Book: The Necromancers

R >> Robert Hugh Benson >> The Necromancers




* * * * *

As she turned southwards at last, crossing the road again towards her
own street, it seemed to her that the day even now was beginning to
cloud over. Over the roofs of Kensington a haze was beginning to make
itself visible, as impalpable as a skein of smoke; yet there it was.
She felt a little languid, too. Perhaps she had walked too far. She
would rest a little after lunch, if dearest Maud did not mind; for
dearest Maud was to lunch with her, as was usual on Sundays when the
Colonel was away.

As she came, slower than ever, down the broad opulent pavement of
Queen's Gate, through the silence and emptiness of Sunday--for the
church bells were long ago silent--she noticed coming towards her,
with a sauntering step, an old gentleman in frock coat and silk hat of
a slightly antique appearance, spatted and gloved, carrying his hands
behind his back, as if he were waiting to be joined by some friend
from one of the houses. She noticed that he looked at her through his
glasses, but thought no more of it till she turned up the steps of her
own house. Then she was startled by the sound of quick footsteps and
a voice.

"I beg your pardon, madam ..."

She turned, with her key in the door, and there he stood, hat in hand.

"Have I the pleasure of speaking to Lady Laura Bethell?"

There was a pleasant brisk ring about his voice that inclined her
rather favorably towards him.

"Is there anything.... Did you want to speak to me...? Yes, I am Lady
Laura Bethell."

"I was told you were at church, madam, and that you were not at home
to visitors on Sunday."

"That is quite right.... May I ask...?"

"Only a few minutes, Lady Laura, I promise you. Will you forgive my
persistence?"

Yes; the man was a gentleman; there was no doubt of that.

"Would not tomorrow do? I am rather engaged today."

He had his card-case ready, and without answering her at once, he came
up the steps and handed it to her.

The name meant nothing at all to her.

"Will not tomorrow...?" she began again.

"Tomorrow will be too late," said the old gentleman. "I beg of you,
Lady Laura. It is on an extremely important matter."

She still hesitated an instant; then she pushed the door open and went
in.

"Please come in," she said.

She was so taken aback by the sudden situation that she forgot
completely that the drawing-room would be upside down, and led the way
straight upstairs; and it was not till she was actually within the
door, with the old gentleman close on her heels, that she saw that,
with the exception of three or four chairs about the fire and the
table set out near the hearthrug, the room was empty of furniture.

"I forgot," she said; "but will you mind coming in here.... We ... we
have a meeting here this evening."

She led the way to the fire, and at first did not notice that he was
not following her. When she turned round she saw the old gentleman,
with his air of antique politeness completely vanished, standing and
looking about him with a very peculiar expression. She also noticed,
to her annoyance, that the cabinet was already in place in the little
ante-room and that his eyes almost immediately rested upon it. Yet
there was no look of wonder in his face; rather it was such a look
as a man might have on visiting the scene of a well-known
crime--interest, knowledge, and loathing.

"So it is here--" he said in quite a low voice.

Then he came across the room towards her.


II

For an instant his bearded face looked so strangely at her that she
half moved towards the bell. Then he smiled, with a little reassuring
gesture.

"No, no," he said. "May I sit down a moment?"

She began hastily to cover her confusion.

"It is a meeting," she said, "for this evening. I am sorry--"

"Just so," he said. "It is about that that I have come."

"I beg your pardon...?"

"Please sit down, Lady Laura.... May I say in a sentence what I have
come to say?"

This seemed a very odd old man.

"Why, yes--" she said.

"I have come to beg you not to allow Mr. Baxter to enter the
house.... No, I have no authority from anyone, least of all from Mr.
Baxter. He has no idea that I have come. He would think it an
unwarrantable piece of impertinence."

"Mr. Cathcart ... I--I cannot--"

"Allow me," he said, with a little compelling gesture that silenced
her. "I have been asked to interfere by a couple of people very much
interested in Mr. Baxter; one of them, if not both, completely
disbelieves in spiritualism."

"Then you know--"

He waved his hand towards the cabinet.

"Of course I know," he said. "Why, I was a spiritualist for ten years
myself. No, not a medium; not a professional, that is to say. I know
all about Mr. Vincent; all about Mrs. Stapleton and yourself, Lady
Laura. I still follow the news closely; I know perfectly well--"

"And you have given it up?"

"I have given it up for a long while," he said quietly. "And I have
come to ask you to forbid Mr. Baxter to be present this evening,
for--for the same reason for which I have given it up myself."

"Yes? And that--"

"I don't think we need go into that," he said. "It is enough, is it
not, for me to say that Mr. Baxter's work, and, in fact, his whole
nervous system, is suffering considerably from the excitement; that
one of the persons who have asked me to do what I can is Mr. Baxter's
own law-coach: and that even if he had not asked me, Mr. Baxter's own
appearance--"

"You know him?"

"Practically, no. I lunched at the same table with him on Friday; the
symptoms are quite unmistakable."

"I don't understand. Symptoms?"

"Well, we will say symptoms of nervous excitement. You are aware, no
doubt, that he is exceptionally sensitive. Probably you have seen for
yourself--"

"Wait a moment," said Lady Laura, her own heart beating furiously.
"Why do you not go to Mr. Baxter himself?"

"I have done so. I arranged to meet him at lunch, and somehow I took a
wrong turn with him: I have no tact whatever, as you perceive. But I
wrote to him on Friday night, offering to call upon him, and just
giving him a hint. Well, it was useless. He refused to see me."

"I don't see what I--"

"Oh yes," chirped the old gentleman almost gaily. "It would be quite
unusual and unconventional. I just ask you to send him a line--I will
take it myself, if you wish it--telling him that you think it would be
better for him not to come, and saying that you are making other
arrangements for tonight."

He looked at her with that odd little air of birdlike briskness that
she had noticed in the street; and it pleasantly affected her even in
the midst of the uneasiness that now surged upon her again tenfold
more than before. She could see that there was something else behind
his manner; it had just looked out in the glance he had given round
the room on entering; but she could not trouble at this moment to
analyze what it was. She was completely bewildered by the strangeness
of the encounter, and the extraordinary coincidence of this man's
judgment with her own. Yet there were a hundred reasons against her
taking his advice. What would the others say? What of all the
arrangements ... the expectation...?

"I don't see how it's possible now," she began. "I think I know what
you mean. But--"

"Indeed, I trust you have no idea," cried the old gentleman, with a
queer little falsetto note coming into his voice--"no idea at all. I
come to you merely on the plea of nervous excitement; it is injuring
his health, Lady Laura."

She looked at him curiously.

"But--" she began.

"Oh, I will go further," he said. "Have you never heard of--of
insanity in connection with all this? We will call it insanity, if you
wish."

For a moment her heart stood still. The word had a sinister sound, in
view of an incident she had once witnessed; but it seemed to her that
some meaning behind, unknown to her, was still more sinister. Why had
he said that it might be "called insanity" only...?

"Yes.... I--I have once seen a case," she stammered.

"Well," said the old gentleman, "is it not enough when I tell you that
I--I who was a spiritualist for ten years--have never seen a more
dangerous subject than Mr. Baxter? Is the risk worth it...? Lady
Laura, do you quite understand what you are doing?"

He leaned forward a little; and again she felt anxiety, sickening and
horrible, surge within her. Yet, on the other hand....

The door opened suddenly, and Mr. Vincent came in.


III

There was silence for a moment; then the old gentleman turned round,
and in an instant was on his feet, quiet, but with an air of bristling
about his thrust-out chin and his tense attitude.

Mr. Vincent paused, looking from one to the other.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Laura," he said courteously. "Your man told
me to wait here; I think he did not know you had come in."

"Well--er--this gentleman..." began Lady Laura. "Why, do you know
Mr. Vincent?" she asked suddenly, startled by the expression in the
old gentleman's face.

"I used to know Mr. Vincent," he said shortly.

"You have the advantage of me," smiled the medium, coming forward to
the fire.

"My name is Cathcart, sir."

The other started, almost imperceptibly.

"Ah! yes," he said quietly. "We did meet a few times, I remember."

Lady Laura was conscious of distinct relief at the interruption: it
seemed to her a providential escape from a troublesome decision.

"I think there is nothing more to be said, Mr. Cathcart.... No, don't
go, Mr. Vincent. We had finished our talk."

"Lady Laura," said the old gentleman with a rather determined air, "I
beg of you to give me ten minutes more private conversation."

She hesitated, clearly foreseeing trouble either way. Then she
decided.

"There is no necessity today," she said. "If you care to make an
appointment for one day next week, Mr. Cathcart--"

"I am to understand that you refuse me a few minutes now?"

"There is no necessity that I can see--"

"Then I must say what I have to say before Mr. Vincent--"

"One moment, sir," put in the medium, with that sudden slight air of
imperiousness that Lady Laura knew very well by now. "If Lady Laura
consents to hear you, I must take it on myself to see that nothing
offensive is said." He glanced as if for leave towards the woman.

She made an effort.

"If you will say it quickly," she began. "Otherwise--"

The old gentleman drew a breath as if to steady himself. It was plain
that he was very strongly moved beneath his self-command: his air of
cheerful geniality was gone.

"I will say it in one sentence," he said. "It is this: You are ruining
that boy between you, body and soul; and you are responsible before
his Maker and yours. And if--"

"Lady Laura," said the medium, "do you wish to hear any more?"

She made a doubtful little gesture of assent.

"And if you wish to know my reasons for saying this," went on Mr.
Cathcart, "you have only to ask for them from Mr. Vincent. He knows
well enough why I left spiritualism--if he dares to tell you."

Lady Laura glanced at the medium. He was perfectly still and
quiet--looking, watching the old man curiously and half humorously
under his heavy eyebrows.

"And I understand," went on the other, "that tonight you are to make
an attempt at complete materialization. Very good; then after tonight
it may be too late. I have tried to appeal to the boy: he will not
hear me. And you too have refused to hear me out. I could give you
evidence, if you wished. Ask this gentleman how many cases he has
known in the last five years, where complete ruin, body and soul--"

The medium turned a little to the fire, sighing as if for weariness:
and at the sound the old man stopped, trembling. It was more obvious
than ever that he only held himself in restraint by a very violent
effort: it was as if the presence of the medium affected him in an
extraordinary degree.

Lady Laura glanced again from one to the other.

"That is all, then?" she said.

His lips worked. Then he burst out--

"I am sick of talking," he cried--"sick of it! I have warned you. That
is enough. I cannot do more."

He wheeled on his heel and went out. A minute later the two heard the
front door bang.

She looked at Mr. Vincent. He was twirling softly in his strong
fingers a little bronze candlestick that stood on the mantelpiece: his
manner was completely unconcerned; he even seemed to be smiling a
little.

For herself she felt helpless. She had taken her choice, impelled to
it, though she scarcely recognized the fact, by the entrance of this
strong personality; and now she needed reassurance once again. But
before she had a word to say, he spoke--still in his serene manner.

"Yes, yes," he said. "I remember now. I used to know Mr. Cathcart
once. A very violent old gentleman."

"What did he mean?"

"His reasons for leaving us? Indeed I scarcely remember. I suppose it
was because he became a Catholic."

"Was there nothing more?"

He looked at her pleasantly.

"Why, I daresay there was. I really can't remember, Lady Laura. I
suppose he had his nerves shaken. You can see for yourself what a
fanatic he is."

But in spite of his presence, once more a gust of anxiety shook her.

"Mr. Vincent, are you sure it's safe--for Mr. Baxter, I mean?"

"Safe? Why, he's as safe as any of us can be. We all have nervous
systems, of course."

"But he's particularly sensitive, isn't he?"

"Indeed, yes. That is why even this evening he must not go into
trance. That must come later, after a good training."

She stood up, and came herself to stand by the mantelpiece.

"Then really there's no danger?"

He turned straight to her, looking at her with kind, smiling eyes.

"Lady Laura," he said, "have I ever yet told you that there was no
danger? I think not. There is always danger, for every one of us, as
there is for the scientist in the laboratory, and the engineer in his
machinery. But what we can do is to reduce that danger to a minimum,
so that, humanly speaking, we are reasonably and sufficiently safe. No
doubt you remember the case of that girl? Well, that was an accident:
and accidents will happen; but do me the justice to remember that it
was the first time that I had seen her. It was absolutely impossible
to foresee. She was on the very edge of a nervous breakdown before
she entered the room. But with regard to Mr. Baxter, I have seen him
again and again; and I tell you that I consider him to be running a
certain risk--but a perfectly justifiable one, and one that is reduced
to a minimum, if I did not think that we were taking every precaution,
I would not have him in the room for all the world.... Are you
satisfied, Lady Laura?"

Every word he said helped her back to assurance. It was all so
reasonable and well weighed. If he had said there was no danger, she
would have feared the more, but his very recognition of it gave her
security. And above all, his tranquility and his strength were
enormous assets on his side.

She drew a breath, and decided to go forward.

"And Mr. Cathcart?" she asked.

He smiled again.

"You can see what he is," he said. "I should advise you not to see him
again. It's of no sort of use."




_Chapter XIII_


I

The weather forecasts had been in the right; and the few that
struggled homewards that night from church fought against a south-west
wind that tore, laden with driving rain, up the streets and across the
open spaces, till the very lights were dimmed in the tall street lamps
and shone only through streaming panes that seemed half opaque with
mist and vapor. In Queen's Gate hardly one lighted window showed that
the houses were inhabited. So fierce was the clamor and storm of the
broad street that men made haste to shut out every glimpse of the
night, and the fanlights above the doors, or here and there a line of
brightness where some draught had tossed the curtains apart, were the
only signs of human life. Outside the broad pavements stared like
surfaces of some canal, black and mirror-like, empty of passengers,
catching every spark or hint of light from house and lamp,
transforming it to a tall streak of glimmering wetness.

The housekeeper's room in this house on the right was the more
delightful from the contrast. It was here that the august assembly was
held every evening after supper, set about with rigid etiquette and
ancient rite. Its windows looked on to the little square garden at the
back, but were now tight shuttered and curtained; and the room was a
very model of comfort and warmth. Before the fire a square table was
drawn up, set out with pudding and fruit, for it was here that the
upper servants withdrew after the cold meat and beer of the servants'
hall, to be waited upon by the butler's boy: and it was round this
that the four sat in state--housekeeper, butler, lady's maid, and
cook.

It was already after ten o'clock; and Mr. Parker was permitted to
smoke a small cigar. They had discussed the weather, the sermon that
Miss Baker had heard in the morning, and the prospects of a
Dissolution; and they had once more returned to the mysteries that
were being enacted upstairs. They were getting accustomed to them now,
and there was not a great deal to say, unless they repeated
themselves, which they had no objection to do. Their attitude was one
of tolerant skepticism, tempered by an agreeable tendency on the part
of Miss Baker to become agitated after a certain point. Mr. Vincent,
it was generally conceded, was a respectable sort of man, with an air
about him that could hardly be put into words, and it was thought to
be a pity that he lent himself to such superstition. Mrs. Stapleton
had been long ago dismissed as a silly sort of woman, though with a
will of her own; and her ladyship, of course, must have her way; it
could not last long, it was thought.

But young Mr. Baxter was another matter, and there was a deal to say
about him. He was a gentleman--that was certain; and he seemed to have
sense; but it was a pity that he was so often here now on this
business. He had not said one word to Mr. Parker this evening as he
took off his coat; Mr. Parker had not thought that he looked very
well.

"He was too quiet-like," said the butler.

As to the details of the affair upstairs--these were considered in a
purely humorous light. It was understood that tables danced a
hornpipe, and that tambourines were beaten by invisible hands; and it
was not necessary to go further into principles, particularly since
all these things were done by machinery at the Egyptian Hall. Faces
also, it was believed, were seen looking out of the cabinet which
Mr. Parker had once more helped to erect this morning; but these, it
was explained, were "done" by luminous paint. Finally, if people
insisted on looking into causes, Electricity was a sufficient answer
for all the rest. No one actually suggested water-power.

As for human motives, these were not called in question at all. It
appeared to amuse some people to do this kind of thing, as others
might collect old china or practice the cotillion. There it was, a
fact, and there was no more to be said about it. Old Lady Carraden,
where Mr. Parker had once been under-butler, had gone in for pouter
pigeons; and Miss Baker had heard tell of a nobleman who had a
carpenter's shop of his own.

These things were so, then; and meantime here was a cigar to be smoked
by Mr. Parker, and a little weak tea to be taken by the three ladies.

It was about a quarter-past ten when a reversion was made to the
weather. Within here all was supremely comfortable. A black stuff mat,
with a red fringed border, lay before the blazing fire, convenient to
the feet; the heavy red curtains shut out the darkness, and where the
glass cases of china permitted it, large photographs of wedding groups
and the houses of the nobility hung upon the walls. A King Charles'
spaniel, in another glass case, looked upon the company with an
eternal snarl belied by the mildness of his brown eyes; and,
corresponding to him on the other side of the fire, a numerous family
of humming-birds, a little dusty and dim, poised perpetually above the
flowers of a lichened tree, with a flaming sunset to show them up.

But, without, the wind tore unceasingly, laden with rain, through the
gusty darkness of the little garden, and, in the pauses, the swift
dripping from the roof splashed and splashed upon the paved walk. It
was a very wild night, as Mr. Parker observed four times: he only
hoped that no one would require a hansom cab. He had been foolish
enough to take the responsibility tonight of letting the guests out
himself, and of allowing William to go to bed when he wished. And
these were late affairs, seldom over before eleven, and often not till
nearly midnight.

Mrs. Martin, in her blouse, moved a little nearer the fire, and said
she must be off soon to bed; Mrs. Mayle, in her black silk, added that
there was no telling when her ladyship would get to bed, what with
Mrs. Stapleton and all, and commiserated Miss Baker; Miss Baker
moaned a little in self-pity; and Mr. Parker remarked for the fifth
time that it was a wild night. It was an astonishingly serene and
domestic atmosphere: no effort of imagination or wit was required from
anybody; it was enough to make observations when they occurred to the
brain, and they would meet with a tranquil response.

As half-past ten tinkled out from the little yellow marble clock on
the mantelpiece--it had been won by Mrs. Mayle's deceased husband in a
horticultural exhibition--Mrs. Martin said that she must go and have a
look at the scullery to see that all was as it should be; there was no
knowing with these girls nowadays what they might not leave undone;
and Mrs. Mayle preened herself gently with the thought that her
responsibilities were on a higher plane. Mr. Parker made a courteous
movement as if to rise, and remained seated, as the cook rustled out.
Miss Baker sighed again as she contemplated the long conversation that
might take place between the two ladies upstairs before she could get
her mistress to bed.

Once more the tranquil atmosphere settled down on the warm room; the
brass lamp burned brightly with a faint and reassuring smell of
paraffin; the fire presented a radiant cavern of red coals fringed by
dancing flames; and Mr. Parker leaned forwards to shake off the ash of
his cigar.

Then, on a sudden, he paused, for from the passage outside came the
passionless tinkle of an electric bell--then another, and another, and
another, as if some person overhead strove by reiteration on that
single note to cry out some overwhelming need.


II

Overhead in the great empty drawing-room the noise of the wind and
rain, the almost continuous spatter on the glass, and the long hooting
of the gusts, had been far more noticeable than in the basement
beneath. Below stairs the company had been natural and normal, talking
of this and that, in a brightly lighted room, dwelling only on matters
that fell beneath the range of their senses, lulled by warmth and food
and cigar-smoke into a kind of rapt self-contemplation. But up here,
in the gloom, lighted only on this occasion by a single shaded candle,
in a complete interior silence, three persons had sat round a table
for more than an hour, striving by passivity and a kind of
indescribable concentration to ignore all that was presented by the
senses, and to await some movement from that which lies beyond them.

Lady Laura had sat down that night in a state of mind which she could
not analyze. It was not that her anxieties had been lulled so much as
counterbalanced; they were still there, at once poignant and heavy,
but on the other side there had been the assured air of the medium,
his reasonableness and his personality, as well as the enthusiasm of
her friend, and her astonished remonstrances. She had decided to
acquiesce, not because she was satisfied, but because on the whole
anxiety was outweighed by confidence. She could not have taken action
under such circumstances, but she could at least refrain from it.

Laurie, as Mr. Parker had noticed, had been "quiet-like"; he had said
very little indeed, but a nervous strain was evident in the brightness
of his eyes; but in answer to a conventional inquiry he had declared
himself extremely well. Mr. Vincent had looked at him for just an
instant longer than usual as he shook hands, but he said nothing. Mrs.
Stapleton had made an ecstatic remark or two on the envy with which
she regarded the boy's sensitive faculties.

At the beginning of the _seance_ the medium had repeated his warnings as
to Laurie's avoiding of trance, and had added one or two other
precautions. Then he had gone into the cabinet; the fire had been
pressed down under ashes, and a single candle lighted and placed
behind the angle of the little adjoining room in such a position that
its shaded light fell upon the cabinet only and the figure of the
medium within.

* * * * *

When the silence became fixed, Lady Laura for the first time perceived
the rage of wind and rain outside. The very intensity of the interior
stillness and the rapture of attention emphasized to an extraordinary
degree the windy roar without. Yet the silence seemed to her, now as
always, to have a peculiar faculty of detaching the psychical from the
physical atmosphere. In spite of the batter of rain not ten feet away,
the sighing between the shutters, and even the lift now and again of
the heavy curtains in the draught, she seemed to herself as remote
from it as does a man crouching in the dark under some ruin feel
himself at an almost infinite distance from the pick and the hammer of
the rescuers. These were in one world, she in another.

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