Speaker 1: Lord Beaden's Motor by John Harris Burland. A hard man
was Ralph Strang, seventh Earl of Beaden, seventy years of
age on his last birthday, but still upright as a dart,
with hair white as snow, but with the devilry of
youth still sparkling in his keen dark eyes. He was
indeed able to follow the hounds with the best of us,
And there were few men, even among the youngest and
most hot headed of our riders, who cared to follow
him over all the jumps he put his horse at.
When I first came to Upston Way as a doctor,
I thought it strange that so good a sportsman should
be so unpopular. As a rule, a man can do
pretty well anything in a sporting county, so long as
he rides straight to hounds. But before I had been
in the place a month, I attended him after a
fall in the hunting field, and I saw that a
man like that would be unpopular, even if he gave
all his goods to the poor and lived the life
of Saint Francis of ASSISI not that he was harsh
or even unpleasant, but he had the knack of making
one feel foolish and uncomfortable, and there was something in
the expression of his eyes that made one unable to
look him squarely in the face. His manners, indeed were perfect,
and he retained all the old world courtliness which seemed
to have been permanently abandoned by this generation. But I
could not help feeling that underneath all his politeness and
even hospitality lay a solid substratum of contempt. It was
doubtless this impression which had earned him his unpopularity, for
I never heard a single one of his enemies lay
anything definite to his charge, beyond the fact that his
elder brother had died in a lunatic asylum, and that
Lord Beadon was, in some vague way held responsible for
this unfortunate event. But it was not until Lord Beaden
purchased a twelve hose power Napier motor car that the
villagers really began to consider him possessed of a devil.
And certainly his spirit of devilry seemed to have found
a worthy plaything in that gray mass of snorting machinery,
which went through the lanes like a whirlwind, enveloped in
a cloud of dust and scattering every living thing close
back against the hedges as a steamer dashes the waves
against the banks of a river. I had often heard
people whisper that he bore a charmed life in the
hunting field, and that another and better man would have
been killed years ago. And he certainly carried the same
spirit of dash and foolhardiness, and also the same good
fortune into a still more dangerous pursuit. It was the
purchase of this car that brought me into closer contact
with him. I had had some experience of motors, and
he was sufficiently humble to take some instructions from me,
and also to let me accompany him on several occass
At first I drove the car myself and tried to
inculcate a certain amount of caution by example. But after
the third lesson, he knew as much about it as
I did, and resigning the steering gear into his hands,
I took my place by his side. With some misgivings,
I must confess that he handled it splendidly. The man
had a wonderful nerve, and when an inch to one
side or the other would probably have meant death, his
keen eye never made a mistake, and his hand on
the wheel was as steady as a rock. This inspired confidence,
and though the strain on my nerves was considerable, I found,
after a time a certain pleasurable excitement in these rides.
And it was excitement. I can tell you. No twelve
miles an hour for Lord Beaden, no precautionary breaks downhill,
no white curves for corners. He rode as he did
to hounds, straight and fast. Sometimes we had six inches
to spare, but never more, and often as not another
half inch would have shot us both out of the car.
We always seemed to come round a sharp corner on
two wheels. It was certainly exhilarating, but there was something
about it I did not quite like. I don't think
I was physically afraid, but I recalled certain stories about
Lord Beaden's mad exploits in the hunting field, and it
almost seemed to me as though he might be purposely
riding for a fall. Then all at once my invitations
to ride with him ceased. I thought at first that
I had offended him, but I could think of no
possible cause of offense, And besides, his manner towards me
had not changed in any way, and I dined with
him more than once at Beaden Hall, where he was
as courteous and irritating as usual. However, he offered no explanation,
and I certainly did not intend to ask for one.
I watched him narrow when we talked about the motor,
but he made no mystery about his rides. I noticed, however,
that he looked older and more care worn, and that
his dark eyes burned now with an almost unnatural brilliancy.
I met him two or three times on the road
when I was going my rounds in the trap, and
he appeared to be driving his machine more furiously and
fearlessly than ever. I was almost glad that his invitations
had ceased. Strangely enough, I always encountered him on the
same road, one which led straight to Oxminster, a town
about twenty miles away. One evening, however, late in August,
while I was finishing my dinner in solitude, I heard
a familiar hum and rattle along the road in the distance.
In less than a minute, I saw the flash of
bright lamps through my open window and heard the jar
of a break. Then there was a ring at the bell,
and Lord Beaden was announced good evening. Scott, he said,
taking off his glasses. Lovely night, isn't it. Would you
care to come for a ride. He looked very pale
and was covered with dust from head to foot. A ride,
Lord Beadon, I replied, thoughtfully, Well, I hardly know what
to say. Will you have some coffee and a cigar?
He nodded assent and sat down. I poured him out
some coffee and noticed that his hand shook as he
raised the cup to his lips. But driving a motor
car at a rapid rate might easily produce this effect.
Then I handed him a cigar and lit one for myself.
Rather late for a ride, isn't it, I said, after
a slight pause. Not a bit, Not a bit, he
answered hastily. It is as bright as day and the
roads clear of traffic. Come. It will do you good.
We can finish our cigars in the car, yes, I
replied thoughtfully, or at any rate, the draft will finish
them for us. Look here, Scott, he continued, in a
lower voice, leaning over the table and looking me straight
in the eyes. I particularly want you to come. In fact,
you must come to oblige me. I want you to
see something which I have seen I am a little
doubtful of its actual existence. I looked at him sharply.
His voice was cold and quiet, but his eyes were
certainly a bit too bright. I should say that he
was in a state of intense excitement, yet with all
his nerves well under control. I laughed a little uneasily.
Very well, Lord Beadon, I replied Horisi from my chair.
I will come, but you will excuse me, saying that
you don't look well to night. I think you are
rather overdoing this motor business. It shakes the system up
a good deal. You know. I am not well, Scott,
he said, but you cannot cure me. I said no more,
and left the room to put on my glasses and
an overcoat. We set off through the village at about
ten miles an hour. It was a glorious night, and
the moon shone clear in the sky, but I noticed
a bank of heavy black clouds in the west and
thought it not unlikely that we should have a thunderstorm.
The atmosphere had been suffocating all day, and it was
only the motion of the car that created the cool
and pleasant breeze which blew against our faces. When we
came to the church, we turned sharp to the right
onto the Oxminster Road. It ran in a perfectly straight
white line for three miles. Then it began to wind
and ascend the Oxbourne Hills, finally disappearing in the darkness
of some woods which extend for nearly five miles over
the summit in the direction of Oxminster. Where are we
going to, I asked, settling myself firmly in my seat. Oxminster,
he replied, rather curtly, Please keep your eyes open and
tell me if you see anything on the road. As
he spoke, he pulled the lever farther towards him, and
the great machine shot forward with a sudden plunge, which
would have unseated me if I had not been prepared
for something of the sort. We quickly gathered up speed.
Hedges and trees went past us like a flash. The
dust whirled up into the moonlight like a silver cloud,
and before five minutes had elapsed we were at the
foot of the hills and were tearing up the slope
at almost the same terrific pace. As we ascended, the
foliage began to thicken and close in upon us on
either side. Then the moon disappeared, and only our powerful
lamps illuminated the darkness ahead of us. The car was
a magnificent hill climber, but the gradient soon became so
steep that the pace slackened down to about eight miles
an hour. Lord Beadon had not spoken a word since
he told me where we were going to, but he
had kept his eyes steadily fixed on the broad circle
of light in front of the car. I began to
find the silence and darkness oppressive, and say the truth
was not quite comfortable in my own mind about my
companion's sanity. I took off my glasses and tried to
pierce the darkness on either side. The moon fluttered through
the trees and made strange shadows in the depths of
the woods, but there was nothing else to be seen,
and ahead of us there was only a white streak
of road disappearing into blackness. Then suddenly my companion let
go of the steering gear with one hand and clutched
me by the arm. Listen, Scott, he cried, do you
hear it? I listened attentively, and at first heard nothing
but the throb of the motor and a faint rustling
among the trees as a slight breeze began to stir
through the wood. Then I noticed that the beat of
the piston was not quite the same as usual. It
sounded jerky and irregular, faint and loud alternately, and I
had an idea that it had considerably quickened in speed.
I hear nothing, Lord Beaden, I replied, except that the
end sounds a little erratic. It ought not to make
such a fuss over this hill. If you listen more carefully,
he said, you will understand that sound is the beat
of two pistons, and one of them is some way off.
I listened again. He was right. There was certainly another
engine throbbing in the distance. I cannot see any lights,
I answered, looking first in front of us and then
into the darkness behind. But it's another motor I suppose.
It does not appear to me to be anything out
of the way. He did not reply, but replaced his
hand on the steering gear and peered anxiously ahead. I
began to feel a bit worried about him. It was
strange that he should get so excited about the presence
of another motor car in a neighborhood. I was not
reassured either, when in rearranging the rug about my legs.
I touched something hard in his pocket. I passed my
fingers lightly over it, and had no doubt whatever that
it was a revolver. I began to be sorry I
had come A revolver is not a necessary tool for
the proper running of a motor car. We were nearly
at the top of the hill now, and still in
the shadow of the trees. The road here runs for
more than a mile along the summit before it begins
to descend, and half way along the level another road
crosses it at right angles, leading one way down a
steep slope to Little Stanway, and the other along the
top of the Oxbourne Hills to Kelston and Rutherton, two
small villages some miles away on the edge of the moors.
We had scarcely reached the level when a few heavy
drops of rain began to fall, and looking up, I
saw that the moon was no longer visible through the
branches overhead. A minute later there was a low roll
of thunder in the distance, and for an instant the
scenery ahead of us flashed bright and faded into darkness.
I turned up the collar of my coat. The car
was now moving almost at full speed, but to my surprise,
before we had gone a quarter of a mile, Lord
Beaden slowed it down and finally brought it to a
full stop with the break. Then he appeared to be
listening attentively for something. But the rising wind and pouring
rain had begun to make an incessant noise among the trees,
and the thunder had become more loud and continuous. I
strained my sense of hearing to the utmost, but I
could hear nothing beyond the sounds of the elements. What
is the matter, I queried impatiently. Are we going to
stop here? Yes? He replied curtly, that is to say,
if you have no objection, there is a certain amount
of shelter. I drew a cigar from my pocket, and,
after several attempts, managed to light it to say the truth.
I was in hopes that we should go no farther.
The downward descent three quarters of a mile ahead of
us was about one in ten, and I did not
feel much inclined to let my companion take me down
a hill of that sort. Then, for a few seconds,
the rustling of the wind and pattering of the rains
ceased among the trees, and once more I could distinctly
hear the thud, thud, thud of an engine. It might
have been a motor car, but it certainly sounded to
me more like the noise attraction engine would make. As
we listened, the sound came nearer and nearer, and appeared
to be on our left, still some distance down the hill.
Then the storm broke out again with fresh fury, and
we could hear nothing else. Lord Beadon pulled the lever
towards him, and we ran slowly forward until we were
within thirty yards of the cross roads, when he again
brought the machine to a standstill. The noise had become
much louder now and was even audible above the roar
of the wind and rain. It certainly came from somewhere
on our left. I looked down through the trees and
thought I saw a faint red glow some way down
the hill. Lord Beadon saw it too, and pointed to
it with a trembling hand. Looks like a fire in
the wood, I said, carelessly. I did not very much
care what it was. Don't be a fool, he replied sharply,
can't you see it's moving? Yes? He was right, It
was certainly moving, and in a few seconds it was
hidden by a thicker mass of foliage. I did not, however,
see anything very noticeable about it. It was evidently coming
up the road to our left, and was probably a
belated traction engine returning home from the reaping. I was
more than ever convinced of my companion's insanity, and wished
that I was safe at home. I had half a
mind to get off the car and walk, but he
had by now managed to infect me with some of
his own fear and excitement, and I did not quite
fancy being left with no swifter mode of progression than
my feet. The thumping sound came nearer and nearer, and
as we heard it more distinctly, was even more suggestive
of attraction engine. Then I saw a red light through
the trees, like the glow of a furnace, and not
more than fifty yards away from us. My companion laid
his left hand on the lever and stared intently at
the corner. Then a rather peculiar thing happened. Whatever it
was that had been lumbering slowly up the hill like
a gigantic snail, suddenly shot across the road in front
of us like a streak of smoke and flame, and
through the trees to our right I could see the
red glow spinning up the road to Kelston at over
thirty miles an hour. Almost simultaneously, Lord Beeden pulled down
the lever and I instinctively clutched the seat with both hands.
We shot forward, took the corner with about an inch
to spare between us and the ditch, and dashed off
along the road in hot pursuit. But the red glow
had got at least a quarter of a mile's start,
and I could not see what it proceeded from a
flash of lightning, however, showed a dark mass flying before
us in a cloud of smoke. It looked something like
a large wagon with a chimney sticking out of it,
and sparks streamed out of the back of it until
they looked like the tail of a comet. What the
juice is it? I said, you'll see when we come
up to it. The all answered between his teeth. We
shall go faster. In a few minutes. We were, however,
going quite fast enough for me, and though I have
ridden on many motors since, and occasionally at a greater speed,
I shall never forget that ride along the Kelston Road.
The powerful machine beneath us trembled as though it were
going to fall to pieces. The rain lashed our faces
like the thongs of a whip. The thunder almost deafened us.
The lightning first blinded us with its flashes and then
left us in more confusing darkness. And to crown all,
a dense volume of smoke poured from the machine in
front and hid the light of our own lamps. It
would be hard to imagine worse conditions for a motor
ride than the man who keep a steady hand on
the steering gear under circumstances like these. Was a man. Indeed,
I should not have cared to try it, even in
a daytime. But Lord Beadon's luck was with him still,
and we moved as though guided by some unseen hand.
You will find a small lever by your side, Scott,
he said, after a long pause. Pull it towards you
until it gives a click. It is an invention of
my own. I found the handle, and, following out his instructions,
saw the arc of light from our lamps shoot another
fifty yards ahead, leaving the ground immediately in front of
the car in darkness. We had gained considerably. The light
just impinged on the streaming tail of sparks. At last,
my companion muttered, he has always had half a mile
start before, and the oil has given up before I
could catch him, but he cannot escape us. Now what
is it, Lord Beaden. I am glad you see it,
he replied. I thought before to night that it was
a fancy of my brain. Of course I see it,
I said, sharply, I am not blind. But what is it?
He did not answer, but a flash of lightning showed
me his face, and I did not repeat the question.
Mile after mile we spun along the lonely country road,
but never gaining another inch. We dashed through Kelstone like
a streak of light. It was fortunate that all the
inhabitants were in bed. Then we shot out on to
a road leading across the open moor, which stretches from
here to the sea twenty miles away. And I remembered
that eight miles from Kelston there was a deep descent
into the valley of the store, and it was scarcely
possible that we could escape destruction. I quickly made up
my mind to overpower Lord beden and gain control of
the machine. Then we suddenly began to sweep down a
long and gentle gradient, and second after second our speed increased,
until the arc of light shone on the machine ahead
of us, and I could see what manner of thing
it was that we pursued. It was, I suppose, a
kind of motor car, but unlike anything I had ever
seen before, and bearing no more resemblance to a modern
machine than a bone shaker of twenty years ago does
to the modern freewheel. It appeared to be built of
iron and was painted a dead black. In the forepart
of the structure, a five foot flywheel spun round at
a terrific speed, and various bars and beams moved rapidly
backwards and forwards. The chimney was quite ten feet in
height and poured out a dense volume of smoke. On
a small platform behind, railed in by a stout iron rail,
stood a tall man with his back to us. His
dark hair, which must have reached nearly to his shoulders,
streamed behind him in the wind. In each hand he
grasped a huge lever, and he was apparently gazing steadily
into the darkness before him. Though it seemed to me
that he might just as well have shut his eyes,
for the machine had no lamps, and the only light
in the whole concern streamed out from the half open
furnace door. Then, to my amazement, I saw the man
take his hands off the levers and cally proceed to
shovel coal into the roaring fire. I held my breath,
expecting to see the flying mass of iron shoot off
the side of the road and turn head over heels
down the sloping grass. But nothing happened. The machine apparently
required no guidance and proceeded on its way as smoothly
and swiftly as before. I took hold of my companion's
arm and called his attention to this somewhat strange circumstance.
He only laughed. Look at the smoke, he cried, That
is rather strange too. I looked up and saw it
poring over our heads in a long, straight cloud, but
I did not notice anything odd about it, and I said, so,
can you smell it? He continued. I sniffed and noticed
for the first time that there had been no smell
of smoke at all, though in the earlier part of
the journey we had been half blinded with it. I
began to feel uncomfortable. There was certainly something unusual about
the machine in front of us, and I came to
the conclusion that we had had about enough of this
kind of sport. I think we will go back, Lord Beaden,
I remarked, pleasantly, moving one hand towards the lever. You
will go back to perdition, Scott, he answered quietly. If
you meddle with me, we shall be smashed to pieces.
We are going forty miles an hour, and if you
distract my attention for a single instant, I won't answer
for the consequences. I felt the truth of what he said,
and put my hand ostentatiously in my pocket. It was
quite evident that I couldn't interfere with him, and equally
evident that if we went on as we were going now,
we should be dashed to pieces. My only hope was
that we should speedily accomplish whatever mad purpose Lord Beadon
had in his mind, although by now I began to
think that he had no other object than suicide. The
valley of the store was only two miles off, but
we had been gaining inch by inch down the slope,
and were now not more than thirty yards from the
machine in front of us. Showers of sparks whirled into
our faces, and I kept one arm before my eyes.
I soon found, however, that for some reason or other,
the sparks did not burn my skin, and I was
able to resume a more comfortable position and study the
occupant of the car. His figure somehow seemed strangely familiar
to me, and I tried hard to recollect where I
had seen those square shoulders and long, lean limbs before.
I wished I could see the man's face, for I
was quite certain that I should recognize it, but he
never looked back, and appeared to be absolutely unconscious of
our presence so close behind him. Nearer we crept, and
still nearer, until our front wheels were not more than
ten feet from the platform. The glow of the furnace
bathed my companion's face in crimson light, and the figure
of the man in front of us stood out like
a black demon toiling at the eternal fires. Be careful
or beaten, I cried, we shall be into it. He
turned to me with a smile of triumph, and I
thought I saw the light of madness in his eyes.
Do you know what I'm going to do? He said,
in a low voice, putting his lips close to my ear.
I'm going to break it to bits. We have a
little speed in hand yet, and when we get to
the slope of the store valley, I shall break the
cursed thing to bits. For Heaven's sake, I cried, put
the brake on, Lord Beaden, are you mad? And I
gripped him by the arm. He shook my hand off,
and I clung to my seat with every muscle of
my body strained to the utmost. For as I spoke,
there was a flash of lightning, and I saw the
road dipping, dipping, dipping, and far below the gleam of water,
among dark trees, and on the height above a large
building with many spires and towers. I idly called to
mind that it was the Rockshire County Asylum. Our speed
quickened horribly, and the car began to sway from side
to side. I saw my companion pull the lever an
inch nearer to him, and quit the steering wheel with
both hands. Then suddenly the road seemed to fall away
beneath us. We sprang off the ground and dropped downward
and forward like a stone flung from a precipice. We
were going to smash clean through the machine in front
of us. For five seconds, I held my breath, only
awaiting the awful crash of splintering wood and iron, and
the shock that would fring us fifty feet from our seats.
But we only touched the ground with a sickening thud,
an inch behind the other machine. And then a wonderful
thing happened. We began to slowly pierce the rail and
platform in front of us, until the man seemed to
be almost touching our feet. And at last I saw
his face, a wild, dark face with madness in the eyes,
and the face of Lord Beiden, as I had seen
a portrait of him in Beadenhall All, taken thirty years ago.
My companion rose on his seat and grappled with his
own likeness, but he seemed to be only clutching the air,
and neither car nor occupant appeared to have any tangible substance.
Steadily and silently we bored our way clean through the
machine inch by inch, foot by foot, through the blazing furnace,
through the framework of the boiler, through bolt and bar
and stanchion, through whirring flywheel and pulsing shaft and piston,
until there was nothing beyond us but the dip of
the white road, and looking back I saw the whole
dark mass running behind our back wheels. Lord Beaden was
still standing and tearing at the air with his fingers.
Our car was running without guidance, and I sprang to
the steering wheel and reversed the lever, but it was
too late. We struck something at the side of the road,
and the whole machine made a leap from the ground.
There was a rush of air, an awful shock and crash,
and then darkness. A week afterwards, in the hospital they
told me Lord Beaden was dead. He had fallen on
a large piece of scrap iron by the roadside, and
nearly every bone in his body had been broken. I
myself had had a miraculous escape by falling into a
thick clump of gorse, and had gotten off with a
broken arm and dislocated collar bone, but I was not
able to get about for two months. I said nothing
of what had happened, and the accident required but little explanation.
Motor car accidents are common enough, especially on slopes like
that of the store Valley. When I was able to
get about, however, I visited the scene of the disaster.
A friend of mine, one of the doctors at the
County Lunatic Asylum, for me and drove me over to
the place the smash had occurred, nearly half way down
the hillside, close to a ruined shed. The ground was
covered with gorse and bracken, but here and there huge
pieces of rusty iron were scattered about. Some of them
were sharp and brown and ugly, but many were overgrown
with creeping convolvulus. They looked as if they had once
been parts of some great machine. A curious coincidence, said
my companion, as we drove away from the place. What
do you mean I have been told? He continued that
thirty years ago this old shed was used by the
late Earl's elder brother. He was a mechanical genius, and
they say that his efforts to work out some particular
invention in a practical form drove him off his head.
He was allowed to have this place as a workshop, and,
under the supervision of two keepers, worked on his invention
till the day of his death. It was thought that
perhaps he would recover his reason if ever he accomplished
the task. But in some mysterious way, his plans were
stolen from him no fewer than three times, and after
the third time the poor fellow lost heart and destroyed himself.
I have heard it whispered by one of my colleagues
up Yonder that the late Earl was not altogether ignorant
of these thefts. But this is probably only gossip. All
the fragments of iron you saw lying about were parts
of the machine. Heaven knows what it was. I did
not venture any suggestion on this point, but I think
I could have done so. End of Lord Beaden's Motor