top of the _salle du sabbat_ there is a kind of breakage in the side,
and a large cluster of stalactites. One guide climbs up to this place
and holds his lamp behind the group, whilst the other calls out ‘_la
femme qui repose_;’ when lo! before us there appears almost an exact
representation of a woman, reclining with crossed legs, and a child
on her bosom. It is so good an imitation, that it might be a figure
carved in stone and placed there, and I think the sight gave us more
pleasure than anything in the grotto. We have come upon several groups
of stalactites already, to which the guides have given names, such as
_l’ange de la résurrection_, _l’oreille de l’éléphant_, and _le lion
Belge_; but though they have, of course, borne some resemblance to the
figures mentioned, the likeness is only admitted for want of a better.
This likeness, however, is excellent, could hardly be more like; and we
are proportionately pleased. With the _salle du sabbat_ and the balloon
the exhibition is ended; and we are thankful to emerge into the fresh air
again, and to leave slippery staircases and the smell of fungi behind us.
We feel very heated when we stand on the breezy hill again, for the
grotto, contrary to our expectation, has proved exceedingly warm, and
the exercise has made us feel more so; and daylight looks so strange that
we can scarcely persuade ourselves we have not been passing the night
down below. We have picked up several little loose bits of stone and
stalactite during our progress, and when we reach home, we spread them
out before us on the table, and try to remember where they came from.
Here is a bit of marble, veined black-and-white; and here is white stone,
glistening and silvery. Here is the stalactite, a veritable piece of
‘frozen tears’ and _couchant houris_.
Well, we have been a little disappointed with the grottoes of Rochefort,
perhaps; we have not found the crystallisations quite so purple-and-amber
as we anticipated, or the foundations quite so clean; but, after all, it
is what we must expect in this life. If the grotto is not so brilliant as
we expected, it is at least a very wonderful and uncommon sight; and so
in this life, if we can but forget the purple-and-gold, we may extract a
great deal of amusement from very small things, if we choose to try. With
which bit of philosophy I conclude.
[Illustration]
A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHTMARE;
Or, The Amateur Detective.
I am an author. I am something worse than that—I am a Press writer. I am
worse than that still—I am a Press writer with a large wife and a small
family. And I am an Amateur Detective! I don’t mean, of course, that I
reckon the last item as part of my profession, but my friends always
come to me if they are in any difficulty, and set me to do all kinds
of queer jobs, from restoring and reconciling a truant husband to his
wife, to making the round of the ‘Homes for Lost Dogs’ in order to find
Lady Softsawder’s pet poodle. Even Jones couldn’t complete his great
work, ‘The Cyclopædia of the Brain,’ without asking my assistance (for a
consideration, of course) with his fifth section, ‘The Origin of Dreams.’
Jones is full of fire and imagination, but he does not care for plodding,
and he knew me of old for a good steady compiler. I agreed with alacrity.
‘The Origin of Dreams’ would fill those hungry little mouths of mine
for three months at the very least. But how to do it whilst they gaped
around me!—how to cover the one table in my solitary sitting-room with
valuable works of reference at the risk of their being touched by greasy
fingers!—how to wade through volume after volume, placing a mental mark
there and a material one here, whilst my offspring either surreptitiously
removed the one or irretrievably obliterated remembrance of the other, by
attracting my attention to the manner in which they attempted to scalp
each other’s heads or gouge out each other’s eyes! I tried it for a week
in vain.
My Press work I had been accustomed to do at office, but this, which
was to be based upon the contents of certain ponderous black-lettered
tomes which Jones had been collecting for ages past, must be carried on
at home, and the noisy, wearisome day gave me no time for reflection,
and left me without energy to labour at night. I was about to resign the
task in despair—to tell Jones to give it to some more capable or more
fortunate labourer in the wide field of speculation—when Fate came to my
rescue in the person of the Hon. Captain Rivers, Lord Seaborne’s son.
‘My dad’s in an awful way about his ward, young Cockleboat,’ he remarked
to me, in his friendly manner, ‘and he wants your assistance, Trueman, if
you’ll give it him.’
‘Why, what’s the matter, Captain Rivers?’
‘Haven’t you heard? Cockleboat’s made a fool of himself. He fell in love
with a nursemaid, or a barmaid, or some such sort of person—he, with his
twenty thousand a-year in prospect; and when the governor remonstrated
with him—told him ’twas nonsense and couldn’t be, and all that sort of
thing, he actually ran away!’
‘Left Lord Seaborne’s house?’
‘Of course, and without a word of explanation. Now, dad doesn’t want to
make the affair public, you know, unless it becomes necessary, so he
hasn’t said a word to the police; but he wants you to find out where
Cockleboat is—you’re so clever at that sort of thing—and just bring him
home again.’
‘An easy task, certainly. And you don’t even know which way the lad has
gone?’
‘Well, we think we’ve traced him to Norwich, and dad thought if you
wouldn’t mind going up there for a bit, and keeping your eyes open; of
course we should make it worth your while, you know, you might hear
something of the young scamp for us.’
‘What on earth can be his motive for leaving home?’
‘Well, perhaps the lady lives up that way, or Julian may have got it
into his head that he’ll work to support her. He is but twenty last
birthday, and will not be of age, by his father’s will, for the next five
years—very lucky for him, as it’s turned out, that he will not be.’
‘True. I think I remember seeing the lad at Lady Godiva’s last season.
Didn’t he act there in some private theatricals or charades?’
‘I believe he did. Now, Trueman, what’s your decision? Will you go to
Norwich for us or not?’
‘I will start to-morrow if your father wishes it.’
The offer had come most opportunely; even as Captain Rivers was speaking
it had flashed through my mind that here was the very opportunity that I
desired to carry out my project of writing the fifth section of Jones’
Cyclopædia;—a remote lodging in one of the back streets of the quiet old
city of Norwich, whence I could carry on my inquiries all day, and where
I might sit up and write out my notes all night. And Lord Seaborne’s
generosity in such cases was too well known to permit of any doubt on
the subject whether I should not (by accepting his proposal) be killing
two birds with one stone. So I did accept it, with gratitude, and
having obtained all the information possible respecting the mysterious
disappearance of Master Julian Cockleboat, I packed up the black-lettered
tomes, and, embracing my smiling wife and children, who appeared rather
pleased than otherwise at the prospect of getting rid of me for a few
weeks, started for Norwich.
I have a great respect for old county towns: there is a dignified
sobriety and sense of unimpeachable respectability about them that
impresses me. I like their old-world institutions and buildings—their
butter crosses and market steps; their dingy bye streets with kerbstones
for pavements; their portentous churches and beadles; their old-fashioned
shops and goods and shopmen. I like the quiet that reigns in their
streets, the paucity of gas they light them up with, the strange
conveyances their citizens ply for hire—in fact, I like everything with
which the world in general finds fault. So it was with a sense of
pleasure I found myself wandering about the streets of Norwich, on the
look-out for some place in which to lay my head. I had rather have been
there than at the seaside, although it was bright July weather, and I
knew the waves were frothing and creaming over the golden sands beneath
a canopy of cloudless blue sky. I preferred the shaded, cloister-like
streets of the county town, with its cool flags under my feet, and its
unbroken sense of calm.
I did not turn into the principal thoroughfares, with their gay shops and
gayer passengers, but down the less-frequented bye-ways, where children
playing in the road stopped open-mouthed to watch me pass, and women’s
heads appeared above the window-blinds, as my footfall sounded on the
narrow pavement, as though a stranger were something to be stared at.
Many windows held the announcement of ‘Rooms to Let,’ but they were too
small—too modern, shall I say—too fresh-looking to take my fancy.
I connected space and gloom with solitude and reflection, and felt as
if I could not have sat down before a muslin-draped window, filled with
scarlet geraniums and yellow canariensis, to ponder upon ‘The Origin
of Dreams,’ to save my life. At last I came upon what I wanted. Down
a narrow street, into which the sun seemed never to have penetrated,
I found some tall, irregular, dingy-looking buildings—most of which
appeared to be occupied as insurance, wine, or law offices,—and in the
lower window of one there hung a card with the inscription, ‘Apartments
for a Single Gentleman.’
It was just the place from which to watch and wait—in which to ponder,
and compare, and compose,—and I ascended its broken steps, convinced that
the birthplace of ‘The Origin of Dreams’ was found. A middle-aged woman,
with an intelligent, pleasing face answered my summons to the door. The
weekly rent she asked for the occupation of the vacant apartments sounded
to me absurdly low, but perhaps that was due to my experience of the
exorbitant demands of London landladies. But when I explained to her the
reason for which I desired her rooms, namely, that I might sit up at
night and write undisturbed, her countenance visibly fell.
‘I’m afraid they won’t suit you, then, sir.’
‘Why not? Have you any objection to my studying by night?’
‘Oh, no, sir. You could do as you pleased about that!’
‘What then? Will your other lodgers disturb me?’
Her face twitched as she answered, ‘I have no other lodgers, sir.’
‘Do you live in this big house, then, by yourself?’
‘My husband and I have been in charge of it for years, and are permitted
to occupy the lower floor in consideration of keeping the upper rooms
(which are only used as offices in the day-time) clean and in order. But
the clerks are all gone by five o’clock, so they wouldn’t interfere with
your night-work.’
‘What will, then?’
‘I’m afraid there are a good many rats about the place, sir. They _will_
breed in these old houses, and keep up a racket at night.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind the rats,’ I answered, cheerfully. ‘I’ll catch as many
as I can for you, and frighten away the others. If that is your only
objection, the rooms are mine. May I see them?’
‘Certainly, sir,’ she said, as she closed the door behind me and led the
way into two lofty and spacious chambers, connected by folding-doors,
which had once formed the dining-saloon of a splendid mansion.
‘The owners of the house permit us to occupy this floor and the basement,
and as it’s more than we require, we let these rooms to lodgers. They’re
not very grandly furnished, sir, but it’s all neat and clean.’
She threw open the shutters of the further apartment as she spoke, and
the July sun streamed into the empty room. As its rays fell upon the
unmade bed, my eye followed them and caught sight of a deep indentation
in the mattress. The landlady saw it also, and looked amazed.
‘Some one has been taking a siesta here without your permission,’ I said,
jestingly; but she did not seem to take my remark as a jest.
‘It must be my good man,’ she answered, hurriedly, as she shook the
mattress; ‘perhaps he came in here to lie down for a bit. This hot
weather makes the best feel weak, sir.’
‘Very true. And now, if you will accept me as a lodger, I will pay you my
first week’s rent, and whilst I go back to the railway-station to fetch
my valise, you must get me ready a chop or a steak, or anything that is
most handy, for my dinner.’
All appeared to be satisfactory. My landlady assented to everything I
suggested, and in another hour I was comfortably ensconced under her
roof, had eaten my steak, and posted a letter to my wife, and felt very
much in charity with all mankind. So I sat at the open window thinking
how beautifully still and sweet all my surroundings were, and how
much good work I should get through without fear of interruption or
distraction. The office clerks had long gone home; the upper rooms were
locked for the night; only an occasional patter along the wide uncarpeted
staircase reminded me that I was not quite alone. Then I remembered the
rats, and ‘The Origin of Dreams;’ and thinking it probable that my honest
old couple retired to bed early, rang the bell to tell my landlady to be
sure and leave me a good supply of candles.
‘You’re not going to sit up and write to-night, sir, are you?’ she
inquired. ‘I am sure your rest would do you more good; you must be real
tired.’
‘Not at all, my good Mrs Bizzey’ (Did I say her name was Bizzey?), ‘I
am as fresh as a daisy, and could not close my eyes. Besides, as your
friends, the rats, seem to make so free in the house, I should burn a
light any way to warn them they had better not come too near me.’
‘Oh, I trust nothing will disturb you sir,’ she said, earnestly, as she
withdrew to fetch the candles.
I unpacked my book-box and piled the big volumes on a side table. How
imposing they looked! But I had no intention of poring over them that
night. ‘The Origin of Dreams’ required thought—deep and speculative
thought; and how could I be better circumstanced to indulge in it than
stationed at that open window, with a pipe in my mouth, looking up at the
dark blue sky bespangled with stars, and listening (if I may be allowed
to speak so paradoxically) to the silence—for there is a silence that can
be heard?
When Mrs Bizzey brought me the candles, she asked me if I required
anything else, as she and Mr Bizzey were about to retire to the marital
couch, which I afterwards ascertained was erected in the scullery.
I answered in the negative, and wished her good-night, hearing her
afterwards distinctly close the door at the head of the kitchen stairs
and descend step by step to the arms of her lord and master. But Mrs
Bizzey’s intrusion had murdered my reverie. I could not take up the
chain of thought where she had severed the links. The night air, too,
seemed to have grown suddenly damp and chilly, and I pulled down the
window sash with a jerk, and taking out my note-book and writing-case
drew a chair up to the table and commenced to think, playing idly with
my pen the while. Soon the divine afflatus (the symptoms of which every
successful writer knows so well) came down upon me. I ceased to think—or
rather to be aware that I was thinking. My pen ran over the paper as
though some other hand guided it than my own, and I wrote rapidly,
filling page after page with a stream of ideas that seemed to pour out of
my brain involuntarily. Time is of no account under such circumstances,
and I may have been scribbling for one hour or for three, for aught I
knew to the contrary, before I was roused to a sense of my position by
hearing a footfall sound through the silent, deserted house.
Now, although I have described my condition to be such as to render
me impervious to outer impressions, I am certain of one thing—that
no noise, however slight, had hitherto broken in upon it. It was the
complete absence of sound that had permitted my spirit to have full
play irrespective of my body; and directly the silence was outraged, my
physical life re-asserted its claims, and my senses became all alive to
ascertain the cause of it. In another moment the sound was repeated,
and I discovered that it was over my head—not under my feet. It could
not, then, proceed from either of the old couple, whom I had heard lock
themselves up together down below. Who could it be?
My first idea, emanating from my landlady’s information that the noise
might proceed from rats, I had already dismissed with contempt. It was
the reverberation of a footstep. There could be no doubt about that; and
my next thought naturally flew to burglars, who were making an attempt on
the safes in the offices above. What could I do? I was utterly unarmed,
and to go in pursuit of midnight robbers in so defenceless a condition
would be simply delivering myself into their power. I certainly might
have shied a couple of Jones’ black-lettered books at their heads, for
they were ponderous enough to knock any man down, but I might not take a
steady aim, and it is better not to attempt at all than to attempt and
fail.
Meanwhile, the sounds overhead had increased in number and become
continuous, as though some one had commenced to walk up and down the
room. Surely no midnight thief would dare to create so much disturbance
as that! Detection of his crime would be inevitable. Or did he trust
to the sound sleep of the porter and his wife in the kitchen below,
not knowing that I, existent and wakeful, intervened between himself
and them? In another minute I believe that I should have cast all
consequences to the winds, and rushed, not _in_, but _up_ to the
rescue, forgetting I was a husband and a father, and armed with Jones’
patent self-acting leveller, alone have ascended to the upper story
to investigate the cause of the midnight disturbance I heard. Only—_I
didn’t!_ For before I had had time to shoulder my weapons and screw my
courage up to the sticking-point, another sound reached my ears that made
the patent levellers drop on the table again with a thump,—the sound,
not of a step, but a groan—a deep, hollow, unmistakable groan, that
chilled the marrow in my bones to such a degree that it would have been a
disgrace to any cook to send them up to table.
I knew then that I must have been mistaken in my first theory, and that
the sounds I overheard, whether they proceeded from mortals or not, had
no connection with the nefarious occupation of housebreakers. But they
had become a thousand times more interesting, and I listened attentively.
The groan was followed by some muttered words that sounded like a curse,
succeeded by louder tones of reproach or anger. Then the footsteps
traversed the floor again, and seemed to be chasing someone or something
round and round the room. At last I heard another groan, followed by a
heavy fall.
I started to my feet. Surely Mr and Mrs Bizzey must have been roused by
such an unusual commotion, and would come upstairs to learn the reason!
But no!—they did not stir. All was silent as the grave below, and above
also. The noises had suddenly ceased. I appeared to be alone in the empty
house. It was all so strange that I put my hands up to my head and asked
myself if I were properly awake. I was hardly satisfied on this point
before the sounds recommenced overhead, and precisely in the same order
as before. Again I listened to the pacing feet—the groan—the curse—the
chase—the fall! Each phase of the ghostly tragedy—for such I now felt
sure it must be—was repeated in rotation, not once, but a couple of dozen
or more times; and then at last the disturbance ceased as suddenly and as
unexpectedly as it had commenced.
I looked at my watch. It was three o’clock, and already the early birds
on the look-out for the worm had begun to herald the dawn with a few
faint twitters in the trees in the cloister. I threw off my clothes
impatiently, and lying down in my bed, gave myself up, not to sleep,
but reflection on what was best to be done. I had not the slightest
doubt left as to the cause of the noises I had heard. My landlady might
ascribe them to rats, but were she closely questioned she would probably
acknowledge the truth—that she knew the sounds to proceed from spirits,
popularly called ghosts; which accounted for all her hesitation and
change of countenance when speaking to me about the apartments, also for
the low price she asked for her rooms, and her evident wish to dissuade
me from sitting up at night.
Naturally the poor woman was afraid she should never secure a lodger if
the truth were known; but as far as I was concerned, she was altogether
mistaken—I was not afraid of her ghosts. On the contrary, as I lay in bed
and thought on what had just occurred, I congratulated myself that, by a
third strange coincidence, my visit to Norwich promised to turn out all
that I could desire.
I must ‘lay’ these ghosts, of course—i.e., if they interfered with my
graver work; but to have the opportunity of doing so was the very thing
my heart was set upon. Is my reader surprised to hear this? Then I must
take him further into my confidence.
When I confessed I was an author, Press writer, amateur detective, and
father of six children, I did not add the crowning iniquity, and write
myself down a believer in ghosts and spiritualism. Every man acknowledges
himself a spirit, and to have been created by the power of a spirit.
Most men believe that spirits have the capability of free volition
and locomotion, and many that they have exercised these powers by
re-appearing to their fellow spirits in the flesh. But to assert publicly
that you believe in all this because you have proved it to be the truth,
is to throw yourself open to the charge of being a dupe, or a madman, or
a liar. Therefore I had preferred until then to keep my faith a secret.
My children’s bread depended in a great measure on the reputation I kept
up as a man of sense, and I had not dared to risk it by attempting to put
my theories into practice. Not that I was entirely ignorant of the rules
pertaining to the science of spiritualism. Under cover of the darkness
that hides all delinquencies, I had attended several circles gathered
for the sole purpose of investigating the mysteries of other worlds; but
it had always been accomplished with the utmost secrecy, as my wife was
hysterically disposed, and the mere mention of a spirit would have upset
the house for days together.
I had never, therefore, had the opportunity of pursuing spiritualism
on my own account; and until the day broke I lay awake, congratulating
myself on the good luck that had thrown me, cheek by jowl, with a party
of ready-made ghosts, whom a very little encouragement would, I trusted,
induce to pay me a visit in my own apartments.
All the next day I wandered through the streets of Norwich and in the
country surrounding them, speculating—not on the whereabouts of Julian
Cockleboat, nor ‘The Origin of Dreams’—but how I should persuade my
landlady to help me unravel the mysterious occurrence of the night
before. At last I bethought me that ‘honesty is the best policy’ after
all, and decided that I would make a clean breast of my suspicions and
desires. If Mrs Bizzey were a sensible woman, she would prove only too
ready to aid me in ridding her apartments of visitors that must injure
their reputation; and, at all events, I could but try her. So I opened
the subject on the very first opportunity. The woman was clearing away my
tea-things the same evening, when she remarked that I had not eaten well.
‘I am afraid you sit up too much at night, sir, to make a good appetite.’
‘Other people seem to sit up in this house at night as well as myself,
Mrs Bizzey,’ I replied, significantly.
‘I don’t understand you,’ she said, colouring.
‘Why, do you mean to say you never hear noises;—that you were not
disturbed last night, for instance, by the sound of groans and voices,
and of some one falling about in the upper rooms?’
‘Oh, sir, you don’t mean to tell me as you’ve heard them already!’
exclaimed Mrs Bizzey, clasping her hands and letting a teacup fall in her
agitation. ‘If you go too, you’ll be the third gentleman that has left
within a fortnight on that account; and if a stop ain’t put to it, the
house will get such a name that nobody will put a foot inside the door
for love or money.’
‘But I don’t mean to go, Mrs Bizzey; on the contrary, I should be very
sorry to go; and if you and your husband will consent to help me, I will
do my best to stop the noises altogether,’ for the idea of forming a
little circle with these worthy people had suddenly flashed into my mind.
‘How can me and my good man help you, sir?’
‘Is Mr Bizzey at home? If so, go downstairs and fetch him up here, and I
will explain what I mean to you both at the same time.’
She left the room at once, and in a few minutes returned with a
dapper-looking little old fellow, in knee-breeches and a red plush
waistcoat, who pulled his forelock to me on entering.
‘This is Mr Bizzey, sir, and I’ve been telling him all you say as we came
up the stairs.’
I leant back in my chair, folded my hands, and looked important.
‘I suppose you must have heard the science of spiritualism mentioned?’ I
commenced, grandly.
‘The science of _what_, sir?’ inquired Mr Bizzey, with a puzzled air.
‘Of spiritualism—_i.e._, the power of converse or communication with
disembodied spirits.’
‘Lor’! you never mean “_ghosts_,” sir?’ said the old woman.
‘I do, indeed, Mrs Bizzey. I suppose you believe that spirits (or ghosts,
as you call them) may re-appear after death?’