There was silence. Here, at the top of the square, which is a cul-de-sac, there was no sound of traffic, and the silence began to sing in my ears. It began to sing a tune. Humphrey must have heard it, too, for he gave a loud squeal and clutched his hair.
“There it is again,” he said. “I shall go crazy if this continues! I sat up till three last night, reading Adam Bede. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I shall sit up again to-night, I know. Thank God, there are only fifty pages left.”
“But she’ll make you begin another book,” said Julia. “It may be The Wide, Wide World next time.”
“What do you want to do, then?” he asked.
“Darling, just to leave the studio empty to-morrow night,” she said. “To lock the door and leave it. Then, if that succeeds, we might do the same thing the next Thursday. It’s worth trying.”
It was only a few evenings ago that I dined with the Lodges. It was, in fact, on Thursday. We sat rather long ’round the table, and Julia, looking at the clock, got up hurriedly.
“We won’t sit in the studio to-night,” she said. “It is pleasant upstairs.”
We went upstairs, and I demanded news. Humphrey interspersed Julia’s narrative with unconvinced expressions such as “Pish!” or “Rot!” She told me in brief how every Thursday afternoon she put bunches of lavender in the studio, and left some suitable pictures and books about. She also took out of the room her easel, and the score on which Humphrey was engaged, for fear of annoying “them.” Since they had made these arrangements they hadn’t been “bothered.”… The clock struck ten, and, remembering that Mrs. Wallace’s famous conversaziones always began at half-past nine, my curiosity rose.
“I have left my cigarettes in my coat pocket downstairs,” I said. “I will go and fetch them.”
Humphrey is not a fool; he did not say “There are plenty here.” As for Julia, her eyes sparkled.
“Dare you?” she asked.
For some reason I kicked off my shoes when I got outside the drawing-room, and paddled noiselessly down to the floor below.
A short passage leads from the hall to the studio and dining-room; this was dark, but from below the studio door, at the end of it, there came a thin line of light. As I crept closer I heard the dim sound of many voices coming from it. Closer and closer I crept and my ear focused itself to the murmur.
“A fine book, in spite of its coarseness,” I heard. “But one doesn’t want to talk about it. Ah, Georgiana, here’s Mr. Molloy asking if he may lead you to the instrument.”
I heard the sound of the piano, less tinkly than when I heard it last, and then, unmistakably, the sound of a human voice. It was all thin and remote, as if borne from some great distance on the wind.
“And now,” I said to myself, “I shall open the door and go in.”
And then I did nothing of the kind. Poltroon and coward, I retraced my steps, looking fearfully behind me, in order to be sure that the studio door had not opened, and that from it some wraith of days long past was not spying on the impertinent future. I scurried upstairs, and with my shoes in my hand entered the drawing-room.
“Well?” said Humphrey and Julia, in one breath.
“There was a light under the studio door,” I said. “There were voices, words, music.”
“And you didn’t go in?” asked Humphrey.
“Certainly not. If it comes to that, why don’t you go in yourself? They are there.”
He pondered a moment. “Bosh!” he said, with an effort.
THE PSYCHICAL MALLARDS
Timothy Mallard was gifted from childhood with a variety of supernormal powers, which rendered him utterly different from all other children that his parents had ever come across, and his involuntary exercise of them extended back into his very earliest days. He was, in fact, hardly a month old when he first gave evidence of his peculiar endowments. One day he cried so long and loud (after being as “good as gold” throughout his four weeks of earthly pilgrimage) that his nurse took him out of his cradle and set him on her knee, where she proceeded to adopt the usual soothing process of rocking him violently to and fro and up and down with the pitching and rolling motion of a boat in a storm, in order to reduce him to the requisite state of dizzy quiescence. For some five minutes she persevered in this traditional treatment, but to no effect, and was just about to give it up in despair, and put him to bed again till nature was exhausted, when a large flake of the ceiling fell, crushing his cradle into a pancake of wicker and blanket. And as if a tap had been turned off his crying ceased.…
That incident, naturally enough, was put to the credit of coincidence, and it was considered “very lucky” that his nurse had taken Master Tim out of the cradle just then, though it would have, perhaps, been “luckier” if there had been no such fall of lath and plaster. But from that time onwards the young years of Timothy Mallard were enveloped in a net of such curious phenomena, that it became impossible to attribute them all to coincidence, and his parents—healthy, normal people—were forced to the reluctant conclusion that there was something very odd about the child himself.
It was no use, for instance, making him put out his tongue, and then, with a bright smile, telling him that for a treat he was going to be given a spoonful of the most delicious red-currant jelly, because, without having tasted it, he announced that it was “powdery.” But he tempered the obduracy of his refusal to indulge in red-currant jelly with a promise to “fink” his ache away. Tim then closed his eyes, gave a few little twitches, and seemed to relapse into unconsciousness. They had hardly begun to shake him when he came to himself, and it was quite apparent that he had thought away that troublesome ache, while his tongue, on re-examination, was discovered to be of the requisite rose-leaf description. Similarly, when his first visit to the dentist was planned, and he was told that he and nurse were going for a jolly walk in the High Street, he made the astounding announcement that he hadn’t got toothache, and that he would bite any alien finger that intruded itself into his mouth. In this case (so the scientific student may observe) it was conceivable that he might, subconsciously, have overheard a conversation about dentists between his mother and his nurse, but such an explanation does not account for the fact that at the age of six he drew a detailed sketch of his own inside, showing with complete accuracy the position of the liver, pancreas, kidneys, and other interesting organs. The family doctor, to whom this artistic effort was submitted without hint as to authorship, said it was the work of a trained pathologist.
Dr. Farmer was interested in occult phenomena, and, when informed that this accurate and beautiful map was the work of Timothy, he told his disgusted parents that the boy was possessed of some supernormal power of lucidity or clairvoyance, which enabled him to perceive what was hidden from the ordinary vision. Other instances of this gift were shown in the fact that he could announce that his Aunt Anne was putting on her hat and cloak with the intention of calling on her sister-in-law, and that his father, who was up in town for the day, had missed his train at Charing Cross. So, though weird, this gift had its practical advantages, for his mother had time on the one hand to tell her parlour-maid that she was out, and on the other to put off dinner.… Together with clairvoyance he developed a power of clair-audience, and by day and night heard voices which were quite inaudible to his elders and betters.
Apart from these little peculiarities Tim was normal enough, and at the age of thirteen presented the similitude of a big, merry boy, with large boots and tousled hair. His father determined to send him to Eton, where he had himself imbibed a love of cricket and a hatred of Greek, in the hopes that a sound classical education would speedily disperse those strange “clouds of glory” that the boy still trailed behind him. Roman history and hexameters and supines were powerful solvents of the unusual.
Mr. Mallard, puzzled though he was by these occult phenomena, still had a lurking feeling that the boy could curb them if he chose, and on the eve of his departure spoke to him kindly, but firmly, about it all.
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“Remember, my dear Tim,” he said, “that I am going to all this trouble and expense of sending you to Eton not merely that you should be able to write Latin verses and pass examinations with credit. You are growing up—boyhood passes very soon into manhood—and you must learn to behave as men behave. Those childish tricks, for instance——”
Tim, as is the custom of the new generation, treated his father like a child.
“But I’ve told you often and often,” he said, “that I can’t help it. I wish you would try to remember that. I don’t want to see Aunt Anne in her bath, or know you are going to fall off your bicycle.”
His father thumped the table.
“Now, I beg of you, Tim,” he said, “not to argue like that. You can control those tricks perfectly well if you like. Dr. Farmer told me that they were of hysterico-ideo-exteriorizative origin——”
“What?” said Tim.
“The same as fidgets,” said his father. “Occupy your mind with something else when you feel them coming on. You won’t find yourself popular either with your teachers or your companions if you behave queerly. Queer! That’s the word I wanted instead of Dr. Farmer’s definition. There’s nothing which wholesome English boys dislike so much as queerness. Get over your queerness, my dear, and do credit to the great middle class from which you come. I can let you enjoy an excellent education, and mix on equal terms with your superiors—never mind that—but you’ll have to make your way in the world, and there’s nothing that so goes against a man as queerness——”
He broke off suddenly and looked at Tim, who had shut his eyes and was twitching violently. He was naturally very much annoyed that the boy should give so small an attention to the remarks which he had so carefully prepared, and raised his voice.
“Tim, drop it!” he said. “Listen to me, Tim. Tim!”
Tim’s twitching had ceased, and he lay back in his chair, breathing slowly and heavily. His father, irritated beyond endurance at this untimely exhibition of one of his tricks, was about to shake him violently by the shoulder, when his attention was attracted by a loud rattling noise behind him, and he observed his heavy knee-hole table advancing across the room without visible agency in the direction of the trance-stricken boy. He had barely time to skip out of the way of its ponderous march, when it came to a standstill, and he found himself with shaking knees and a dry throat staring at Tim across it. Dr. Farmer had already asked him whether Tim had shown any symptoms of teleo-kinesis, which (the obliging doctor explained) signified the movements of inanimate objects towards or from the boy, occurring without intervention of any visible agency, and, with a sinking of his heart, Mr. Mallard realized that here was a teleo-kinetic phenomenon.… Then, without warning, this heavy table began to creak and groan again, and, retreating from Tim with the same swiftness with which it had advanced, came to rest in its usual position. So, even if Tim had pulled it towards him with a string in some inexplicable manner, he would have had to employ some strong and rigid rod to repel it again. Mr. Mallard’s common sense rejected such a theory, and he was forced to suppose that his poor boy had suddenly developed teleo-kinetic power.
At this moment, while Tim still lay inert in his chair, there came a hurried step on the stair, and Mrs. Mallard, who had been sitting below, waddled into the room.
“I heard such a noise overhead,” she said, “as if you were moving all the furniture instead of telling Tim about Eton. Why, what’s the matter with him?”
“Teleo-kinesis,” muttered Mr. Mallard. “My knee-hole table has been behaving like a three-year-old.”
Mrs. Mallard had the same wholesale dislike of occult phenomena as her husband.
“Oh, how tiresome!” she said. “But, thank goodness, the table has gone back. So upsetting for a housemaid to find all the furniture moved about. Dr. Farmer told me that we mustn’t be surprised if something of the sort happened. He is a very naughty boy. He——”
Her voice froze in her throat, and she pointed a trembling finger at her only son. Mr. Mallard followed its faltering direction.
Tim was lying with closed eyes and crossed legs in his father’s large arm-chair, and now began to rise out of it, not on to his feet, but into the air. It was as if some unseen arm-chair still supported him, for he rose in precisely the same position as that in which he had been lolling when he went into a trance, like a balloon gently leaving the ground. He was apparently without weight, for the draught from the door, which Mrs. Mallard had left wide, gently wafted him towards the open window, and, to his parents’ horror, he floated out of it and lay suspended thirty feet above the pavement of the High Street. Then some opposing current took possession of him, and after he had bumped once or twice against the panes of the second window, Mr. Mallard had the good sense to open it, and Tim floated in again. He circled ’round the room as if in a slow eddy, and then came to rest on the top of the knee-hole table.
“Levitation, drat it!” moaned Mr. Mallard. “Dr. Farmer——”
Tim shook himself, upset an ink-bottle, and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, bother!” he said to his father. “What have I been doing now? Hallo, I’m sitting in a pool of ink! Why on earth didn’t you stop me, one of you?”
Mr. Mallard did not feel himself bound to repeat these tiresome occurrences to Tim’s house-master, for it was not fair that the boy should begin his school-life under a cloud, and Tim left for Eton (in a new pair of trousers) next day. For some weeks Mr. Mallard had reason to congratulate himself on his high opinion of classics and congenial companionship as a cure for psychical tendencies, for nothing unusual disturbed the scholastic serenity of that educational establishment. But often before the deplorable agencies that were responsible for occult phenomena had remained dormant for long periods, and Mr. Mallard, when he received a letter with the Eton postmark, never opened it without a qualm. The weeks, however, went on, and his apprehensions began to get drowsy, and when, eventually, on a Monday morning he took out of its envelope a letter from Tim’s house-master, he had no premonition of disastrous news. But he turned white as he read it, and passed it over to his wife with a hollow groan.
“I feel bound to tell you,” wrote Tim’s house-master, “that I am puzzled and pained by your son’s conduct. Hitherto he has, beyond a few acts of boyish carelessness and disobedience, given me no cause for complaint. But this morning (Sunday), while attending chapel, some events occurred which it is impossible for me to pass over. He must have thrown his prayer-book at the chaplain (though no one actually saw him do it), for the book in question, with his name written in it by his mother, whose gift it was, certainly hit the reverend gentleman a severe blow in the eye, which completely incapacitated him from conducting divine service. He was led out of chapel, and the head master continued the office. What makes the offence more heinous is that your son then feigned complete unconsciousness. Had he owned up to throwing his prayer-book at the chaplain in some fit of boyish exasperation, I probably should not have troubled you with this serious report, and the head master would have dealt briefly with the whole question.…”
Mrs. Mallard raised a blanched face from the perusal of this terrible letter.
“Poor darling,” she said. “Teleo-kinesis.”
“Read on,” said Mr. Mallard, brokenly.
“I write,” said Tim’s house-master, “in a confusion of mind to which I am wholly unaccustomed. The Marquis of Essex and Moses Samuelson, two admirable and steady boys, both in my house, assisted your son out of chapel. They both aver, with the honesty that characterizes the English aristocracy and the ancient Semites, that when they came to the flight of steps leading from the chapel into the schoolyard, your son, still unconscious, floated out of their hands (‘Levitation,’ sobbed Mrs. Mallard), and was wafted on to the railings of the statue of Henry VI, where he came to himself in considerable pain. I have just had a long talk with the head master, who, as you may know, is an enthusiastic member of the Society for Psychical Research, and he is inclined (in my judgment) to take a
n altogether too lenient view of your son’s conduct. I told him, however, as I am now telling you, that if any further incidents of the sort occur, I shall be unable to keep T. Mallard in my house. You need be under no apprehension about his physical well-being, for the school doctor tells me that, beyond a few abrasions and punctures (owing to the railings), the boy is no worse for his adventure. But for myself I hold all psychical phenomena in contempt and abhorrence as being wholly un-English, and on any repetition of them I shall have to ask you to remove T. Mallard from my care.”
It was no wonder that the news of this sensational Sunday morning soon got abroad, for every boy in the school wrote home to his parents saying how much he had enjoyed chapel that day, and Tim’s parents were besieged with requests from various Occult and Psychical Societies to let the boy embrace the mediumistic profession. These they invariably refused, and appeals pointing out to them their obvious duty in allowing their son’s young energies to be employed in the noble task of tearing away the veil between the seen and the unseen did not produce the smallest effect on them. Offers of considerable sums of money for séances given by Tim were even harder to resist, and it does the utmost credit to Mr. and Mrs. Mallard that neither avarice nor duty (according to occultists) made them swerve a hairbreadth from their resolve to give Tim every chance of growing up into a sensible and conventional man. Like decent parents they had their son’s true welfare at heart, and they returned emphatic negatives to all the allurements of even the wealthiest Psychical Associations. As if to reward them, for a long time after this no further disturbance took place, and three happy years passed. Tim got his “Field” colours for football, he was likely to play at Lord’s in the cricket team, and he developed an excellent repugnance for learning.… Poor wretches! They had no idea how his psychical reservoir was filling.
Mr. Mallard, in Tim’s last year but one at Eton, was the prey of financial anxieties, but as long as the Khamshot Oil Company continued to pay a dividend of thirty-five per cent, no wolf could come within reasonable distance of his doors. But one evening during the Christmas holidays Tim, while in the middle of an account of a football match, became cataleptic, and, with groanings and screams, had shouted out “Horrible Khamshot: sell, sell, sell!” It was very disappointing that after three years’ immunity from nonsense he had suddenly become nonsensical again, and Khamshot was expected to pay a forty per cent dividend this year, so Mr. Mallard, intentionally defiant, sold out next day all that he was possessed of in other investments in order to put his entire fortune into Khamshots. The forty per cent dividend was duly declared, and Mr. Mallard very naturally said, “So much for poor Tim’s clairvoyance.”