by Jack Fennell
‘I next thought of trying to make my presence audible. This experiment, however, failed even more promptly than the other; I couldn’t utter a sound. I picked up a stone and knocked on the gate; I continued the process for some time before it dawned upon me that my hammering produced no noise whatever. It is true that soon afterwards a ridiculous-looking small terrier came trotting round the corner; but his bored and indifferent air only too plainly proved his arrival to be non propter hoc. I vainly endeavoured to attract his attention, whistling phantom whistles, and slapping my knees, and even going to the length of flourishing defiant legs; he paid no attention to me, and instead saw fit to bark himself hoarse at a flock of sparrows. Altogether it seemed sufficiently obvious that in these new scenes, where and whatever they might be, I was to play the part merely of a spectator, invisible, inaudible, intangible.
‘What happened next was that a glass door in the house opened, and out of it came two ladies, one of whom I recognised as my eldest sister, Elizabeth. There was nothing in her appearance to make me for a moment doubt her identity, though it did strike me that she looked unusually grave and, yes, decidedly older. I was then inclined to attribute this impression to the old-fashioned dress she wore; but I must now suppose her attire to have been whatever is to be the latest novelty for that particular summer. The other girl puzzled me much more, for although there was certainly something familiar about her, I couldn’t fit any name to her; and it wasn’t until I heard my sister call her “Nellie” that I realised she was Helen Ronaldson. She, you know, is a sort of cousin of ours, and my mother’s ward, and has lived with us most of her life; so, there was nothing surprising in finding her and Elizabeth together. The strange thing was that whereas I saw her a few months ago in the guise of an angular, inky-fingered school-girl of fifteen or sixteen at most, yesterday she had shot up to twenty or thereabouts, had grown several inches, and had undoubtedly turned into a young lady.
‘They came down the path, running along inside the boundary-bank, and sat down on a garden seat, behind which I found no difficulty in taking up a position well within eavesdropping distance. I’d begun by this time to suspect how matters stood, and was consequently rather uneasy in my mind. One can’t find oneself suddenly plumped down five years or so ahead of yesterday, without speculating as to how things – and people – have gone on in the meantime. So much may happen in five years. The situation produces the same sort of feeling that I fancy one might have upon finding oneself intact after a railway accident, and proceeding to investigate who among one’s fellow passengers have held together, what number of limbs they still can muster, and so on. Of course, I was not sure that I would learn anything from their conversation; they might have talked for an hour without saying a word to enlighten me; but, as good luck would have it, they were discussing a batch of letters received that morning from various members of the family, about whom I was thus enabled to pick up many more or less disconnected facts. It appeared, for instance, that my sister Maud was married, and living in South Kensington. My brother Dick, who has just got a naval cadetship, was in command of a gunboat somewhere off the Chinese coast. Walter seemed to be doing well on the horse-ranch in the Rockies, which he’s hankering after at present – all satisfactory enough. The only thing that made me uneasy was that for some time neither of them mentioned my mother, and it really was an immense relief to my mind when at last Elizabeth said, “We haven’t got any sweet-pea, and mother always likes a bit for her table.”
“We must get some before we go in. Her cold seems to be much better this morning,” Nellie replied.
“Oh yes, nearly gone. There’s no fear that she won’t be able to appear on Thursday. That would be indeed unlucky; why, a wedding without a mother-in-law would be nearly as bad as one without a bridegroom, wouldn’t it?”
Nellie laughed and blushed, but expressed no opinion, and Elizabeth went on:
“Talking of that, do you expect Vincent this morning?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t sure whether his leave would begin today or tomorrow. He said that if he got it today, he would look in here on his way to Lowestoft.”
“That’s rather a roundabout way from Norwich, isn’t it? You know, Nellie, I’m glad that you’ll be in York next winter. There’s much more going on there, and you can ask me to stay with you!”
‘From these last remarks I inferred two facts respecting Vincent, my youngest brother, neither of which would I have been at all inclined to predict: that he had entered the army, though he has so far displayed no leanings towards a military career; and that he was about to marry Helen Ronaldson. Why, the idea’s absurd! I remember that in the days of their infancy, being nearly contemporaries, they used to squabble a good deal, and at present I believe they regard one another with a feeling of happy indifference. In Vincent’s last letter to me he said he was afraid that he would find the house awfully overrun with girls when he went home, which was, if I’m not mistaken, a graceful allusion to the circumstance that Nellie’s holidays coincide with his own.
‘However, likely or unlikely, I had soon conclusive proof that such was actually the case, as Vincent himself arrived, not easily recognisable, indeed, having developed into a remarkably good-looking young fellow. The discreet way in which Elizabeth presently detached herself from the group and went to gather sweet-pea, would alone have led me to suspect the state of affairs, even if the demeanour of the other two had not made it so very plain before they walked round a corner beyond the range of my observations. But they were scarcely out of sight when there appeared upon the scene a fourth person who took me utterly by surprise, though, of course, if I had considered a little, it was natural enough that I – I mean he – should be there.
‘All the same, it gives one an uncommonly uncanny sensation, I can tell you, to see oneself walk out of a door some way off, stand looking about for a minute or two, and then come sauntering towards one with his hands in your pockets – I’m afraid my pronouns are rather mixed, but I don’t know how else to describe it. I’m not sure whether in such cases we see ourselves as others see us: I should fancy so, for I noticed that I looked extremely – I must hope abnormally – grumpy; I don’t think I was improved either by the short beard he had set up, not to mention several streaks of grey in my hair. Just then I saw Elizabeth crossing the grass to speak to me – I don’t mean to myself, you know, but to him – and I heard her say: “You’re a very unfeeling relative! Have you forgotten that this is my birthday?” This, by the way, fixes the date exactly: it must have been the twenty-third of June, five years ahead from tomorrow. I regret to say that in reply he only gave a sort of grunt, and muttered something about anniversaries being a great bore; and I remember thinking that if I were she I’d leave him to get out of his bad temper myself – I say, these pronouns are really getting quite too many for me …’
‘Your own name is rather a convenient length, why not use it?’ I observed. Lynn considered and adopted the suggestion.
‘Well, then, Elizabeth and John Lynn strolled aimlessly about for a while, but soon went into the house, and after that I saw nobody else, except occasionally the gardener, for what seemed a very long period. I had nothing at all to do, and the time dragged considerably. The strip of beach on which I could move about was hot and glaring, and disagreeably deep in soft sand; yet, for want of better occupation, in the course of the afternoon, I walked more than a mile along it in a northerly direction, until I came to a dilapidated-looking old boat-house, built in a recess between two sandhills, and just beyond the line I couldn’t cross.
‘Having reached this point, and seeing nothing else of interest, I slowly retraced my steps towards the pleasure-grounds’ gate. By this time, it must have been four or five o’clock, and the weather, hitherto bright and clear, showed a change for the worse. An ugly livid-hued cloud was spreading like a bruise over the sky to the southeast, and sudden gusts began to ruffle up the long, bent grasses of the sand-hills on my right hand.
‘When I came near the gate, several people were standing at it, apparently watching two men who were doing something to a small sailing-boat, which lay off a little pier close by. Elizabeth and Nellie, and my other sister Juliet, were there, and Elizabeth was explaining to an elderly man, whom I have never succeeded in identifying, that Jack and Vincent intended to sail across to Graston Spit – she pointed over the water to a low tongue of land at no great distance – which would be Vincent’s shortest way to Lowestoft. “In that case,” said he, “the sooner they’re off the better, for it looks as if we might have a squall before very long, and the glass is by no means steady today.” The women debated among themselves about whether the short trip was advisable, eventually concluding that the two men should give up the idea. John Lynn, whose temper seemed to have somewhat improved, asserted that they would have a splendid breeze, and that he would be back again in an hour or so. Accordingly, they hurried over their adieux, and lost no time in getting off, taking nobody else with them.
‘They had been gone perhaps three-quarters of an hour, when the “splendid breeze” appeared in the shape of a furious squall, hissing and howling on with remarkable suddenness and violence, and brought the girls, who were still out-of-doors, running with dismayed countenances to look over the gate to the sea. The sweeping gusts bore to me fitful snatches of anxious colloquies, the general drift of which, however, seemed to be towards the conclusion that the boat must have got over before the wind sprang up, and that Jack would, of course, wait there until it went down. As the blasts moderated a little, they were accompanied by driving sheets of large-dropped rain, which again sent the girls scurrying indoors, and I was left alone. I thought much upon the boat and its occupants, who must, I thought, be having a rather nasty time of it, unless they had really landed before the squall; for both wind and tide were against them, and a surprising sea had got up already. I consider myself to know something about the management of a boat, and I supposed that my strange double or “fetch”1 might be credited with an equal amount of skill; Vincent, however, has had little or no experience of nautical matters.
‘I reviewed the situation, standing where the shallow foam-slides seethed to my feet, and I found myself contemplating a catastrophe to that John Lynn with a feeling which I can’t either describe or explain. After a while, I began to pace up and down the beach as the light was thickening, when, on turning a corner, I again came in sight of the old boat-house again. Almost at the same moment, my eye was caught by some dark object on the sea, elusively disappearing and reappearing between the folds of grey vapour drifting low upon the water. A longer rift soon showed me plainly that it was a small boat in sorry plight, filling and settling down so fast, that her final disappearance would evidently be a question of a very few minutes. There was nobody in her, and I thought to myself that if anyone had gone overboard in that sea, he must assuredly have preceded her to the bottom. And I felt equally convinced that she was no other than the boat in which I had seen the two Lynns embark.
‘This proved to be both right and wrong: she was the Lynns’ boat, but the Lynns had not gone to the bottom. I now became aware of a human form, which, at not many yards’ distance, was making slow and struggling progress through the swirling surf towards the water’s edge, and had already reached a place shallow enough to admit of wading. As I ran forward, not to assist – having long since ascertained that I could by no means demonstrate my presence – but merely to investigate; it turned out to be John Lynn, half-carrying, and half-dragging along Vincent, who was apparently insensible. I had an awful scare, I can tell you, for he flopped down on the sand when I – when John let him go, in such a lifeless, limp sort of way, that I thought at first the lad had really come to grief. However, I suppose he had only been slightly stunned; at any rate, in a minute or two he sat up, and seemed none the worse. But when he got to his feet, it was evident that he had somehow damaged one of his ankles, and he could hardly attempt the feeblest hobble. All this time the rain was coming down in torrents, and it was blowing so hard that you could scarcely hear yourself speak.
“It’s a good step – more than a mile,” I heard the other John Lynn say. “Do you think you could get as far as the old boathouse? Then you’d be under shelter, while I run back and find some means of getting you home.”
‘They made their way haltingly to the boathouse, which, judging by the cobwebby creaking of the door, had not been entered for many a long day, and into which I was, of course, unable to follow them. Presently, John Lynn came out alone, and set off running towards the house at a very creditable pace, considering the depth of the sand and the weight of his drenched garments. I had found a tolerably sheltered station under the lee of a sandbank, and I decided to wait where I was for his return; but I had to wait much longer than one might have expected. The twilight turned into dusk, and the wind dropped, and the sky cleared, and a large full-moon came out, all in a leisurely way, but there was no sign of anybody coming near us. I couldn’t account for the delay, and abused John Lynn a good deal in consequence of it. I know my wits sometimes go wool-gathering, but I’m certain I should never have been such an ass as to leave another fellow sitting wet through for a couple of hours. Vincent, too, was evidently getting impatient, for I heard him shout “Jack” once or twice, and whistle at intervals in a way which I knew betokened exasperation.
‘At last John Lynn came posting round the corner, apparently in no end of a hurry, but not a soul with him, though he’d been away long enough to have collected half the county. As he ran up to the boat-house, I saw him taking out of his pocket something which gleamed in the moonlight, and was, I’m pretty sure, the top of a flask, so he’d at any rate had the sense to bring some spirits. I wanted to find out whether any more people were on their way, and forgetting for the moment that the boat-house wasn’t in my reach, I went after him to the door. And there two queer things happened.
‘In the first place, I got a glimpse, just for an instant, but quite distinctly, of you, Dr Harlowe; and immediately afterwards an extraordinary feeling of horror came over me, and I began to rush away, I don’t know why or where, but on, on, until the air suddenly turned into a solid black wall, and I went smash against it, and somehow seemed to wake up – sitting here at this table.’
‘That’s the first sensible remark you’ve made today,’ I said, in the most soothingly matter-of-fact tone that I could assume. ‘Only why do you say “seemed”? I should think it was perfectly obvious that you did really wake up – or is there more to follow?’
‘Then I dreamt it all?’ said he.
‘All of it that you haven’t elaborated since then, just by thinking it over,’ I replied.
‘Oh, well,’ said my young friend with a certain air of forbearing superiority, ‘as it happens, I dreamt it no more than you did. But if you prefer it, we’ll call it a dream. At any rate, it wasn’t a bad one. I should feel rather uncomfortable now if it had ended disastrously; however, as far as one can see, nothing worse seemed likely to come of it than Nellie’s being obliged either to postpone her wedding for a week, or to put up with a hobbling bridegroom. Then, as to those disagreeable sensations at the conclusion, I dare say they could have been caused by the process by which one is conveyed back and forward; some phase, no doubt, of disintegration of matter. But you said, didn’t you, that you wanted to borrow Walt Whitman? Here he is – mad Martin Tupper flavoured with dirt, in my judgment; however, you may like him better.’
During the remainder of our interview, John Lynn was so composed and rational that I began to think less seriously of his relapse. After all, many thoroughly sane people had been overcome by vivid and coherent dreams, and I felt no doubt that in his case the impression would wear off in a day or two. As I went out, I communicated these views to Dr Warden, who agreed with my assessment.
This proved to be my last conversation with John Lynn. That very evening I was unexpectedly called away by business, which obliged me to spend several months in America. Upon r
eturning, I found that he had left Greystones House cured, and had gone abroad for a long tour. After which, I heard nothing more about him; as time went by, I thought of him less and less.
In the early summer, five years later – my diary fixes all dates – I happened to be wandering along the eastern coast, and arrived one evening at a remote little seaside place in Norfolk. The next morning, the twenty-third of June, was brilliantly fine, and tempted me out with my photographing gear. My negatives turned out better than usual, and as it was a new fad with me, I became so deeply absorbed in my attempts that I allowed myself to be overtaken, a good way from home, by a violent storm of wind and rain. I had an extremely unpleasant walk home with my unwieldy camera and other paraphernalia; having got into dry clothes, and ascertained that several of my most promising plates had been destroyed, I did not feel enthusiastically benevolent when the landlord appeared in my room.
A young man, he told me, had just come over in the dogcart from Sandford Lodge – Mrs Lynn’s place below – to fetch a doctor for the old lady, who had taken a turn for the worse; the local doctor, however, was on a call several miles away and could not be reached. ‘And so, sir,’ proceeded my landlord, ‘believin’ as you be a medical gentleman, I made bold to mention the suckumstance to you, in case as how you might think on doin’ summat for her.’