"_And_ your soul," repeated Miss Grey.
"Oh, yes, to be sure--of course, my soul, miss. As it was, I had a
bother about it last year--my license, I mean, miss. I'll go to Mr.
Lester at once."
The proprietor was a nervous, bashful man, and when he found himself
standing before the Lesters and Captain Petrie, as they drank their
after-luncheon coffee, he was much embarrassed. At last he managed to
indicate that he wished to speak to Mr. Lester alone.
"Oh, nonsense!" said Charlie. "Go on. What's the matter?"
The proprietor nerved himself for the effort. After all, if these people
were not ashamed for themselves, why should he blush for them? Looking
sternly at Charlie, he began to formulate his accusation. He had not
got far before Maggie gave a little shriek of amazement; and the
captain, jumping up, seized him by the collar, and exclaimed:
"What do you mean, you little rascal? What's this scandalous nonsense
you've got hold of?" and the captain shook his host severely.
"I am not to be bullied, sir," said the proprietor stoutly. "I have
excellent authority for what I say, and----"
"Whose authority?"
The proprietor vouched Miss Grey and the fifth lady.
"We must look into this," said the captain.
Maggie, who was blushing severely, but was not without a secret tendency
to convulsive laughter, was prevailed upon to accompany them, and the
four proceeded to the drawing room, where the Inquisition sat enthroned
on the sofa, Miss Grey presiding. Miss Grey rose with a gesture of
horror.
"Not gone yet?" she exclaimed.
"No, ma'am," said the captain; "we want to hear your story first."
"Have you no shame?" demanded Miss Grey of Maggie.
"Never mind that, ma'am," said the captain; "let's have the story
first."
Miss Grey cast an appealing glance at the ceiling, and began: "With my
own ears I heard it. Mrs. Britson [Mrs. Britson was the fifth lady] will
confirm what I say. With my own ears I heard Captain Petrie relate to
Mr. Lester--to this person's brother--that he had had an interview with
this person when this person was entirely----" Miss Grey paused for
a moment, gathered her courage, and added in an awestruck whisper,
"disrobed."
A shudder ran through the audience. The culprits' faces expressed real
or simulated astonishment.
"If I must put it plainly," pursued Miss Grey--and at this several
ladies opened their fans and held them before their faces--"Captain
Petrie said that Miss Lester--that person--had nothing on, and that when
he reminded her of it she stated that the circumstance was immaterial.
Subsequently, at luncheon, the young woman herself admitted the fact in
the hearing of Mrs. Britson. If that is not enough----"
It apparently was enough, for Charlie Lester threw himself into an
armchair with a wild shriek of laughter. Maggie's slight figure shook
convulsively as she hid her face in her handkerchief, and Captain
Petrie, after a moment's blank amazement, cried out:
"By Jove! I've got it. Oh! this beats anything!" And he joined in with a
loud guffaw.
"Is that the way you treat such a--an abominable----" began Miss Grey
austerely.
"Oh, stop! for Heaven's sake stop!" exclaimed the captain; "you'll be
the death of me, you really will!"
Silence followed for a moment, and the captain, conquering his mirth,
went on: "I don't know if any of you ladies go in for horse-racing.
Probably not; I'm sure Miss Grey doesn't. Well, this morning I heard
that a horse of mine which is running in a race to-day had done an
exceptionally and quite unexpectedly good trial--I mean, had proved a
far faster runner than we had supposed. In fact, there was little doubt
that he would win the race. Sometimes, ladies, I am wicked enough to
bet. Occasionally Charlie Lester is equally wicked. Now and then Miss
Lester yields to that vice. Well, as you know, we are far from a
telegraph here; and we were much annoyed, Charlie and I, that we could
not take advantage of our fresh information to bet on the horse--to put
something on, as we say. Miss Lester regretted also, when I told her the
news, that she had nothing on--the horse. Do you begin to understand,
ladies?"
The ladies glanced at one another in some confusion. Miss Grey looked
angry and suspicious.
"And the boots?" she said.
"To put your boots on a horse," explained the captain politely, "is
a slang expression for betting your entire available fortune on his
success. Another expression is to put your shirt----"
"Sir!" said Miss Grey.
But Miss Grey's sway was ended. Maggie burst into a fresh fit of
laughter, and, after a moment's pause the whole company followed suit.
Miss Grey turned and left the room. The next day she left the hotel; she
could not face her victorious foes. Captain Petrie insisted on handing
her into the omnibus, saying as he did so, "Be easy, my dear madam. In
future it shall be my care to see that Miss Lester has something on."
NOT A BAD DEAL.
The little volume of verses entitled, "To Lalage," made quite a stir in
the literary world. One critic of note said that it was instinct with
classic grace; another that it was informed by the true spirit of
Hellas; a third that it had a whiff of Hymettus; a fourth that it was
hardly suitable for family reading; and on the strength of all this
laudation, "To Lalage" was a success, and several copies were _bonâ
fide_ sold to complete strangers. Imagine, then, the bitterness of heart
with which Adrian Pottles, the gifted author, saw himself compelled to
maintain strict anonymity, and to conceal from a world thirsting to
know him that he was the "A. P." whose initials appeared in Old English
letters on the title-page. Yet he did not hesitate; for he knew that if
his uncle, Mr. Thomas Pottles, of Clapham Common, discovered that he
wrote not only verses, which was bad, but amatory verses, which was
atrocious, his means of present livelihood and prospects of future
affluence would vanish into thin air. For Mr. Pottles was a man of
strict views; and, whether one regarded this world or the next, there
could be no question that a bank clerk of Evangelical connections
committed a grave fault in writing love poems. So poor Adrian had to
make up his mind to remain unknown, and to hold his tongue even when he
heard that another man had been claiming the authorship of "To Lalage."
Luckily, perhaps, he failed to find out who this miscreant was, or
probably his indignation would have overcome his prudence, and he would
at any cost have claimed his own.
The secret was well kept; and Adrian received the usual check at
Christmas-time, and with it the usual invitation to spend the festive
season with his uncle, and to bring with him his young friend Peter
Allison, to whom old Mr. Pottles had taken a great fancy. Peter was
a man of many engagements, but, sought after as he was and proclaimed
himself to be, he remembered the good cheer at Mr. Pottles', and
accepted the invitation. They went down together; Adrian bewailing his
hard fortune and denouncing the impostor; Peter warmly sympathizing,
but counseling continued silence and prudence.
"Ah, if I could only claim it!" cried Adrian, opening his Gladstone bag
and gazing fondly at half a dozen neat, clean copies of "To Lalage." "I
should be the lion of the season, Peter."
Peter smiled and shook his head. "A fortune is better than fame,
Adrian," said he.
For a day or two all went well at Clapham. The old gentleman was in the
best of tempers, and the two young men did their best to keep him in it,
indorsing all his views as to the lax morality and disgraceful tone
which pervaded modern literature and modern society; and when they had
done their duty in this way they rewarded themselves by going in next
door and having tea with Dora Chatterton, a young lady whom they both
thought charming. Indeed, Adrian thought her so charming that, after a
short acquaintance, he sent her a copy of "To Lalage"--with the author's
kind regards. Now, Miss Dora Chatterton adored genius. She had thought
both Adrian and Peter very pleasant young men; she had perceived that
they both thought her a very pleasant young woman; and she had been
rather puzzled to know which of them she would, in a certain event, make
up her mind to prefer. "To Lalage" settled the question. It was the
gifted author, A. P., who deserved her love; and A. P. obviously stood,
not for Peter Allison, but for Adrian Pottles.
The very next morning she called early at Mr. Pottles'. She found
him alone; the boys, he explained, had gone for a walk. Dora was
disappointed; but, failing the author himself, she was content to pour
her praises into the ears of an appreciative and proud uncle. She did
so, expressing immense admiration for Adrian's modesty in not having
told Mr. Pottles of his achievement.
"Humph!" said Mr. Pottles. "Let me see these--er--things."
The effect of "To Lalage" on Mr. Pottles was surprising, and
particularly so to Dora. In less than ten minutes she found herself
being shown the door, and intrusted with a letter to her mother in which
Mr. Pottles stated that she had been reading wicked books, and ought, in
his opinion, to be sent to her own room for an indefinite period.
"And I shall know if you don't give it her," said Mr. Pottles
viciously.
Thus it happened that Adrian and Peter, as they were returning, met
poor Dora on the steps with this horrid note in one hand and her
pocket-handkerchief in the other--for Mrs. Chatterton shared Mr.
Pottles' views, and Dora did not enjoy having to deliver the note.
They were just hastening up to speak to her, when Mr. Pottles himself
appeared on the steps, holding out "To Lalage" in his hand. Adrian
grasped the situation.
"For Heaven's sake, Peter," he whispered, "say you wrote the beastly
thing; I'm ruined if you don't."
"Eh? But he'll kick me out."
"I'll stand a pony."
"_Two_," said Peter firmly.
"Well, two; but be quick."
Then Peter spoke up like a man, and accepted the blame of "To Lalage."
"But your initials aren't A. P.," objected Mr. Pottles.
"To avoid suspicion, I reversed the order; mine are P. A."
"James," said Mr. Pottles to the footman, "pack Mr. Allison's bag."
But Dora gave Peter the kindest and most admiring glance as she murmured
softly to Adrian, "They're lovely! Oh, don't you wish you could write
verses, Mr. Pottles?"
Adrian started. He had not bargained for this; but Peter had overheard,
and interposed:
"I am more than consoled by your approval, Miss Chatterton."
Mr. Pottles called to Adrian, and he had to go in, leaving Dora and
Peter in close conversation, and to assure his uncle solemnly that he
had been entirely disappointed and deceived in Peter, and, worse still,
in Dora, and that he never wished to see either of them again. Mr.
Pottles shook him by the hand and forgave him.
Adrian passed a wretched week. In several newspapers he saw it openly
stated that Peter now admitted he was the author of "To Lalage." Peter
wrote that the fifty pounds were most convenient, and that he had had
a most charming letter from Dora, and that all the literary world was
paying him most flattering attentions. Adrian ground his teeth, but he
had to write back, thanking Peter for all his kindness.
Meanwhile Mr. Pottles grew restless. Every paper he took up was full of
the praises of "To Lalage." The author was becoming famous, and Mr.
Pottles began to doubt whether he had done well to drive him forth with
contumely.
"Adrian," he said suddenly one morning, "I don't know that I did justice
to young Allison. I shall have another look at that book. I shall order
it at Smith's."
"I--I happen to have a copy," said Adrian timidly.
"Get it," said Mr. Pottles. Mr. Pottles read it--first with a deep
frown, then with a judicial air, then with a smile, lastly with a
chuckle.
"Ask him to dinner," he said. "Oh, and, Adrian, we'll have the
Chattertons. I wish you could do something to get your name up, my boy."
"You like it, uncle?"
"Yes, and I like the manly way he owned to it. If he had prevaricated
about it, I'd never have forgiven him."
After this Adrian did not dare to confess. It was too bad. Here were
both his uncle and Dora admiring Peter for his poems, and crediting
Peter with candor and courage. He was to lose both fame and Dora! It was
certainly too much. A sudden thought struck him. He went to town, called
on Peter, and, as the police reports say, "made a communication" to him.
"It makes me look a scoundrel," objected Peter.
"Two hundred--at six months," suggested Adrian.
"And she is a nice girl---- No, I'm dashed----"
"A monkey at three!" cried Adrian.
"Done!" said Peter.
It was a sad tale of depravity on one side, and of self-sacrificing
friendship on the other, that Mr. Pottles and Dora Chatterton listened
to that evening.
"He had made," said Adrian sadly, "a deliberate attempt to rob
me of my fame before, and he repeated it. And yet, uncle, an old
friend--boyhood's companion--how could I betray him? It was weak, but
I could not. I stood by, and let him deceive you."
"You're a noble fellow," said Mr. Pottles, in tones of emotion.
"Indeed, yes," said Dora, with an adoring glance.
"There, let us say no more about it," pursued Adrian magnanimously. "I
have my reward," and he returned Dora's glance behind Mr. Pottles' broad
back.
The next time he met Peter, he said, "I am really immensely indebted to
you, old fellow. My uncle has come down handsome, and if the monkey now
would be conv----"
"By Gad, yes!" said Peter. He took it in crisp notes, and carefully
pocketed them.
"And is Miss Dora kind?" he asked.
"She's an angel."
"And you are generally prosperous?"
"Thanks to you, my dear old friend."
"Then," said Peter, producing a piece of paper from his pocket, "you
might persuade your publishers to withdraw this beastly thing." It was a
writ, and it claimed an injunction to restrain Peter from claiming the
authorship of "To Lalage."
"Then you've been publicly claiming it?"
"I had to keep up the illusion, Adrian. Do me justice."
"But," said Adrian, "how, Peter--how does it happen that the writ is
dated the day _before_ we went to Clapham?"
He paused. Peter grinned uneasily. A light broke in on Adrian.
"Why," he exclaimed, "you're the villain who----"
"Exactly. Wonderfully provident of me, wasn't it? What, you're not
going?"
"Never let me see your face again," said Adrian. "I have done with you."
He rushed out. Peter whistled gently, and said to himself, "Not a bad
deal! He must stop the action, or the old man will twig."
Then he whistled again, and added, "Glad I got it in notes. He'd have
stopped a check."
A third time he whistled, and chuckled and said, "Now, I wonder if old
Adrian'll make five hundred and fifty out of it! Not a bad deal, Peter,
my boy!"
MIDDLETON'S MODEL.
Middleton was doing very well; everybody admitted that--some
patronizingly, others enviously. And yet Middleton aimed high. He
eschewed pot-boilers, and devoted himself to important subject pictures,
often of an allegorical description. Nevertheless, his works sold, and
that so well that Middleton thought himself justified in taking a wife.
Here, again, good fortune attended him. Miss Angela Dove was fair to
see, possessed of a nice little income, and, finally, a lady of taste,
for she accepted Middleton's addresses. Decidedly a lucky fellow all
round was Middleton. But, in spite of all his luck, his face was clouded
with care as he sat in his studio one summer evening. Three months
before he had been the recipient of a most flattering commission from
that wealthy and esteemed connoisseur the Earl of Moneyton. The earl
desired two panels for his hall. "I want," he wrote, "two full-length
female figures--the one representing Heavenly Love, the other Earthly
Love. Not a very new subject, you will say; but I have a fancy for it,
and I can rely on your talent to impart freshness even to a well-worn
theme."
Of course there was no difficulty about Heavenly Love. Angela filled the
bill (the expression was Middleton's own) to a nicety. Her pretty golden
hair, her sweet smile, her candid blue eyes, were exactly what was
wanted. Middleton clapped on a pair of wings, and felt that he had done
his duty. But when he came to Earthly Love the path was not so smooth.
The earl demanded the acme of physical beauty, and that was rather hard
to find. Middleton tried all the models in vain; he frequented the
theaters and music-halls to no purpose; he tried to combine all the
beauties of his acquaintance in one harmonious whole, but they did not
make what tea-dealers call a "nice blend." Then he tried to evolve
Earthly Love out of his own consciousness, but he could get nothing
there but Angela again; and although he did violence to his feelings by
giving her black hair and an evil cast in her eye, he knew that, even
thus transformed, she would not satisfy the earl. Middleton was in
despair; his reputation was at stake. The thought of Angela could not
console him.
"I'd give my soul for a model!" cried he, flinging aside his pencil in
despair.
At this moment he heard a knock at the door. He existed on the charwoman
system, and after six o'clock in the evening had to open his own door. A
lady stood outside, and a neat brougham was vanishing round the corner.
Even in the darkness Middleton was struck by the grace and dignity of
his visitor's figure.
"Mr. Middleton's, is it not?" she asked, in a very sweet voice.
Middleton bowed. It was late for a call, but if the lady ignored that
fact, he could not remind her of it. Fortunately there was no chance of
Angela coming at such an hour. He led the way to his studio.
"May I ask," he began, "to what I am indebted for this honor?"
"I see you like coming to business directly," she answered, her neatly
gloved hands busy unpinning her veil. She seemed to find the task a
little difficult.
"You see, it's rather late," said Middleton.
"Not at all. I am only just up. Well, then, to business. I hear you want
a model for an Earthly Love."
"Exactly. May I ask if you----"
"If I am a model? Oh, now and then--not habitually."
"You know my requirements are somewhat hard to fulfill?"
"I can fulfill them," and she raised her veil. She certainly could. She
realized his wildest dreams--the wildest dream of poets and painters
since the world began. Middleton stood half-stupefied before her.
"Well, shall I do?" she asked, turning her smile on him.
Middleton felt as if it were a battery of guns, as he answered that he
would be the happiest painter in the world if she would honor him.
"Head only, of course," she continued.
"Of course," said he hastily; "unless, that is, you will give me hands
and arms too."
"I think not. My hands are not so good." And she glanced at her kid
gauntlets with a smile.
"And--er--as to terms?" he stammered.
"Oh, the usual terms," she answered briskly.
Middleton hinted at pre-payment.
"I'm not allowed to take that," she said. "Come, I will ask for what I
want when the time comes. You won't refuse me?"
"It's a little vague," he said, with an uneasy laugh.
"Oh, I can go away." And she turned toward the door.
"Whatever you like," he cried hastily.
"Ah, that's better. I shall not take anything of great value."
She gave him her hand. He ventured on a slight pressure. The lady did
not seem to notice it, and her hand lay quite motionless in his.
"To-morrow, then?" he said.
"Yes. I won't trouble you to call a cab. I shall walk."
"Have you far to go?"
"Oh, some little way; but it's an easy road."
"Can't I escort you?"
"Not to-night. Some day, I hope"--and she stepped into the street and
disappeared round the corner.
Punctually the next day she reappeared. Apart from her incomparable
beauty--and every time she came, Middleton was more convinced that it
was incomparable--she was a charming companion. She was very well read,
and her knowledge of the world was wonderful.
"I wish it wasn't rude to ask your age!" he exclaimed one day.
"Ah, I am older than I look. My work keeps me young."
"Are you very busy, then?"
"I am always busy. But I don't grudge the time I give to you. No, don't
thank me. I am to be paid, you know." And she laughed merrily. If there
were a flaw in her, it was her laugh. Middleton thought it rather a
cruel laugh.
"Do you know," he resumed, "you have never told me your name yet."
"I am here _incognita_."
"You will tell me some day?"
"Yes, you shall know some day."
"Before we part forever?"
"Perhaps we shall not part--forever."
Middleton said he hoped not; but what would Angela say?
"My name is not so pretty a one as your _fiancée's_," the lady
continued.
"How do you know I am engaged?"
"I always know that sort of thing. It's so useful. Angela Dove, isn't
it?"
"Yes; I hope you like it?"
"To be candid, not very much. It happens to have unpleasant
associations."
It was fortunate that Angela was staying out of town. Middleton felt
that the two ladies would not have got on well together; and---- He
checked himself in shame; for his thought had been that not even for
Angela could he send the stranger away. Middleton struggled against the
treacherous passion that grew upon him; but he struggled in vain. He was
guilty of postponing the finishing of his panel as long as he could. At
last the lady grew impatient.
"I shall not come after to-day," she announced. "You can finish it
to-day."
"Oh, hardly!" he protested.
"I'll stay late; but I can't come again."
Middleton worked hard, and by evening the panel was finished.
"A thousand thanks," he said. "And now you'll have something to eat,
won't you?"
She agreed, and they sat down to a merry meal. The lady surpassed
herself in brilliancy, and her mad gayety infected Middleton. Forgetful
of his honor and allegiance, he leaned over to toast his guest, with a
passionate gaze in his eyes. Insensibly the evening sped away; suddenly
the clock struck twelve.
"I am going now," she said.
"Ah, you won't leave me!" cried Middleton.
"For the moment."
"But when shall I see you again?"
"As soon as you like, but not later than you must."
"You are charmingly mysterious. Tell me where you are going?"
"To my home."
"If you won't come to me, I shall come to you," he insisted.
"Yes, you will come to me," she answered, smiling.
"And we shall be together?"
"Yes."
"As long as ever I like?"
"Yes--longer."
"Impossible! Eternity would not be too long."
"_Nous verrons_," said she, with a laugh.
"At least you will write? You'll send me your picture?"
"I never write, and you have my picture."
"And another in my heart," he cried hotly.
"I have tried to put it there."
"But give me some token--anything--a ribbon--a glove--anything."
"Well, let it be a glove. As I go I will give you a glove."
She rose from her chair and rested her right hand on the table.
"Till we meet again!" she said.
"I am yours for ever!" he cried, seizing her hand.
"True! true!" she answered triumphantly. "You are mine forever!" and
with a sudden movement she drew her arm away from him and left on the
table--her glove, was it, or her hand? It seemed her very hand! and as
Middleton looked up he had a vision of a blood-red claw shaken in his
face, and devilish laughter rattled in his ears. The lady was gone, and
Middleton fell full length on his studio floor.
Middleton is a very devoted husband to Angela Dove. When he is well and
cheerful, he blames himself for having made love to a model, and laughs
at himself for having been fool enough to fancy--well, all sorts of
rubbish. But when he is out of sorts he does not like to be complimented
on his figure of Earthly Love, and he gives a shudder if he happens to
come across an article which lies hidden in his cupboard--a perfect
model of the human hand covered with black kid; the model is hollow, and
there is a curious black mark inside it.
And the earl? The earl was delighted with the panel.
"Was she a professional model?" he asked.
"She made it a matter of business with me," said Middleton uneasily. It
was one of his bad days.
"I must know that girl," continued the earl, with a cunning look in his
eye.
"I expect you will some day."
"What's her name?"
"I don't know. She didn't tell me."
"Didn't she sign anything when you paid her?"
"I haven't paid her yet."
"But you're going to?"
"I--I suppose so," answered Middleton.
"Well, you'll find out who she is then. And, I say, Middleton, just let
me know."
"I will if I can--unless you've found it out before."
The earl took up his hat with a sigh.
"A glorious creature!" he said. "I hope I shall see her sometime."
"I think it's very likely, my lord," said Middleton.
"Have you any notion where she comes from?"
Middleton compromised. He said he understood that the lady was from
Monte Carlo.
MY ASTRAL BODY.
"There's no doubt at all about it," said the rajah, relighting his
cigar.
"It's perfectly easy, if you know how to do it. The skepticism of the
West is nothing less than disgusting."
The rajah had come to Oxford to complete his education and endue himself
with the culture of Europe; and he sat in my rooms, in a frock-coat
of perfect cut (he always wore a frock-coat), smoking one of my weeds
and drinking a whisky-and-soda. The rajah took to European culture
with avidity, and I have very little doubt that he learned many new
things with which it might or might not be expedient to acquaint his
fellow-countrymen and subjects when he returned to India. But all the
intellectual interests of Oxford were not strong enough to wean him from
his love for the ancient lore of his own country, and he was always
ready to expound the hidden wisdom of the East to any inquiring spirit.
As soon as I found this out, I cultivated his acquaintance sedulously;
for, in common with all intelligent men of the present day, I took
a keen interest in that strange learning which seemed to give its
possessors such extraordinary powers.
"Can you do it?" I asked.
"I should hope so," said the rajah contemptuously. "If I couldn't do
that, I'd turn Mahommedan."
"I wish you'd teach me."
The rajah took in a deep puff of smoke. "You're sure you could manage
it?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, of course, like anything else, an astral body must be treated
with tact, or it gets out of hand."
"Does it?"
"Why, yes; you must be firm and yet kind. Don't let it take liberties,
or you don't know where it will land you. I rather doubt if I ought to
show you."
I implored him to do so. I was young, rash, self-confident, and I
thought I could manage an astral body as easily as I did the dean.
"Don't blame me if you find it too much for you, that's all," said the
rajah. "And of course you must promise not to tell anyone."
"Oh, must I?"
"Yes, you must; because it's quite irregular in me to show you like
this. You ought, by rights, you know, to go to Thibet for seven years."
"That would be rather a bore."
"Beastly," said the rajah; "but of course they insist on it, because
they get the fees."
He swore me to secrecy by all manner of oaths, and lastly on my word as
a gentleman; and then he showed me. I practiced all that evening, and
was tolerably proficient by the time the rajah knocked out his last pipe
and went off to bed. I must not tell how it is done, as I promised not
to; besides, if anyone reads this narrative through, he will never want
to know.
At first it was very convenient. I always used to project it to chapel
instead of going myself. It did capitally there, because it had only to
behave itself and hold its tongue. At lectures it was a failure; it was
such an inattentive beggar that its notes were worth nothing. And it was
no sort of use in the Torpid; I was told that I should be turned out if
I went on "sugaring" like that--there's no pluck or endurance in these
Orientals. On the whole, however, I was very well satisfied with it,
and came to rely upon it more and more for all the unpleasant duties of
life.
"Well, how do you like it?" asked the rajah one day in Quad.
"My dear fellow, it's splendid," I answered. "It's up in town, being
measured for trousers, now. You can't think how much trouble it saves."
The rajah smiled and shook his head.
"Be moderate," he said. "You mustn't use it too much, or it'll presume
on it."
"Will it? What will it do?"
"Why, if it's always being projected, it's as likely as not it'll learn
the trick of it, and take to projecting itself. Then you'll be left in
the lurch."
"What shall I do then?"
"I don't see what you can do," said the rajah, scratching his head. "Of
course, I should merely report it at headquarters; but you can't,
because you've no business with it at all."
"Well, I shan't grudge it a holiday now and then," I said magnanimously.
The rajah was right. It did begin to take French leave. Several times
when I wanted it I found it had, without a word of apology, projected
itself off to Iffley or somewhere, and was not available. I spoke very
severely to it. It said nothing, but listened with an unpleasant sort
of smile. "We all have our duties," I remarked, "and yours is to be
here"--and I pointed to my chest--"when you are wanted. You're as bad as
a scout."
"I ought to have a little relaxation," it answered sulkily.
"I never heard of such a thing in connection with you. Isn't it enough
for you to meditate in four dimensions when you're not at work? That
would satisfy most people."
"It's all very well in Thibet," it grumbled; "but a fellow doesn't come
to Oxford to do that."
"One would think you had nothing to do with me. You seem to forget that
you are simply a projection of mine."
We had some high words and parted--I mean, united--in very bad temper
with one another. It was in the middle of a most impertinent and
positively threatening speech, when I terminated the interview by
resuming it. It was very unreasonable and irritating, and I made up
my mind to ask the rajah to speak to it the next morning. I had an
engagement that evening, or I would have done it then. How I wish I had!
At half-past nine I went to an "At Home" at Professor Drayton's. As a
rule, "At Homes" are dull; but I had a reason for going to this one. The
professor had a very pretty daughter, and I was vain enough to think
that my presence was welcome to her. In fact, we were great friends,
and I had not been at the house a quarter of an hour before I had
forgotten all my worries with my unruly Astral Body, and was sitting
by Bessie in the small drawing room, enjoying myself immensely.
Suddenly--mysteriously--I felt something like a violent push. Bessie
vanished; the drawing room vanished; and I found myself in the High,
standing in dripping rain, without a hat or coat. I stood still in
bewilderment. What had happened? A moment later the proctor was upon
me. I gave my name and college in a mechanical way, and he passed on,
leaving me still standing in the rain. What had happened? Then it
flashed across my mind. I understood its threats. It had projected me!
I woke up next morning, determined to have it out with it. I found, as
I expected, that it had waited till I was asleep; then it slunk in and
united without my knowing it. I went and paid my fine, and then, not
waiting to breakfast, I proceeded to project it. It wouldn't move! I
tried again and again. I had no more power over it than a child. I knew
it was there; but I could not move it an inch. In wrath, I jumped up,
seized my cap, and started for the rajah's rooms. The rogue saw what
I was up to. I give you my word, I had not reached the door when it
projected me most viciously, and I landed down in the Parks.
I was not to be beaten. I came back to college at a run, and made
straight for the rajah's rooms. It was on the lookout for me. As I
ran by my oak, which I had to pass, it rushed out on me, united, and
projected me back again to Magdalen Bridge. This happened three times.
Then I sat down in the Parks, just where I dropped, and acknowledged to
myself that I was in a pretty fix.
I had a fearful week of it. Of course, wherever I was, it could unite
at once by just thinking of me; and, directly it had united, it used,
I believe out of pure malice, to project me somewhere where I did not
want to go. It was lucky for me that it was new to the business; its
powers were as yet very undeveloped, and, consequently, it did not
carry very far. If it could, I am sure it would have sent me to the
Antipodes; but as it was, I never went further than the University
boat-house--a pretty tidy step on a bad morning. Still, it was
improving; and I felt that I must act at once if I did not want to be
a permanent wanderer on the face of the earth.
My only chance was to engross its attention in some way, so that it
would forget me for a little while, and leave me free to speak to the
rajah. I pinned all my hopes on the rajah. Well, one morning, about a
week after it first projected me, I went for a walk in Christchurch
Meadow. We were united, and it had actually left me in peace ever since
breakfast. I hoped its better feelings were beginning to get the mastery
of it, and, in order to see, I tried to project it. No, it wouldn't
move! The creature was still recalcitrant.
Suddenly I saw Bessie Drayton just in front of me. In delight at seeing
her, I forgot about it, and, quickening my pace, overtook her, and
lifted my hat. She smiled divinely, saying, "Why, Mr. Nares, I just
going to write----" At that moment, when I was listening to her sweet
voice, it projected me! Could ill-nature go further? But, luckily, its
mind was not really concentrated on what it was doing. I believe it was
thinking of Bessie, and consequently it only carried about a hundred
yards. I landed behind one of the big elms, where I lay _perdu_ till it
had gone by. It and Bessie passed me together, and it was grinning from
ear to ear, and looked as pleased as Punch. And poor Bessie, who thought
she was talking to me, was being most charming to it.
I did not waste time in swearing. I ran like the wind back to college,
hoping that Bessie's society would prevent it coming after me till I
had spoken to the rajah. I still retained one pull over it. In order
to unite, it had to come where I was; it could not resume me from a
distance, as I used to resume it; so if it united now it would have to
leave Bessie.
By a blessed chance, the rajah was at home, and in trembling haste I
poured my story into his ear. He burst out laughing.
"I was afraid of it!" he gasped, holding his sides. "How splendid!"
I restrained my annoyance, and after a time he became a little more
grave.
"Do help me!" I urged. "It may unite at any moment, and project me the
deuce knows where."
"Oh, it'll be all right with the young lady."
"Not for long. She's very particular, and won't let it walk far with
her."
"Oh, then we must act. You don't feel it yet?"
"No; but do be quick!"
The rajah sported his oak, took off his coat, lay down on the floor, and
went into strong convulsions.
I regretted putting him to so much trouble, but my need was urgent, and
I knew that he was a good-natured man. Presently he cried (and I was
just getting alarmed about him):
"Are you there, Nani-Tal?"
"Certainly," said an old white-haired gentleman, dressed in a sheet, who
sat in the rajah's armchair.
"That's all right," said the rajah, getting up and putting on his coat.
"You were very difficult."
"We're so busy just now," said Nani-Tal apologetically. "I'm
demonstrating three nights a week, and the preparations take all my
time."
"Well, you can't have a boom for nothing," said the rajah, smiling.
"I don't complain," said Nani-Tal; "I only mentioned it to excuse myself
for keeping you waiting. I was in New York when you began materializing.
It's a lively city."
"You must tell him all about it," said the rajah to me; "he won't be
very hard on us."
Nani-Tal was, however, rather severe. He said it was too bad of the
rajah. How were they to live, if that sort of thing went on? Then he
turned to me, and added, "Of course you couldn't manage it. If you'd
gone through the course, you would have been all right. But there, it's
everything for nothing nowadays!"
"My friend couldn't go to Thibet."
"He might have paid the fees anyhow," grumbled Nani-Tal, "and taken
correspondence lessons."
We smoothed him down with the promise of a handsome donation, and at
last he consented to help us. It was only just in time, for at that very
moment I felt my Astral Body uniting. A second later it made a violent
effort to project me; of course, it saw Nani-Tal, and knew it was in for
it. The old gentleman was too quick for it.
"Come out of that!" he cried imperiously, and the wretch stood in the
middle of the room.
It did my heart good to hear Nani-Tal fall on the creature. After giving
it no end of a lecture, he concluded, "And now, young man, you'll just
go back to your jackal for a thousand years, and learn better manners."
The wretch protested; it asked for an elephant or even a tiger. Nani-Tal
was obdurate.
"A jackal will just suit you," he said. "Be off!" The creature vanished.
Simultaneously Nani-Tal began to disintegrate.
"Wait a bit!" cried the rajah.
"I can't. I'm summoned to St. James' Hall. There's a large audience, and
the professor has been in convulsions seven minutes."
I tried to grasp his hand in thanks. "If you want another," he said,
"you must go through the course--the full course. There's no other
way. Let this be a lesson to you." And with this parting remark he
disintegrated.
The rajah lit a cigar, and I, lighter at heart than I had been for many
days, followed his example.
"It was wrong of me," said the rajah; "I won't do it again."
"It's a pity it turned out so badly," I remarked; "it was quite a
comfort at first."
"They're all like that, unless you keep a tight hand on them. Shall you
take the course?"
"Not I. I've had enough of it."
"Perhaps you're right. Excuse me; I have to go to the Deccan on
business."
He fell back on the sofa, apparently in a trance, and I went off to the
dean's lecture. It makes all the difference whether you know how to do a
thing or not.
THE NEBRASKA LOADSTONE.
If there was one man in college whom the rajah thoroughly and heartily
detested, it was the captain of the boat club. He had many faults; he
was very tall and powerful, and delighted in contrasting the English
physique with that of inferior races; by which he meant, among others,
the rajah's race. His manner was abrupt and overbearing, his laugh
loud and unmusical. In fact, he grated horribly on the rajah; and
it was merely the final straw when, in the exhilaration of a bump
supper,--full, as the rajah remarked in disgust, of cow and strong
drink,--he called that prince, in playful chaff, a "nigger." The rajah
swore melodiously in Hindustani, and I saw that he meant to be revenged.
In those days the entertainment of the Nebraska Loadstone created a
_furore_. Everybody went to see her, and everybody came away convinced
that she possessed marvelous powers. Her peculiar gift--but everybody
remembers the details of the performance, and how the tricks were
finally, one by one, exposed, so that her adherents and believers were
driven from one position to another, until at last they had to fall back
on one single performance out of all those that the Loadstone gave,
and maintain that on that occasion at least something unexplained
and inexplicable did really happen. It is with the events of that
particular evening that I am concerned. I think I can throw some light
on them.
At first, however, there were many believers and few skeptics. The dean
carefully pointed out that Plato nowhere denied the existence of odic
force; and the bursar, who was generally supposed to be little better
than an atheist, declared that Spencer in one passage impliedly asserted
it; even the warden, in his sermon, told us that it was better,
according to Bacon, to believe two errors than refuse one truth--which
was, to say the least of it, sitting on the fence. But none of these
authorities shook the robust skepticism of the captain of the boat club.
He knew a conjurer, and the conjurer had told him how it was done, and
he was going to expose the Loadstone.
"But why haven't you?" I urged. "She's been here a week."
"He will not be too hard on her at first," said the rajah, with a little
sneer.
"I'll bust her up this very night," said Waterer. "I would have done it
before, only I was gated."
The excuse was good, and Waterer departed, full of boastings and
self-confidence, to gather together a large number of the noisy men, and
make a pleasant party to "guy" the unhappy Loadstone. I stayed to smoke
a pipe with the rajah.
"Of course she's a fraud," said he; "and I believe that animal really
has got hold of the right explanation."
"I shall go and see it," I announced.
After a moment's silent smoking, the rajah looked up with a twinkle in
his eye. "So shall I--if niggers are admitted."
After hall, he and I set out together for the town hall. We found the
first two rows of stalls occupied by Waterer and his friends. They were
all in evening dress, and had obviously dined--not in hall. The rajah
and I seated ourselves just behind them. The room was full, and the
feats were being most successful; each was followed by general applause,
broken only by some gibes from our friends in front. These latter grew
so pronounced that the Loadstone's manager at last came forward and
pointedly invited one of the scoffers to submit himself to experiment.
Now was Waterer's chance. He rose in the majesty of his bulk, walked on
to the platform, and said in a loud voice, as he settled himself on a
chair, "If the lady can move me one foot from this chair, I'll give her
a pony!"
The Loadstone advanced and began to paw him about in her usual fashion.
Waterer, who was sober enough to have lost nothing but his shyness, was
apparently too many for her. He was immovable; and cries of, "Now then!
when are you going to begin?" and so on, became audible. Two or three
minutes passed, and the Loadstone turned with a gesture of despair
toward her manager.
"I can't----" she began.
I jumped to my feet, crying, "Wait a minute! Look!"
For even as she spoke, there was what is scientifically called a
solution of continuity between Waterer and his chair. Still in a
sitting posture, but sitting on nothing, he was at least two inches from
the wicker-work of the chair. I glanced from him to the rajah. That
extraordinary man was in deep, placid, profound slumber. I jogged his
elbow and pinched his arm; he showed no consciousness whatever. I looked
at the Loadstone. She was standing motionless on the stage about a yard
from Waterer, with one hand outstretched toward him, and her eyes fixed
on his ascending figure; for Waterer was gradually, slowly, steadily
mounting in his strange journey. He was now a foot from his chair, still
in a sitting position--and up, up, up he was going. The wretch was
white as a sheet, and gasping with fright and bewilderment. Thunders of
applause burst from the audience. It was again and again renewed; but
the Loadstone did not, as her custom was, bow and smile in response. She
still stood motionless, and Waterer still ascended.
At last, at a height of fully twenty feet from the stage, he stopped.
Simultaneously the Loadstone gave a loud shriek as she fell back into
the arms of the manager--and the rajah awoke.
"I beg your pardon," he said politely; "I was drowsy. Anything going
on?"
"No; he's stopped now," I answered, my eyes eagerly fixed on Waterer.
The rajah rose from his seat with a yawn. "There'll be nothing more
to-night," he said. "Let's go home."
"Go home, man!--with that before our eyes!"
The rajah shrugged his shoulders.
"She won't do anything more," he repeated. "Look at her; she's quite
done up."
And, indeed, the Loadstone looked half dead as she gazed fearfully up at
Waterer. Her demeanor was not that of a triumphant performer.
"Do sit down," I urged; "we must see the end of it."
With a weary sigh, the rajah sat down, saying, "I'm not sure you will,
you know."
While we talked, the audience grew impatient. However wonderful a feat
may be, the public likes to have things kept moving. They thought
Waterer had been in the air long enough, and there were cries of
"That'll do! Let him down!" "Give us another."
The manager held a hasty conference with the Loadstone: he seemed to
urge her; but she shook her head again and again, and would do nothing
but lie back in a chair, and pass her hand to and fro over her head. The
rajah looked at her with a slight smile. The clamor increased. I think a
sort of panic--an angry panic--seized the audience.
"Bring him down! Bring him down!" they cried, pointing to the pallid
Waterer, who sat as rigid as a trussed fowl.
After another despairing appeal to the Loadstone, the manager came
forward and made a lame speech. The Loadstone was exhausted with her
unparalleled exertions. She must rest; presently she would bring him
down. Then Waterer's friends arose and ascended the platform. They
walked about, they stood on one another's shoulders; they made it clear
that no cords held Waterer. A pair of steps was called for and brought.
Placed on a sturdy table, they just enabled a man to reach Waterer's
feet. One mounted amidst intense excitement. Turning to the rajah, I
exclaimed, "Look!"
He was asleep again; and the Loadstone stood stiffly upright, beckoning
toward Waterer. Slowly and gradually he descended, leaving the man on
the ladder grasping at empty air, till he sat again on his seat. The
applause burst out, and the Loadstone sank back in a faint on the floor.
The rajah awoke, and the manager dropped the curtain, hiding the
Loadstone, Waterer, and his friends from our view.
"Give me your arm," said the rajah; "I am tired." I escorted him to a
cab, and we drove home.
The Loadstone gave no performance the next evening: she was too
fatigued; and Waterer was absent from the boat and from the sight of
men two days. When he reappeared he made no reference to his friend the
conjurer. He slunk about the Quad, looking very pale and upset. I met
him once, when I was with the rajah, on our way to lecture. The rajah
smiled urbanely at Waterer, and said to me, when he had passed:
"It's such a rude thing to call a gentleman a nigger, isn't it?"
Waterer has not done it again. And the Loadstone never did that trick
again. She took the pony, though. The manager called on Waterer, and
asked for a check. I think that incident pleased the rajah most of all.
"It is a ready utilization of the unexpected," he remarked, "which does
our friend much credit."
A SUCCESSFUL REHEARSAL.
Mr. Aloysius Tappenham, of Stamford Road, was a dealer in frauds.
It must not be understood from this statement that he was either a
company-promoter or the manager of a philanthropic undertaking. On
the contrary, he was as honest a man of business as you would find in
London, and he earned his living by discovering and introducing new
attractions in the shape of "Wonders," "Phenomenons," and so forth.
The music-halls were Mr. Tappenham's best customers, and when he
successfully launched a new impostor, he reaped a handsome return in
the way of commissions on the salary of the impostor and the profits of
the _entrepreneur_. All his _protégés_ were a success--a fact chiefly to
be attributed to his unvarying habit of insisting that he himself should
be shown "how it was done." He promised and observed absolute secrecy;
but, as he always said, he could not properly judge of the merit of any
particular fraud, unless he were allowed a private view of the machinery
by which it was worked. Some few years ago, in the very prime of life
and the full tide of a profitable trade, Mr. Tappenham suddenly retired
from business. This was the reason:
One day Mr. Tappenham discovered a treasure in the shape of a very
attractive young lady whose name was Hopkins, but who proposed to call
herself Mlle. Claire. Claire was hardly suitable to the music-halls;
Mr. Tappenham thought that she was above that, and proposed to "run"
her himself in Bond Street, on half-profit terms. Her specialty was the
production of any spirit you liked to order. She received in a dimly
lighted room; you told her who you were, and whose spirit you wished
to interview, and forthwith, without any nonsense of hand-holding or
table-turning, she caused to appear a shadowy yet clearly perceptible
figure which was exactly like the person you named, spoke with that
person's voice, and exhibited full--or reasonably full--knowledge of
everything which that person, and that person only, might be expected to
know.
Mr. Tappenham was much struck with the dexterity of this performance.
Of course, when explained, it resolved itself into some clever optical
illusion, a little ventriloquism, and a good deal of tact in returning
to the inquirer in another form information pumped out of him
beforehand. The materials were simple, the result was highly artistic;
and Mr. Tappenham determined to furnish the only thing needful to set
London aflame with the new marvel--namely, capital. However, before
taking the last irreparable step, he decided on a final trial. He
prepared the _mise-en-scène_ with due completeness, and invited Mlle.
Claire to experiment on himself.
"Consider me as one of the public," he said, "and give me a
hair-raiser."
Mlle. Claire protested that he was too much behind the scenes; but, on
being pressed, she consented to try, and asked Mr. Tappenham to name
his spirit.
He thought for a moment, and then said, "When I was a young man, I knew
a girl called Nellie Davies--a pretty girl, my dear. I dare say I didn't
treat her over well; but that's neither here nor there. Let's have her."
Clever little Mlle. Claire asked a question or two--and Mr. Tappenham
admired the neat and apparently undesigned nature of her questions--and
then set to work, after drawing the curtains a shade closer, and turning
the light a trifle lower.
Mr. Tappenham sat comfortably in an armchair, his hands crossed over his
white waistcoat, and a smile of satisfaction on his face. Presently the
shadowy shape began to form itself a yard or two from Mr. Tappenham.
"Capital, capital!" he chuckled. "That'll fetch 'em." The shape grew
more definite.
"Will that do?" asked Mlle. Claire triumphantly. "Is it like?"
"Now, by Jove, it is rather! Make it speak."
Mlle. Claire laughed, and, projecting her voice to the shape, began in
low, sweet, sad tones. "You summoned me. What do you desire of your dead
friend?"
She stopped, laughing again, and said, "It's no use, when you're up to
it beforehand."
Mr. Tappenham did not answer her. He sat looking at the shape, and
seemed to be listening intently.
"Shall I go on?" she inquired.
Mr. Tappenham took no notice.
"What's the matter with him?" thought Mlle. Claire. "I shan't go on if
he's not listening."
Assuming her pretended voice again, she said, "I will try to forgive.
Farewell, farewell!" and, with a merry, boisterous laugh, she displaced
the arrangement which produced the illusion, and said to Mr. Tappenham:
"Now are you satisfied?" Then she added, in a tone of surprise,
"Whatever is the matter?" For, as she looked, the expression of his face
changed from attention to surprise, from surprise to uneasiness. He
turned to her and said, with a forced smile, "It's too clever--a sight
too clever. That'll do; stop it, please."
"Stop it?"
"Yes. I've had enough. It's--it's damned absurd, but it's getting on my
nerves. Stop it, I say--stop it!" His voice rose at the end almost into
a cry.
"Why, I have stopped it this three minutes!" she answered in surprise.
His eyes had wandered from her to where the shape had been; but at
her last words he turned to her again with a start. "What? No, no! No
nonsense! Come, now, be a good girl and stop it. I've had enough."
"Are you drunk?" asked Mlle. Claire impatiently. "It's all over."
"I won't be made a fool of," said he angrily. "Stop it, or not a
farthing do you get from me."
"Heaven bless the man, he's mad!" exclaimed the lady, who began to be a
little uncomfortable herself. It is an eerie thing to see a man looking
hard at--nothing, and listening intently to--nothing.
Suddenly he jumped up and ran toward Mlle. Claire. He seized her by the
arm, and cried, "Stop, you little devil, stop! Do you want to madden
me? I never did it, I never did. At least, I never meant it--so help me,
God, I never meant it."
"Mr. Tappenham, you're dreaming. There's nothing there. I'm saying
nothing."
"She's coming! she's coming!" he cried. "Take her away! take her away!"
Mlle. Claire looked at his face. Then she too gave a shriek of fright,
and, hiding her face in her hands, sank on the floor, sobbing. She saw
nothing. But what was that face looking at?
As for Mr. Tappenham, he fled into the corner of the room. And when
Mlle. Claire recovered herself enough to draw back the curtains, and let
in the blessed sun, he lay on the floor like a man dead.
Mlle. Claire was a good girl. She had a mother and two little brothers
to keep: so she stuck to the business; but she never liked it very much
after that day. Mr. Tappenham could afford to retire, and he did retire.
He lives very quietly, and gives large sums in charity. Mlle. Claire
knows all the tricks that ever were invented; she is a thorough-going
little skeptic, and believes in nothing that she does not see, and in
very little of what she does. Therefore she merely exemplifies feminine
illogicality when she thinks to herself, as she cannot help thinking now
and then:
"I wonder what he did to Nellie Davies!"
She told me about it, and I believed her when she said that she was
not playing a trick on Mr. Tappenham. But perhaps she was deceiving me
also; if so, that is an explanation.
I repeated the story to a scientific man. He said that it furnished an
interesting instance of the permanence of an optical impression after
the removal of the external excitant. That is another explanation.
Or it may have been the working of conscience: that is an explanation
in a way, though an improbable one, because, in spite of many
opportunities, Mr. Tappenham's conscience had never given him any
inconvenience before. It has since.
THE END.
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Transcriber's Note
Text in italics was surrounded by _underscores_, text in small capitals
was changed to all capitals.
Errors in punctuation have been silently corrected. Also the following
corrections have been made, on page
11 "hesitatation" changed to "hesitation" (very little hesitation in
assuming that)
14 "my my" changed to "my" (that my opponent was not to be)
21 "reremark" changed to "remark" (This was my first truthful remark)
41 "cigaette" changed to "cigarette" (lighting a cigarette)
68 "Ferdinard" changed to "Ferdinand" (that Prince and Princess
Ferdinand had)
83 "prommise" changed to "promise" (You have fulfilled your promise)
94 "Highnes" changed to "Highness" (Royal Highness is most)
171 "beatuy" changed to "beauty" (the acme of physical beauty)
212 "semeed" changed to "seemed" (he seemed to urge her).
Otherwise the original was preserved.