
For a half moment, he did not

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appreciate its nature. Then his teeth
clacked together his feet, his outstretched arms

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pointed toward the woods. But he
sprang to the side of the man and

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bent down and peered to his face. There was no face.