Dinner was now served. We dined alone, and, in the intervals when the
footman was out of the room, I seized the opportunity to probe further
into the mystery of the haunted house.
"The ghosts," I said, "have not appeared. Neither in my own apartment,
nor in the corridors, nor in the various empty rooms which I have
visited, have I seen or heard anything to suggest that the house is
haunted."
"May I ask," said my companion, "for the grounds of your statement that
so far the ghost has failed to appear?"
"Save for yourself," I answered, "the only person I have seen since
entering is the footman."
"And how do you know that the footman is not a ghost?"
"Why," said I, "he carried my bag upstairs, and pocketed the balance of
half a crown I gave him to pay for a telegram."
"I never heard a feebler argument," he replied. "It is obvious that you
resemble the majority of mankind, who, if they were to see a thousand
ghosts every day, would never recognise one of them for what it was.
Now, as to the footman----"
But at that moment the individual in question entered the room bringing
coffee and cigars. When he had gone Panhandle resumed:
"We were speaking of the footman. But perhaps it would be wiser to deal
with the matter in general terms. I have already said enough to satisfy
any reasonable judge of evidence that this is a genuinely haunted house.
I have now to add that a doubt may be raised as to _who is the haunter
and who the haunted_."
I sat silent, staring at Panhandle with wide eyes of astonishment, for
I had no universe of discourse to which I could relate the strange
things I was hearing. He went on:
"From what I have told you already you have no doubt drawn the inference
that the ghosts are haunting _me_. But the ghosts themselves are not of
that mind. In their opinion it is I who am haunting _them_. My first
discovery of this, which is destined to revolutionise the whole theory
of ghosts, was made under circumstances which I will now relate.
* * * * *
"Many years ago I was seated in the library late one night engaged in
writing a report of certain mysterious phenomena which had been observed
in this house. I had just completed a copy of the signed evidence of the
cook, the gardener, and the housemaid, all of whom had left that day
without notice in consequence of something they alleged they had seen.
Suddenly I thought I heard a whispered voice from the further side of
the room, and looking up I saw seated at a table two beings of human
semblance, who were gazing intently in my direction.
"'Do you not see something on yonder chair?' asked one.
"'Yes,' answered the other, 'I certainly see something. Probably a gleam
of light. Observe, the curtains are not quite closed, and this is about
the time when they turn on the searchlight at the barracks. Draw the
curtains close and it will instantly disappear.'
"The speaker went to the window, leaving the other still staring
fearfully in my direction. Having closed the curtains, the man returned
to his place.
"'By heaven!' he cried, 'the thing is still there!' And I could see the
pallor creeping over his face.
"A moment later I heard one of them say, 'It has gone. Well, whatever it
was, I have had a shock. I am trembling all over.' And with that he rang
the bell.
"Presently a footman appeared with a bottle of spirits and a siphon.
Having deposited the tray, he chanced to look towards the place where I
was sitting. A piercing cry followed, and the man ran screaming out of
the room. The two men also started to their feet and began shouting
something I could not hear. I suppose they were calling to some person
in the house, for the shouts were quickly followed by the entry of a
young fellow of athletic build and truculent countenance.
"'Show me your damned ghost,' he said, 'and I'll soon settle him.'
"'He's over there--in that seat,' cried one. 'For heaven's sake, go up
to him, Reginald, and see what he's made of.'
"The truculent youth darted forward, but suddenly came to a dead stop,
with a face as white as a sheet. Then with a trembling hand he whipped a
revolver out of his pocket, and at five paces fired all six barrels
point-blank at my body. At each shot I was aware of a painful feeling in
the penumbra of my consciousness, like the sudden awakening of a buried
sorrow."
At this point Panhandle paused to relight his cigar, and I took the
opportunity to make a remark.
"Count it no grievance," I said, "if one who shoots at psychologists is
himself occasionally shot at. I surmise that the truculent youth was the
ghost of a promising psychologist, foully murdered by your nefarious
gun."
"Name it a righteous execution, and I shall agree," he answered.
"Or it may be," I added, "that many of the sudden and inexplicable pains
that break out in our minds and in our bodies are caused by ghosts, or
whatever you call them, shooting at us, or stabbing us, to test our
reality."
Panhandle turned a keen glance at my face to see if I was serious, and,
being satisfied that I was, continued:
"I have heard more unlikely explanations of such pains, and your theory
is precisely one of those which medical science will have to investigate
when these discoveries of mine are made public. But let me resume the
narrative.
"At the sound of the firing the whole household seemed to be aroused.
And what a household it was! In a few moments the room was crowded with
beings of reverend countenance and stately carriage. Looking round with
slow, grave eyes, they conversed in whispers. 'Science must investigate
this,' one of them said. 'We will arrange that a committee of the
Society shall make a thorough examination of the house and test the
phenomena. Don't forget to engage two shorthand writers and an expert in
spirit photography. And let the room be sealed up till the experts
arrive.'
"During the whole of these proceedings I remained absolutely still, my
acquaintance with the other world having taught me the wisdom of
reticence. At this point, however, I resolved to attempt communication
with my visitors, and, looking round for a person to whom I might
address myself, I observed a bright little fellow of twelve years old
staring about him in an absent-minded way, quite inattentive to all that
was going on. As I walked over to where he was standing he saw me
plainly, and showed not the least surprise on being addressed.
"'What is your name, my little man?' I asked.
"'Billy Burst,' said he.
"'And what are you thinking about while all those people are making such
a fuss?'
"'_I am wondering how people weigh the planets_,' he answered.
"'Come along with me,' said I, 'and I will show you just what you want
to know.'
"Then taking him by the hand I led him across the room to the seat I had
just left; but though the sages who were present saw him cross the room,
not one of them saw me, who was leading him by the hand.
"I took out a sheet of paper and began to draw figures and work formulae,
the boy meanwhile standing by the side of my chair and saying not a
word. When I had finished I said:
"'Do you understand?'
"'Perfectly,' he answered; 'I see it at last. Thank you ever so much.'
"'Now Billy,' I said, 'there is something you can do for _me_. I want
you to stand on that chair and tell the people that the person they are
making the fuss about is named Panhandle, that you know him, that he is
real and quite harmless, and that he hopes they won't shoot at him any
more, because it hurts. Say you are _quite certain_ he is real, because
he has just told you how the planets are weighed.'
"'Dear Pan,' said Billy, 'don't ask me to do that. I never tell people
about _you_; they would only laugh at me if I did. Let us keep just as
we are, old fellow, and not tell our secret to anybody.'
"Unprepared for a style of address so familiar, 'Why, Billy,' I said, 'I
have never seen you before.'
"'Are you quite sure you see me _now_?' he replied.
"Our positions had become reversed--Billy sitting in my study chair that
he might read over what I had written about the planets, I standing by
his side. I looked down to answer his last question, and for the
briefest fraction of a second a vision passed before me. The object
beneath me was not my study chair, but a small iron bedstead on which
there lay a boy, fast asleep. It passed in the twinkling of an eye, and
I found myself seated as before at my desk; the half-finished report was
before me, and, save myself, not a soul was in the room. 'It is
certain,' thought I, 'that I am haunting somebody. In the name of all
the secret Powers that guide the fates of men--whom am I haunting?'"
* * * * *
"A marvellous story," I cried; "and more significant than even you,
Panhandle, are aware. I knew Billy Burst. He and I were schoolmates, and
practised magic together under the guidance of a mysterious Power whose
name Billy would never disclose."
"You knew Billy Burst!" exclaimed Panhandle. "My friend, you fill me
with astonishment and delight. Did I not say we were on the eve of great
discoveries? Tell me all you know about Billy, for the matter is of the
utmost importance."
"You are making _me_ wait for the appearance of the ghost," said I, "and
must not be aggrieved if I make _you_ wait for information about Billy."
"I again pledge my word to you," he answered, "that you shall see a
ghost this very night."
"And I pledge mine to you that you shall hear all about Billy as soon as
the ghost appears. But it is my turn first."
"Let us make it a covenant," he said.
"Agreed!" I answered.
"Then shake hands over the bargain."
As he said this he stood up and extended his hand.
With the utmost eagerness I sprang to my feet and made the reciprocating
gesture. For an instant I thought that excitement had unsteadied me, for
my hand, seeking his, seemed to move at random in the vacant air. Then I
made a second attempt, carefully noting the position of his extended
palm, and this time the truth dawned upon me in a flash. My hand,
indeed, grasped what seemed to be his. But there was no substance to
resist my closing fingers, no hardness of interior bones, no softness of
enveloping tissues, no pressure, no contact, no warmth.
"Panhandle," I cried, "you are a ghost!"
"Hush!" he answered; "we never use that term in addressing one another.
Whatever I _am_, you are also in process of _becoming_. You have been
slow in making the discovery. I thought you had found me out when we
stood among the cypress in the garden."
I was trembling all over and had no control over the next words that
came to my tongue. What they were I cannot remember, but Panhandle's
reply seems to indicate that I had been imploring him to tell me what
kind of a ghost he was.
"Certainly not a character taken out of a novel," he was saying. "Think
of the other orders of spirits who I told you were haunting the house,
and place me in the last and highest."
"You are the ghost of a philosophy!" I said.
"I am."
"Whose philosophy are you?" I shouted, for the figure of Panhandle was
rapidly sliding away into the distance.
"Your own!" was the answer.
"Come back, beloved Panhandle!" I called after the retreating figure.
"Come back and let me fulfil my part of the compact before you go. I
have yet to tell you the story of Billy Burst."
"I shall read it in the next chapter of your book," was the reply, now
almost inaudible, so great was the distance from which it came.
I called yet louder, "I have a ghost-story to tell _you_, dear
Panhandle. Very important. About the ghost of a novelist. Far better
than yours about the novelist's characters!"
"I shall read about that in the next chapter but one."
Such, I am fain to believe, was the answer. But the voice had now become
so faint that this rendering of the words is given with reserve. My
first impression was that Panhandle said simply, "Pooh, pooh!"
I was determined not to let him go. Raising my voice to the uttermost, I
continued to call him. "Come back," I kept shouting, "and arm me with
one more word of wisdom for the battle of life! Without you, Panhandle,
I have no protector, and the psychologists will surely devour me."
At the sound of the word "psychologists" Panhandle's flight was suddenly
arrested. In one swoop he retraversed the vast space that now lay
between us, and returned to his original position.
"Hear, then, my last word," he said. "The chief errors of mankind issue
from the notion that thinking is a solitary process and the thinker an
isolated being. In writing their works or monologues the thinkers, with
few exceptions, have mistaken the form which is proper to philosophy and
thereby done violence to the true nature of thought. All thinking is the
work of a community; its form is conversational and, in the highest
stages, dramatic. For want of this knowledge many philosophers have gone
astray. Ignorant of the other minds with which their own are in
communion, deaf to the voices which mingle with theirs in the eternal
dialogue of thought, they have uttered their message as a weary
monologue, and the vivid interplay of mind with mind, the quick debate
of reacting spirits, which is the very life of thought, has fallen dead.
In the course of your education, which has properly begun to-day, you
will become acquainted with a multitude of interlocutors whose existence
you have never suspected, though they have been addressing you from the
first moment you began to think and contributing much of what you
consider most original in your thought. These are the ghosts by whom you
will henceforth be haunted, until, finally, they make you one of
themselves and carry you to heaven in a whirlwind of fire. Farewell."
Having said this, he instantly vanished, leaving behind him a faint
odour of Havana cigars.
At the same moment a marvellous change, the stages of which have left no
record on my memory, passed over me. I found myself in the place where
I am at this moment, this identical sheet of paper was under my hand,
this pen was writing, and the ink of the last paragraph was still wet.