The Crack of Doom | Page 2

three years spent in aimless roaming. My age was
thirty-one years, and my salient characteristic at the time was to hold

fast by anything that interested me, until my humour changed. Brande's
conversational vagaries had amused me on the voyage. His
extraordinary comment on the Universe decided me to cement our
shipboard acquaintance before reaching port.
"That explanation of yours," I said, lighting a fresh cigar, and returning
to a subject which I had so recently tried to shelve, "isn't it rather
vague?"
"For the present it must serve," he answered absently.
To force him into admitting that his phrase was only a thoughtless
exclamation, or induce him to defend it, I said:
"It does not serve any reasonable purpose. It adds nothing to knowledge.
As it stands, it is neither academic nor practical."
Brande looked at me earnestly for a moment, and then said gravely:
"The academic value of the explanation will be shown to you if you
will join a society I have founded; and its practicalness will soon be
made plain whether you join or not."
"What do you call this club of yours?" I asked. "We-do not call it a club.
We call it a Society-the Cui Bono Society," he answered coldly.
"I like the name," I returned. "It is suggestive. It may mean
anything--or nothing."
"You will learn later that the Society means something; a good deal, in
fact."
This was said in the dry, unemotional tone which I afterwards found
was the only sign of displeasure Brande ever permitted himself to show.
His arrangements for going on shore at Queenstown had been made
early in the day, but he left me to look for his sister, of whom I had
seen very little on the voyage. The weather had been rough, and as she
was not a good sailor, I had only had a rare glimpse of a very dark and

handsome girl, whose society possessed for me a strange attraction,
although we were then almost strangers. Indeed, I regretted keenly, as
the time of our separation approached, having registered my luggage
(consisting largely of curios and mementoes of my travels, of which I
was very careful) for Liverpool. My own time was valueless, and it
would have been more agreeable to me to continue the journey with the
Brandes, no matter where they went.
There was a choppy sea on when we reached the entrance to the
harbour, so the Majestic steamed in between the Carlisle and Camden
forts, and on to the man-of-war roads, where the tender met us. By this
time, Brande and his sister were ready to go on shore; but as there was
a heavy mail to be transhipped, we had still an hour at our disposal. For
some time we paced the deck, exchanging commonplaces on the
voyage and confidences as to our future plans. It was almost dark, but
not dark enough to prevent us from seeing those wonderfully green
hills which land-lock the harbour. To me the verdant woods and hills
were delightful after the brown plains and interminable prairies on
which I had spent many months. As the lights of Queenstown began to
speck the slowly gathering gloom, Miss Brande asked me to point out
Rostellan Castle. It could not be seen from the vessel, but the familiar
legend was easily recalled, and this led us to talk about Irish tradition
with its weird romance and never failing pathos. This interested her.
Freed now from the lassitude of sea-sickness, the girl became more
fascinating to me every moment. Everything she said was worth
listening to, apart from the charming manner in which it was said.
To declare that she was an extremely pretty girl would not convey the
strange, almost unearthly, beauty of her face--as intellectual as her
brother's--and of the charm of her slight but exquisitely moulded figure.
In her dark eyes there was a sympathy, a compassion, that was new to
me. It thrilled me with an emotion different from anything that my
frankly happy, but hitherto wholly selfish life had known. There was
only one note in her conversation which jarred upon me. She was apt to
drift into the extraordinary views of life and death which were
interesting when formulated by her eccentric brother, but pained me
coming from her lips. In spite of this, the purpose I had contemplated

of joining Brande's Society--evoked as it had been by his own
whimsical observation--now took definite form. I would join that
Society. It would be the best way of keeping near to Natalie Brande.
Her brother returned to us to say that the tender was about to leave the
ship. He had left us for half an hour. I did not notice his absence until
he himself announced it. As we shook hands, I said