The evening after her interview with the doctor, Vanna Strangeways
accompanied her friend to a ball, and had her first experience of
society under the altered mental conditions of her life. Her first
impulse had been to excuse herself and stay at home, but she was an
unusually reasoning creature for her twenty-three years, and a short
mental cross-examination was sufficient to reject the idea, "Can I go to
her and say, `Jean, I am sorry; it is impossible that I can marry any of
the men at the ball, so I would rather not go'? What nonsense, what
folly, what degradation!" She put on her prettiest frock, spent an
extra ten minutes over her hair; and even beside the radiant beauty of
Jean in her pale pink tarlatan, attracted notice as one of the most
interesting and distinguished of the dancers.
The floor was good, the music inspiriting, her programme was filled from
beginning to end. She tried bravely to enjoy the evening in her old,
unthinking fashion, and was furious with herself because she failed.
There was no use denying the fact: something had disappeared which had
been there before, the absence of which strangely transformed the
scene--an interest, a zest, a sense of mystery and uncertainty. They
had lain so far in the background that she had not realised their
presence, but they had been present all the same. Each strange man to
whom she had been introduced held within his black-coated form a
dazzling possibility; her young eyes searched his face even as his
searched hers--alert, critical, inquiring; for the moment each
represented to the other the mystery, the fascination of sex. After the
dance, as they sat talking lightly in some cool shade the inner voice in
each brain was holding a council of its own: "Who, and what are you,
inside that smiling form; what sort of a man, what sort of a woman? Do
you, can you, by any possible chance, belong to _me_?"
The modern young man and maiden may indignantly deny that such a
feeling, conscious or unconscious, has any bearing on their social joys.
Vanna belonged to an age far more frankly sentimental than to-day, but
she also protested, and felt humiliated when convicted against her will.
Yet what shame can there be in the acknowledgment of a natural magnetic
force? Empty a ballroom of all except relations within the prescribed
calendar, set a man to dance with his sisters and aunts, a girl with her
brothers and uncles--would any one of the number dare to maintain that
enjoyment continued in the same ratio?
Vanna was fond of dancing, but not to the same extent as Jean, who often
declared that she would waltz with a clothes-prop sooner than not waltz
at all. With Vanna the enjoyment of movement was always subservient to
the mental pleasure of meeting and talking to new partners. She
preferred a good conversationalist to a good waltzer, but this evening
the ordinary topics of the ballroom seemed painfully lacking in savour;
she could feel in them no interest, no merriment, no curiosity; her
partner's words seemed to float past, a dull, wearisome echo that had no
meaning in her ears. She was as one who had returned home after long
wandering in a foreign land, to find herself helplessly out of her
element. She looked at the gay stream of dancers as across a gulf. Two
days ago she had been one of themselves, as carelessly happy, as
confidently gay; now, after the passage of a few short hours, she stood
apart, conscious through all her nature that she had outgrown a stage;
had passed on, and left her friends behind.
Vanna's partners were at a loss to understand her dullness and lack of
response, for she had the reputation of wit and charm. Failing in their
efforts to excite her interest, they shortened the time of waiting
between the dances, by leading her back to the ballroom, and hastening
off in search of a livelier companion. She saw through their devices,
and smiled to herself with dreary amusement. "This is no place for you,
my dear. You must give up these frivolities. You have to fill a gap
and discover a solace. You'll never find it in a ballroom."
At twelve o'clock supper was in full swing in the big dining-room of the
house. In the seventies, hosts had not acquired the present-day
convenient, if less hospitable habit of entertaining their friends in a
hotel. They contentedly suffered days of discomfort, and turned out
every room in the house to gain the desired effect. In the present case
the floors of the two great drawing-rooms, which ran the entire length
of the house, were covered with a white waxed cloth, while the walls,
with their treasures of water-colours, miniatures in cases, and old
brass sconces, made a picturesque background to the scene. Leading out
of the second drawing-room was a spacious conservatory, in which seats
were placed, on which the guests could rest in comparative coolness and
quiet between the dances, while the conservatory itself gave access to a
balcony hung with coloured lanterns.
Vanna sat beside the door of the first dancing-room, and saw with a sigh
of relief that the hands of a clock near at hand pointed to half-past
twelve o'clock. Only half an hour more and the evening would be over,
for Jean, with her usual tact, had suggested an early return, and at one
o'clock the two friends had agreed to meet and make their adieux
together.
Thank Heaven for that! But the half-hour that remained promised to be
unusually long, for, mindful of her early departure, Vanna had refused
to fill her programme beyond a certain point, and now supper
arrangements had upset the sequence of dances, substituting for the
printed items a number of extras, for which she had made no engagements.
She had all a normal girl's hatred of the part of wallflower, and was
contemplating a retreat upstairs, when the daughter of the house
suddenly approached and addressed her by name:
"Miss Strangeways, is it possible that you have a dance to spare? I
have a truant here who has just made his appearance, and expects me to
find partners at this hour of the night. He doesn't deserve any mercy,
but if you could take pity upon him, it would be very noble."
Vanna looked past the speaker and beheld a tall, spare man, with a
sunburnt face, out of which a pair of brown eyes smiled at her with the
frankness of a lifelong friend, rather than a complete stranger. It was
impossible not to smile back, and it was with a reviving thrill of
interest that she held out her programme, saying laughingly:
"My partners for the regular dances are busy eating boned turkey, while
I am left lamenting. I am not engaged for the extras."
"Ah! that is fortunate! Let me introduce you, then, in due form. Mr
Gloucester--Miss Strangeways... You are a lucky man, Rob, to find Miss
Strangeways disengaged."
She rustled away, and the tall man seated himself by Vanna's side with a
sigh of content. He did not ask for dances, however, and it was she who
made the first move towards conversation.
"Have you really just arrived, or is that merely a figure of speech?
You have not been dancing at all?"
He shook his head.
"I have not been in the room five minutes. I am an even worse offender
than you suppose, for I am staying in the house. I did not intend to
come down at all. I was going to bed, but there was such a confounded
noise going on that there seemed no chance of sleep--"
For the first time that evening Vanna found herself surprised into a
bright, natural laugh. The man's utter unconsciousness redeemed his
remark from any hint of rudeness; and she felt nothing but pure
refreshment in so unusual a point of view. She leant back in her chair,
looking at him over the top of a waving fan, with a scrutiny as frankly
unembarrassed as his own. The deep tan of his skin spoke of a sojourn
under eastern skies, as did also the lines round the eyes--the result of
constant puckerings to avoid the sun's glare. His hair was brushed in a
straight line across his forehead, the chin itself was slightly square,
but the line of the jaw was finely, even delicately rounded; he was
clean shaven, and his mouth was good to look at, the lips well shaped,
and fitting closely together. His age might have been anything from
thirty to thirty-five, but there was something inherently boyish in
manner and expression.
"You evidently don't care for dancing."
"No! I'm out of practice. I have been abroad for the last ten years,
in out-of-the-way places for the most part, where balls don't come into
the programme. I'm afraid I'm not much of a partner, but if you will be
good enough to try--"
"But I am not anxious to dance any more. I am tired and hot. If you
are contented to talk--"
"You mean it? Really? That _is_ jolly!" he cried eagerly. "Then, what
do you say--shall we go to the balcony? It's quieter there, and we may
get a breath of air. There are some comfortable chairs, I know, for I
helped to arrange them."
Vanna rose, nothing loath. The evening was closing more pleasantly than
she had anticipated, for this Mr Gloucester was a distinct change from
the ordinary habitue of the ballroom, and his conversation promised to
afford some interest. She seated herself in a corner of the balcony and
put a leading question:
"You say you have lived abroad. Where does that mean? India?"
"India mostly; but I have done a lot of wandering about."
"Are you by any chance a soldier?"
"Thank Heaven, no!"
She was both startled and amused by the vehemence of his denial, and
looked at him curiously with her wide, grey eyes.
"Why this fervour? Most men would consider it a compliment to be asked
such a question. Do you despise soldiers so heartily?"
"No, I don't. As the times go, they are a necessary evil, and there are
fine fellows among them--splendid fellows, one ought to be grateful to
them for their self-sacrifice; but for my own part I'm unspeakably
thankful to have escaped. Think of spending all one's life preparing
for, playing at, a need which may never arise--which one _hopes_ may
never arise. I couldn't endure it. Give me active service the whole
time--the more active the better."
"Service in what capacity? As a--"
"Oh, I have no profession. I am just an ordinary business man--buying
and selling, and watching the markets, like the rest."
"Humph!" Vanna pursed her lips with a militant air. "I think a very
good case might be made for the soldier _versus_ the merchant. He
works, or waits, for the good of his country. There is precious little
to be made out of it from a personal point of view. A merchant's aim is
entirely selfish. He is absorbed in piling up his own fortune."
Mr Gloucester laughed.
"Oh, you are too down on the poor merchants, Miss Strangeways. They
have their own share in helping on the country, and it's not every man
who can get a fortune to pile. I can't, for one. The faculty of
gaining money is as inherent as the writing of poetry. Some fellows
like myself can never attain to it." He held out his right hand,
pointing smilingly at the hollow palm. "Look at that. Palmists would
tell you that with that hand I shall never `hold money.' The day may
come when I should be thankful to exchange my fortune for the soldier's
shilling a day."
Vanna did not reply. She was looking at that hollowed palm with
puckered, thoughtful glance. "Palmist!" she repeated slowly,
"fortune-telling! It's not often one hears a man quoting such an
authority; but you have lived in the East. I suppose that unconsciously
alters the point of view. India is the land of--what should one call
it?--superstition, mysticism, the occult. It is a subject which
fascinates me intensely. I know very little about it; I'm not at all
sure that it is good to know more; but--it beckons. Tell me, have you
seen anything, had any extraordinary experiences? Are the stories true,
for instance, that one hears of these native jugglers?"
"Snake-charming, you mean, the boy in the basket, the mango trick? Oh,
yes. I've seen them often, on the deck of a ship, as well as on the
open plain. People say it is hypnotism, that the fellow doesn't really
do it, only makes you _think_ he does; but that's rubbish. It's
sleight-of-hand, uncommonly clever, of course, but pure and simple
conjuring. The mango is chosen because he can get dried-up specimens,
several specimens, of different sizes, to which he attaches false roots,
and it is a plant which will quickly expand beneath the water with which
he deluges the ground. All that sort of tricks can be explained, but
there are other things more mysterious: the transmission of news from
station to station, so that it is known in the bazaars before the post
can bring the letters, the power of reading others' minds, of seeing
into the future."
"But you don't believe, you can't seriously believe that that is
possible?"
Robert Gloucester bent forward, his elbows crossed on his knees, his
brown, extraordinarily clear eyes fixed on her face.
"Why not? How shall one dare to put a limit to what is possible even in
material things? Look at this new electricity, for instance. One
cannot imagine all that it may mean in improved facilities for the
world. Its power seems immense--illimitable. If we live to grow old,
Miss Strangeways, we shall see things as everyday occurrences which
would seem fairy-tale impossibilities to-day. The most conservative man
would hardly deny that; then why should he be presumptuous enough to
suppose that in the spiritual plane we have reached the limits of our
powers? It is unthinkable. There are forces--binding forces, electric
forces--hidden away in the most commonplace human soul, only awaiting
development, powers which may revolutionise our lives, even as this new
electricity will revolutionise the world."
Vanna stared out into the night with rapt, unseeing eyes. Life, which a
few minutes ago had seemed so dreary in the flat barrenness of outlook,
became suddenly illumined with interest. She felt the stirrings within
of new life, new powers, and reached out eagerly to meet them.
"You have had experiences yourself--_personal_ experiences--which prove
to you the existence of such powers. Can you tell me about them? I
don't ask out of curiosity alone; but if it is too sacred, too private,
I shall quite understand."
He smiled at her with an utter absence of embarrassment.
"Oh, there is nothing private. My convictions are not founded on any
definite occurrence; but as it happens, I _have_ had one experience
which defies explanation. Not in India, but by all that is _mal a
propos_ and out of place, in the most modern and material of cities--New
York. I'll tell it to you with pleasure. It's an uncommonly good tale,
and it has the merit of being first-hand, and capable of proof. It came
about like this. A man asked me to dine in a private room at a hotel
with two or three other men, bachelors--mutual friends. While we were
sitting over dessert, he said, `I've got a little excitement for you
fellows this evening. I've engaged a conjurer--thought-reading sort of
fellow, to come in and give you an exhibition. He's quite the most
uncanny thing in that line that I've ever met. I never believed in
second-sight before, but it makes one think. He'll give you a new
sensation; I can promise you that.'
"Well, he came about half an hour after that. An ordinary-looking
fellow--a white man; nothing in the least unusual about him except his
eyes--light, colourless-looking eyes, extraordinarily wide and clear--
eyes that gave one an uncanny sort of thrill when they were fixed upon
you. You felt that those eyes could see a lot more than would ever fall
to your own vision. Well, he told us to sit against the wall at the far
end of the room, and each to write something as personal as possible on
slips of paper, which were afterwards to be shuffled and handed round.
While we were writing he would leave the room. When we had finished, we
were to ring a bell and he would return. We ranged our chairs as he
said. There were no windows on that side, only the bare papered wall.
I couldn't think what to write. It puzzles one when one is suddenly
told to do a thing like that. Eventually I put my mother's maiden name,
`Mary Winifred Fielding,' and the date of her marriage, 1822. The
fellow next me showed me his slip, `I don't believe in any of this
trickery.' We chuckled together while I read it. We folded up the
papers, put them in a bowl, and drew out the first that came. Then we
rang the bell, and the fellow came back. He first shut the door and
leant back against it. There were a good eight or ten yards between him
and the end of the room where we sat. He looked across at me, and we
all laughed together.
"`The words written on the paper in your hand are: "Burmah! To the
memory of a good old time!" You did not write it yourself--you have
never been in Burmah; it was the gentleman to your left who wrote it--
the gentleman with the grey hair. Am I not right, sir?'
"`You are,' said my friend, gasping. We did not laugh any more. He
pointed to another fellow, and read out what I had written.
"`That was written by the gentleman with the brown eyes. It is his
mother's name,' he said; and I felt cold all down my spine. The man who
had showed me his paper had drawn his own slip when they were shuffled
together in the bowl. The conjurer knew that too. He pointed at him
and said: `You have written your own opinion of me in the paper you
hold. "_I don't believe in any of this trickery_."' He paused for a
moment, and then said quietly: `You are prejudiced, sir; but you will
learn wisdom. A year from to-day you will understand my secrets.' He
drew himself up, and his eyes flashed; he turned to us, each in turn,
and said a few, short, prophetic words. There was a poor barrister
among us, a clever fellow, but he had no luck; he was in a very tight
place at that time. He said to him: `on the 2nd of February, 1862, you
will put your foot on the first step of the ladder which leads to
fortune.' That was five years later on. The poor fellow smiled and
said: `can't you hurry it on a bit?' The man who was dining us came
next. He didn't like his share. It sounded cryptic enough to the rest
of us, but _he_ understood. You could see that by his face. My own
message--"
He stopped short, laughing softly, but with an utter absence of
embarrassment, and Vanna's eager glance bespoke her curiosity.
"My own message was equally cryptic, but I did _not_ understand. I
don't understand it now. I have not been too fortunate in money
matters, and it refers to that, no doubt. He said: `you will seek
fortune, and find it not. Where the rose blooms beneath the palm, there
awaits your treasure.'"
"`Where the rose blooms beneath the palm!'" Vanna repeated the words in
a breathless whisper. "But how thrilling--how exciting! What could he
mean? Aren't you anxious; aren't you curious? Don't you go about daily
waiting to see what will happen?"
Mr Gloucester laughed with boyish abandon.
"Rather not! It is a good eight years ago, and it has less chance of
being fulfilled at this moment than it has ever had before, for I have
said goodbye to the land of palms. I should never think of it again but
for the fact,"--his face sobered swiftly--"that two out of those five
prophecies did, as a matter of fact, come true. Three out of the six
men who were there that evening I have never seen again. I can't tell
you what happened in their cases, but by the most absolute chance I ran
up against the barrister fellow two years ago. We talked about our last
meeting, and he said:
"`You remember what that fellow said to me? It came true to the very
hour. I had to speak in my first good brief that morning. I made a
hit, carried the case, got a heap of kudos, and have never looked back
from that hour.' The second man was the one who had said he did not
believe in such trickery. He--"
"Yes?"
"He died. Within a year from our meeting."
Vanna shivered, and drew her scarf more closely round her shoulders.
There was silence for several minutes, while the beating of invisible
wings seemed to throb in the air around. Her thoughts strayed away on a
long, rambling excursion, from which a sudden crash of music from the
band awoke her with a shock of remembrance.
"You look quite scared. I hope I haven't depressed you with my
reminiscences. It was an uncanny experience, but you said you were
interested."
"And I am. Immensely. Thank you so much for telling me. I only hope
your fulfilment, when it comes, may be as satisfactory as your barrister
friend's. Are you sorry to leave India and settle at home? Most men
seem to find it difficult to get back into the old ways."
Mr Gloucester shrugged carelessly.
"Oh, I don't mind. It doesn't trouble me. One does one's work; one is
tired; one rests. What does it matter what country one does it in?
They both have their points. I can be happy in either."
A glance at his face proved the truth of his words. His was one of the
unexacting, sweet-tempered natures, which was content to take life as it
was; enjoying each good which came, and troubling nothing for sorrows
ahead.
"If he were in my place he would not be sad! His life has not gone too
smoothly; he has not found success, but he is content. I must learn his
lesson," Vanna told herself mentally.
"Go on talking!" she said dreamily. "Do you mind? Tell me about things
that have happened. I have lived all my life in a little English
hamlet, and it's so good to hear. I could listen for hours."
He gave her a bright, pleased look, and without question or protest went
on talking easily and pleasantly about Indian customs, peculiarities,
and rites. He had lived in the great cities and in the wilds; had
worked and played, hunted elephants and climbed Himalayan peaks; had
come through hair-breadth dangers, had drunk Bass's beer on a steaming
plain, and, as he himself expressed it, "come out smiling every time."
"I'm as strong as a horse," he added. "A fellow has no right to grumble
when he doesn't know the meaning of pain."
"I should not think you ever grumbled," replied Vanna, smiling. The
next moment she started as the chime of a distant clock struck on her
ear. "What time was that? The half-hour, wasn't it--half-past one?
Have we been here nearly an hour? It seems impossible. It is a great
compliment to your powers of conversation, Mr Gloucester, for before we
met I was feeling terribly tired and bored; but I am afraid I must run
away now. I arranged to leave at one o'clock, and I must be already in
disgrace."
"I'm awfully grateful to you for having listened to me so kindly. I
hope we shall meet again, and continue the conversation. I am staying
with these people for a few weeks. They are old family friends. It's
the nearest approach to a home I have left."
"Thank you. I hope we may meet. I am only a guest in town like
yourself, but I am making a longish stay." Vanna led the way through
the conservatory, walking with somewhat rapid footsteps, her eyes
looking forward through the door leading into the ballroom. She had
reached the centre of the floor when she was arrested by the sound of a
laugh, and a light, flute-like voice breaking across the crash and
clatter of the band.
"Well!" cried the voice. "Have you come at last? I am waiting for you.
How long must I wait?"
Vanna wheeled round. Beneath the shade of a great palm tree, whose
leaves swept the glass roof, stood Jean in her rose draperies, a wreath
of roses crowning her dark head.
"I am waiting!" she said once more, and her eyes, passing by Vanna,
rested on Robert Gloucester's face. Vanna looking at him, saw his teeth
clench, and his cheeks pale beneath their tan.