Book: The Necromancers

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Her mind fled back. She understood a hundred things now. She perceived
that that sudden anger at breakfast had been personal disappointment--not
at all that lofty disinterestedness on behalf of the mother that she had
pretended. She understood too, now, the meaning of those long contented
meditations as she went up and down the garden walks, alert for
plantains, the meaning of the zeal she had shown, only a week ago, on
behalf of a certain hazel which the gardener wanted to cut down.

"You had better wait till Mr. Laurence comes home," she had said. "I
think he once said he liked the tree to be just there."

She understood now why she had been so intuitive, so condemnatory, so
critical of the boy--it was that she was passionately interested in
him, that it was a pleasure even to abuse him to herself, to call him
selfish and self-centered, that all this lofty disapproval was just
the sop that her subconsciousness had used to quiet her uneasiness.

Little scenes rose before her--all passed almost in a flash of
time--as she stood with her hand on the medieval-looking latch of the
gate, and she saw herself in them all as a proud, unmaidenly,
pharisaical prig, in love with a man who was not in love with her.

She made an effort, unlatched the gate, and moved on, a beautiful,
composed figure, with great steady eyes and well-cut profile, a model
of dignity and grace, interiorly a raging, self-contemptuous, abject
wretch.

It must be remembered that she was convent-bred.


II

By the time that Laurie's answer came, poor Maggie had arranged her
emotions fairly satisfactorily. She came to the conclusion, arrived at
after much heart-searching, that after all she was not yet actually in
love with Laurie, but was in danger of being so, and that therefore
now that she knew the danger, and could guard against it, she need not
actually withdraw from her home, and bury herself in a convent or the
foreign mission-field.

She arrived at this astonishing conclusion by the following process of
thought. It may be presented in the form of a syllogism.


All girls who are in love regard the beloved as a spotless,
reproachless hero.

Maggie Deronnais did not regard Laurie Baxter as a spotless,
reproachless hero.

_Ergo._ Maggie Deronnais was not in love with Laurie Baxter.


Strange as it may appear to non-Catholic readers, Maggie did not
confide her complications to the ear of Father Mahon. She mentioned,
no doubt, on the following Saturday, that she had given way to
thoughts of pride and jealousy, that she had deceived herself with
regard to a certain action, done really for selfish motives, into
thinking she had done it for altruistic motives, and there she left
it. And, no doubt, Father Mahon left it there too, and gave her
absolution without hesitation.

Then Laurie's answer arrived, and had to be dealt with, that is, it
had to be treated interiorly with a proper restraint of emotions.


"My dear Maggie," he wrote;

Why all this fury? What have I done? I said to mother that
I didn't know for certain whether I could come or not, as
I had a lot to do. I don't think she can have given you
the letter to read, or you wouldn't have written all that
about my being away from home at the one season of the
year, etc. Of course I'll come, if you or anybody feels
like that. Does mother feel upset too? Please tell me if
she ever feels that, or is in the least unwell, or
anything. I'll come instantly. As it is, shall we say the
20th of December, and I'll stay at least a week. Will that
do?

Yours,
L.B.


This was a little overwhelming, and Maggie wrote off a penitent
letter, refraining carefully, however, from any expressions that might
have anything of the least warmth, but saying that she was very glad
he was coming, and that the shooting should be seen to.

She directed the letter; and then sat for an instant looking at
Laurie's--at the neat Oxford-looking hand, the artistic appearance of
the paragraphs, and all the rest of it.

She would have liked to keep it--to put it with half a dozen others
she had from him; but it seemed better not.

Then as she tore it up into careful strips, her conscience smote her
again, shrewdly; and she drew out the top left-hand drawer of the
table at which she sat.

There they were, a little pile of them, neat and orderly. She looked
at them an instant; then she took them out, turned them quickly to see
if all were there, and then, gathering up the strips of the one she
had received that morning, went over to the wood fire and dropped them
in.

It was better so, she said to herself.

* * * * *

The days went pleasantly enough after that. She would not for an
instant allow to herself that any of their smoothness arose from the
fact that this boy would be here again in a few weeks. On the
contrary, it was because she had detected a weakness in his regard,
she told herself, and had resolutely stamped on it, that she was in so
serene a peace. She arranged about the shooting--that is to say, she
informed the acting keeper that Master Laurie would be home for
Christmas as usual--all in an unemotional manner, and went about her
various affairs without effort.

She found Mrs. Baxter just a little trying now and then. That lady
had come to the conclusion that Laurie was unhappy in his
religion--certainly references to it had dropped out of his
letters--and that Mr. Rymer must set it right.

"The Vicar must dine here at least twice while Laurie is here," she
observed at breakfast one morning. "He has a great influence with
young men."

Maggie reflected upon a remark or two, extremely unjust, made by
Laurie with regard to the clergyman.

"Do you think--do you think he understands Laurie," she said.

"He has known him for fifteen years," remarked Mrs. Baxter.

"Perhaps it's Laurie that doesn't understand him then," said Maggie
tranquilly.

"I daresay."

"And--and what do you think Mr. Rymer will be able to do?" asked the
girl.

"Just settle the boy.... I don't think Laurie's very happy. Not that I
would willingly disturb his mind again; I don't mean that, my dear. I
quite understand that your religion is just the one for certain
temperaments, and Laurie's is one of them; but a few helpful words
sometimes--" Mrs. Baxter left it at an aposiopesis, a form of speech
she was fond of.

There was a grain of truth, Maggie thought, in the old lady's hints,
and she helped herself in silence to marmalade. Laurie's letters,
which she usually read, did not refer much to religion, or to the
Brompton Oratory, as his custom had been at first. She tried to make
up her mind that this was a healthy sign; that it showed that Laurie
was settling down from that slight feverishness of zeal that seemed
the inevitable atmosphere of most converts. Maggie found converts a
little trying now and then; they would talk so much about facts,
certainly undisputed, and for that very reason not to be talked
about. Laurie had been a marked case, she remembered; he wouldn't let
the thing alone, and his contempt of Anglican clergy, whom Maggie
herself regarded with respect, was hard to understand. In fact she had
remonstrated on the subject of the Vicar....

Maggie perceived that she was letting her thoughts run again on
disputable lines; and she made a remark about the Balkan crisis so
abruptly that Mrs. Baxter looked at her in bewilderment.

"You do jump about so, my dear. We were speaking of Laurie, were we
not?"

"Yes," said Maggie.

"It's the twentieth he's coming on, is it not?"

"Yes," said Maggie.

"I wonder what train he'll come by?"

"I don't know," said Maggie.

* * * * *

A few days before Laurie's arrival she went to the greenhouse to see
the chrysanthemums. There was an excellent show of them.

"Mrs. Baxter doesn't like them hairy ones," said the gardener.

"Oh! I had forgotten. Well, Ferris, on the nineteenth I shall want a
big bunch of them. You'd better take those--those hairy ones. And some
maidenhair. Is there plenty?"

"Yes, miss."

"Can you make a wreath, Ferris?"

"Yes, miss."

"Well, will you make a good wreath of them, please, for a grave? The
morning of the twentieth will do. There'll be plenty left for the
church and house?"

"Oh yes, miss."

"And for Father Mahon?"

"Oh yes, miss."

"Very well, then. Will you remember that? A good wreath, with fern, on
the morning of the twentieth. If you'll just leave it here I'll call
for it about twelve o'clock. You needn't send it up to the house."




_Chapter VI_


I

Laurie was sitting in his room after breakfast, filling his briar pipe
thoughtfully, and contemplating his journey to Stantons.

It was more than six weeks now since his experience in Queen's Gate,
and he had gone through a variety of emotions. Bewildered terror was
the first, a nervous interest the next, a truculent skepticism the
third; and lately, to his astonishment, the nervous interest had begun
to revive.

At first he had been filled with unreasoning fear. He had walked back
as far as the gate of the park, hardly knowing where he went,
conscious only that he must be in the company of his fellows; upon
finding himself on the south side of Hyde Park Corner, where travelers
were few, he had crossed over in nervous haste to where he might
jostle human beings. Then he had dined in a restaurant, knowing that a
band would be playing there, and had drunk a bottle of champagne; he
had gone to his rooms, cheered and excited, and had leapt instantly
into bed for fear that his courage should evaporate. For he was
perfectly aware that fear, and a sickening kind of repulsion, formed a
very large element in his emotions. For nearly two hours, unless three
persons had lied consummately, he--his essential being, that sleepless
self that underlies all--had been in strange company, had become
identified in some horrible manner with the soul of a dead person. It
was as if he had been informed some morning that he had slept all
night with a corpse under his bed. He woke half a dozen times that
night in the pleasant curtained bedroom, and each time with the terror
upon him. What if stories were true, and this Thing still haunted the
air? It was remarkable, he considered afterwards, how the sign which
he had demanded had not had the effect for which he had hoped. He was
not at all reassured by it.

Then as the days went by, and he was left in peace, his horror began
to pass. He turned the thing over in his mind a dozen times a day, and
found it absorbing. But he began to reflect that, after all, he had
nothing more than he had had before in the way of evidence. An
hypnotic sleep might explain the whole thing. That little revelation
he had made in his unconsciousness, of his sitting beneath the yews,
might easily be accounted for by the fact that he himself knew it,
that it had been a deeper element in his experience than he had known,
and that he had told it aloud. It was no proof of anything more. There
remained the rapping and what the medium had called his "appearance"
during the sleep; but of all this he had read before in books. Why
should he be convinced any more now than he had been previously?
Besides, it was surely doubtful, was it not, whether the rapping, if
it had really taken place, might not be the normal cracks and sounds
of woodwork, intensified in the attention of the listeners? or if it
was more than this, was there any proof that it might not be produced
in some way by the intense will-power of some living person present?
This was surely conceivable--more conceivable, that is, than any other
hypothesis.... Besides, what had it all got to do with Amy?

Within a week of his original experience, skepticism was dominant.
These lines of thought did their work by incessant repetition. The
normal life he lived, the large, businesslike face of the lawyer whom
he faced day by day, a theatre or two, a couple of dinners--even the
noise of London streets and the appearance of workaday persons--all
these gradually reassured him.

When therefore he received a nervous little note from Lady Laura,
reminding him of the _seance_ to be held in Baker Street, and begging
his attendance, he wrote a most proper letter back again, thanking her
for her kindness, but saying that he had come to the conclusion that
this kind of thing was not good for him or his work, and begging her
to make his excuses to Mr. Vincent.

A week or two passed, and nothing whatever happened. Then he heard
again from Lady Laura, and again he answered by a polite refusal,
adding a little more as to his own state of mind; and again silence
fell.

Then at last Mr. Vincent called on him in person one evening after
dinner.

* * * * *

Laurie's rooms were in Mitre Court, very convenient to the Temple--two
rooms opening into one another, and communicating with the staircase.

He had played a little on his grand piano, that occupied a third of
his sitting-room, and had then dropped off to sleep before his fire.
He awakened suddenly to see the big man standing almost over him, and
sat up confusedly.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Baxter; the porter's boy told me to come
straight up. I found your outer door open."

Laurie hastened to welcome him, to set him down in a deep chair, to
offer whisky and to supply tobacco. There was something about this man
that commanded deference.

"You know why I have come, I expect," said the medium, smiling.

Laurie smiled back, a little nervously.

"I have come to see whether you will not reconsider your decision."

The boy shook his head.

"I think not," he said.

"You found no ill effects, I hope, from what happened at Lady
Laura's?"

"Not at all, after the first shock."

"Doesn't that reassure you at all, Mr. Baxter?"

Laurie hesitated.

"It's like this," he said; "I'm not really convinced. I don't see
anything final in what happened."

"Will you explain, please?"

Laurie set the results of his meditations forth at length. There was
nothing, he said, that could not be accounted for by a very abnormal
state of subjectivity. The fact that this ... this young person's name
was in his mind ... and so forth....

"... And I find it rather distracting to my work," he ended. "Please
don't think me rude or ungrateful, Mr. Vincent."

He thought he was being very strong and sensible.

The medium was silent for a moment.

"Doesn't it strike you as odd that I myself was able to get no results
that night?" he said presently.

"How? I don't understand."

"Why, as a rule, I find no difficulty at all in getting some sort of
response by automatic handwriting. Are you aware that I could do
nothing at all that night?"

Laurie considered it.

"Well," he said at last, "this may sound very foolish to you; but
granting that I have got unusual gifts that way--they are your own
words, Mr. Vincent--if that is so, I don't see why my own
concentration of thought, or hypnotic sleep or trance or whatever it
was--might not have been so intense as to--"

"I quite see," interrupted the other. "That is, of course, conceivable
from your point of view. It had occurred to me that you might think
that.... Then I take it that your theory is that the subconscious self
is sufficient to account for it all--that in this hypnotic sleep, if
you care to call it so, you simply uttered what was in your heart, and
identified yourself with ... with your memory of that young girl."

"I suppose so," said Laurie shortly.

"And the rapping, loud, continuous, unmistakable?"

"That doesn't seem to me important. I did not actually hear it, you
know."

"Then what you need is some unmistakable sign?"

"Yes ... but I see perfectly that this is impossible. Whatever I said
in my sleep, either I can't identify it as true, in which case it is
worthless as evidence, or I can identify it, because I already know
it, and in that case it is worthless again."

The medium smiled, half closing his eyes.

"You must think us very childish, Mr. Baxter," he said.

He sat up a little in his chair; then, putting his hand into his
breast pocket, drew out a note-book, holding it still closed on his
knee.

"May I ask you a rather painful question?" he said gently.

Laurie nodded. He felt so secure.

"Would you kindly tell me--first, whether you have seen the grave of
this young girl since you left the country; secondly, whether anyone
happens to have mentioned it to you?"

Laurie swallowed in his throat.

"Certainly no one has mentioned it to me. And I have not seen it since
I left the country."

"How long ago was that?"

"That was ... about September the twenty-seventh."

"Thank you...!" He opened the note-book and turned the pages a moment
or two. "And will you listen to this, Mr. Baxter?--'Tell Laurie that
the ground has sunk a little above my grave; and that cracks are
showing at the sides.'"

"What is that book?" said the boy hoarsely.

The medium closed it and returned it to his pocket.

"That book, Mr. Baxter, contains a few extracts from some of the
things you said during your trance. The sentence I have read is one of
them, an answer given to a demand made by me that the control should
give some unmistakable proof of her identity. She ... you hesitated
some time before giving that answer."

"Who took the notes?"

"Mrs. Stapleton. You can see the originals if you wish. I thought it
might distress you to know that such notes had been taken; but I have
had to risk that. We must not lose you, Mr. Baxter."

Laurie sat, dumb and bewildered.

"Now all you have to do," continued the medium serenely, "is to find
out whether what has been said is correct or not. If it is not
correct, there will be an end of the matter, if you choose. But if it
is correct--"

"Stop; let me think!" cried Laurie.

He was back again in the confusion from which he thought he had
escaped. Here was a definite test, offered at least in good
faith--just such a test as had been lacking before; and he had no
doubt whatever that it would be borne out by facts. And if it
were--was there any conceivable hypothesis that would explain it
except the one offered so confidently by this grave, dignified man who
sat and looked at him with something of interested compassion in his
heavy eyes? Coincidence? It was absurd. Certainly graves did sink,
sometimes--but ... Thought-transference from someone who noticed the
grave...? But why that particular thought, so vivid, concise, and
pointed...?

If it were true...?

He looked hopelessly at the man, who sat smoking quietly and waiting.

And then again another thought, previously ignored, pierced him like a
sword. If it were true; if Amy herself, poor pretty Amy, had indeed
been there, were indeed near him now, hammering and crying out like a
child shut out at night, against his own skeptical heart ... if it
were indeed true that during those two hours she had had her heart's
desire, and had been one with his very soul, in a manner to which no
earthly union could aspire ... how had he treated her? Even at this
thought a shudder of repulsion ran through him.... It was unnatural,
detestable ... yet how sweet...! What did the Church say of such
things...? But what if religion were wrong, and this indeed were the
satiety of the higher nature of which marriage was but the material
expression...?

The thoughts flew swifter than clouds as he sat there, bewildering,
torturing, beckoning. He made a violent effort. He must be sane, and
face things.

"Mr. Vincent," he cried.

The kindly face turned to him again.

"Mr. Vincent...."

"Hush, I quite understand," said the fatherly voice. "It is a shock, I
know; but Truth is a little shocking sometimes. Wait. I perfectly
understand that you must have time. You must think it all over, and
verify this. You must not commit yourself. But I think you had better
have my address. The ladies are a little too emotional, are they not?
I expect you would sooner come to see me without them."

He laid his card on the little tea-table and stood up.

"Good-night, Mr. Baxter."

Laurie took his hand, and looked for a moment into the kind eyes.
Then the man was gone.


II

That was a little while ago, now, and Laurie sitting over breakfast
had had time to think it out, and by an act of sustained will to
suspend his judgment.

He had come back again to the state I have described--to nervous
interest--no more than that. The terror seemed gone, and certainly the
skepticism seemed gone too. Now he had to face Maggie and his mother,
and to see the grave....

Somehow he had become more accustomed to the idea that there might be
real and solid truth under it all, and familiarity had bred ease. Yet
there was nervousness there too at the thought of going home. There
were moods in which, sitting or walking alone, he passionately desired
it all to be true; other moods in which he was acquiescent; but in
both there was a faint discomfort in the thought of meeting Maggie,
and a certain instinct of propitiation towards her. Maggie had begun
to stand for him as a kind of embodiment of a view of life which was
sane, wholesome, and curiously attractive; there was a largeness about
her, a strength, a sense of fresh air that was delightful. It was that
kind of thing, he thought, that had attracted him to her during this
past summer. The image of Amy, on the other hand, more than ever now
since those recent associations, stood for something quite
contrary--certainly for attractiveness, but of a feverish and vivid
kind, extraordinarily unlike the other. To express it in terms of
time, he thought of Maggie in the morning, and of Amy in the evening,
particularly after dinner. Maggie was cool and sunny; Amy suited
better the evening fever and artificial light.

And now Maggie had to be faced.

First he reflected that he had not breathed a hint, either to her or
his mother, as to what had passed. They both would believe that he had
dropped all this. There would then be no arguing, that at least was a
comfort. But there was a curious sense of isolation and division
between him and the girl.

Yet, after all, he asked himself indignantly, what affair was it of
hers? She was not his confessor; she was just a convent-bred girl who
couldn't understand. He would be aloof and polite. That was the
attitude. And he would manage his own affairs.

He drew a few brisk draughts of smoke from his pipe and stood up.
That was settled.

* * * * *

It was in this determined mood then that he stepped out on to the
platform at the close of this wintry day, and saw Maggie, radiant in
furs, waiting for him, with her back to the orange sunset.

These two did not kiss one another. It was thought better not. But he
took her hand with a pleasant sense of welcome and home-coming.

"Auntie's in the brougham," she said. "There's lots of room for the
luggage on the top.... Oh! Laurie, how jolly this is!"

It was a pleasant two-mile drive that they had. Laurie sat with his
back to the horses. His mother patted his knee once or twice under the
fur rug, and looked at him with benevolent pleasure. It seemed at
first a very delightful home-coming. Mrs. Baxter asked after Mr.
Morton, Laurie's coach, with proper deference.

But places have as strong a power of retaining associations as
persons, and even as they turned down into the hamlet Laurie was aware
that this was particularly true just now. He carefully did not glance
out at Mr. Nugent's shop, but it was of no use. The whole place was as
full to him of the memory of Amy--and more than the memory, it
seemed--as if she was still alive. They drew up at the very gate where
he had whispered her name; the end of the yew walk, where he had sat
on a certain night, showed beyond the house; and half a mile behind
lay the meadows, darkling now, where he had first met her face to face
in the sunset, and the sluice of the stream where they had stood
together silent. And all was like a landscape seen through colored
paper by a child, it was of the uniform tint of death and sorrow.

Laurie was rather quiet all that evening. His mother noticed it, and
it produced a remark from her that for an instant brought his heart
into his mouth.

"You look a little peaked, dearest," she said, as she took her bedroom
candlestick from him. "You haven't been thinking any more about that
Spiritualism?"

He handed a candlestick to Maggie, avoiding her eyes.

"Oh, for a bit," he said lightly, "but I haven't touched the thing for
over two months."

He said it so well that even Maggie was reassured. She had just
hesitated for a fraction of a second to hear his answer, and she went
to bed well content.

Her contentment was even deeper next morning when Laurie, calling to
her through the cheerful frosty air, made her stop at the turning to
the village on her way to church.

"I'm coming," he said virtuously; "I haven't been on a weekday for
ages."

They talked of this and that for the half-mile before them. At the
church door she hesitated again.

"Laurie, I wish you'd come to the Protestant churchyard with me for a
moment afterwards, will you?"

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