It was strange how Maggie felt steadied and encouraged in the presence
of something at least resembling danger. So long as Laurie was merely
tiresome and foolish, she distrusted herself, she made little rules
and resolutions, and deliberately kept herself interiorly detached
from him. But now that there was something definite to look to, her
sensitiveness vanished.
As to what that something was, she did not trust herself to decide.
Father Mahon had given her a point to work at--the fact that the
thing, as a serious pursuit, was forbidden; as to what the reality
behind was, whether indeed there were any reality at all, she did not
allow herself to consider. Laurie was in a state of nerves
sufficiently troublesome to bring a letter from his friend and guide;
and he was in that state through playing tricks on forbidden ground;
that was enough.
Her interview with Father Mahon precipitated her half-formed
resolution; and after tea she went upstairs to write to Mr. Cathcart.
It was an unconventional thing to do, but she was sufficiently
perturbed to disregard that drawback, and she wrote a very sensible
letter, explaining first who she was; then, without any names being
mentioned, she described her adopted brother's position, and indicated
his experiences: she occupied the last page in asking two or three
questions, and begging for general advice.
* * * * *
Mrs. Baxter displayed some symptoms after dinner which the girl
recognized well enough. They comprised a resolute avoidance of
Laurie's name, a funny stiff little air of dignity, and a touch of
patronage. And the interpretation of these things was that the old
lady did not wish the subject to be mentioned again, and that,
interiorly, she was doing her best ignore and forget it. Maggie felt,
again, vaguely comforted; it left her a freer hand.
* * * * *
She lay awake a long time that night.
Her room was a little square one on the top of the stairs, above the
smoking-room where she had that odd scene with Laurie a month or so
before, and looking out upon the yew walk that led to the orchard. It
was a cheerful little place enough, papered in brown, hung all over
with water colors, with her bed in one corner; and it looked a
reassuring familiar kind of place in the firelight, as she lay
open-eyed and thinking.
It was not that she was at all frightened; it was no more than a
little natural anxiety; and half a dozen times in the hour or two that
she lay thinking, she turned resolutely over in bed, dismissed the
little pictures that her mind formed in spite of herself, and began to
think of pleasant, sane subjects.
But the images recurred. They were no more than little
vignettes--Laurie talking to a severe-looking tall man with a sardonic
smile; Laurie having tea with Mrs. Stapleton; Laurie in an empty room,
looking at a closed door....
It was this last picture that recurred three or four times at the very
instant that the girl was drowsing off into sleep; and it had
therefore that particular vividness that characterizes the thoughts
when the conscious attention is dormant. It had too a strangely
perturbing effect upon her; and she could not imagine why.
After the third return of it her sense of humor came to the rescue: it
was too ridiculous, she said, to be alarmed at an empty room and
Laurie's back. Once more she turned on her side, away from the
firelight, and resolved, if it recurred again, to examine the details
closely.
Again the moments passed: thought followed thought, in those quiet
waves that lull the mind towards sleep; finally once more the picture
was there, clear and distinct.
Yes; she would look at it this time.
It was a bare room, wainscoted round the walls a few inches up,
papered beyond in some common palish pattern. Laurie stood in the
center of the uncarpeted boards, with his back turned to her, looking,
it seemed, with an intense expectation at the very dull door in the
wall opposite him. He was in his evening dress, she saw, knee-breeches
and buckles all complete; and his hands were clenched, as they hung
held out a little from his sides, as he himself, crouching a little,
stared at the door.
She, too, looked at the door, at its conventional panels and its brass
handle; and it appeared to her as if both he and she were expectant of
some visitor. The door would open presently, she perceived; and the
reason why Laurie was so intent upon the entrance, was that he, no
more than she, had any idea as to the character of the person who was
to come in. She became quite interested as she watched--it was a
method she followed sometimes when wooing sleep--and she began, in her
fancy, to go past Laurie as if to open the door. But as she passed him
she was aware that he put out a hand to check her, as if to hold her
back from some danger; and she stopped, hesitating, still looking, not
at Laurie, but at the door.
She began then, with the irresponsibility of deepening sleep, to
imagine instead what lay beyond the door--to perceive by intuitive
vision the character of the house. She got so far as understanding
that it was all as unfurnished as this room, that the house stood
solitary among trees, and that even these, and the tangled garden that
she determined must surround the house, were as listening and as
expectant as herself and the waiting figure of the boy. Once more, as
if to verify her semi-passive imaginative excursion, she moved to the
door....
Ah! what nonsense it was. Here she was, wide awake again, in her own
familiar room, with the firelight on the walls.
... Well, well; sleep was a curious thing; and so was imagination....
... At any rate she had written to Mr. Cathcart.
_Chapter XI_
I
The "Cock Inn" is situated in Fleet Street, not twenty yards from
Mitre Court and scarcely fifty from the passage that leads down to the
court where Mr. James Morton still has his chambers.
It was a convenient place, therefore, for Laurie to lunch in, and he
generally made his appearance there a few minutes before one o'clock
to partake of a small rump steak and a pewter mug of beer. Sometimes
he came alone, sometimes in company; and by a carefully thought out
system of tips he usually managed to have reserved for him at least
until one o'clock a particular seat in a particular partition in that
row of stable-like shelters that run the length of the room opposite
the door on the first floor.
On the twenty-third of February, however--it was a Friday, by the way,
and boiled plaice would have to be eaten instead of rump steak--he was
a little annoyed to find his seat already occupied by a small,
brisk-looking man with a grey beard and spectacles, who, with a
newspaper propped in front of him, was also engaged in the consumption
of boiled plaice.
The little man looked up at him sharply, like a bird disturbed in a
meal, and then down again upon the paper. Laurie noticed that his hat
and stick were laid upon the adjoining chair as if to retain it. He
hesitated an instant; then he slid in on the other side, opposite the
stranger, tapped his glass with his knife, and sat down.
When the waiter came, a familiarly deferential man with whiskers,
Laurie, with a slight look of peevishness, gave his order, and glanced
reproachfully at the occupied seat. The waiter gave the ghost of a
shrug with his shoulders, significant of apologetic helplessness, and
went away.
A minute later Mr. Morton entered, glanced this way and that, nodding
imperceptibly to Laurie, and was just moving off to a less occupied
table when the stranger looked up.
"Mr. Morton," he cried, "Mr. Morton!" in an odd voice that seemed on
the point of cracking into falsetto. Certainly he was very like a
portly bird, thought Laurie.
The other turned round, nodded with short geniality, and slid into the
chair from which the old man moved his hat and stick with zealous
haste.
"And what are you doing here?" said Mr. Morton.
"Just taking a bite like yourself," said the other. "Friday--worse
luck."
Laurie was conscious of a touch of interest. This man was a Catholic,
then, he supposed.
"Oh, by the way," said Mr. Morton, "have you--er--" and he indicated
Laurie. "No...? Baxter, let me introduce Mr. Cathcart."
For a moment the name meant nothing to Laurie; then he remembered; but
his rising suspicions were quelled instantly by his friend's next
remark.
"By the way, Cathcart, we were talking of you a week or two ago."
"Indeed! I am flattered," said the old man perkily. Yes, "perky" was
the word, thought Laurie.
"Mr. Baxter here is interested in Spiritualism--rump steak, waiter,
and pint of bitter--and I told him you were the man for him."
Laurie interiorly drew in his horns.
"A--er--an experimenter?" asked the old man, with courteous interest,
his eyes giving a quick gleam beneath his glasses.
"A little."
"Yes. Most dangerous--most dangerous.... And any success, Mr.
Baxter?"
Laurie felt his annoyance deepen.
"Very considerable success," he said shortly.
"Ah, yes--you must forgive me, sir; but I have had a good deal of
experience, and I must say--You are a Catholic, I see," he said,
interrupting himself. "Or a High Churchman."
"I am a Catholic," said Laurie.
"So'm I. But I gave up spiritualism as soon as I became one. Very
interesting experiences, too; but--well, I value my soul too much, Mr.
Baxter."
Mr. Morton put a large piece of potato into his mouth with a detached
air.
It was really rather trying, thought Laurie, to be catechized in this
way; so he determined to show superiority.
"And you think it all superstition and nonsense?" he asked.
"Indeed, no," said the old man shortly.
Laurie pushed his plate on one side, and drew the cheese towards him.
This was a little more interesting, he thought, but he was still far
from feeling communicative.
"What then?" he asked.
"Oh, very real indeed," said the old man. "That is just the danger."
"The danger?"
"Yes, Mr. Baxter. Of course there's plenty of fraud and trickery; we
all know that. But it's the part that's not fraud that's--May I ask
what medium you go to?"
"I know Mr. Vincent. And I've been to some public _séances_, too."
The old man looked at him with sudden interest, but said nothing.
"You think he's not honest?" said Laurie, with cool offensiveness.
"Oh, yes; he's perfectly honest," said the other deliberately. "I'll
trouble you for the sugar, Mr. Morton."
Laurie was determined not to begin the subject again. He felt that he
was being patronized and lectured, and did not like it. And once again
the suspicion crossed his mind that this was an arranged meeting. It
was so very neat--two days before the _séance_--the entry of
Morton--his own seat occupied. Yet he did not feel quite courageous
enough to challenge either of them. He ate his cheese deliberately and
waited, listening to the talk between the two on quite irrelevant
subjects, and presently determined on a bit of bravado.
"May I look at the _Daily Mirror_, Mr. Cathcart?" he asked.
"There is no doubt of his guilt," the old man said, as he handed the
paper across (the two were deep in a law case now). "I said so to
Markham a dozen times--" and so on.
But there was no more word of spiritualism. Laurie propped the paper
before him as he finished his cheese, and waited for coffee, and read
with unseeing eyes. He was resenting as hard as he could the
abruptness of the opening and closing of the subject, and the complete
disregard now shown to him. He drank his coffee, still leisurely, and
lit a cigarette; and still the two talked.
He stood up at last and reached down his hat and stick. The old man
looked up.
"You are going, Mr. Baxter...? Good day.... Well then; and as I was
waiting in court--"
Laurie passed out indignantly, and went down the stairs.
So that was Mr. Cathcart. Well, he was thankful he hadn't written to
him, after all. He was not his kind in the least.