As I left the place and hurried along the road, a bell began, not to ring, but to toll. It sounded most uncanny. What it meant, of course, I have never known. It may have been a summons to the workpeople of some manufactory, it may have been like all the other experiences of that strange night. But no; this theory I will not at present enter upon.
Dawn was not yet breaking, but there was in one direction a faint suggestion of something of the kind not far off. Otherwise all was dark. I stumbled along as best as I could, helped in reality, I suppose, by the ugly yellow glimmer of the woebegone street, or road lamps. And it was not far to the station, though somehow it seemed farther than when I came; and somehow, too, it seemed to have grown steep, though I could not remember having noticed any slope the other way on my arrival. A nightmarelike sensation began to oppress me. I felt as if my luggage was growing momentarily heavier and heavier, as if I should never reach the station; and to this was joined the agonising terror of missing the train.
10
I made a desperate effort. Cold as it was, the beads of perspiration stood out upon my forehead as I forced myself along. And by degrees the nightmare feeling cleared off. I found myself entering the station at a run just as—yes, a train was actually beginning to move! I dashed, baggage and all, into a compartment; it was empty, and it was a second-class one, precisely similar to the one I had occupied before; it might have been the very same one. The train gradually increased its speed, but for the first few moments, while still in the station and passing through its immediate entourage, another strange thing struck me—the extraordinary silence and lifelessness of all about. Not one human being did I see, no porter watching our departure with the faithful though stolid interest always to be seen on the porter’s visage. I might have been alone in the train—it might have had a freight of the dead, and been itself propelled by some supernatural agency, so noiselessly, so gloomily did it proceed.
You will scarcely credit that I actually and for the third time fell asleep. I could not help it. Some occult influence was at work upon me throughout those dark hours, I am positively certain. And with the daylight it was dispelled. For when I again awoke I felt for the first time since leaving home completely and normally myself, fresh and vigorous, all my faculties at their best.
But, nevertheless, my first sensation was a start of amazement, almost of terror. The compartment was nearly full! There were at least five or six travellers besides myself, very respectable, ordinary-looking folk, with nothing in the least alarming about them. Yet it was with a gasp of extraordinary relief that I found my precious bag in the corner beside me, where I had carefully placed it. It was concealed from view. No one, I felt assured, could have touched it without awaking me.
It was broad and bright daylight. How long had I slept? ‘Can you tell me,’ I enquired of my opposite neighbour, a cheery-faced compatriot—‘Can you tell me how soon we get to —— Junction by this train? I am most anxious to catch the evening mail at Calais, and am quite out in my reckonings, owing to an extraordinary delay at —— I have wasted the night by getting into a stopping train instead of the express.’
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He looked at me in astonishment. He must have thought me either mad or just awaking from a fit of intoxication—only I flatter myself I did not look as if the latter were the case.
‘How soon we get to —— Junction?’ he repeated. ‘Why, my good sir, you left it about three hours ago! It is now eight o’clock. We all got in at the Junction. You were alone, if I mistake not?’—he glanced at one or two of the others, who endorsed his statement. ‘And very fast asleep you were, and must have been, not to be disturbed by the bustle at the station. And as for catching the evening boat at Calais’—he burst into a loud guffaw— ‘why, it would be very hard lines to do no better than that! We all hope to cross by the midday one.’
‘Then—what train is this?’ I exclaimed, utterly perplexed.
‘The express, of course. All of us, excepting yourself, joined it at the Junction,’ he replied.
‘The express?’ I repeated. ‘The express that leaves ——’—and I named my own town, ‘at six in the evening?’
‘Exactly. You have got into the right train after all,’ and here came another shout of amusement. ‘How did you think we had all got in if you had not yet passed the Junction? You had not the pleasure of our company from M——, I take it? M——, which you passed at nine o’clock last night, if my memory is correct.’
‘Then’, I persisted, ‘this is the double-fast express, which does not stop between M—— and your Junction?’
‘Exactly,’ he repeated; and then, confirmed most probably in his belief that I was mad, or the other thing, he turned to his newspaper, and left me to my extraordinary cogitations.
Had I been dreaming? Impossible! Every sensation, the very taste of the coffee, seemed still present with me—the curious accent of the officials at the mysterious town, I could perfectly recall. I still shivered at the remembrance of the chilly waking in the ‘Restauration’; I heard again the cackling cough. But I felt I must collect myself, and be ready for the important negotiation entrusted to me. And to do this I must for the time banish these fruitless efforts at solving the problem.
12
We had a good run to Calais, found the boat in waiting, and a fair passage brought us prosperously across the Channel. I found myself in London punctual to the intended hour of my arrival. At once I drove to the lodgings in a small street off the Strand which I was accustomed to frequent in such circumstances. I felt nervous till I had an opportunity of thoroughly overhauling my documents. The bag had been opened by the Custom House officials, but the words ‘private papers’ had sufficed to prevent any further examination; and to my unspeakable delight they were intact. A glance satisfied me as to this the moment I got them out, for they were most carefully numbered.
The next morning saw me early on my way to—No. 909, we will say—Blackfriars Street, where was the office of Messrs Bluestone & Fagg. I had never been there before, but it was easy to find, and had I felt any doubt, their name stared me in the face at the side of the open doorway. ‘Second-floor’ I thought I read; but when I reached the first landing I imagined I must have been mistaken. For there, at a door ajar, stood an eminently respectable-looking gentleman, who bowed as he saw me, with a discreet smile.
‘Herr Schmidt?’ he said. ‘Ah, yes; I was on the lookout for you.’
I felt a little surprised, and my glance involuntarily strayed to the doorway. There was no name upon it, and it appeared to have been freshly painted. My new friend saw my glance.
‘It is all right,’ he said; ‘we have the painters here. We are using these lower rooms temporarily. I was watching to prevent your having the trouble of mounting to the second-floor.’
And as I followed him in, I caught sight of a painter’s ladder—a small one—on the stair above, and the smell was also unmistakable. The large outer office looked bare and empty, but under the circumstances that was natural. No one was, at the first glance, to be seen; but behind a dulled glass partition screening off one corner I fancied I caught sight of a seated figure. And an inner office, to which my conductor led the way, had a more comfortable and inhabited look. Here stood a younger man. He bowed politely.
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‘Mr Fagg, my junior,’ said the first individual airily. ‘And now, Herr Schmidt, to business at once, if you please. Time is everything. You have all the documents ready?’
I answered by opening my bag and spreading out its contents. Both men were very grave, almost taciturn; but as I proceeded to explain things it was easy to see that they thoroughly understood all I said.
‘And now,’ I went on, when I had reached a certain point, ‘if you will give me Nos. 7 and 13 which you have already received by registered post, I can put you in full possession of the whole. Without them, of course, all I have said is, so to say, preliminary only.’
The two looked at each other.
‘Of course,’ said the elder man, ‘I follow what you say. The key of the whole is wanting. But I was momentarily expecting you to bring it out. We have not—Fagg, I am right, am I not—we have received nothing by post?’
‘Nothing whatever,’ replied his junior. And the answer seemed simplicity itself. Why did a strange thrill of misgiving go through me? Was it something in the look that had passed between them? Perhaps so. In any case, strange to say, the inconsistency between their having received no papers and yet looking for my arrival at the hour mentioned in the letter accompanying the documents, and accosting me by name, did not strike me till some hours later.
I threw off what I believed to be my ridiculous mistrust, and it was not difficult to do so in my extreme annoyance.
‘I cannot understand it,’ I said. ‘It is really too bad. Everything depends upon 7 and 13. I must telegraph at once for enquiries to be instituted at the post office.’
‘But your people must have duplicates,’ said Fagg eagerly. ‘These can be forwarded at once.’
‘I hope so,’ I said, though feeling strangely confused and worried.
‘They must send them direct here,’ he went on.
I did not at once answer. I was gathering my papers together.
‘And in the meantime,’ he proceeded, touching my bag, you had better leave these here. We will lock them up in the safe at once. It is better than carrying them about London.’
It certainly seemed so. I half laid down the bag on the table, but at that moment from the outer room a most peculiar sound caught my ears—a faint cackling cough! I think I concealed my start. I turned away as if considering Fagg’s suggestion, which, to confess the truth, I had been on the very point of agreeing to. For it would have been a great relief to me to know that the papers were in safe custody. But now a flash of lurid light seemed to have transformed everything.
14
‘I thank you,’ I replied, ‘I should be glad to be free from the responsibility of the charge, but I dare not let these out of my own hands till the agreement is formally signed.’
The younger man’s face darkened. He assumed a bullying tone.
‘I don’t know how it strikes you, Mr Bluestone,’ he said, ‘But it seems to me that this young gentleman is going rather too far. Do you think your employers will be pleased to hear of your insulting us, sir?’
But the elder man smiled condescendingly, though with a touch of superciliousness. It was very well done. He waved his hand.
‘Stay, my dear Mr Fagg; we can well afford to make allowance. You will telegraph at once, no doubt, Herr Schmidt, and—let me see—yes, we shall receive the duplicates of Nos. 7 and 13 by first post on Thursday morning.’
I bowed.
‘Exactly,’ I replied, as I lifted the now locked bag. ‘And you may expect me at the same hour on Thursday morning.’
Then I took my departure, accompanied to the door by the urbane individual who had received me.
The telegram which I at once dispatched was not couched precisely as he would have dictated, I allow. And he would have been considerably surprised at my sending off another, later in the day, to Bluestone & Fagg’s telegraphic address, in these words:
Unavoidably detained till Thursday morning.—Schmidt.
This was after the arrival of a wire from home in answer to mine. By Thursday morning I had had time to receive a letter from Herr Wilhelm, and to secure the services of a certain noted detective, accompanied by whom I presented myself at the appointed hour at 909. But my companion’s services were not required. The birds had flown, warned by the same traitor in our camp through whom the first hints of the new patent had leaked out. With him it was easy to deal, poor wretch! but the clever rogues who had employed him and personated the members of the honourable firm of Bluestone & Fagg were never traced.
The negotiation was successfully carried out. The experience I had gone through left me a wiser man. It is to be hoped, too, that the owners of 909 Blackfriars Street were more cautious in the future as to whom they let their premises to when temporarily vacant. The repainting of the doorway, etc. , at the tenant’s own expense had already roused some slight suspicion.
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It is needless to add that Nos. 7 and 13 had been duly received on the second-floor.
I have never known the true history of that extraordinary night. Was it all a dream, or a prophetic vision of warning? Or was it in any sense true? Had I, in some inexplicable way, left my own town earlier than I intended, and really travelled in a slow train?
Or had the man with a cough, for his own nefarious purposes, mesmerised or hypnotised me, and to some extent succeeded? I cannot say. Sometimes, even, I ask myself if I am quite sure that there ever was such a person as ‘the man with the cough’!
The Abbaye de Cérisy
The incident here related is perfectly true. The Abbaye de Cérisy is the real name of the place where the strange recluse was seen.
In the spring of this present year—1889—two ladies were seated together one afternoon talking comfortably, as they sipped their “five-o’clock tea.” Five-o’clock tea is, or was, at least, a thoroughly English institution, but it is no longer unknown to our neighbours across the Channel. And a glance—a glance of the slightest and shortest, would have shown any one that this special refection was not being enjoyed in an English drawing-room or boudoir.
The room was small, oblong in shape, the whole of one end being occupied by a rather large window, or glazed door, opening on to a balcony. From this balcony one had a good view of a wide, quaint, hilly street, with high walls on each side, in which, at irregular intervals, were visible the great portes-cochères leading into the coach-yards of the spacious old mansions or hôtels, of the gentry still resident in an old town of Normandy. Here and there stood a more modest dwelling-house, guiltless of cour (though not of jardin at the back), whose front-door steps ran straight down to the pavement. It was a very picturesque street, from every point of view, and the long, level rays of the afternoon sun showed it to peculiar advantage.
Inside the boudoir, it was difficult to believe one’s self still in the nineteenth century. The room was entirely lined with wood—light-coloured brown wood—into the panels of which were inserted Louis XVI. paintings of the quaintest description: cupids, nymphs, garden and terrace landscapes, grotesque statues, grinning masks; all the well-known decorative designs of the period, from the attributs de jardinage and those of musique also, with their bows of impossible blue ribbon, to an armless satyr or a ring of dancing “loves.” The furniture, of which there was not much, and indeed the space was very small, was mostly of the same date; a small brass-mounted, marble-topped bureau occupied one corner; two or three medallion-backed, white-painted chairs stood about.
With this background, the little English tea-table, and the two friends seated—on easier chairs than the Louis XVI. fauteuils— were scarcely in keeping. But the cups and saucers were of old Sèvres; and the snow-white hair, drawn back from the forehead, of the elder of the two ladies—a woman of sixty or thereabouts—simply though richly dressed in black, with touches of creamy old lace here and there, harmonized with the whole, or rather seemed a sort of meeting-point for the past and the present. This lady was the Marquise de Romars; her companion, considerably younger than herself, was her visitor, and an Englishwoman, by name Miss Poynsett.
Miss Poynsett was on her way home from a winter spent in the south; she had lingered, nothing loath, to pass a few days with her hospitable old friend.
“Then there is really no chance of my seeing you again this year, my dear Clemency?” said the old lady.
Miss Poynsett shook her head. “None whatever, unless you will come over to us.”
“That I cannot. But I had hoped the exhibition, the Eiffel Tower, and all the rest of it, would have tempted some of you to Paris; and, of course, it is easy to make this a halfway, or three-quarters-way house,” said Madame de Romars—who, by the way, spoke perfect English—insin
uatingly.
Again Miss Poynsett shook her head, more vigorously this time.
“If a visit to you were not temptation enough, certainly Paris in a state of exhibition would not be,” she said, half laughingly. “I cannot bear exhibitions, and Paris, with a world’s show going on, is worst of all. Just think of how one would be running up against everybody one had ever seen or heard of. Not that I am unsociable; but one doesn’t leave one’s own country to see one’s own country-folk. When I travel, I like to see new things and people.”
“The exhibition would be new, and the Eiffel Tower has certainly never been seen before,” said Madame de Romars, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Dear Madame, I think the Eiffel Tower has bewitched you,” replied her friend. “I have not the very slightest wish to see it nor the exhibition. And then the association. I should have thought you would have shrunk from any commemoration of the horrors of a hundred years ago.”
The old lady did not at once reply.
“This year actually commemorates the destruction of the Bastille,” she said, after a little pause. “With that one can have full sympathy. As for what came afterwards——” she sighed deeply. “One of the most grievous thoughts about the great Revolution,” she went on—“even, in the widest sense, more grievous than the terrible individual horrors, is what it might have been and done; what enormous opportunities for the world’s good were lost at that time. For the individual suffering is over and past, and doubtless it made saints and martyrs of many who might otherwise have lived and died like soulless animals; but the misdirection, the fearful misuse and abuse of the powers at that time set free will never—while the world lasts, it sometimes seems to me—be, in their sad consequences, past and over.” Miss Poynsett listened attentively and respectfully, but scarcely as if she fully understood.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Mrs Molesworth Page 15