The Haunted Woman & A Voyage to Arcturus. David Lindsay

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      “Thank you, no. I prefer to have nothing to do with it till the time arrives.”

      “Then let’s go to see my sister, Mrs. Jameson, who is in the drawing room. She sometimes does me the kindness to act as my hostess, as I am unmarried.”

      “I will be delighted,” said Backhouse coldly.

      They found the lady alone, sitting by the open pianoforte in a pensive attitude. She had been playing Scriabin and was overcome. The medium took in her small, tight, patrician features and porcelain-like hands, and wondered how Faull came by such a sister. She received him bravely, with just a shade of quiet emotion. He was used to such receptions at the hands of the sex, and knew well how to respond to them.

      “What amazes me,” she half whispered, after ten minutes of graceful, hollow conversation, “is, if you must know it, not so much the manifestation itself—though that will surely be wonderful—as your assurance that it will take place. Tell me the grounds of your confidence.”

      “I dream with open eyes,” he answered, looking around at the door, “and others see my dreams. That is all.”

      “But that’s beautiful,” responded Mrs. Jameson. She smiled rather absently, for the first guest had just entered.

      It was Kent-Smith, the ex-magistrate, celebrated for his shrewd judicial humour, which, however, he had the good sense not to attempt to carry into private life. Although well on the wrong side of seventy, his eyes were still disconcertingly bright. With the selective skill of an old man, he immediately settled himself in the most comfortable of many comfortable chairs.

      “So we are to see wonders tonight?”

      “Fresh material for your autobiography,” remarked Faull.

      “Ah, you should not have mentioned my unfortunate book. An old public servant is merely amusing himself in his retirement, Mr. Backhouse. You have no cause for alarm—I have studied in the school of discretion.”

      “I am not alarmed. There can be no possible objection to your publishing whatever you please.”

      “You are most kind,” said the old man, with a cunning smile.

      “Trent is not coming tonight,” remarked Mrs. Jameson, throwing a curious little glance at her brother.

      “I never thought he would. It’s not in his line.”

      “Mrs. Trent, you must understand,” she went on, addressing the ex-magistrate, “has placed us all under a debt of gratitude. She has decorated the old lounge hall upstairs most beautifully, and has secured the services of the sweetest little orchestra.”

      “But this is Roman magnificence.”

      “Backhouse thinks the spirits should be treated with more deference,” laughed Faull.

      “Surely, Mr. Backhouse—a poetic environment...”

      “Pardon me. I am a simple man, and always prefer to reduce things to elemental simplicity. I raise no opposition, but I express my opinion. Nature is one thing, and art is another.”

      “And I am not sure that I don’t agree with you,” said the ex-magistrate. “An occasion like this ought to be simple, to guard against the possibility of deception—if you will forgive my bluntness, Mr. Backhouse.”

      “We shall sit in full light,” replied Backhouse, “and every opportunity will be given to all to inspect the room. I shall also ask you to submit me to a personal examination.”

      A rather embarrassed silence followed. It was broken by the arrival of two more guests, who entered together. These were Prior, the prosperous City coffee importer, and Lang, the stockjobber, well known in his own circle as an amateur prestidigitator. Backhouse was slightly acquainted with the latter. Prior, perfuming the room with the faint odour of wine and tobacco smoke, tried to introduce an atmosphere of joviality into the proceedings. Finding that no one seconded his efforts, however, he shortly subsided and fell to examining the water colours on the walls. Lang, tall, thin, and growing bald, said little, but stared at Backhouse a good deal.

      Coffee, liqueurs, and cigarettes were now brought in. Everyone partook, except Lang and the medium. At the same moment, Professor Halbart was announced. He was the eminent psychologist, the author and lecturer on crime, insanity, genius, and so forth, considered in their mental aspects. His presence at such a gathering somewhat mystified the other guests, but all felt as if the object of their meeting had immediately acquired additional solemnity. He was small, meagre-looking, and mild in manner, but was probably the most stubborn-brained of all that mixed company. Completely ignoring the medium, he at once sat down beside Kent-Smith, with whom he began to exchange remarks.

      At a few minutes past the appointed hour Mrs. Trent entered, unannounced. She was a woman of about twenty-eight. She had a white, demure, saintlike face, smooth black hair, and lips so crimson and full that they seemed to be bursting with blood. Her tall, graceful body was most expensively attired. Kisses were exchanged between her and Mrs. Jameson. She bowed to the rest of the assembly, and stole a half glance and a smile at Faull. The latter gave her a queer look, and Backhouse, who lost nothing, saw the concealed barbarian in the complacent gleam of his eye. She refused the refreshment that was offered her, and Faull proposed that, as everyone had now arrived, they should adjourn to the lounge hall.

      Mrs. Trent held up a slender palm. “Did you, or did you not, give me carte blanche, Montague?”

      “Of course I did,” said Faull, laughing. “But what’s the matter?”

      “Perhaps I have been rather presumptuous. I don’t know. I have invited a couple of friends to join us. No, no one knows them.... The two most extraordinary individuals you ever saw. And mediums, I am sure.”

      “It sounds very mysterious. Who are these conspirators?”

      “At least tell us their names, you provoking girl,” put in Mrs. Jameson.

      “One rejoices in the name of Maskull, and the other in that of Nightspore. That’s nearly all that I know about them, so don’t overwhelm me with any more questions.”

      “But where did you pick them up? You must have picked them up somewhere.”

      “But this is a cross-examination. Have I sinned against convention? I swear I will tell you not another word about them. They will be here directly, and then I will deliver them to your tender mercy.”

      “I don’t know them,” said Faull, “and nobody else seems to, but, of course, we will all be very pleased to have them.... Shall we wait, or what?”

      “I said nine, and it’s past that now. It’s quite possible they may not turn up after all.... Anyway, don’t wait.”

      “I would prefer to start at once,” said Backhouse.

      The lounge, a lofty room, forty feet long by twenty wide, had been divided for the occasion into two equal parts by a heavy brocade curtain drawn across the middle. The far end was thus concealed. The nearer half had been converted into an auditorium by a crescent of armchairs. There was no other furniture. A large fire was burning halfway along the wall, between the chairbacks and the door. The room was brilliantly lighted by electric bracket lamps. A sumptuous carpet СКАЧАТЬ