II

The table, a small, round rosewood one, stood, bare of any cloth, upon

the hearthrug. The two ladies sat, motionless statues once more, upon

the side furthest from the fire, with their hands resting lightly upon

the surface. Laurie sat on one side and the medium on the other. Mr.

Vincent had received his paper and pencil almost immediately, and now

sat resting his right hand with the pencil upon the paper as if to

write, his left hand upon his knee as he sat, turned away slightly

from the center.

Laurie looked at him closely....

And now he began to be aware of a certain quite indefinable change in

the face at which he looked. The eyes were open--no, it was not in

them that the change lay, nor in the lines about the mouth, so far as

he could see them, nor in any detail, anywhere. Neither was it the

face of a dreamer or a sleepwalker, or of the dead, when the lines

disappear and life retires. It was a living, conscious face, yet it

was changed. The lips were slightly parted, and the breath came evenly

between them. It was more like the face of one lost in deep, absorbed,

introspective thought. Laurie decided that this was the explanation.

He looked at the hand on the paper--well shaped, brownish,

capable--perfectly motionless, the pencil held lightly between the

finger and thumb.

Then he glanced up at the two ladies.

They too were perfectly motionless, but there was no change in them.

The eyes of both were downcast, fixed steadily upon the paper. And as

he looked he saw Lady Laura begin to lift her lids slowly as if to

glance at him. He looked himself upon the paper and the motionless

fingers.

He was astonished at the speed with which the situation had developed.

Five minutes ago he had been listening to talk, and joining in it.

The clergyman had been here; he himself had been sitting a yard

further back. Now they sat here as if they had sat for an hour. It

seemed that the progress of events had stopped....

Then he began to listen for the sounds of the world outside, for

within here it seemed as if a silence of a very strange quality had

suddenly descended and enveloped them. It was as if a section--that

place in which he sat--had been cut out of time and space. It was

apart here, it was different altogether....

He began to be intensely and minutely conscious of the world

outside--so entirely conscious that he lost all perception of that at

which he stared; whether it was the paper, or the strong, motionless

hand, or the introspective face, he was afterwards unaware. But he

heard all the quiet roar of the London evening, and was able to

distinguish even the note of each instrument that helped to make up

that untiring, inconclusive orchestra. Far away to the northwards

sounded a great thoroughfare, the rolling of wheels, a myriad hoofs,

the pulse of motor vehicles, and the cries of street boys; upon all

these his attention dwelt as they came up through the outward windows

into that dead silent, lamp-lit room of which he had lost

consciousness. Again a hansom came up the street, with the rap of

hoofs, the swish of a whip, the wintry jingle of bells....

He began gently to consider these things, to perceive, rather than to

form, little inward pictures of what they signified; he saw the

lighted omnibus, the little swirl of faces round a news-board.

Then he began to consider what had brought him here; it seemed that he

saw himself, coming in his dark suit across the park, turning into the

thoroughfare and across it. He began to consider Amy; and it seemed to

him that in this intense and living silence he was conscious of her

for the first time without sorrow since ten days ago. He began to

consider.

* * * * *

Something brought him back in an instant to the room and his

perception of it, but he had not an idea what this was, whether a

movement or a sound. But on considering it afterwards he remembered

that it was as that sound is that wakes a man at the very instant of

his falling asleep, a sharp momentary tick, as of a clock. Yet he had

not been in the least sleepy.

On the contrary, he perceived now with an extreme and alert attention

the hand on the paper; he even turned his head slightly to see if the

pencil had moved. It was as motionless as at the beginning. He glanced

up, with a touch of surprise, at his hostess's face, and caught her in

the very act of turning her eyes from his. There was no impatience in

her movement: rather her face was of one absorbed, listening intently,

not like the bearded face opposite, introspective and intuitive, but

eagerly, though motionlessly, observant of the objective world. He

looked at Mrs. Stapleton. She too bore the same expression of intent

regarding thought on her usually rather tiresome face.

Then once again the silence began to come down, like a long, noiseless

hush.

This time, however, his progress was swifter and more sure. He passed

with the speed of thought through those processes that had been

measurable before, faintly conscious of the words spoken before the

sitting began--

"... If possible, the silence of thought."

He thought he understood now what this signified, and that he was

experiencing it. No longer did he dwell upon, or consider, with any

voluntary activity, the images that passed before him. Rather they

moved past him while he simply regarded them without understanding.

His perception ran swiftly outwards, as through concentric circles,

yet he was not sure whether it were outwards or inwards that he went.

The roar of London, with its flight of ocular visions, sank behind

him, and without any further sense of mental travel, he found himself

perceiving his own home, whether in memory, imagination, or fact he

did not know. But he perceived his mother, in the familiar lamp-lit

room, over her needlework, and Maggie--Maggie looking at him with a

strange, almost terrified expression in her great eyes. Then these too

were gone; and he was out in some warm silence, filled with a single

presence--that which he desired; and there he stopped.

* * * * *

He was not in the least aware of how long this lasted. But he found

himself at a certain moment in time, looking steadily at the white

paper on the table, from which the hand had gone, again conscious of

the sudden passing of some clear sound that left no echo--as sharp as

the crack of a whip. Oh! the paper--that was the important point! He

bent a little closer, and was aware of a sharp disappointment as he

saw it was stainless of writing. Then he was astonished that the hand

and pencil had gone from it, and looked up quickly.

Mr. Vincent was looking at him with a strange expression.

At first he thought he might have interrupted, and wondered with

dismay whether this were so. But there was no sign of anger in those

eyes--nothing but a curious and kindly interest.

"Nothing happened?" he exclaimed hastily. "You have written nothing?"

He looked at the ladies.

Lady Laura too was looking at him with the same strange interest as

the medium. Mrs. Stapleton, he noticed, was just folding up, in an

unobtrusive manner, several sheets of paper that he had not noticed

before.

He felt a little stiff, and moved as if to stand up but, to his

astonishment, the big man was up in an instant, laying his hands on

his shoulders.

"Just sit still quietly for a few minutes," said the kindly

voice. "Just sit still."

"Why--why--" began Laurie, bewildered.

"Yes, just sit still quietly," went on the voice; "you feel a little

tired."

"Just a little," said Laurie. "But--"

"Yes, yes; just sit still. No; don't speak."

Then a silence fell again.

Laurie began to wonder what this was all about. Certainly he felt

tired, yet strangely elated. But he felt no inclination to move; and

sat back, passive, looking at his own hands on his knees. But he was

disappointed that nothing had happened.

Then the thought of time came into his mind. He supposed that it would

be about ten minutes past six. The sitting had begun a little before

six. He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece; but it was one of

those bulgy-faced Empire gilt affairs that display everything except

the hour. He still waited a moment, feeling all this to be very

unusual and unconventional. Why should he sit here like an invalid,

and why should these three sit here and watch him so closely?

He shifted a little in his chair, feeling that an effort was due from

him. The question of the time of day struck him as a suitably

conventional remark with which to break the embarrassing silence.

"What is the time?" he said. "I am afraid I ought to be--"

"There is plenty of time," said the grave voice across the table.

With a sudden movement Laurie was on his feet, peering at the clock,

knowing that something was wrong somewhere. Then he turned to the

company bewildered and suspicious.

"Why, it is nearly eight," he cried.

Mr. Vincent smiled reassuringly.

"It is about that," he said. "Please sit down again, Mr. Baxter."

"But--but--" began Laurie.

"Please sit down again, Mr. Baxter," repeated the voice, with a touch

of imperiousness that there was no resisting.

Laurie sat down again; but he was alert, suspicious, and intensely

puzzled.

"Will you kindly tell me what has happened?" he asked sharply.

"You feel tired?"

"No; I am all right. Kindly tell me what has happened."

He saw Lady Laura whisper something in an undertone he could not

hear. Mr. Vincent stood up with a nod and leaned himself against the

mantelpiece, looking down at the rather indignant young man.

"Certainly," he said. "You are sure you are not exhausted, Mr.

Baxter?"

"Not in the least," said Laurie.

"Well, then, you passed into trance about five minutes--"

"_What?_"

"You passed into trance about five minutes past six; you came out of

it five minutes ago."

"Trance?" gasped Laurie.

"Certainly. A very deep and satisfactory trance. There is nothing to

be frightened of, Mr. Baxter. It is an unusual gift, that is all. I

have seldom seen a more satisfactory instance. May I ask you a

question or two, sir?"

Laurie nodded vaguely. He was still trying hopelessly to take in what

had been said.

"You nearly passed into trance a little earlier. May I ask whether you

heard or saw anything that recalled you?"

Laurie shut his eyes tight in an effort to think. He felt dimly rather

proud of himself.

"It was quite short. Then you came back and looked at Lady Laura. Try

to remember."

"I remember thinking I had heard a sound."

The medium nodded.

"Just so," he said.

"That would be the third," said Lady Laura, nodding sagely.

"Third what?" said Laurie rather rudely.

No one paid any attention to him.

"Now can you give any account of the last hour and a half?" continued

the medium tranquilly.

Laurie considered again. He was still a little confused.

"I remember thinking about the streets," he said, "and then of my own

home, and then..." He stopped.

"Yes; and then?"

"Then of a certain private matter."

"Ah! We must not pry then. But can you answer one question more? Was

it connected with any person who has crossed over?"

"It was," said Laurie shortly.

"Just so," said the medium.

Laurie felt suspicious.

"Why do you ask that?" he said.

Mr. Vincent looked at him steadily.

"I think I had better tell you, Mr. Baxter; it is more straightforward,

though you will not like it. You will be surprised to hear that you

talked very considerably during this hour and a half; and from all that

you said I should suppose you were controlled by a spirit recently

crossed over--a young girl who on being questioned gave the name of Amy

Nugent--"

Laurie sprang to his feet, furious.

"You have been spying, sir. How dare you--"

"Sit down, Mr. Baxter, or you shall not hear a word more," rang out

the imperious, unruffled voice. "Sit down this instant."

Laurie shot a look at the two ladies. Then he remembered himself. He

sat down.

"I am not at all angry, Mr. Baxter," came the voice, suave and kindly

again. "Your thought was very natural. But I think I can prove to you

that you are mistaken."

Mr. Vincent glanced at Mrs. Stapleton with an almost imperceptible

frown, then back at Laurie.

"Let me see, Mr. Baxter.... Is there anyone on earth besides yourself

who knew that you had sat out, about ten days ago or so, under some

yew trees in your garden at home, and thought of this young girl--that

you--"

Laurie looked at him in dumb dismay; some little sound broke from his

mouth.

"Well, is that enough, Mr. Baxter?"

Lady Laura slid in a sentence here.

"Dear Mr. Baxter, you need not be in the least alarmed. All that has

passed here is, of course, as sacred as in the confessional. We should

not dream, without your leave--"

"One moment," gasped the boy.

He drove his face into his hands and sat overwhelmed.

Presently he looked up.

"But I knew it," he said. "I knew it. It was just my own self which

spoke."

The medium smiled.

"Yes," he said, "of course that is the first answer." He placed one

hand on the table, leaning forward, and began to play his fingers as

if on a piano. Laurie watched the movement, which seemed vaguely

familiar.

"Can you account for that, Mr. Baxter? You did that several times. It

seemed uncharacteristic of you, somehow."

Laurie looked at him, mute. He remembered now. He half raised a hand

in protest.

"And ... and do you ever stammer?" went on the man.

Still Laurie was silent. It was beyond belief or imagination.

"Now if those things were characteristic--"

"Stop, sir," cried the boy; and then, "But those too might be unconscious

imitation."

"They might," said the other. "But then we had the advantage of

watching you. And there were other things."

"I beg your pardon?"

"There was the loud continuous rapping, at the beginning and the

end. You were awakened twice by these."

Laurie remained perfectly motionless without a word. He was still

striving to marshal this flood of mad ideas. It was incredible,

amazing.

Then he stood up.

"I must go away," he said. "I--I don't know what to think."

"You had better stay a little longer and rest," said the medium

kindly.

The boy shook his head.

"I must go at once," he said. "I cannot trust myself."

He went out without a word, followed by the medium. The two ladies sat

eyeing one another.

"It has been astonishing ... astonishing," sighed Mrs. Stapleton.

"What a find!"

There was no more said. Lady Laura sat as one in trance herself.

Then Mr. Vincent returned.

"You must not lose sight of that young man," he said abruptly. "It is

an extraordinary case."

"I have all the notes here," remarked Mrs. Stapleton.

"Yes; you had better keep them. He must not see them at present."

_Chapter V_

I

As the weeks went by Maggie's faint uneasiness disappeared. She was

one of those fortunate persons who, possessing what are known as

nerves, are aware of the possession, and discount their effects

accordingly.

That uneasiness had culminated a few days after Laurie's departure one

evening as she sat with the old lady after tea--in a sudden touch of

terror at she knew not what.

"What is the matter, my dear?" the old lady had said without warning.

Maggie was reading, but it appeared that Mrs. Baxter had noticed her

lower her book suddenly, with an odd expression.

Maggie had blinked a moment.

"Nothing," she said. "I was just thinking of Laurie; I don't know

why."

But since then she had been able to reassure herself. Her fancies were

but fancies, she told herself; and they had ceased to trouble her. The

boy's letters to his mother were ordinary and natural: he was reading

fairly hard; his coach was as pleasant a person as he had seemed; he

hoped to run down to Stantons for a few days at Christmas. There was

nothing whatever to alarm anyone; plainly his ridiculous attitude

about Spiritualism had been laid by; and, better still, he was

beginning to recover himself after his sorrow in September.

It was an extraordinarily peaceful and uneventful life that the two

led together--the kind of life that strengthens previous proclivities

and adds no new ones; that brings out the framework of character and

motive as dropping water clears the buried roots of a tree. This was

all very well for Mrs. Baxter, whose character was already fully

formed, it may be hoped; but not so utterly satisfactory for the girl,

though the process was pleasant enough.

After Mass and breakfast she spent the morning as she wished,

overseeing little extra details of the house--gardening plans, the

poultry, and so forth--and reading what she cared to. The afternoon

was devoted to the old lady's airing; the evening till dinner to

anything she wished; and after dinner again to gentle conversation.

Very little happened. The Vicar and his wife dined there occasionally,

and still more occasionally Father Mahon. Now and then there were

vague entertainments to be patronized in the village schoolroom, in an

atmosphere of ink and hair-oil, and a mild amount of rather dreary and

stately gaiety connected with the big houses round. Mrs. Baxter

occasionally put in appearances, a dignified and aristocratic old

figure with her gentle eyes and black lace veil; and Maggie went with

her.

The pleasure of this life grew steadily upon Maggie. She was one of

that fraction of the world that finds entertainment to lie, like the

kingdom of God, within. She did not in the least wish to be "amused"

or stimulated and distracted. She was perfectly and serenely content

with the fowls, the garden, her small selected tasks, her religion,

and herself.

The result was, as it always is in such cases, she began to revolve

about three or four main lines of thought, and to make a very fair

progress in the knowledge of herself. She knew her faults quite well;

and she was not unaware of her virtues. She knew perfectly that she

was apt to give way to internal irritation, of a strong though

invisible kind, when interruptions happened; that she now and then

gave way to an unduly fierce contempt of tiresome people, and said

little bitter things that she afterwards regretted. She also knew that

she was quite courageous, that she had magnificent physical health,

and that she could be perfectly content with a life that a good many

other people would find narrow and stifling.

Her own character then was one thing that she had studied--not in the

least in a morbid way--during her life at Stantons. And another thing

she was beginning to study, rather to her own surprise, was the

character of Laurie. She began to become a little astonished at the

frequency with which, during a silent drive, or some mild mechanical

labor in the gardens, the image of that young man would rise before

her.

Indeed, as has been said, she had new material to work on. She had not

realized till the _affaire_ Amy that boy's astonishing selfishness;

and it became for her a rather pleasant psychological exercise to

build up his characteristics into a consistent whole. It had not

struck her, till this specimen came before her notice, how generosity

and egotism, for example, so far from being mutually exclusive, can

very easily be complements, each of the other.

So then she passed her days--exteriorly a capable and occupied person,

interested in half a dozen simple things; interiorly rather

introspective, rather scrupulous, and intensely interested in the

watching of two characters--her own and her adopted brother's. Mrs.

Baxter's character needed no dissection; it was a consistent whole,

clear as crystal and as rigid.

It was still some five weeks before Christmas that Maggie became aware

of what, as a British maiden, she ought, of course, to have known long

before--namely, that she was thinking just a little too much about a

young man who, so far as was apparent, thought nothing at all about

her. It was true that once he had passed through a period of

sentimentality in her regard; but the extreme discouragement it had

met with had been enough.

Her discovery happened in this way.

Mrs. Baxter opened a letter one morning, smiling contentedly to

herself.

"From Laurie," she said. Maggie ceased eating toast for a second, to

listen.

Then the old lady uttered a small cry of dismay.

"He thinks he can't come, after all," she said.

Maggie had a moment of very acute annoyance.

"What does he say? Why not?" she asked.

There was a pause. She watched Mrs. Baxter's lips moving slowly, her

glasses in place; saw the page turned, and turned again. She took

another piece of toast. There are few things more irritating than to

have fragments of a letter doled out piecemeal.

"He doesn't say. He just says he's very busy indeed, and has a great

deal of way to make up." The old lady continued reading tranquilly,

and laid the letter down.

"Nothing more?" asked Maggie, consumed with annoyance.

"He's been to the theatre once or twice.... Dear Laurie! I'm glad he's

recovering his spirits."

Maggie was very angry indeed. She thought it abominable of the boy to

treat his mother like that. And then there was the shooting--not much,

indeed, beyond the rabbits, which the man who acted as occasional

keeper told her wanted thinning, and a dozen or two of wild

pheasants--yet this shooting had always been done, she understood, at

Christmas, ever since Master Laurie had been old enough to hold a gun.

She determined to write him a letter.

When breakfast was over, with a resolved face she went to her room.

She would really tell this boy a home-truth or two. It was a--a

sister's place to do so. The mother, she knew well enough, would do no

more than send a little wail, and would end by telling the dear boy

that, of course, he knew best, and that she was very happy to think

that he was taking such pains about his studies. Someone must point

out to the boy his overwhelming selfishness, and it seemed that no one

was at hand but herself. Therefore she would do it.

She did it, therefore, politely enough but unmistakably; and as it was

a fine morning, she thought that she would like to step up to the

village and post it. She did not want to relent; and once the letter

was in the post-box, the thing would be done.

It was, indeed, a delicious morning. As she passed out through the

iron gate the trees overhead, still with a few brown belated leaves,

soared up in filigree of exquisite workmanship into a sky of clear

November blue, as fresh as a hedge-sparrow's egg. The genial sound of

cock-crowing rose, silver and exultant, from the farm beyond the road,

and the tiny street of the hamlet looked as clean as a Dutch picture.

She noticed on the right, just before she turned up to the village on

the left, the grocer's shop, with the name "Nugent" in capitals as

bright and flamboyant as on the depot of a merchant king. Mr. Nugent

could be faintly descried within, in white shirt-sleeves and an apron,

busied at a pile of cheeses. Overhead, three pairs of lace curtains,

each decked with a blue bow, denoted the bedrooms. One of them must

have been Amy's. She wondered which....

All up the road to the village, some half-mile in length, she pondered

Amy. She had never seen her, to her knowledge; but she had a tolerably

accurate mental picture of her from Mrs. Baxter's account.... Ah! how

could Laurie? How could he...? Laurie, of all people! It was just one

more example....

After dropping her letter into the box at the corner, she hesitated

for an instant. Then, with an odd look on her face, she turned sharply

aside to where the church tower pricked above the leafless trees.

It was a typical little country church, with that odor of the

respectable and rather stuffy sanctity peculiar to the class; she had

wrinkled her nose at it more than once in Laurie's company. But she

passed by the door of it now, and, stepping among the wet grasses,

came down the little slope among the headstones to where a very white

marble angel clasped an equally white marble cross. She passed to the

front of this, and looked, frowning a little over the intolerable

taste of the thing.

The cross, she perceived, was wreathed with a spray of white marble

ivory; the angel was a German female, with a very rounded leg emerging

behind a kind of button; and there, at the foot of the cross, was the

inscription, in startling black--