Thee dusk was already fallen before Laurie, strolling vaguely in the
garden, heard the carriage wheels draw up at the gate outside.
He had ridden again alone, and his mind had run, to a certain extent,
as might be expected, upon the recent guest and her very startling
conversation. He was an intelligent young man, and he had not been in
the least taken in by her pseudo-mystical remarks. Yet there had been
something in her extreme assurance that had affected him, as a man may
smile sourly at a good story in bad taste. His attitude, in fact, was
that of most Christians under the circumstances. He did not, for an
instant, believe that such things really and literally happened, and
yet it was difficult to advance any absolutely conclusive argument
against them. Merely, they had not come his way; they appeared to
conflict with experience, and they usually found as their advocates
such persons as Mrs. Stapleton.
Two things, however, prevailed to keep the matter before his mind.
The first was his own sense of loss, his own experience, sore and hot
within him, of the unapproachable emptiness of death; the second,
Maggie's attitude. When a plainly sensible and controlled young woman
takes up a position of superiority, she is apt, unless the young man
in her company happens to be in love with her--and sometimes even when
he is--to provoke and irritate him into a camp of opposition. She is
still more apt to do so if her relations to him have once been in the
line of even greater tenderness.
Laurie then was not in the most favorable of moods to receive the
dicta of the Vicar.
They were announced to him immediately after Mrs. Baxter had received
from Maggie's hands her first cup of tea.
"Mr. Rymer tells me it's all nonsense," she said.
Laurie looked up.
"What?" he said.
"Mr. Rymer tells me Spiritualism is all nonsense. He told me about
someone called Eglingham, who kept a beard in his portmanteau."
"Eglinton, I think, auntie," put in Maggie.
"I daresay, my dear. Anyhow, it's all the same. I felt sure it must be
so." Laurie took a bun, with a thoughtful air.
"Does Mr. Rymer know very much about it, do you think, mother?"
"Dear boy, I think he knows all that anyone need know. Besides, if you
come to think of it, how could Cardinal Newman possibly appear in a
drawing-room? Particularly when Mrs. Stapleton says he isn't a
Christian any longer."
This had a possible and rather pleasing double interpretation; but
Laurie decided it was not worth while to be humorous.
"What about the Witch of Endor?" he asked innocently, instead.
"That was in the Old Testament," answered his mother rapidly. "Mr.
Rymer said something about that too."
"Oh! wasn't it really Samuel who appeared?"
"Mr. Rymer thinks that things were permitted then that are not
permitted now."
Laurie drank up his cup of tea. It is a humiliating fact that extreme
grief often renders the mourner rather cross. There was a distinct air
of crossness about Laurie at this moment. His nerves were very near
the top.
"Well, that's very convenient," he said. "Maggie, do you know if
there's any book on Spiritualism in the house?"
The girl glanced uneasily near the fire-place.
"I don't know," she said. "Yes; I think there's something up there. I
believe I saw it the other day."
Laurie rose and stood opposite the shelves.
"What color is it? (No, no more tea, thanks.)"
"Er ... black and red, I think," said the girl. "I forget."
She looked up at him, faintly uneasy, as he very deliberately drew
down a book from the shelf and turned the pages.
"Yes ... this is it," he said. "Thanks very much.... No, really no
more tea, thanks, mother."
Then he went to the door, with his easy, rather long steps, and
disappeared. They heard his steps in the inner hall. Then a door
closed overhead.
Mrs. Baxter contentedly poured herself out another cup of tea.
"Poor boy," she said. "He's thinking of that girl still. I'm glad he's
got something to occupy his mind."
The end room, on the first floor, was Laurie's possession. It was a
big place, with two windows, and a large open fire, and he had
skillfully masked the fact that it was a bedroom by disposing his
furniture, with the help of a screen, in such a manner as completely
to hide the bed and the washing arrangements.
The rest of the room he had furnished in a pleasing male kind of
fashion, with a big couch drawn across the fire, a writing-table and
chairs, a deep easy chair near the door, and a long, high bookcase
covering the wall between the door and the windows. His college oar,
too, hung here, and there were pleasant groups and pictures scattered
on the other walls.
Maggie did not often come in here, except by invitation, but about
seven o'clock on this evening, half an hour before she had to go and
dress, she thought she would look in on him for a few minutes. She was
still a little uncomfortable; she did not quite know why: it was too
ridiculous, she told, herself, that a sensible boy like Laurie could
be seriously affected by what she considered the wicked nonsense of
Spiritualism.
Yet she went, telling herself that Laurie's grief was an excuse for
showing him a little marked friendliness. Besides, she would like to
ask him whether he was really going back to town on Thursday.
She tapped twice before an answer came; and then it seemed a rather
breathless voice which spoke.
The boy was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the sofa, with a
couple of candles at his side, and the book in his hands. There was a
strained and intensely interested look in his eyes.
"May I come in for a few minutes? It's nearly dressing time," she
said.
"Oh--er--certainly."
He got up, rather stiffly, still keeping his place in the book with
one finger, while she sat down. Then he too sat again, and there was
silence for a moment.
"Why, you're not smoking," she said.
"I forgot. I will now, if you don't mind!"
She saw his fingers tremble a little as he put out his hand to a box
of cigarettes at his side. But he put the book down, after looking at
the page.
She could keep her question in no longer.
"What do you think of that," she said, nodding at the book.
He filled his lungs with smoke and exhaled again slowly.
"I think it's extraordinary," he said shortly.
"In what way?"
Again he paused before answering. Then he answered deliberately.
"If human evidence is worth anything, those things happen," he said.
"What things?"
"The dead return."
Maggie looked at him, aware of his deliberate attempt at dramatic
brevity. He was watching the end of his cigarette with elaborate
attention, and his face had that white, rather determined look that
she had seen on it once or twice before, in the presence of a domestic
crisis.
"Do you really mean you believe that?" she said, with a touch of
careful bitterness in her voice.
"I do," he said, "or else--"
"Well?"
"Or else human evidence is worth nothing at all."
Maggie understood him perfectly; but she realized that this was not an
occasion to force issues. She still put the tone of faint irony into
her voice.
"You really believe that Cardinal Newman comes to Mr. Vincent's
drawing room and raps on tables?"
"I really believe that it is possible to get into touch with those
whom we call dead. Each instance, of course, depends on its own
evidence."
"And Cardinal Newman?"
"I have not studied the evidence for Cardinal Newman," remarked Laurie
in a head-voice.
"Let's have a look at that book," said Maggie impulsively.
He handed it to her; and she began to turn the pages, pausing now and
again to read a particular paragraph, and once for nearly a minute
while she examined an illustration. Certainly the book seemed
interestingly written, and she read an argument or two that appeared
reasonably presented. Yet she was extraordinarily repelled even by the
dead paper and ink she had in her hands. It was as if it was something
obscene. Finally she tossed it back on to the couch.
Laurie waited; but she said nothing.
"Well?" he asked at last, still refraining from looking at her.
"I think it's horrible," she said.
Laurie delicately adjusted a little tobacco protruding from his
cigarette.
"Isn't that a little unreasonable?" he asked. "You've hardly looked at
it yet."
Maggie knew this mood of his only too well. He reserved it for
occasions when he was determined to fight. Argument was a useless
weapon against it.
"My dear boy," she said with an effort, "I'm sorry. I daresay it is
unreasonable. But that kind of thing does seem to me so disgusting.
That's all.... I didn't come to talk about that.... Tell me--"
"Didn't you?" said Laurie.
Maggie was silent.
"Didn't you?"
"Well--yes I did. But I don't want to any more."
Laurie smiled so that it might be seen.
"Well, what else did you want to say?" He glanced purposely at the
book. Maggie ignored his glance.
"I just came to see how you were getting on."
"How do you mean? With the book?"
"No; in every way."
He looked up at her swiftly and suddenly, and she saw that his agony
of sorrow was acute beneath all his attempts at superiority, his
courteous fractiousness, and his set face. She was filled suddenly
with an enormous pity.
"Oh! Laurie, I'm so sorry," she cried out. "Can't I do anything?"
"Nothing, thanks; nothing at all," he said quietly.
Again pity and misery surged up within her, and she cast all prudence
to the winds. She had not realized how fond she was of this boy till
she saw once more that look in his eyes.
"Oh! Laurie, you know I didn't like it; but--but I don't know what to
do, I'm so sorry. But don't spoil it all," she said wildly, hardly
knowing what she feared.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know what I mean. Don't spoil it, by--by fancying things."
"Maggie," said the boy quietly, "you must let me alone. You can't
help."
"Can't I?"
"You can't help," he repeated. "I must go my own way. Please don't say
any more. I can't stand it."
There followed a dead silence. Then Maggie recovered and stood up. He
rose with her.
"Forgive me, Laurie, won't you? I must say this. You'll remember I'll
always do anything I can, won't you?"
Then she was gone.