The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Sabine Baring-Gould

by Sabine Baring-Gould

  At once all vanished.

  Joseph Leveridge felt that he had got himself into a worse hobble than before. From his former difficulties he had escaped by flight. But there was, he feared, no flying from these seven impatient creations all clamouring for bodies, and to provide them with such was beyond his powers. All his delight in the publication of his new novel was spent. It had brought with it care and perplexity.

  He went to bed.

  During the night, he was troubled with his characters; they peeped in at him. Poppy got a peacock’s feather and tickled his nose just as he was dropping asleep.

  “You bounder!” she said; “I shall give you no peace till you have settled me into a body—but oh! get me on to the stage if you can.”

  “Poppy, come away,” called Lady Mabel. “Don’t be improper. Mr. Leveridge will do his best. I want a body quite as much as do you, but I know how to ask for it properly.”

  “And I,” said the parson, “should like to have mine before Easter, but have one I must.”

  Mr. Leveridge’s state now was worse than the first. One or other of his creatures was ever watching him. His every movement was spied on. There was no escaping their vigilance. Sometimes they attended him in groups of two or three; sometimes they were all around him.

  At meals not one was missing, and they eyed every mouthful of his food as he raised it to his lips. His mother saw nothing— the creations were invisible to all eyes save those of their creator.

  If he went out for a country walk, they trotted forth with him, some before, looking round at every turn to see which way he purposed going, some following. Poppy and the skittish widow managed to attach themselves to him, one on each side.

  If he went out for a country walk, they trotted forth with him.

  “I hate that little woman,” said Poppy. “Why did you call her into being?”

  “I never dreamed that things would come to this pass.”

  “I am convinced, creator dear, that there is a vein of wickedness in your composition, or you would never have imagined such a minx, good and amiable and butter-won’t-melt-in-your-mouth though you may look. And there must be a frolicsome devil in your heart, or I should never have become.”

  “Indeed, Poppy, I am very glad that I gave you being. But one may have too much even of a good thing, and there are moments when I could dispense with your presence.”

  “I know, when you want to carry on with the widow. She is always casting sheep’s eyes at you.”

  “But, Poppy, you forget my hero, whom I created on purpose for you.”

  “All my attention is now engrossed in you, and will be till you provide me with a body.”

  When Leveridge was in his room reading, if he raised his eyes from his book they met the stare of one of his characters. If he went up to his bedroom, he was followed. If he sat with his mother, one kept guard.

  This was become so intolerable, that one evening he protested to the stockbroker, who was then in attendance. “Do, I entreat you, leave me to myself. You treat me as if I were a lunatic and about to commit felo de se, and you were my warders.”

  “We watch you, sir,” said the stockbroker, “in our own interest. We cannot suffer you to give us the slip. We are all expectant and impatient for the completion of what you have begun.”

  Then the parson undertook to administer a lecture on duty, on responsibilities contracted to those called into partial existence by a writer of fiction. He cannot be allowed to half do his work. His creations must be realised, and can only be realised by being given a material existence.

  “But what the dickens can I do? I cannot fabricate bodies for you. I never in my life even made a doll.”

  “Have you no thought of dramatising us?”

  “I know no dramatic writers.”

  “Do it yourself.”

  “Does not this sort of work require a certain familiarity with the technique of the stage which I do not possess?”

  “That might be attended to later. Pass your MS. through the hands of a dramatic expert, and pay him a percentage of your profits in recognition of his services. Only one thing I bargain for, do not present me on the stage in such a manner as to discredit my cloth.”

  “Have I done so in my book?”

  “No, indeed, I have nothing to complain of in that. But there is no counting on what Poppy may persuade you into doing, and I fear that she is gaining influence over you. Remember, she is your creation, and you must not suffer her to mould you.”

  The idea took root. The suggestion was taken up, and Joseph Leveridge applied himself to his task with zest. But he had to conceal what he was about from his mother, who had no opinion of the drama, and regarded the theatre as a sink of iniquity.

  But now new difficulties arose. Joseph’s creations would not leave him alone for a moment. Each had a suggestion, each wanted his or her own part accentuated at the expense of the other. Each desired the heightening of the situations in which they severally appeared. The clamour, the bickering, the interference made it impossible for Joseph to collect his thoughts, keep cool, and proceed with his work.

  Sunday arrived, and Joseph drew on his gloves, put on his box-hat, and offered his arm to his mother, to conduct her to chapel. All the characters were drawn up in the hall to accompany them. Joseph and his mother walking down the street to Ebenezer Chapel presented a picture of a good and dutiful son and of a pious widow not to be surpassed. Poppy and the widow entered into a struggle as to which was to walk on the unoccupied side of Joseph. If this had been introduced into the picture it would have marred it; but happily this was invisible to all eyes save those of Joseph. The rest of the imaginary party walked arm in arm behind till the chapel was reached, when the parson started back.

  “I am not going in there! It is a schism-shop,” he exclaimed. “Nothing in the world would induce me to cross the threshold.”

  “And I,” said Lady Mabel, “I have no idea of attending a place of worship not of the Established Church.”

  “I’ll go in—if only to protect Creator from the widow,” said Poppy.

  Joseph and his mother entered, and occupied their pew. The characters, with the exception of the parson and the old lady, grouped themselves where they were able. The stockbroker stood in the aisle with his arms on the pew door, to ensure that Joseph was kept a prisoner there. But before the service had advanced far he had gone to sleep. This was the more to be regretted, as the minister delivered a very strong appeal to the unconverted, and if ever there was an unconverted worldling, it was that stockbroker.

  The skittish widow was leering at a deacon of an amorous complexion, but as he did not, and, in fact, could not see her, all her efforts were cast away. The solicitor sat with stolid face and folded hands, and allowed the discourse to flow over him like a refreshing douche. Poppy had got very tired of the show, and had slunk away to rejoin her aunt. The hero closed his eyes and seemed resigned.

  After nearly an hour had elapsed, whilst a hymn was being sung, Joseph, more to himself than to his mother, said: “Can I escape?”

  “Escape what? Wretch?” inquired the widowed lady.

  “I think I can do it. There’s a room at the side for earnest inquirers, or a vestry or something, with an outer door. I will risk it, and make a bolt for my liberty.”

  He very gently and cautiously unhasped the door of the pew, and as he slid it open, the sleeping stockbroker, still sleeping and unconscious, slipped back, and Joseph was out. He made his way into the room at the side, forth from the actual chapel, ran through it, and tried the door that opened into a side lane. It was locked, but happily the key was in its place. He turned it, plunged forth, and fell into the arms of his characters. They were all there. The solicitor had been observing him out of the corner of his eye, and had given the alarm. The stockbroker was aroused, and he, the solicitor, the hero, ran out, gave the alarm to the three without, and Joseph was intercepted, and his attempt at escape frustrated. He was reconducted home by them, himsel
f dejected, they triumphant.

  When his mother returned she was full of solicitude. “What was the matter, Joe dear?” she inquired.

  “I wasn’t feeling very well,” he explained. “But I shall be better presently.”

  “I hope it will not interfere with your appetite, Joe. I have cold lamb and mint-sauce for our early dinner.”

  “I shall peck a bit, I trust,” said Mr. Leveridge.

  But during dinner he was abstracted and silent. All at once he brought down his fist on the table. “I’ve hit it!” he exclaimed, and a flush of colour mantled his face to the temples.

  “My dear,” said his mother; “you have made all the plates and dishes jump, and have nearly upset the water-bottle.”

  “Excuse me, mother; I really must go to my room.”

  He rose, made a sign to his characters, and they all rose and trooped after him into his private apartment.

  When they were within he said to his hero: “May I trouble you kindly to shut the door and turn the key? My mother will be anxious and come after me, and I want a word with you all. It will not take two minutes. I see my way to our mutual accommodation. Do not be uneasy and suspicious; I will make no further attempt at evasion. Meet me tomorrow morning at the 9.48 down train. I am going to take you all with me to Swanton.”

  A tap at the door.

  “Open—it is my mother,” said Joseph.

  Mrs. Leveridge entered with a face of concern. “What is the matter with you, Joe?” she said. “If we were not both of us water-drinkers, I should say that you had been indulging in—spirits.”

  “Mother, I must positively be off to Swanton tomorrow morning. I see my way now, all will come right.”

  “How, my precious boy?”

  “I cannot explain. I see my way to clearing up the unpleasantness caused by that unfortunate novel of mine. Pack my trunk, mother.”

  “Not on the Sabbath, lovie.”

  “No—tomorrow morning. I start by the 9.48 a. m. We all go together.”

  “We—am I to accompany you?”

  “No, no. We—did I say? It is a habit I have got into as an author. Authors, like royal personages, speak of themselves as We.”

  Joseph Leveridge was occupied during the afternoon in writing to his victims at Swanton.

  First, he penned a notice to Mrs. Baker that he would require his lodgings from the morrow, and that he had something to say to her that would afford her much gratification.

  Then he wrote to the vicar, expressed his regret for having deprived him of his personality, and requested him, if he would do him the favour, to call in the evening at 7.30, at his lodgings in West Street. He had something of special importance to communicate to him. He apologised for not himself calling at the vicarage, but said that there were circumstances that made it more desirable that he should see his reverence privately in his own lodgings.

  Next, he addressed an epistle to Mr. Stork. He assured him that he, Joseph Leveridge, had felt keenly the wrong he had done him, that he had forfeited his esteem, had ill repaid his kindness, had acted in a manner towards his employer that was dishonourable. But, he added, he had found a means of rectifying what was wrong. He placed himself unreservedly in the hands of Mr. Stork, and entreated him to meet him at his rooms in West Street on the ensuing Monday evening at 7.45, when he sincerely trusted that the past would be forgotten, and a brighter future would be assured.

  This was followed by a formal letter couched to Mr. Box. He invited him to call at Mrs. Baker’s lodgings on that same evening at 8 p. m., as he had business of an important and far-reaching nature to discuss with him. If Mr. Box considered that he, Joseph Leveridge, had done him an injury, he was ready to make what reparation lay in his power.

  Taking a fresh sheet of notepaper, he now wrote a fifth letter, this to Mr. Wotherspoon, requesting the honour of a call at his “diggings” at 8.15 p. m. , when matters of controversy between them could be amicably adjusted.

  The ensuing letter demanded some deliberation. It was to Asphodel. He wrote it out twice before he was satisfied with the mode in which it was expressed. He endeavoured to disguise under words full of respect, yet not disguise too completely, the sentiments of his heart. But he was careful to let drop nothing at which she might take umbrage. He entreated her to be so gracious as to allow him an interview by the side of the river at the hour of 8. 30 on the Monday evening. He apologised for venturing to make such a demand, but he intimated that the matter he had to communicate was so important and so urgent, that it could not well be postponed till Tuesday, and that it was also most necessary that the interview should be private. It was something he had to say that would materially—no, not materially, but morally—affect her, and would relieve his mind from a burden of remorse that had become to him wholly intolerable.

  The final, the seventh letter, was to Major Dolgelly Jones, and was more brief. It merely intimated that he had something of the utmost importance to communicate to his private ear, and for this purpose he desired the favour of a call at Mrs. Baker’s lodgings, at 8.45 on Monday evening.

  These letters despatched, Mr. Leveridge felt easier in mind and lighter at heart. He slept well the ensuing night, better than he had for long. His creations did not so greatly disturb him. He was aware that he was still kept under surveillance, but the watch was not so strict, nor so galling as hitherto.

  On the Monday morning he was at the station, and took his ticket for Swanton. One ticket sufficed, as his companions, who awaited him on the platform, were imaginary characters.

  When he took his seat, they pressed into the carriage after him. Poppy secured the seat next him, but the widow placed herself opposite, and exerted all her blandishment with the hope of engrossing his whole attention. At a junction all got out, and Joseph provided himself with a luncheon-basket and mineral water. The characters watched him discussing the half-chicken and slabs of ham, with the liveliest interest, and were especially observant of his treatment of the thin paper napkin, wherewith he wiped his fingers and mouth.

  At last he arrived at Swanton and engaged a cab, as he was encumbered with a portmanteau. Lady Mabel, Poppy, and the widow could be easily accommodated within, the two latter with their backs to the horses. Joseph would willingly have resigned his seat to either of these, but they would not hear of it. A gentle altercation ensued between the parson and the solicitor, as to which should ride on the box. The lawyer desired to yield the place to “the cloth,” but the parson would not hear of this— the silver hairs of the other claimed precedence. The stockbroker mounted to the roof of the fly and the clerical gentleman hung on behind. The hero professed his readiness to walk.

  Eventually the cab drew up at Mrs. Baker’s door.

  That stout, elderly lady received her old lodger without effusion, and with languid interest. The look of the house was not what it had been. It had deteriorated. The windows had not been cleaned nor the banisters dusted.

  “My dear old landlady, I am so glad to see you again,” said Joseph.

  “Thank you, sir. You ordered no meal, but I have got two mutton chops in the larder, and can mash some potatoes. At what time would you like your supper, sir?” She had become a machine, a thing of routine.

  “Not yet, thank you. I have business to transact first, and I shall not be disengaged before nine o’clock. But I have something to say to you, Mrs. Baker, and I will say it at once and get it over, if you will kindly step up into my parlour.”

  She did so, sighing at each step of the stairs as she ascended. All the characters mounted as well, and entering the little sit-

  ting-room, ranged themselves against the wall facing the door.

  Mrs. Baker was a portly woman, aged about forty-five, and plain featured. She had formerly been neat, now she was dowdy. Before she had lost her character she never appeared in that room without removing her apron, but on this occasion she wore it, and it was not clean.

  “Widow!” said Joseph, addressing his character, “will you k
indly step forward?”

  “I would do anything for you,” with a roll of the eyes.

  “Dear Mrs. Baker,” said Leveridge, “I feel that I have done you a grievous wrong.”

  “Well, sir, I ain’t been myself since you put me into your book.”

  “My purpose is now to undo the past, and to provide you with a character.”

  Then, turning to the skittish widow of his creation, he said, “Now, then, slip into and occupy her.”

  “I don’t like the tenement,” said the widow, pouting.

  “Whether you like it or not,” protested Joseph, “you must have that or no other.” He waved his hand. “Presto!” he exclaimed.

  Instantly a wondrous change was effected in Mrs. Baker. She whipped off the apron, and crammed it under the sofa cushion. She wriggled in her movements, she eyed herself in the glass, and exclaimed: “Oh, my! what a fright I am. I’ll be back again in a minute when I have changed my gown and done up my hair.”

  “We can dispense with your presence, Mrs. Baker,” said Leveridge sternly. “I will ring for you when you are wanted.”

  At that moment a rap at the door was heard; and Mrs. Baker, having first dropped a coquettish curtsy to her lodger, tripped downstairs to admit the vicar, and to show him up to Mr. Leveridge’s apartment.

  “You may go, Mrs. Baker,” said he; for she seemed inclined to linger.

  When she had left the room, Joseph contemplated the reverend gentleman. He bore a crestfallen appearance. He looked as if he had been out in the rain all night without a paletot. His cheeks were flabby, his mouth drooped at the corners, his eyes were vacant, and his whiskers no longer stuck out horrescent and assertive. “Dear vicar,” said Leveridge, “I cannot forgive myself.” In former times, Mr. Leveridge would not have dreamed of addressing the reverend gentleman in this familiar manner, but it was other now that the latter looked so limp and forlorn. “My dear vicar, I cannot forgive myself for the trouble I have brought upon you. It has weighed on me as a nightmare, for I know that it is not you only who have suffered, but also the whole parish of Swanton. Happily a remedy is at hand. I have here——” he waved to the parson of his creation, “I have here an individuality I can give to you, and henceforth, if you will not be precisely yourself again, you will be a personality in your parish and the diocese.” He waved his hand. “Presto!”