as good as another." She seemed indifferent.
"And he'll make the time pass with his stories," added her husband.
So Captain Mortimer, late officer on a T.B.D., a "cheery lad," afraid
of nothing, cousin of Mrs. Burley, and now filling a good post in the
company's London offices, was engaged as third hand in the expedition.
But Captain Mortimer was young and ardent, and Mrs. Burley was young
and pretty and ill-mated, and John Burley was a neglectful, and
self-satisfied husband.
Fate laid the trap with cunning, and John Burley, blind-eyed, careless
of detail, floundered into it. He also floundered out again, though in a
fashion none could have expected of him.
The night agreed upon eventually was as near to the shortest in the year
as John Burley could contrive--June 18th--when the sun set at 8:18 and
rose about a quarter to four. There would be barely three hours of true
darkness. "You're the expert," he admitted, as she explained that
sitting through the actual darkness only was required, not necessarily
from sunset to sunrise. "We'll do the thing properly. Mortimer's not
very keen, he had a dance or something," he added, noticing the look of
annoyance that flashed swiftly in her eyes; "but he got out of it. He's
coming." The pouting expression of the spoilt woman amused him. "Oh, no,
he didn't need much persuading really," he assured her. "Some girl or
other, of course. He's young, remember." To which no comment was
forthcoming, though the implied comparison made her flush.
They motored from South Audley Street after an early tea, in due course
passing Sevenoaks and entering the Kentish Weald; and, in order that the
necessary advertisement should be given, the chauffeur, warned strictly
to keep their purpose quiet, was to put up at the country inn and fetch
them an hour after sunrise; they would breakfast in London. "He'll tell
everybody," said his practical and cynical master; "the local newspaper
will have it all next day. A few hours' discomfort is worth while if
it ends the nonsense. We'll read and smoke, and Mortimer shall tell
us yarns about the sea." He went with the driver into the house to
superintend the arrangement of the room, the lights, the hampers of
food, and so forth, leaving the pair upon the lawn.
"Four hours isn't much, but it's something," whispered Mortimer, alone
with her for the first time since they started. "It's simply ripping
of you to have got me in. You look divine to-night. You're the most
wonderful woman in the world." His blue eyes shone with the hungry
desire he mistook for love. He looked as if he had blown in from the
sea, for his skin was tanned and his light hair bleached a little by the
sun. He took her hand, drawing her out of the slanting sunlight towards
the rhododendrons.
"I didn't, you silly boy. It was John suggested your coming." She
released her hand with an affected effort. "Besides, you overdid
it--pretending you had a dance."
"You could have objected," he said eagerly, "and didn't. Oh, you're too
lovely, you're delicious!" He kissed her suddenly with passion. There
was a tiny struggle, in which she yielded too easily, he thought.
"Harry, you're an idiot!" she cried breathlessly, when he let her go.
"I really don't know how you dare! And John's your friend. Besides, you
know"--she glanced round quickly--"it isn't safe here." Her eyes shone
happily, her cheeks were flaming. She looked what she was, a pretty,
young, lustful animal, false to ideals, true to selfish passion only.
"Luckily," she added, "he trusts me too fully to think anything."
The young man, worship in his eyes, laughed gaily. "There's no harm in
a kiss," he said. "You're a child to him, he never thinks of you as a
woman. Anyhow, his head's full of ships and kings and sealing-wax," he
comforted her, while respecting her sudden instinct which warned him not
to touch her again, "and he never sees anything. Why, even at ten
yards----"
From twenty yards away a big voice interrupted him, as John Burley
came round a corner of the house and across the lawn towards them. The
chauffeur, he announced, had left the hampers in the room on the first
floor and gone back to the inn. "Let's take a walk round," he added,
joining them, "and see the garden. Five minutes before sunset we'll go
in and feed." He laughed. "We must do the thing faithfully, you know,
mustn't we, Nancy? Dark to dark, remember. Come on, Mortimer"--he
took the young man's arm--"a last look round before we go in and hang
ourselves from adjoining hooks in the matron's room!" He reached out his
free hand towards his wife.
"Oh, hush, John!" she said quickly. "I don't like--especially now the
dusk is coming." She shivered, as though it were a genuine little
shiver, pursing her lips deliciously as she did so; whereupon he drew
her forcibly to him, saying he was sorry, and kissed her exactly where
she had been kissed two minutes before, while young Mortimer looked on.
"We'll take care of you between us," he said. Behind a broad back the
pair exchanged a swift but meaning glance, for there was that in his
tone which enjoined wariness, and perhaps after all he was not so blind
as he appeared. They had their code, these two. "All's well," was
signalled; "but another time be more careful!"
There still remained some minutes' sunlight before the huge red ball of
fire would sink behind the wooded hills, and the trio, talking idly, a
flutter of excitement in two hearts certainly, walked among the roses.
It was a perfect evening, windless, perfumed, warm. Headless shadows
preceded them gigantically across the lawn as they moved, and one side
of the great building lay already dark; bats were flitting, moths darted
to and fro above the azalea and rhododendron clumps. The talk turned
chiefly on the uses of the mansion as a Convalescent Home, its probable
running cost, suitable staff, and so forth.
"Come along," John Burley said presently, breaking off and turning
abruptly, "we must be inside, actually inside, before the sun's gone. We
must fulfil the conditions faithfully," he repeated, as though fond of
the phrase. He was in earnest over everything in life, big or little,
once he set his hand to it.
They entered, this incongruous trio of ghost-hunters, no one of them
really intent upon the business in hand, and went slowly upstairs to the
great room where the hampers lay. Already in the hall it was dark enough
for three electric torches to flash usefully and help their steps as
they moved with caution, lighting one corner after another. The air
inside was chill and damp. "Like an unused museum," said Mortimer. "I
can smell the specimens." They looked about them, sniffing. "That's
humanity," declared his host, employer, friend, "with cement and
whitewash to flavour it"; and all three laughed as Mrs. Burley said she
wished they had picked some roses and brought them in. Her husband was
again in front on the broad staircase, Mortimer just behind him, when
she called out. "I don't like being last," she exclaimed. It's so black
behind me in the hall. I'll come between you two," and the sailor took
her outstretched hand, squeezing it, as he passed her up. "There's a
figure, remember," she said hurriedly, turning to gain her husband's
attention, as when she touched wood at home. "A figure is seen; that's
part of the story. The figure of a man." She gave a tiny shiver of
pleasurable, half-imagined alarm as she took his arm.
"I hope we shall see it," he mentioned prosaically.
"I hope we shan't," she replied with emphasis. "It's only seen
before--something happens." Her husband said nothing, while Mortimer
remarked facetiously that it would be a pity if they had their trouble
for nothing. "Something can hardly happen to all three of us," he said
lightly, as they entered a large room where the paper-hangers had
conveniently left a rough table of bare planks. Mrs. Burley, busy with
her own thoughts, began to unpack the sandwiches and wine. Her husband
strolled over to the window. He seemed restless.
"So this," his deep voice startled her, "is where one of us"--he looked
round him--"is to----"
"John!" She stopped him sharply, with impatience. "Several times already
I've begged you." Her voice rang rather shrill and querulous in the
empty room, a new note in it. She was beginning to feel the atmosphere
of the place, perhaps. On the sunny lawn it had not touched her, but
now, with the fall of night, she was aware of it, as shadow called to
shadow and the kingdom of darkness gathered power. Like a great
whispering gallery, the whole house listened.
"Upon my word, Nancy," he said with contrition, as he came and sat down
beside her, "I quite forgot again. Only I cannot take it seriously. It's
so utterly unthinkable to me that a man----"
"But why evoke the idea at all?" she insisted in a lowered voice, that
snapped despite its faintness. "Men, after all, don't do such things for
nothing."
"We don't know everything in the universe, do we?" Mortimer put in,
trying clumsily to support her. "All I know just now is that I'm
famished and this veal and ham pie is delicious." He was very busy with
his knife and fork. His foot rested lightly on her own beneath the
table; he could not keep his eyes off her face; he was continually
passing new edibles to her.
"No," agreed John Burley, "not everything. You're right there."
She kicked the younger man gently, flashing a warning with her eyes as
well, while her husband, emptying his glass, his head thrown back,
looked straight at them over the rim, apparently seeing nothing. They
smoked their cigarettes round the table, Burley lighting a big cigar.
"Tell us about the figure, Nancy?" he inquired. "At least there's no
harm in that. It's new to me. I hadn't heard about a figure." And
she did so willingly, turning her chair sideways from the dangerous,
reckless feet. Mortimer could now no longer touch her. "I know very
little," she confessed; "only what the paper said. It's a man.... And he
changes."
"How changes?" asked her husband. "Clothes, you mean, or what?"
Mrs. Burley laughed, as though she was glad to laugh. Then she answered:
"According to the story, he shows himself each time to the man----"
"The man who----?"
"Yes, yes, of course. He appears to the man who dies--as himself."
"H'm," grunted her husband, naturally puzzled. He stared at her.
"Each time the chap saw his own double"--Mortimer came this time
usefully to the rescue--"before he did it."
Considerable explanation followed, involving much psychic jargon from
Mrs. Burley, which fascinated and impressed the sailor, who thought her
as wonderful as she was lovely, showing it in his eyes for all to see.
John Burley's attention wandered. He moved over to the window, leaving
them to finish the discussion between them; he took no part in it, made
no comment even, merely listening idly and watching them with an air of
absent-mindedness through the cloud of cigar smoke round his head. He
moved from window to window, ensconcing himself in turn in each deep
embrasure, examining the fastenings, measuring the thickness of the
stonework with his handkerchief. He seemed restless, bored, obviously
out of place in this ridiculous expedition. On his big massive face lay
a quiet, resigned expression his wife had never seen before. She noticed
it now as, the discussion ended, the pair tidied away the _debris_ of
dinner, lit the spirit lamp for coffee and laid out a supper which would
be very welcome with the dawn. A draught passed through the room, making
the papers flutter on the table. Mortimer turned down the smoking lamps
with care.
"Wind's getting up a bit--from the south," observed Burley from his
niche, closing one-half of the casement window as he said it. To do
this, he turned his back a moment, fumbling for several seconds with the
latch, while Mortimer, noting it, seized his sudden opportunity with the
foolish abandon of his age and temperament. Neither he nor his victim
perceived that, against the outside darkness, the interior of the room
was plainly reflected in the window-pane. One reckless, the other
terrified, they snatched the fearful joy, which might, after all, have
been lengthened by another full half-minute, for the head they feared,
followed by the shoulders, pushed through the side of the casement still
open, and remained outside, taking in the night.
"A grand air," said his deep voice, as the head drew in again, "I'd like
to be at sea a night like this." He left the casement open and came
across the room towards them. "Now," he said cheerfully, arranging a
seat for himself, "let's get comfortable for the night. Mortimer, we
expect stories from you without ceasing, until dawn or the ghost
arrives. Horrible stories of chains and headless men, remember. Make it
a night we shan't forget in a hurry." He produced his gust of laughter.
They arranged their chairs, with other chairs to put their feet on, and
Mortimer contrived a footstool by means of a hamper for the smallest
feet; the air grew thick with tobacco smoke; eyes flashed and answered,
watched perhaps as well; ears listened and perhaps grew wise;
occasionally, as a window shook, they started and looked round; there
were sounds about the house from time to time, when the entering wind,
using broken or open windows, set loose objects rattling.
But Mrs. Burley vetoed horrible stories with decision. A big, empty
mansion, lonely in the country, and even with the comfort of John Burley
and a lover in it, has its atmosphere. Furnished rooms are far less
ghostly. This atmosphere now came creeping everywhere, through spacious
halls and sighing corridors, silent, invisible, but all-pervading, John
Burley alone impervious to it, unaware of its soft attack upon the
nerves. It entered possibly with the summer night wind, but possibly it
was always there.... And Mrs. Burley looked often at her husband,
sitting near her at an angle; the light fell on his fine strong face;
she felt that, though apparently so calm and quiet, he was really very
restless; something about him was a little different; she could not
define it; his mouth seemed set as with an effort; he looked, she
thought curiously to herself, patient and very dignified; he was rather
a dear after all. Why did she think the face inscrutable? Her thoughts
wandered vaguely, unease, discomfort among them somewhere, while the
heated blood--she had taken her share of wine--seethed in her.
Burley turned to the sailor for more stories. "Sea and wind in them,"
he asked. "No horrors, remember!" and Mortimer told a tale about the
shortage of rooms at a Welsh seaside place where spare rooms fetched
fabulous prices, and one man alone refused to let--a retired captain
of a South Seas trader, very poor, a bit crazy apparently. He had two
furnished rooms in his house worth twenty guineas a week. The rooms
faced south; he kept them full of flowers; but he would not let. An
explanation of his unworldly obstinacy was not forthcoming until
Mortimer--they fished together--gained his confidence. "The South Wind
lives in them," the old fellow told him. "I keep them free for her."
"For _her_?"
"It was on the South Wind my love came to me," said the
other softly; "and it was on the South Wind that she left----"
It was an odd tale to tell in such company, but he told it well.
"Beautiful," thought Mrs. Burley. Aloud she said a quiet, "Thank you. By
'left,' I suppose he meant she died or ran away?"
John Burley looked up with a certain surprise. "We ask for a story," he
said, "and you give us a poem." He laughed. "You're in love, Mortimer,"
he informed him, "and with my wife probably."
"Of course I am, sir," replied the young man gallantly. "A sailor's
heart, you know," while the face of the woman turned pink, then white.
She knew her husband more intimately than Mortimer did, and there was
something in his tone, his eyes, his words, she did not like. Harry was
an idiot to choose such a tale. An irritated annoyance stirred in her,
close upon dislike. "Anyhow, it's better than horrors," she said
hurriedly.
"Well," put in her husband, letting forth a minor gust of laughter,
"it's possible, at any rate. Though one's as crazy as the other." His
meaning was not wholly clear. "If a man really loved," he added in his
blunt fashion, "and was tricked by her, I could almost conceive his----"
"Oh, don't preach, John, for Heaven's sake. You're so dull in the
pulpit." But the interruption only served to emphasize the sentence
which, otherwise, might have been passed over.
"Could conceive his finding life so worthless," persisted the other,
"that----" He hesitated. "But there, now, I promised I wouldn't," he
went on, laughing good-humouredly. Then, suddenly, as though in spite of
himself, driven it seemed: "Still, under such conditions, he might show
his contempt for human nature and for life by----"
It was a tiny stifled scream that stopped him this time.
"John, I hate, I loathe you, when you talk like that. And you've broken
your word again." She was more than petulant; a nervous anger sounded in
her voice. It was the way he had said it, looking from them towards the
window, that made her quiver. She felt him suddenly as a man; she felt
afraid of him.
Her husband made no reply; he rose and looked at his watch, leaning
sideways towards the lamp, so that the expression of his face was
shaded. "Two o'clock," he remarked. "I think I'll take a turn through
the house. I may find a workman asleep or something. Anyhow, the light
will soon come now." He laughed; the expression of his face, his tone of
voice, relieved her momentarily. He went out. They heard his heavy tread
echoing down the carpetless long corridor.
Mortimer began at once. "Did he mean anything?" he asked breathlessly.
"He doesn't love you the least little bit, anyhow. He never did. I do.
You're wasted on him. You belong to me." The words poured out. He
covered her face with kisses. "Oh, I didn't mean _that_," he caught
between the kisses.
The sailor released her, staring. "What then?" he whispered. "Do you
think he saw us on the lawn?" He paused a moment, as she made no reply.
The steps were audible in the distance still. "I know!" he exclaimed
suddenly. "It's the blessed house he feels. That's what it is. He
doesn't like it."
A wind sighed through the room, making the papers flutter; something
rattled; and Mrs. Burley started. A loose end of rope swinging from the
paperhanger's ladder caught her eye. She shivered slightly.
"He's different," she replied in a low voice, nestling very close again,
"and so restless. Didn't you notice what he said just now--that under
certain conditions he could understand a man"--she hesitated--"doing
it," she concluded, a sudden drop in her voice. "Harry," she looked full
into his eyes, "that's not like him. He didn't say that for nothing."
"Nonsense! He's bored to tears, that's all. And the house is getting on
your nerves, too." He kissed her tenderly. Then, as she responded, he
drew her nearer still and held her passionately, mumbling incoherent
words, among which "nothing to be afraid of" was distinguishable.
Meanwhile, the steps were coming nearer. She pushed him away. "You must
behave yourself. I insist. You shall, Harry," then buried herself in his
arms, her face hidden against his neck--only to disentangle herself the
next instant and stand clear of him. "I hate you, Harry," she exclaimed
sharply, a look of angry annoyance flashing across her face. "And I
_hate_ myself. Why do you treat me----?" She broke off as the steps came
closer, patted her hair straight, and stalked over to the open window.
"I believe after all you're only playing with me," he said viciously. He
stared in surprised disappointment, watching her. "It's him you really
love," he added jealously. He looked and spoke like a petulant spoilt
boy.
She did not turn her head. "He's always been fair to me, kind and
generous. He never blames me for anything. Give me a cigarette and don't
play the stage hero. My nerves are on edge, to tell you the truth." Her
voice jarred harshly, and as he lit her cigarette he noticed that her
lips were trembling; his own hand trembled too. He was still holding the
match, standing beside her at the window-sill, when the steps crossed
the threshold and John Burley came into the room. He went straight up to
the table and turned the lamp down. "It was smoking," he remarked.
"Didn't you see?"
"I'm sorry, sir," and Mortimer sprang forward, too late to help him. "It
was the draught as you pushed the door open." The big man said, "Ah!"
and drew a chair over, facing them. "It's just _the_ very house," he
told them. "I've been through every room on this floor. It will make a
splendid Home, with very little alteration, too." He turned round in his
creaking wicker chair and looked up at his wife, who sat swinging her
legs and smoking in the window embrasure. "Lives will be saved inside
these old walls. It's a good investment," he went on, talking rather to
himself it seemed. "People will die here, too----"
"Hark!" Mrs. Burley interrupted him. "That noise--what is it?" A faint
thudding sound in the corridor or in the adjoining room was audible,
making all three look round quickly, listening for a repetition, which
did not come. The papers fluttered on the table, the lamps smoked an
instant.
"Wind," observed Burley calmly, "our little friend, the South Wind.
Something blown over again, that's all." But, curiously, the three of
them stood up. "I'll go and see," he continued. "Doors and windows are
all open to let the paint dry." Yet he did not move; he stood there
watching a white moth that dashed round and round the lamp, flopping
heavily now and again upon the bare deal table.
"Let me go, sir," put in Mortimer eagerly. He was glad of the chance;
for the first time he, too, felt uncomfortable. But there was another
who, apparently, suffered a discomfort greater than his own and was
accordingly even more glad to get away. "I'll go," Mrs. Burley
announced, with decision. "I'd like to. I haven't been out of this room
since we came. I'm not an atom afraid."
It was strange that for a moment she did not make a move either; it
seemed as if she waited for something. For perhaps fifteen seconds no
one stirred or spoke. She knew by the look in her lover's eyes that he
had now become aware of the slight, indefinite change in her husband's
manner, and was alarmed by it. The fear in him woke her contempt; she
suddenly despised the youth, and was conscious of a new, strange
yearning towards her husband; against her worked nameless pressures,
troubling her being. There was an alteration in the room, she thought;
something had come in. The trio stood listening to the gentle wind
outside, waiting for the sound to be repeated; two careless, passionate
young lovers and a man stood waiting, listening, watching in that room;
yet it seemed there were five persons altogether and not three, for two
guilty consciences stood apart and separate from their owners. John
Burley broke the silence.
"Yes, you go, Nancy. Nothing to be afraid of--there. It's only wind." He
spoke as though he meant it.
Mortimer bit his lips. "I'll come with you," he said instantly. He was
confused. "Let's all three go. I don't think we ought to be separated."
But Mrs. Burley was already at the door. "I insist," she said, with a
forced laugh. "I'll call if I'm frightened," while her husband, saying
nothing, watched her from the table.
"Take this," said the sailor, flashing his electric torch as he went
over to her. "Two are better than one." He saw her figure exquisitely
silhouetted against the black corridor beyond; it was clear she wanted
to go; any nervousness in her was mastered by a stronger emotion still;
she was glad to be out of their presence for a bit. He had hoped to
snatch a word of explanation in the corridor, but her manner stopped
him. Something else stopped him, too.
"First door on the left," he called out, his voice echoing down the
empty length. "That's the room where the noise came from. Shout if you
want us."