I got an answer from Leicester, where the Colonel resided, within two
days. I have it before me as I write, and copy it verbatim.
“DEAR BOB,” it said, “I remember the man well. I was with him at
Calcutta, and afterwards at Hyderabad. He was a curious, solitary sort
of mortal; but a gallant soldier enough, for he distinguished himself at
Sobraon, and was wounded, if I remember right. He was not popular in
his corps--they said he was a pitiless, cold-blooded fellow, with
no geniality in him. There was a rumour, too, that he was a
devil-worshipper, or something of that sort, and also that he had
the evil eye, which, of course, was all nonsense. He had some strange
theories, I remember, about the power of the human will and the effects
of mind upon matter.
“How are you getting on with your medical studies? Never forget, my boy,
that your father’s son has every claim upon me, and that if I can serve
you in any way I am always at your command.--Ever affectionately yours,
“EDWARD JOYCE.
“P.S.--By the way, Northcott did not fall in action. He was killed after
peace was declared in a crazy attempt to get some of the eternal fire
from the sun-worshippers’ temple. There was considerable mystery about
his death.”
I read this epistle over several times--at first with a feeling of
satisfaction, and then with one of disappointment. I had come on some
curious information, and yet hardly what I wanted. He was an eccentric
man, a devil-worshipper, and rumoured to have the power of the evil eye.
I could believe the young lady’s eyes, when endowed with that cold, grey
shimmer which I had noticed in them once or twice, to be capable of any
evil which human eye ever wrought; but still the superstition was
an effete one. Was there not more meaning in that sentence which
followed--“He had theories of the power of the human will and of the
effect of mind upon matter”? I remember having once read a quaint
treatise, which I had imagined to be mere charlatanism at the time, of
the power of certain human minds, and of effects produced by them at a
distance.
Was Miss Northcott endowed with some exceptional power of the sort?
The idea grew upon me, and very shortly I had evidence which convinced
me of the truth of the supposition.
It happened that at the very time when my mind was dwelling upon this
subject, I saw a notice in the paper that our town was to be visited by
Dr. Messinger, the well-known medium and mesmerist. Messinger was a man
whose performance, such as it was, had been again and again pronounced
to be genuine by competent judges. He was far above trickery, and had
the reputation of being the soundest living authority upon the strange
pseudo-sciences of animal magnetism and electro-biology. Determined,
therefore, to see what the human will could do, even against all the
disadvantages of glaring footlights and a public platform, I took a
ticket for the first night of the performance, and went with several
student friends.
We had secured one of the side boxes, and did not arrive until after the
performance had begun. I had hardly taken my seat before I recognised
Barrington Cowles, with his fiancee and old Mrs. Merton, sitting in the
third or fourth row of the stalls. They caught sight of me at almost
the same moment, and we bowed to each other. The first portion of the
lecture was somewhat commonplace, the lecturer giving tricks of pure
legerdemain, with one or two manifestations of mesmerism, performed
upon a subject whom he had brought with him. He gave us an exhibition of
clairvoyance too, throwing his subject into a trance, and then demanding
particulars as to the movements of absent friends, and the whereabouts
of hidden objects all of which appeared to be answered satisfactorily.
I had seen all this before, however. What I wanted to see now was the
effect of the lecturer’s will when exerted upon some independent member
of the audience.
He came round to that as the concluding exhibition in his performance.
“I have shown you,” he said, “that a mesmerised subject is entirely
dominated by the will of the mesmeriser. He loses all power of
volition, and his very thoughts are such as are suggested to him by
the master-mind. The same end may be attained without any preliminary
process. A strong will can, simply by virtue of its strength, take
possession of a weaker one, even at a distance, and can regulate the
impulses and the actions of the owner of it. If there was one man in
the world who had a very much more highly-developed will than any of the
rest of the human family, there is no reason why he should not be
able to rule over them all, and to reduce his fellow-creatures to the
condition of automatons. Happily there is such a dead level of mental
power, or rather of mental weakness, among us that such a catastrophe
is not likely to occur; but still within our small compass there are
variations which produce surprising effects. I shall now single out one
of the audience, and endeavour ‘by the mere power of will’ to compel him
to come upon the platform, and do and say what I wish. Let me assure you
that there is no collusion, and that the subject whom I may select is
at perfect liberty to resent to the uttermost any impulse which I may
communicate to him.”
With these words the lecturer came to the front of the platform, and
glanced over the first few rows of the stalls. No doubt Cowles’ dark
skin and bright eyes marked him out as a man of a highly nervous
temperament, for the mesmerist picked him out in a moment, and fixed his
eyes upon him. I saw my friend give a start of surprise, and then settle
down in his chair, as if to express his determination not to yield
to the influence of the operator. Messinger was not a man whose head
denoted any great brain-power, but his gaze was singularly intense and
penetrating. Under the influence of it Cowles made one or two spasmodic
motions of his hands, as if to grasp the sides of his seat, and then
half rose, but only to sink down again, though with an evident effort. I
was watching the scene with intense interest, when I happened to catch
a glimpse of Miss Northcott’s face. She was sitting with her eyes fixed
intently upon the mesmerist, and with such an expression of concentrated
power upon her features as I have never seen on any other human
countenance. Her jaw was firmly set, her lips compressed, and her face
as hard as if it were a beautiful sculpture cut out of the whitest
marble. Her eyebrows were drawn down, however, and from beneath them her
grey eyes seemed to sparkle and gleam with a cold light.
I looked at Cowles again, expecting every moment to see him rise and
obey the mesmerist’s wishes, when there came from the platform a short,
gasping cry as of a man utterly worn out and prostrated by a prolonged
struggle. Messinger was leaning against the table, his hand to his
forehead, and the perspiration pouring down his face. “I won’t go on,”
he cried, addressing the audience. “There is a stronger will than
mine acting against me. You must excuse me for to-night.” The man
was evidently ill, and utterly unable to proceed, so the curtain
was lowered, and the audience dispersed, with many comments upon the
lecturer’s sudden indisposition.
I waited outside the hall until my friend and the ladies came out.
Cowles was laughing over his recent experience.
“He didn’t succeed with me, Bob,” he cried triumphantly, as he shook my
hand. “I think he caught a Tartar that time.”
“Yes,” said Miss Northcott, “I think that Jack ought to be very proud of
his strength of mind; don’t you! Mr. Armitage?”
“It took me all my time, though,” my friend said seriously. “You can’t
conceive what a strange feeling I had once or twice. All the strength
seemed to have gone out of me--especially just before he collapsed
himself.”
I walked round with Cowles in order to see the ladies home. He walked in
front with Mrs. Merton, and I found myself behind with the young lady.
For a minute or so I walked beside her without making any remark, and
then I suddenly blurted out, in a manner which must have seemed somewhat
brusque to her--
“You did that, Miss Northcott.”
“Did what?” she asked sharply.
“Why, mesmerised the mesmeriser--I suppose that is the best way of
describing the transaction.”
“What a strange idea!” she said, laughing. “You give me credit for a
strong will then?”
“Yes,” I said. “For a dangerously strong one.”
“Why dangerous?” she asked, in a tone of surprise.
“I think,” I answered, “that any will which can exercise such power
is dangerous--for there is always a chance of its being turned to bad
uses.”
“You would make me out a very dreadful individual, Mr. Armitage,” she
said; and then looking up suddenly in my face--“You have never liked me.
You are suspicious of me and distrust me, though I have never given you
cause.”
The accusation was so sudden and so true that I was unable to find any
reply to it. She paused for a moment, and then said in a voice which was
hard and cold--
“Don’t let your prejudice lead you to interfere with me, however, or say
anything to your friend, Mr. Cowles, which might lead to a difference
between us. You would find that to be very bad policy.”
There was something in the way she spoke which gave an indescribable air
of a threat to these few words.
“I have no power,” I said, “to interfere with your plans for the future.
I cannot help, however, from what I have seen and heard, having fears
for my friend.”
“Fears!” she repeated scornfully. “Pray what have you seen and heard.
Something from Mr. Reeves, perhaps--I believe he is another of your
friends?”
“He never mentioned your name to me,” I answered, truthfully enough.
“You will be sorry to hear that he is dying.” As I said it we passed
by a lighted window, and I glanced down to see what effect my words had
upon her. She was laughing--there was no doubt of it; she was laughing
quietly to herself. I could see merriment in every feature of her face.
I feared and mistrusted the woman from that moment more than ever.
We said little more that night. When we parted she gave me a quick,
warning glance, as if to remind me of what she had said about the danger
of interference. Her cautions would have made little difference to me
could I have seen my way to benefiting Barrington Cowles by anything
which I might say. But what could I say? I might say that her former
suitors had been unfortunate. I might say that I believed her to be
a cruel-hearted woman. I might say that I considered her to possess
wonderful, and almost preternatural powers. What impression would any
of these accusations make upon an ardent lover--a man with my friend’s
enthusiastic temperament? I felt that it would be useless to advance
them, so I was silent.
And now I come to the beginning of the end. Hitherto much has been
surmise and inference and hearsay. It is my painful task to relate now,
as dispassionately and as accurately as I can, what actually occurred
under my own notice, and to reduce to writing the events which preceded
the death of my friend.
Towards the end of the winter Cowles remarked to me that he intended
to marry Miss Northcott as soon as possible--probably some time in the
spring. He was, as I have already remarked, fairly well off, and the
young lady had some money of her own, so that there was no pecuniary
reason for a long engagement. “We are going to take a little house out
at Corstorphine,” he said, “and we hope to see your face at our table,
Bob, as often as you can possibly come.” I thanked him, and tried to
shake off my apprehensions, and persuade myself that all would yet be
well.
It was about three weeks before the time fixed for the marriage, that
Cowles remarked to me one evening that he feared he would be late that
night. “I have had a note from Kate,” he said, “asking me to call about
eleven o’clock to-night, which seems rather a late hour, but perhaps she
wants to talk over something quietly after old Mrs. Merton retires.”
It was not until after my friend’s departure that I suddenly recollected
the mysterious interview which I had been told of as preceding the
suicide of young Prescott. Then I thought of the ravings of poor Reeves,
rendered more tragic by the fact that I had heard that very day of
his death. What was the meaning of it all? Had this woman some baleful
secret to disclose which must be known before her marriage? Was it some
reason which forbade her to marry? Or was it some reason which forbade
others to marry her? I felt so uneasy that I would have followed Cowles,
even at the risk of offending him, and endeavoured to dissuade him from
keeping his appointment, but a glance at the clock showed me that I was
too late.
I was determined to wait up for his return, so I piled some coals upon
the fire and took down a novel from the shelf. My thoughts proved more
interesting than the book, however, and I threw it on one side. An
indefinable feeling of anxiety and depression weighed upon me. Twelve
o’clock came, and then half-past, without any sign of my friend. It
was nearly one when I heard a step in the street outside, and then a
knocking at the door. I was surprised, as I knew that my friend always
carried a key--however, I hurried down and undid the latch. As the
door flew open I knew in a moment that my worst apprehensions had been
fulfilled. Barrington Cowles was leaning against the railings outside
with his face sunk upon his breast, and his whole attitude expressive
of the most intense despondency. As he passed in he gave a stagger, and
would have fallen had I not thrown my left arm around him. Supporting
him with this, and holding the lamp in my other hand, I led him slowly
upstairs into our sitting-room. He sank down upon the sofa without a
word. Now that I could get a good view of him, I was horrified to see
the change which had come over him. His face was deadly pale, and his
very lips were bloodless. His cheeks and forehead were clammy, his eyes
glazed, and his whole expression altered. He looked like a man who had
gone through some terrible ordeal, and was thoroughly unnerved.
“My dear fellow, what is the matter?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“Nothing amiss, I trust? Are you unwell?”
“Brandy!” he gasped. “Give me some brandy!”
I took out the decanter, and was about to help him, when he snatched it
from me with a trembling hand, and poured out nearly half a tumbler of
the spirit. He was usually a most abstemious man, but he took this off
at a gulp without adding any water to it.
It seemed to do him good, for the colour began to come back to his face,
and he leaned upon his elbow.
“My engagement is off, Bob,” he said, trying to speak calmly, but with a
tremor in his voice which he could not conceal. “It is all over.”
“Cheer up!” I answered, trying to encourage him.
“Don’t get down on your luck. How was it? What was it all about?”
“About?” he groaned, covering his face with his hands. “If I did
tell you, Bob, you would not believe it. It is too dreadful--too
horrible--unutterably awful and incredible! O Kate, Kate!” and he rocked
himself to and fro in his grief; “I pictured you an angel and I find you
a----”
“A what?” I asked, for he had paused.
He looked at me with a vacant stare, and then suddenly burst out, waving
his arms: “A fiend!” he cried. “A ghoul from the pit! A vampire soul
behind a lovely face! Now, God forgive me!” he went on in a lower tone,
turning his face to the wall; “I have said more than I should. I have
loved her too much to speak of her as she is. I love her too much now.”
He lay still for some time, and I had hoped that the brandy had had the
effect of sending him to sleep, when he suddenly turned his face towards
me.
“Did you ever read of wehr-wolves?” he asked.