The Algernon Blackwood Collection

by Algernon Blackwood

  Shorthouse made no reply to this. He felt that the other was watching him as a cat watches a mouse.

  “It is almost a wonder to me,” Garvey added, “that he is still at large. Unless he has greatly improved it can hardly be safe for those who are closely associated with him.”

  The other began to feel uncomfortable. Either this was the other side of the story, or it was the first signs of mental irresponsibility.

  “All business matters of importance require the utmost care in my opinion, Mr. Garvey,” he said at length, cautiously.

  “Ah! then, as I thought, you have had a great deal to put up with from him,” Garvey said, with his eyes fixed on his companion’s face. “And, no doubt, he is still as bitter against me as he was years ago when the disease first showed itself?”

  Although this last remark was a deliberate question and the questioner was waiting with fixed eyes for an answer, Shorthouse elected to take no notice of it. Without a word he pulled the elastic band from the blue envelope with a snap and plainly showed his desire to conclude the business as soon as possible. The tendency on the other’s part to delay did not suit him at all.

  “But never personal violence, I trust, Mr. Shorthouse,” he added.

  “Never.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Garvey said in a sympathetic voice, “very glad to hear it. And now,” he went on, “if you are ready we can transact this little matter of business before dinner. It will only take a moment.”

  He drew a chair up to the desk and sat down, taking a pair of scissors from a drawer. His companion approached with the papers in his hand, unfolding them as he came. Garvey at once took them from him, and after turning over a few pages he stopped and cut out a piece of writing at the bottom of the last sheet but one.

  Holding it up to him Shorthouse read the words “Joel Garvey” in faded ink.

  “There! That’s my signature,” he said, “and I’ve cut it out. It must be nearly twenty years since I wrote it, and now I’m going to burn it.”

  He went to the fire and stooped over to burn the little slip of paper, and while he watched it being consumed Shorthouse put the real papers in his pocket and slipped the imitation ones into the bag. Garvey turned just in time to see this latter movement.

  “I’m putting the papers back,” Shorthouse said quietly; “you’ve done with them, I think.”

  “Certainly,” he replied as, completely deceived, he saw the blue envelope disappear into the black bag and watched Shorthouse turn the key. “They no longer have the slightest interest for me.” As he spoke he moved over to the sideboard, and pouring himself out a small glass of whisky asked his visitor if he might do the same for him. But the visitor declined and was already putting on his overcoat when Garvey turned with genuine surprise on his face.

  “You surely are not going back to New York to-night, Mr. Shorthouse?” he said, in a voice of astonishment.

  “I’ve just time to catch the 7.15 if I’m quick.”

  “But I never heard of such a thing,” Garvey said. “Of course I took it for granted that you would stay the night.”

  “It’s kind of you,” said Shorthouse, “but really I must return to-night. I never expected to stay.”

  The two men stood facing each other. Garvey pulled out his watch.

  “I’m exceedingly sorry,” he said; “but, upon my word, I took it for granted you would stay. I ought to have said so long ago. I’m such a lonely fellow and so little accustomed to visitors that I fear I forgot my manners altogether. But in any case, Mr. Shorthouse, you cannot catch the 7.15, for it’s already after six o’clock, and that’s the last train to-night.” Garvey spoke very quickly, almost eagerly, but his voice sounded genuine.

  “There’s time if I walk quickly,” said the young man with decision, moving towards the door. He glanced at his watch as he went. Hitherto he had gone by the clock on the mantelpiece. To his dismay he saw that it was, as his host had said, long after six. The clock was half an hour slow, and he realised at once that it was no longer possible to catch the train.

  Had the hands of the clock been moved back intentionally? Had he been purposely detained? Unpleasant thoughts flashed into his brain and made him hesitate before taking the next step. His employer’s warning rang in his ears. The alternative was six miles along a lonely road in the dark, or a night under Garvey’s roof. The former seemed a direct invitation to catastrophe, if catastrophe there was planned to be. The latter—well, the choice was certainly small. One thing, however, he realised, was plain—he must show neither fear nor hesitancy.

  “My watch must have gained,” he observed quietly, turning the hands back without looking up. “It seems I have certainly missed that train and shall be obliged to throw myself upon your hospitality. But, believe me, I had no intention of putting you out to any such extent.”

  “I’m delighted,” the other said. “Defer to the judgment of an older man and make yourself comfortable for the night. There’s a bitter storm outside, and you don’t put me out at all. On the contrary it’s a great pleasure. I have so little contact with the outside world that it’s really a god-send to have you.”

  The man’s face changed as he spoke. His manner was cordial and sincere. Shorthouse began to feel ashamed of his doubts and to read between the lines of his employer’s warning. He took off his coat and the two men moved to the armchairs beside the fire.

  “You see,” Garvey went on in a lowered voice, “I understand your hesitancy perfectly. I didn’t know Sidebotham all those years without knowing a good deal about him—perhaps more than you do. I’ve no doubt, now, he filled your mind with all sorts of nonsense about me—probably told you that I was the greatest villain unhung, eh? and all that sort of thing? Poor fellow! He was a fine sort before his mind became unhinged. One of his fancies used to be that everybody else was insane, or just about to become insane. Is he still as bad as that?”

  “Few men,” replied Shorthouse, with the manner of making a great confidence, but entirely refusing to be drawn, “go through his experiences and reach his age without entertaining delusions of one kind or another.”

  “Perfectly true,” said Garvey. “Your observation is evidently keen.”

  “Very keen indeed,” Shorthouse replied, taking his cue neatly; “but, of course, there are some things"—and here he looked cautiously over his shoulder—"there are some things one cannot talk about too circumspectly.”

  “I understand perfectly and respect your reserve.”

  There was a little more conversation and then Garvey got up and excused himself on the plea of superintending the preparation of the bedroom.

  “It’s quite an event to have a visitor in the house, and I want to make you as comfortable as possible,” he said. “Marx will do better for a little supervision. And,” he added with a laugh as he stood in the doorway, “I want you to carry back a good account to Sidebotham.”

  II

  The tall form disappeared and the door was shut. The conversation of the past few minutes had come somewhat as a revelation to the secretary. Garvey seemed in full possession of normal instincts. There was no doubt as to the sincerity of his manner and intentions. The suspicions of the first hour began to vanish like mist before the sun. Sidebotham’s portentous warnings and the mystery with which he surrounded the whole episode had been allowed to unduly influence his mind. The loneliness of the situation and the bleak nature of the surroundings had helped to complete the illusion. He began to be ashamed of his suspicions and a change commenced gradually to be wrought in his thoughts. Anyhow a dinner and a bed were preferable to six miles in the dark, no dinner, and a cold train into the bargain.

  Garvey returned presently. “We’ll do the best we can for you,” he said, dropping into the deep armchair on the other side of the fire. “Marx is a good servant if you watch him all the time. You must always stand over a Jew, though, if you want things done properly. They’re tricky and uncertain unless they’re working for their own interest
. But Marx might be worse, I’ll admit. He’s been with me for nearly twenty years—cook, valet, housemaid, and butler all in one. In the old days, you know, he was a clerk in our office in Chicago.”

  Garvey rattled on and Shorthouse listened with occasional remarks thrown in. The former seemed pleased to have somebody to talk to and the sound of his own voice was evidently sweet music in his ears. After a few minutes, he crossed over to the sideboard and again took up the decanter of whisky, holding it to the light. “You will join me this time,” he said pleasantly, pouring out two glasses, “it will give us an appetite for dinner,” and this time Shorthouse did not refuse. The liquor was mellow and soft and the men took two glasses apiece.

  “Excellent,” remarked the secretary.

  “Glad you appreciate it,” said the host, smacking his lips. “It’s very old whisky, and I rarely touch it when I’m alone. But this,” he added, “is a special occasion, isn’t it?”

  Shorthouse was in the act of putting his glass down when something drew his eyes suddenly to the other’s face. A strange note in the man’s voice caught his attention and communicated alarm to his nerves. A new light shone in Garvey’s eyes and there flitted momentarily across his strong features the shadow of something that set the secretary’s nerves tingling. A mist spread before his eyes and the unaccountable belief rose strong in him that he was staring into the visage of an untamed animal. Close to his heart there was something that was wild, fierce, savage. An involuntary shiver ran over him and seemed to dispel the strange fancy as suddenly as it had come. He met the other’s eye with a smile, the counterpart of which in his heart was vivid horror.

  “It is a special occasion,” he said, as naturally as possible, “and, allow me to add, very special whisky.”

  Garvey appeared delighted. He was in the middle of a devious tale describing how the whisky came originally into his possession when the door opened behind them and a grating voice announced that dinner was ready. They followed the cassocked form of Marx across the dirty hall, lit only by the shaft of light that followed them from the library door, and entered a small room where a single lamp stood upon a table laid for dinner. The walls were destitute of pictures, and the windows had Venetian blinds without curtains. There was no fire in the grate, and when the men sat down facing each other Shorthouse noticed that, while his own cover was laid with its due proportion of glasses and cutlery, his companion had nothing before him but a soup plate, without fork, knife, or spoon beside it.

  “I don’t know what there is to offer you,” he said; “but I’m sure Marx has done the best he can at such short notice. I only eat one course for dinner, but pray take your time and enjoy your food.”

  Marx presently set a plate of soup before the guest, yet so loathsome was the immediate presence of this old Hebrew servitor, that the spoonfuls disappeared somewhat slowly. Garvey sat and watched him.

  Shorthouse said the soup was delicious and bravely swallowed another mouthful. In reality his thoughts were centred upon his companion, whose manners were giving evidence of a gradual and curious change. There was a decided difference in his demeanour, a difference that the secretary felt at first, rather than saw. Garvey’s quiet self-possession was giving place to a degree of suppressed excitement that seemed so far inexplicable. His movements became quick and nervous, his eye shifting and strangely brilliant, and his voice, when he spoke, betrayed an occasional deep tremor. Something unwonted was stirring within him and evidently demanding every moment more vigorous manifestation as the meal proceeded.

  Intuitively Shorthouse was afraid of this growing excitement, and while negotiating some uncommonly tough pork chops he tried to lead the conversation on to the subject of chemistry, of which in his Oxford days he had been an enthusiastic student. His companion, however, would none of it. It seemed to have lost interest for him, and he would barely condescend to respond. When Marx presently returned with a plate of steaming eggs and bacon the subject dropped of its own accord.

  “An inadequate dinner dish,” Garvey said, as soon as the man was gone; “but better than nothing, I hope.”

  Shorthouse remarked that he was exceedingly fond of bacon and eggs, and, looking up with the last word, saw that Garvey’s face was twitching convulsively and that he was almost wriggling in his chair. He quieted down, however, under the secretary’s gaze and observed, though evidently with an effort—

  “Very good of you to say so. Wish I could join you, only I never eat such stuff. I only take one course for dinner.”

  Shorthouse began to feel some curiosity as to what the nature of this one course might be, but he made no further remark and contented himself with noting mentally that his companion’s excitement seemed to be rapidly growing beyond his control. There was something uncanny about it, and he began to wish he had chosen the alternative of the walk to the station.

  “I’m glad to see you never speak when Marx is in the room,” said Garvey presently. “I’m sure it’s better not. Don’t you think so?”

  He appeared to wait eagerly for the answer.

  “Undoubtedly,” said the puzzled secretary.

  “Yes,” the other went on quickly. “He’s an excellent man, but he has one drawback—a really horrid one. You may—but, no, you could hardly have noticed it yet.”

  “Not drink, I trust,” said Shorthouse, who would rather have discussed any other subject than the odious Jew.

  “Worse than that a great deal,” Garvey replied, evidently expecting the other to draw him out. But Shorthouse was in no mood to hear anything horrible, and he declined to step into the trap.

  “The best of servants have their faults,” he said coldly.

  “I’ll tell you what it is if you like,” Garvey went on, still speaking very low and leaning forward over the table so that his face came close to the flame of the lamp, “only we must speak quietly in case he’s listening. I’ll tell you what it is—if you think you won’t be frightened.”

  “Nothing frightens me,” he laughed. (Garvey must understand that at all events.) “Nothing can frighten me,” he repeated.

  “I’m glad of that; for it frightens me a good deal sometimes.”

  Shorthouse feigned indifference. Yet he was aware that his heart was beating a little quicker and that there was a sensation of chilliness in his back. He waited in silence for what was to come.

  “He has a horrible predilection for vacuums,” Garvey went on presently in a still lower voice and thrusting his face farther forward under the lamp.

  “Vacuums!” exclaimed the secretary in spite of himself. “What in the world do you mean?”

  “What I say of course. He’s always tumbling into them, so that I can’t find him or get at him. He hides there for hours at a time, and for the life of me I can’t make out what he does there.”

  Shorthouse stared his companion straight in the eyes. What in the name of Heaven was he talking about?

  “Do you suppose he goes there for a change of air, or—or to escape?” he went on in a louder voice.

  Shorthouse could have laughed outright but for the expression of the other’s face.

  “I should not think there was much air of any sort in a vacuum,” he said quietly.

  “That’s exactly what I feel,” continued Garvey with ever growing excitement. “That’s the horrid part of it. How the devil does he live there? You see—”

  “Have you ever followed him there?” interrupted the secretary. The other leaned back in his chair and drew a deep sigh.

  “Never! It’s impossible. You see I can’t follow him. There’s not room for two. A vacuum only holds one comfortably. Marx knows that. He’s out of my reach altogether once he’s fairly inside. He knows the best side of a bargain. He’s a regular Jew.”

  “That is a drawback to a servant, of course—” Shorthouse spoke slowly, with his eyes on his plate.

  “A drawback,” interrupted the other with an ugly chuckle, “I call it a draw-in, that’s what I call it.”

&nb
sp; “A draw-in does seem a more accurate term,” assented Shorthouse. “But,” he went on, “I thought that nature abhorred a vacuum. She used to, when I was at school—though perhaps—it’s so long ago—”

  He hesitated and looked up. Something in Garvey’s face—something he had felt before he looked up—stopped his tongue and froze the words in his throat. His lips refused to move and became suddenly dry. Again the mist rose before his eyes and the appalling shadow dropped its veil over the face before him. Garvey’s features began to burn and glow. Then they seemed to coarsen and somehow slip confusedly together. He stared for a second—it seemed only for a second—into the visage of a ferocious and abominable animal; and then, as suddenly as it had come, the filthy shadow of the beast passed off, the mist melted out, and with a mighty effort over his nerves he forced himself to finish his sentence.

  “You see it’s so long since I’ve given attention to such things,” he stammered. His heart was beating rapidly, and a feeling of oppression was gathering over it.

  “It’s my peculiar and special study on the other hand,” Garvey resumed. “I’ve not spent all these years in my laboratory to no purpose, I can assure you. Nature, I know for a fact,” he added with unnatural warmth, “does not abhor a vacuum. On the contrary, she’s uncommonly fond of ‘em, much too fond, it seems, for the comfort of my little household. If there were fewer vacuums and more abhorrence we should get on better—a damned sight better in my opinion.”

  “Your special knowledge, no doubt, enables you to speak with authority,” Shorthouse said, curiosity and alarm warring with other mixed feelings in his mind; “but how can a man tumble into a vacuum?”

  “You may well ask. That’s just it. How can he? It’s preposterous and I can’t make it out at all. Marx knows, but he won’t tell me. Jews know more than we do. For my part I have reason to believe—” He stopped and listened. “Hush! here he comes,” he added, rubbing his hands together as if in glee and fidgeting in his chair.

  Steps were heard coming down the passage, and as they approached the door Garvey seemed to give himself completely over to an excitement he could not control. His eyes were fixed on the door and he began clutching the tablecloth with both hands. Again his face was screened by the loathsome shadow. It grew wild, wolfish. As through a mask, that concealed, and yet was thin enough to let through a suggestion of, the beast crouching behind, there leaped into his countenance the strange look of the animal in the human—the expression of the were-wolf, the monster. The change in all its loathsomeness came rapidly over his features, which began to lose their outline. The nose flattened, dropping with broad nostrils over thick lips. The face rounded, filled, and became squat. The eyes, which, luckily for Shorthouse, no longer sought his own, glowed with the light of untamed appetite and bestial greed. The hands left the cloth and grasped the edges of the plate, and then clutched the cloth again.