The two were sitting together in the little smoking-room at the back
of the house on the last night of Laurie's holidays. He was to go back
to town next morning.
Maggie had passed a thoroughly miserable week. She had had to keep her
promise not to tell Mrs. Baxter--not that that lady would have been of
much service, but the very telling would be a relief--and things
really were not serious enough to justify her telling Father Mahon.
To her the misery lay, not in any belief she had that the
spiritualistic claim was true, but that the boy could be so horribly
excited by it. She had gone over the arguments again and again with
him, approving heartily of his suggestions as to the earlier part of
the story, and suggesting herself what seemed to her the most sensible
explanation of the final detail. Graves did sink, she said, in two
cases out of three, and Laurie was as aware of that as herself. Why in
the world should not this then be attributed to the same subconscious
mind as that which, in the hypnotic sleep--or whatever it was--had
given voice to the rest of his imaginations? Laurie had shaken his
head. Now they were at it once more. Mrs. Baxter had gone to bed half
an hour before.
"It's too wickedly grotesque," she said indignantly. "You can't
seriously believe that poor Amy's soul entered into your mind for an
hour and a half in Lady Laura's drawing-room. Why, what's purgatory,
then, or heaven? It's so utterly and ridiculously impossible that I
can't speak of it with patience."
Laurie smiled at her rather wearily and contemptuously.
"The point," he said, "is this: Which is the simplest hypothesis? You
and I both believe that the soul is somewhere; and it's natural, isn't
it, that she should want--oh! dash it all! Maggie, I think you should
remember that she was in love with me--as well as I with her," he
added.
Maggie made a tiny mental note.
"I don't deny for an instant that it's a very odd story," she
said. "But this kind of explanation is just--oh, I can't speak of
it. You allowed yourself that up to this last thing you didn't really
believe it; and now because of this coincidence the whole thing's
turned upside down. Laurie, I wish you'd be reasonable."
Laurie glanced at her.
She was sitting with her back to the curtained and shuttered window,
beyond which lay the yew-walk; and the lamplight from the tall stand
fell full upon her. She was dressed in some rich darkish material, her
breast veiled in filmy white stuff, and her round, strong arms lay,
bare to the elbow, along the arms of her chair. She was a very
pleasant wholesome sight. But her face was troubled, and her great
serene eyes were not so serene as usual. He was astonished at the
persistence with which she attacked him. Her whole personality seemed
thrown into her eyes and gestures and quick words.
"Maggie," he said, "please listen. I've told you again and again that
I'm not actually convinced. What you say is just conceivably possible.
But it doesn't seem to me to be the most natural explanation. The most
natural seems to me to be what I have said; and you're quite right in
saying that it's this last thing that has made the difference. It's
exactly like the grain that turns the whole bottle into solid salt. It
needed that.... But, as I've said, I can't be actually and finally
convinced until I've seen more. I'm going to see more. I wrote to
Mr. Vincent this morning."
"You did?" cried the girl.
"Don't be silly, please.... Yes, I did. I told him I'd be at his
service when I came back to London. Not to have done that would have
been cowardly and absurd. I owe him that."
"Laurie, I wish you wouldn't," said the girl pleadingly.
He sat up a little, disturbed by this very unusual air of hers.
"But if it's all such nonsense," he said, "what's there to be afraid
of?"
"It's--it's morbid," said Maggie, "morbid and horrible. Of course it's
nonsense; but it's--it's wicked nonsense."
Laurie flushed a little.
"You're polite," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said penitently. "But you know, really--"
The boy suddenly blazed up a little.
"You seem to think I've got no heart," he cried. "Suppose it was
true--suppose really and truly Amy was here, and--"
A sudden clear sharp sound like the crack of a whip sounded from the
corner of the room. Even Maggie started and glanced at the boy. He was
dead white on the instant; his lips were trembling.
"What was that?" he whispered sharp and loud.
"Just the woodwork," she said tranquilly; "the thaw has set in
tonight."
Laurie looked at her; his lips still moved nervously.
"But--but--" he began.
"Dear boy, don't you see the state of nerves--"
Again came the little sharp crack, and she stopped. For an instant she
was disturbed; certain possibilities opened before her, and she
regarded them. Then she crushed them down, impatiently and half
timorously. She stood up abruptly.
"I'm going to bed," she said. "This is too ridiculous--"
"No, no; don't leave me ... Maggie ... I don't like it."
She sat down again, wondering at his childishness, and yet conscious
that her own nerves, too, were ever so slightly on edge. She would not
look at him, for fear that the meeting of eyes might hint at more than
she meant. She threw her head back on her chair and remained looking
at the ceiling. But to think that the souls of the dead--ah, how
repulsive!
Outside the night was very still.
The hard frost had kept the world iron-bound in a sprinkle of snow
during the last two or three days, but this afternoon the thaw had
begun. Twice during dinner there had come the thud of masses of snow
falling from the roof on to the lawn outside, and the clear sparkle of
the candles had seemed a little dim and hazy. "It would be a comfort
to get at the garden again," she had reflected.
And now that the two sat here in the windless silence the thaw became
more apparent every instant. The silence was profound, and the little
noises of the night outside, the drip from the eaves slow and
deliberate, the rustle of released leaves, and even the gentle thud on
the lawn from the yew branches--all these helped to emphasize the
stillness. It was not like the murmur of day; it was rather like the
gnawing of a mouse in the wainscot of some death chamber.
It requires almost superhumanly strong nerves to sit at night, after a
conversation of this kind, opposite an apparently reasonable person
who is white and twitching with terror, even though one resolutely
refrains from looking at him, without being slightly affected. One may
argue with oneself to any extent, tap one's foot cheerfully on the
floor, fill the mind most painstakingly with normal thoughts; yet it
is something of a conflict, however victorious one may be.
Even Maggie herself became aware of this.
It was not that now for one single moment she allowed that the two
little sudden noises in the room could possibly proceed from any cause
whatever except that which she had stated--the relaxation of stiffened
wood under the influence of the thaw. Nor had all Laurie's arguments
prevailed to shake in the smallest degree her resolute conviction that
there was nothing whatever preternatural in his certainly queer story.
Yet, as she sat there in the lamplight, with Laurie speechless before
her, and the great curtained window behind, she became conscious of an
uneasiness that she could not entirely repel. It was just physical,
she said; it was the result of the change of weather; or, at the most,
it was the silence that had now fallen and the proximity of a
terrified boy.
She looked across at him again.
He was lying back in the old green arm-chair, his eyes rather shadowed
from the lamp overhead, quite still and quiet, his hands still
clasping the lion bosses of his chair-arms. Beside him, on the little
table, lay his still smoldering cigarette-end in the silver tray....
Maggie suddenly sprang to her feet, slipped round the table, and
caught him by the arm.
"Laurie, Laurie, wake up.... What's the matter?"
A long shudder passed through him. He sat up, with a bewildered look.
"Eh? What is it?" he said. "Was I asleep?"
He rubbed his hands over his eyes and looked round.
"What is it, Maggie? Was I asleep?"
Was the boy acting? Surely it was good acting! Maggie threw herself
down on her knees by the chair.
"Laurie! Laurie! I beg you not to go to see Mr. Vincent. It's bad for
you.... I do wish you wouldn't."
He still blinked at her a moment.
"I don't understand. What do you mean, Maggie?"
She stood up, ashamed of her impulsiveness.
"Only I wish you wouldn't go and see that man. Laurie, please don't."
He stood up too, stretching. Every sign of nervousness seemed gone.
"Not see Mr. Vincent? Nonsense; of course I shall. You don't
understand, Maggie."
_Chapter VII_
I
"What a relief," sighed Mrs. Stapleton. "I thought we had lost him."
The three were sitting once again in Lady Laura's drawing-room soon
after lunch. Mr. Vincent had just looked in with Laurie's note to give
the news. It was a heavy fog outside, woolly in texture and orange in
color, and the tall windows seemed opaque in the lamplight; the room,
by contrast, appeared a safe and pleasant refuge from the reek and
stinging vapor of the street.
Mrs. Stapleton had been lunching with her friend. The Colonel had
returned for Christmas, so his wife's duties had recalled her for the
present from those spiritual conversations which she had enjoyed in
the autumn. It was such a refreshment, she had said with a patient
smile, to slip away sometimes into the purer atmosphere.
Mr. Vincent folded the letter and restored it to his pocket.
"We must be careful with him," he said. "He is extraordinarily
sensitive. I almost wish he were not so developed. Temperaments like
his are apt to be thrown off their balance."
Lady Laura was silent.
For herself she was not perfectly happy. She had lately come across
one or two rather deplorable cases. A very promising girl, daughter of
a publican in the suburbs, had developed the same kind of powers, and
the end of it all had been rather a dreadful scene in Baker Street.
She was now in an asylum. A friend of her own, too, had lately taken
to lecturing against Christianity in rather painful terms. Lady Laura
wondered why people could not be as well balanced as herself.
"I think he had better not come to the public _séances_ at present,"
went on the medium. "That, no doubt, will come later; but I was going
to ask a great favor from you, Lady Laura."
She looked up.
"That bother about the rooms is not yet settled, and the Sunday
_séances_ will have to cease for the present. I wonder if you would
let us come here, just a few of us only, for three or four Sundays, at
any rate."
She brightened up.
"Why, it would be the greatest pleasure," she said. "But what about
the cabinet?"
"If necessary, I would send one across. Will you allow me to make
arrangements?"
Mrs. Stapleton beamed.
"What a privilege!" she said. "Dearest, I quite envy you. I am afraid
dear Tom would never consent--"
"There are just one or two things on my mind," went on Mr. Vincent so
pleasantly that the interruption seemed almost a compliment, "and the
first is this. I want him to see for himself. Of course, for
ourselves, his trance is the point; but hardly for him. He is
tremendously impressed; I can see that; though he pretends not to
be. But I should like him to see something unmistakable as soon as
possible. We must prevent his going into trance, if possible.... And
the next thing is his religion."
"Catholics are supposed not to come," observed Mrs. Stapleton.
"Just so.... Mr. Baxter is a convert, isn't he...? I thought so."
He mused for a moment or two.
The ladies had never seen him so interested in an amateur. Usually his
manner was remarkable for its detachment and severe assurance; but it
seemed that this case excited even him. Lady Laura was filled again
with sudden compunction.
"Mr. Vincent," she said, "do you really think there is no danger for
this boy?"
He glanced up at her.
"There is always danger," he said. "We know that well enough. We can
but take precautions. But pioneers always have to risk something."
She was not reassured.
"But I mean special danger. He is extraordinarily sensitive, you know.
There was that girl from Surbiton...."
"Oh! she was exceptionally hysterical. Mr. Baxter's not like that. I
do not see that he runs any greater risk than we run ourselves."
"You are sure of that?"
He smiled deprecatingly.
"I am sure of nothing," he said. "But if you feel you would sooner
not--"
Mrs. Stapleton rustled excitedly, and Lady Laura grabbed at her
retreating opportunity.
"No, no," she cried. "I didn't mean that for one moment. Please,
please come here. I only wondered whether there was any particular
precaution--"
"I will think about it," said the medium. "But I am sure we must be
careful not to shock him. Of course, we don't all take the same view
about religion; but we can leave that for the present. The point is
that Mr. Baxter should, if possible, see something unmistakable. The
rest can take care of itself.... Then, if you consent, Lady Laura, we
might have a little sitting here next Sunday night. Would nine o'clock
suit you?"
He glanced at the two ladies.
"That will do very well," said the mistress of the house. "And, about
preparations--"
"I will look in on Saturday afternoon. Is there anyone particular you
think of asking?"
"Mr. Jamieson came to see me again a few days ago," suggested Lady
Laura tentatively.
"That will do very well. Then we three and those two. That will be
quite enough for the present."
He stood up--a big, dominating figure--a reassuring man to look at,
with his kindly face, his bushy, square beard, and his appearance of
physical strength. Lady Laura sat vaguely comforted.
"And about my notes," asked Maud Stapleton.
"I think they will not be necessary.... Good-day.... Saturday
afternoon."
The two sat on silently for a minute or two after he was gone.
"What is the matter, dearest?"
Lady Laura's little anxious face did not move. She was staring
thoughtfully at the fire. Mrs. Stapleton laid a sympathetic hand on
the other's knee.
"Dearest--" she began.
"No; it is nothing, darling," said Lady Laura.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the medium was picking his way through the foggy streets.
Figures loomed up, sudden and enormous, and vanished again. Smoky
flares of flame shone like spots of painted fire, bright and
unpenetrating, from windows overhead; and sounds came to him through
the woolly atmosphere, dulled and sonorous. It would, so to speak,
have been a suitably dramatic setting for his thoughts if he had been
thinking in character, vaguely suggestive of presences and hints and
peeps into the unknown.
But he was a very practical man. His spiritualistic faith was a
reality to him, as unexciting as Christianity to the normal Christian;
he entertained no manner of doubt as to its truth.
Beyond all the fraud, the self-deception, the amazing feats of the
subconscious self, there remained certain facts beyond doubting--facts
which required, he believed, an objective explanation, which none but
the spiritualistic thesis offered. He had far more evidence, he
considered sincerely enough, for his spiritualism than most Christians
for their Christianity.
He had no very definite theory as to the spiritual world beyond
thinking that it was rather like this world. For him it was peopled
with individualities of various characters and temperaments, of
various grades and achievements; and of these a certain number had the
power of communicating under great difficulties with persons on this
side who were capable of receiving such communications. That there
were dangers connected with this process, he was well aware; he had
seen often enough the moral sense vanish and the mental powers decay.
But these were to him no more than the honorable wounds to which all
who struggle are liable. The point for him was that here lay the one
certain means of getting into touch with reality. Certainly that
reality was sometimes of a disconcerting nature, and seldom of an
illuminating one; he hated, as much as anyone, the tambourine
business, except so far as it was essential; and he deplored the fact
that, as he believed, it was often the most degraded and the least
satisfactory of the inhabitants of the other world that most easily
got into touch with the inhabitants of this. Yet, for him, the main
tenets of spiritualism were as the bones of the universe; it was the
only religion which seemed to him in the least worthy of serious
attention.
He had not practiced as a medium for longer than ten or a dozen years.
He had discovered, by chance as he thought, that he possessed
mediumistic powers in an unusual degree, and had begun then to take up
the life as a profession. He had suffered, so far as he was aware, no
ill effects from this life, though he had seen others suffer; and, as
his fame grew, his income grew with it.
It is necessary, then, to understand that he was not a conscious
charlatan; he loathed mechanical tricks such as he occasionally came
across; he was perfectly and serenely convinced that the powers which
he possessed were genuine, and that the personages he seemed to come
across in his mediumistic efforts were what they professed to be; that
they were not hallucinatory, that they were not the products of fraud,
that they were not necessarily evil. He regarded this religion as he
regarded science; both were progressive, both liable to error, both
capable of abuse. Yet as a scientist did not shrink from experiment
for fear of risk, neither must the spiritualist.
As he picked his way to his lodgings on the north of the park, he was
thinking about Laurie Baxter. That this boy possessed in an unusual
degree what he would have called "occult powers" was very evident to
him. That these powers involved a certain risk was evident too. He
proposed, therefore, to take all reasonable precautions. All the
catastrophes he had witnessed in the past were due, he thought, to a
too rapid development of those powers, or to inexperience. He
determined, therefore, to go slowly.
First, the boy must be convinced; next, he must be attached to the
cause; thirdly, his religion must be knocked out of him; fourthly, he
must be trained and developed. But for the present he must not be
allowed to go into trance if it could be prevented. It was plain, he
thought, that Laurie had a very strong "affinity," as he would have
said, with the disembodied spirit of a certain "Amy Nugent." His
communication with her had been of a very startling nature in its
rapidity and perfection. Real progress might be made, then, through
this channel.
* * * * *
Yes; I am aware that this sounds grotesque nonsense.