by Mark Hansom
I was not interested in ghosts, any more than I was interested in rare sons or superfluous daughters.
But Sylvia, curiously enough, was interested in ghosts. She allowed her attention to wander from Christopher; and Christopher made a wry face at me across the table and assumed a comical expression of the most intense interest in the Professor’s remarks.
The Professor said nothing original. He told us that he had never met anybody who had seen a ghost outside the darkened rooms of a spiritualist, and that he had never met any honest person who was not inclined to keep an open mind on the subject.
“But surely, sir, you don’t believe in such things!” I ventured to remark.
I was slightly disturbed by the knowledge that such a hard-headed man as Professor Wetherhouse was reputed to be should pay any attention to old wives’ tales.
“No, I don’t believe,” he said. “I didn’t say I believed.” He had a face that spoke of tolerance, and the tone in which he spoke took all the sharpness out of the rebuke which I had merited. “But I don’t lay that I disbelieve,” he added. “The most I can do is to reserve any opinion.”
“Then you think that there might be some truth in the stories we hear about haunted houses and haunted families and all that sort of thing?”
It was Sylvia who spoke; and I noticed the curious way in which her voice trailed off towards the end of her sentence, and the way in which her lips were parted, and the way in which she kept her eyes on the old gentleman’s face.
Christopher, too, was looking up — genuinely interested now. In fact, the three of us — the three youngsters — were more absorbed in the question than any of the others. We three were on the threshold of life. We found life a good thing, and it would be disturbing to be told that there were queer things going on about us — things that we did not understand, things that threatened the fine inconsequence of youth.
“There certainly might be,” said the Professor; and there the matter disappointingly ended through someone butting in with a remark upon theatres.
But during the rest of the dinner Sylvia was quiet.
So was Christopher, probably because he could not engage Sylvia in conversation. And so was I. The temporary interest of the Professor’s remarks had expended itself and I was once more thinking of the tremendous fact of Sylvia.
I could not see tragedy ahead, but I could see distressing complications. Christopher was my best friend, and he had won the affections of Miss Vernon. He was, of all men, the one most entitled to the affections of such a divine creature, but that did not count with me then. The only thing that did count was that I and not he should win her. I would have sacrificed everything — friendship, honour, my immortal soul — to that end. The mere sight of a girl had altered my very character.
Christopher and I left together. The night was cold but fine, and we set off to walk down Park Lane. At Hyde Park Corner we should part, he to go on to his rooms in Jermyn Street and I to stroll along to the Brompton Road.
“I ought to congratulate you,” I said, “on having found such an exquisite creature as Miss Vernon.”
“Ought to?”
“Yes. Unfortunately I can’t. I’ve fallen in love with her myself.”
He laughed.
“That’s better than any congratulation,” he said. “It’s the most sincere compliment you could pay me. I am a lucky devil, eh?”
Christopher was so innocently proud of himself that I was almost ashamed of my jealousy.
It never occurred to me to observe that I was being despicably churlish in withholding my congratulations. I ought to have been happy for Christopher’s sake, but I could not bring myself to share in his joy.
“You are a lucky devil,” I agreed. “Do you know what I could do?”
“What you could do?”
“Yes . . . I could kill you.”
It was not until the words were out of my mouth that I realized what I had said. Even then I might have laughed and turned such a terrible assertion into a jest; but I was struck aghast for the moment by the knowledge that I actually meant what I said.
Christopher might have laughed too, for it was inconceivable that he should take me seriously; but there must have been something in my expression or in my tone that made him guess at my true feelings, for he said:
“You don’t mean that, of course?”
Again it was the tone in which the words were spoken that gave them their fullest meaning. The tone expressed uncertainty. He could not be sure that I did not mean what I had said.
Even then it would have been easy for me to laugh at his doubt and at the start of panic that had leapt to his eyes for just an instant. It would have been easy for me to laugh and so clear the air immediately.
But instead of that I tried to assure him by serious words that of course I did not mean what I had said.
“It was just a passing thought,” I told him. “A temporary assertion of instinct over breeding, if you like. You know that the most peaceful of us sometimes want to kill.”
“I understand. But why should you want to kill me?” he asked, laughing now, but glancing curiously towards me nevertheless.
“Because I am jealous of you, Christopher,” I replied. “I am more jealous of you than I have ever been of anyone.”
“Do you mean because of Sylvia?”
It was of no use my trying to deceive Christopher. To deceive him I should have had to deceive myself, and I knew I could not do that. Sylvia Vernon had made too great an impression upon me. Had I been less affected by the girl’s unspeakable loveliness I might have kept my feelings hidden in my breast and might have suffered Christopher to go ahead with his wooing under my very eyes. But as things were, such self-restraint would have driven me mad.
I had to be frank with Christopher.
“Yes,” I said; “on account of Miss Vernon. You and I know each other well enough not to worry about convention. I’m jealous of you, and I say so. I would sell my soul to be in your position. You know what that means!”
“I’m afraid I don’t. What does it mean?”
I did not answer immediately. We walked on in silence for about fifty yards, then came to a standstill on the pavement of Piccadilly.
“It means,” I said, laughing and laying my hand on his shoulder, “it means that I want a holiday. And the sooner I pack off, the better. I’m getting stale, nervy. Not enough variety. Want a change.”
I had suddenly regretted my outspokenness. It would have been better, I now thought, had I not mentioned my feelings and had I simply made up my mind to go away. But I had had no intention of going away. I had intended to stay and fight my way into Miss Vernon’s affections. I never doubted but what I could do so. Christopher’s position had not troubled me so far as my being successful with Miss Vernon was concerned.
But my better nature asserted itself even while I was telling Christopher that I was jealous of him, and at the last moment I drew out — said I wanted a change. There was something about Christopher — his fine trusting honesty, perhaps — that prevented me from trying to rob him of Sylvia.
We bade each other good night there on the pavement of Piccadilly, having laughed away the shadow that for a moment had risen between us, and I turned and set off towards the Brompton Road.
And no sooner had I left him — freed myself from the influence of his presence — than I told myself that I was all manner of fools. My thoughts immediately began to play about the image of Sylvia Vernon. I saw her again in all the freshness of her maddening beauty. I heard again her soft musical voice, and was thrilled again by the enlivening effect of her personality.
Why should I trouble about scruples of honour?
Was it wrong to sacrifice even a friend like Christopher if it should mean my eternal happiness?
I asked my conscience these questions, and my conscience answered. But did I heed the answers? I did not. To me at that moment there was only one standard of right and wrong. Winning Sylvia was right, losi
ng her was wrong.
I am not ashamed to say that. I suppose I ought to be; but so irresistible was the attraction that that slim girl exercised over me that I almost think myself freed from responsibility in the matter.
I went home to sleep and to dream.
CHAPTER II
At Jermyn Street
U
nder the influence of Sylvia I had expected to dream. That was quite a sentimental and poetical notion, of course, of the sort that comes to most young men, I suppose, when they are suddenly brought face to face with the most wonderful fact in the universe.
But I did not dream. On the contrary I slept as solidly as a log — too solidly, I think, for I awoke with a splitting headache.
I touched the bell at my bedside, and in a few seconds Makepeace — the man whose mission it is to overcome all the minor worries of my existence — entered the room with my morning cup of tea and two biscuits on a tray.
Makepeace has spent his life in the service of our family, and he clings to me even in this time of comparative poverty when the estates have gone to another branch of the tree and I am the sole survivor of the old stock beloved by Makepeace.
“I hope you slept well, sir.”
“Too well, Makepeace,” I replied. “I was never so ready for a cup of tea as I am now.”
I thought that Makepeace looked at me curiously then, but it is difficult to pierce Makepeace’s expression.
“I thought I heard you about in the night,” he said, half apologetically. Then he added: “It must have been those dreadful people upstairs again. The pity of it!”
This last exclamation was made in reference to my having to occupy a very ordinary flat in a very ordinary building that rose directly from the pavement of a main street and that had a row of shops along the ground floor. This come-down in the world affected Makepeace much more closely than it affected me. It was his chief sorrow in life, and I could not argue it away. I might point out that unless I counted my pennies in the matter of rent I should not be able to retain his services, and I might try to prove that the Brompton Road was a very good road on the whole and that a bachelor such as I was not expected in these days to occupy a mansion in one of the Mayfair squares. But these arguments did nothing to alleviate his sorrow, and his answer to all my attempts at comforting him was: “But the shops, sir! To think that any member of the family of Strange should live over a shop!”
When he had left the tea and the biscuits by my bed and had returned to his duties I began to reflect upon the affairs of the night before, and especially upon my remarkable attitude towards Christopher.
Now, in the bright light of an autumn morning, I was amazed to think that my feelings had carried me so far as to make me object openly to Christopher’s good fortune in being accepted as Sylvia Vernon’s lover. My conduct seemed inexcusable now. I was still as much in love with Sylvia as ever, but my attitude towards Christopher had changed. I could curb my jealousy. I felt that it would be a grand thing to go along to his rooms and apologize for my boorish behaviour of last night.
Dear old Christopher deserved the best. I must not do less than congratulate him upon his immense happiness.
After breakfast I set out for Jermyn Street. I was extraordinarily happy. It might have been the thought of apologizing to Christopher that made me happy — that and the satisfaction of having overcome my churlishness.
I walked slowly, enjoying the crisp morning air and trying to dismiss the thoughts of Sylvia Vernon that would insist on coming forward into my mind. But I could not help being violently in love with her (I doubt whether any man could) and I could excuse myself for giving way to hopeless dreams. I took a morbid pleasure in these dreams — the morbid pleasure of the martyr.
It was about eleven o’clock when I reached Jermyn Street. The main door leading to the stairway common to all the chambers in the building stood open. It always was open. The place was let out in furnished suites of rooms to a number of bachelors of Christopher’s stamp who came and went at all hours of the night.
As I turned into the doorway and started to ascend the staircase I felt in my pocket for the latchkey of Christopher’s rooms. I had a latchkey of his rooms as he had one of mine. We had at times found that arrangement to be of great convenience.
Christopher’s rooms were on the second floor. I had ascended to the first-floor landing when I heard voices above me; and, looking up, I could see that one or two people were on the stairway near Christopher’s door.
I could see a silk hat held in someone’s hand, and beyond that there was the suggestion of a brown fur coat.
I kept on up the ancient stairway, and when I came to the half-landing I could see that the owner of the silk hat was Professor Wetherhouse and that he had his free hand on the shoulder of the woman who wore the fur coat. She had her back towards me so that I could not see her face; but her head was bowed and the Professor seemed to be pleading with her.
So much I noticed at a first glance; and I also noticed that the door of Christopher’s chambers stood open and that there was some sort of movement going on within.
At that moment the Professor raised his head and saw me. He recognized me at once; but it struck me as odd that there should be no smile of greeting in his glance. He seemed worried, and accepted my arrival as a thing of no moment in the midst of whatever it might be that was afoot.
Then the woman turned and looked at me.
It was Sylvia Vernon. She was crying, or had been crying. Her face was deathly white, and her eyes stared at me as though she were in the midst of some awful horror, as indeed she was.
“Here is Mr. Strange,” said the Professor then, and patted her shoulder once more, giving the impression that my arrival might be some consolation to the girl. “Will you allow Mr. Strange to take you home? You ought not to have come, my dear. I told you how it would be.”
“Is anything the matter?” I asked. It was a foolish question, but that was not the time to weigh words.
“Why, surely you’ve heard?” exclaimed the Professor. “They told me they had telephoned to you.”
“I left home nearly an hour ago,” I told him. “But what is the matter?”
He glanced furtively at Sylvia as though afraid to speak in front of her, then, taking her arm and beckoning me to follow, he led us through into Christopher’s sitting-room.
There he put Sylvia into a chair, and me he guided over towards the window which overlooked Jermyn Street.
By this time I was in a state of the most painful expectation. As we had come through the little hall by which the several rooms of the suite communicated, the door of Christopher’s bedroom had opened and two men had stepped forth. They had the professional air of doctors; and this with the unaccountable expression on Sylvia’s face and the disturbed manner of Professor Wetherhouse had told me that something startling had taken place.
“Christopher is dead,” said the Professor suddenly — so suddenly that I started back from the hand that he had raised to lay on my shoulder.
“Dead!” I exclaimed. “But he can’t be dead.”
I shall never forget the fine tact and humanity of the old man. He saw how the sudden news had shocked me, and instead of allowing it to have its full effect he drew me closer to the window and said:
“I want you to do what you can for Sylvia. It’s bad enough for us — for you and me — but it’s a thousand times worse for her. It’s very distressing, but we must forget that. I was all against her coming here this morning when I heard the news (I happened to be along at Lady Somerton’s), but she wouldn’t be persuaded. See what you can do with her. Get her home. She can do nothing here.”
These words steadied me. They got me over the first shock of hearing such terrible news.
Yet I was aghast. I could not speak. Christopher, who had parted from me last night on the pavement of Piccadilly in the full enjoyment of perfect health, to be dead! I could not grasp that. For a moment I stood staring out of the window, my perce
ptions shocked into dullness. Then, in a flash, I realized what I had been told. Christopher had simply ceased to be. His place was empty. His personality was but a memory. The living Christopher was no more.
I need not try to describe the sense of desolation that came over me at that moment, nor the sense of superstitious horror. I was young, I loved Christopher, and it was my first acquaintance with death.
“You mustn’t let it affect you too much,” the old professor was saying. “You must think of Sylvia . . . And I haven’t told you the worst yet.”
“The worst?”
“Yes. The circumstances are unusual. In fact — in fact — ”
The Professor could not proceed. He stood for a moment biting his lip in agitation, then he suddenly turned.
“Come with me,” he said quickly, and walked across the room.
Sylvia jumped up at his approach, and put out her hands as though to clutch the lapels of his coat; but he took her by the arms and gently forced her back into her chair.
“No, my girl,” he said. “Please be guided by me! I ask you not to insist on seeing him. It would do no good. It would only upset you further. Wait here just one minute.”
Sylvia allowed herself to be persuaded. She did not say one word in protest. It struck me then that she had not said one word since my arrival.
The Professor signed to me to follow him.
I did so with a queer nervousness working inside me. I would rather not have gone.
Immediately inside the door of the room there was a policeman. The sight of him shocked me indescribably.
And, sitting in a chair, staring into space, was Jepson, Christopher’s young manservant.
A white sheet completely covered the bed, showing an outline horribly significant.
The place was unutterably still. The policeman did not move at our entrance. Jepson, staring into space, his chin cupped in his hands, his elbows on his knees, did not move. And the figure under the sheet lay with a stillness that was majestic.