The Hound of Death

  The city and the children faded away and he awoke to find himself in bed, but the sobbing was still in his ears. Though wide awake, he heard it distinctly; and he remembered that Geoffrey slept on the floor below, while this sound of a child's sorrow descended from above. He sat up and struck a match. Instantly the sobbing ceased.

  Mr Winburn did not tell his daughter of the dream or its sequel. That it was no trick of his imagination, he was convinced; indeed soon afterwards he heard it again in the daytime. The wind was howling in the chimney but this was a separate sound - distinct, unmistakable: pitiful little heartbroken sobs.

  He found out, too, that he was not the only one to hear them. He overheard the housemaid saying to the parlourmaid that she "didn't think as that there nurse was kind to Master Geoffrey, she'd 'eard 'im crying 'is little 'eart out only that very morning." Geoffrey had come down to breakfast and lunch beaming with health and happiness; and Mr Winburn knew that it was not Geoff who had been crying, but that other child whose dragging footsteps had startled him more than once.

  Mrs Lancaster alone never heard anything. Her ears were not perhaps attuned to catch sounds from another world.

  Yet one day she also received a shock.

  "Mummy," said Geoff plaintively. "I wish you'd let me play with that little boy."

  Mrs Lancaster looked up from her writing table with a smile.

  "What little boy, dear?"

  "I don't know his name. He was in a attic, sitting on the floor crying, but he ran away when he saw me. I suppose he was shy (with slight contempt), not like a big boy, and then, when I was in the nursery building, I saw him standing in the door watching me build, and he looked so awful lonely and as though he wanted to play wiv me. I said: 'Come and build a h'engine,' but he didn't say nothing, just looked as - as though he saw a lot of chocolates, and his mummy had told him not to touch them." Geoff sighed, sad personal reminiscences evidently recurring to him. "But when I asked Jane who he was and told her I wanted to play wiv him, she said there wasn't no little boy in the 'ouse and not to tell naughty stories. I don't love Jane at all."

  Mrs Lancaster got up.

  "Jane was right. There was no little boy."

  "But I saw him. Oh! Mummy, do let me play wiv him, he did look so awful lonely and unhappy. I do want to do something to 'make him better.'"

  Mrs Lancaster was about to speak again, but her father shook his head.

  "Geoff," he said very gently, "that poor little boy is lonely, and perhaps you may do something to comfort him; but you must find out how by yourself - like a puzzle - do you see?"

  "Is it because I am getting big I must do it all my lone?"

  "Yes, because you are getting big."

  As the boy left the room, Mrs Lancaster turned to her father impatiently.

  "Papa, this is absurd. To encourage the boy to believe the servants' idle tales!"

  "No servant has told the child anything," said the old man gently. "He's seen - what I hear, what I could see perhaps if I were his age."

  "But it's such nonsense! Why don't I see it or hear it?"

  Mr Winburn smiled, a curiously tired smile, but did not reply.

  "Why?" repeated his daughter. "And why did you tell him he could help - the - the - thing. It's - it's all so impossible."

  The old man looked at her with his thoughtful glance.

  "Why not?" he said. "Do you remember these words:

  "What Lamp has Destiny to guide

  Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"

  "A Blind Understanding," Heaven replied.

  "Geoffrey has that - a blind understanding. All children possess it. It is only as we grow older that we lose it, that we cast it away from us. Sometimes, when we are quite old, a faint gleam comes back to us, but the Lamp burns brightest in childhood. That is why I think Geoffrey may help."

  "I don't understand," murmured Mrs Lancaster feebly.

  "No more do I. That - that child is in trouble and wants - to be set free. But how? I do not know, but - it's awful to think of it - sobbing its heart out - a child."

  A month after this conversation Geoffrey fell very ill. The east wind had been severe, and he was not a strong child. The doctor shook his head and said that it was a grave case. To Mr Winburn he divulged more and confessed that the case was quite hopeless. "The child would never have lived to grow up, under any circumstances," he added. "There has been serious lung trouble for a long time."

  It was when nursing Geoff that Mrs Lancaster became aware of that - other child. At first the sobs were an indistinguishable part of the wind, but gradually they became more distinct, more unmistakable. Finally she heard them in moments of dead calm: a child's sobs - dull, hopeless, heartbroken.

  Geoff grew steadily worse and in his delirium he spoke of the "little boy" again and again. "I do want to help him get away, I do!" he cried.

  Succeeding the delirium there came a state of lethargy. Geoffrey lay very still, hardly breathing, sunk in oblivion. There was nothing to do but wait and watch. Then there came a still night, dear and calm, without one breath of wind.

  Suddenly the child stirred. His eyes opened. He looked past his mother towards the open door. He tried to speak and she bent down to catch the half-breathed words.

  "All right, I'm comin'," he whispered; then he sank back.

  The mother felt suddenly terrified; she crossed the room to her father. Somewhere near them the other child was laughing. Joyful, contented, triumphant, the silvery laughter echoed through the room.

  "I'm frightened; I'm frightened," she moaned.

  He put his arm round her protectingly. A sudden gust of wind made them both start, but it passed swiftly and left the air quiet as before.

  The laughter had ceased and there crept to them a faint sound, so faint as hardly to be heard, but growing louder till they could distinguish it. Footsteps - light footsteps, swiftly departing.

  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, they ran - those well-known halting little feet. Yet - surely - now other footsteps suddenly mingled with them, moving with a quicker and a lighter tread.

  With one accord they hastened to the door.

  Down, down, down, past the door, close to them, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, went the unseen feet of the little children together.

  Mrs Lancaster looked up wildly.

  "There are two of them - two!"

  Grey with sudden fear, she turned towards the cot in the corner, but her father restrained her gently and pointed away.

  "There," he said simply.

  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter - fainter and fainter.

  And then - silence.

  THE LAST SÉANCE

  Raoul Daubreuil crossed the Seine humming a little tune to himself. He was a good-looking young Frenchman of about thirty-two, with a fresh-colored face and a little black moustache. By profession he was an engineer. In due course he reached the Cardonet and turned in at the door of No. 17. The concierge looked out from her lair and gave him a grudging "Good-morning," to which he replied cheerfully. Then he mounted the stairs to the apartment on the third floor. As he stood there waiting for his ring at the bell to be answered he hummed once more his little tune. Raoul Daubreuil was feeling particularly cheerful this morning. The door was opened by an elderly Frenchwoman, whose wrinkled face broke into smiles when she saw who the visitor was.

  "Good-morning, monsieur."

  "Good-morning, Elise," said Raoul.

  He passed into the vestibule, pulling off his gloves as he did so.

  "Madame expects me, does she not?" he asked over his shoulder.

  "Ah, yes, indeed, monsieur."

  Elise shut the front door and turned towards him.

  "If Monsieur will pass into the little salon, Madame will be with him in a few minutes. At the moment she reposes herself."

  Raoul looked up sharply. "Is she not well?"

  "Well!"

  Elise gave a snort. She passed in front of Raoul and opened the door of the little salon for him. He w
ent in and she followed him.

  "Well!" she continued. "How should she be well, poor lamb? Séances, séances, and always séances! It is not right - not natural, not what the good God intended for us. For me, I say straight out, it is trafficking with the devil."

  Raoul patted her on the shoulder reassuringly.

  "There, there, Elise," he said soothingly, "do not excite yourself, and do not be too ready to see the devil in everything you do not understand."

  Elise shook her head doubtingly.

  "Ah, well," she grumbled under her breath, "Monsieur may say what he pleases, I don't like it. Look at Madame, every day she gets whiter and thinner, and the headaches!"

  She held up her hands. "Ah, no, it is not good, all this spirit business. Spirits indeed! All the good spirits are in paradise, and the others are in purgatory."

  "Your view of the life after death is refreshingly simple, Elise," said Raoul as he dropped into a chair.

  The old woman drew herself up. "I am a good Catholic, monsieur."

  She crossed herself, went towards the door, then paused, her hand on the handle.

  "Afterwards when you are married, monsieur," she said pleadingly, "it will not continue - all this?"

  Raoul smiled at her affectionately.

  "You are a good faithful creature, Elise," he said, "and devoted to your mistress. Have no fear, once she is my wife, all this 'spirit business' as you call it, will cease. For Madame Daubreuil there will be no more séances."

  Elise's face broke into smiles.

  "Is it true what you say?" she asked eagerly.

  The other nodded gravely.

  "Yes," he said, speaking almost more to himself than to her. "Yes, all this must end. Simone has a wonderful gift and she has used it freely, but now she has done her part. As you have justly observed, Elise, day by day she gets whiter and thinner. The life of a medium is a particularly trying and arduous one, involving a terrible nervous strain. All the same, Elise, your mistress is the most wonderful medium in Paris - more, in France. People from all over the world come to her because they know that with her there is no trickery, no deceit."

  Elise gave a snort of contempt.

  "Deceit! Ah, no, indeed. Madame could not deceive a new-born babe if she tried."

  "She is an angel," said the young Frenchman with fervor. "And I - I shall do everything a man can to make her happy. You believe that?"

  Elise drew herself up, and spoke with a certain simple dignity.

  "I have served Madame for many years, monsieur. With all respect I may say that I love her. If I did not believe that you adored her as she deserves to be adored - eh bien, monsieur! I should be willing to tear you limb from limb."

  Raoul laughed. "Bravo, Elise! You are a faithful friend, and you must approve of me now that I have told you Madame is going to give up the spirits."

  He expected the old woman to receive this pleasantry with a laugh, but somewhat to his surprise she remained grave.

  "Supposing, monsieur," she said hesitatingly, lithe spirits will not give her up?"

  Raoul stared at her. "Eh! What do you mean?"

  "I said," repeated Elise, "supposing the spirits will not give her up?"

  "I thought you didn't believe in the spirits, Elise?"

  "No more I do," said Elise stubbornly. "It is foolish to believe in them. All the same..."

  "Well?"

  "It is difficult for me to explain, monsieur. You see, me, I always thought that these mediums, as they call themselves, were just clever cheats who imposed on the poor souls who had lost their dear ones. But Madame is not like that. Madame is good. Madame is honest, and..."

  She lowered her voice and spoke in a tone of awe.

  "Things happen. It is not trickery, things happen, and that is why I am afraid. For I am sure of this, monsieur, it is not right. It is against nature and le bon Dieu, and somebody will have to pay."

  Raoul got up from his chair and came and patted her on the shoulder.

  "Calm yourself, my good Elise," he said, smiling. "See, I will give you some good news. Today is the last of these séances; after today there will be no more."

  "There is one today, then?" asked the old woman suspiciously.

  "The last, Elise, the last."

  Elise shook her head disconsolately. "Madame is not fit..." she began.

  But her words were interrupted, the door opened and a tall, fair woman came in. She was slender and graceful, with the face of a Botticelli Madonna. Raoul's face lighted up, and Elise withdrew quickly and discreetly.

  "Simone!"

  He took both her long, white hands in his and kissed each in turn. She murmured his name very softly.

  "Raoul, my dear one."

  Again he kissed her hands and then looked intently into her face.

  "Simone, how pale you are! Elise told me you were resting; you are not ill, my well-beloved?"

  "No, not ill..." she hesitated.

  He led her over to the sofa and sat down on it beside her.

  "But tell me then."

  The medium smiled faintly. "You will think me foolish," she murmured.

  "I? Think you foolish? Never."

  Simone withdrew her hand from his grasp. She sat perfectly still for a moment or two gazing down at the carpet. Then she spoke in a low, hurried voice.

  "I am afraid, Raoul."

  He waited for a minute or two expecting her to go on, but as she did not he said encouragingly:

  "Yes, afraid of what?"

  "Just afraid... that is all."

  "But..."

  He looked at her in perplexity, and she answered the look quickly.

  "Yes, it is absurd, isn't it, and yet I feel just that. Afraid, nothing more. I don't know what of, or why, but all the time I am possessed with the idea that something terrible - terrible, is going to happen to me..."

  She stared out in front of her. Raoul put an arm gently round her.

  "My dearest," he said, "come, you must not give way. I know what it is, the strain, Simone, the strain of a medium's life. All you need is rest - rest and quiet."

  She looked at him gratefully. "Yes, Raoul, you are right. That is what I need, rest and quiet."

  She closed her eyes and leant back a little against his arm.

  "And happiness," murmured Raoul in her ear.

  His arm drew her closer. Simone, her eyes still closed, drew a deep breath.

  "Yes," she murmured, "yes. When your arms are round me I feel safe. I forget my life - the terrible life - of a medium. You know much, Raoul, but even you do not know all it means."

  He felt her body grow rigid in his embrace. Her eyes opened again, staring in front of her.

  "One sits in the cabinet in the darkness, waiting, and the darkness is terrible, Raoul, for it is the darkness of emptiness, of nothingness. Deliberately one gives oneself up to be lost in it. After that one knows nothing, one feels nothing, but at last there comes the slow, painful return, the awakening out of sleep, but so tired - so terribly tired."

  "I know," murmured Raoul, "I know."

  "So tired," murmured Simone again. Her whole body seemed to droop as she repeated the words.

  "But you are wonderful, Simone."

  He took her hands in his, trying to rouse her to share his enthusiasm.

  "You are unique - the greatest medium the world has ever known."

  She shook her head, smiling a little at that.

  "Yes, yes," Raoul insisted.

  He drew two letters from his pocket.

  "See here, from Professor Roche of the Salpetriere, and this one from Dr Genir at Nancy, both imploring that you will continue to sit for them occasionally."

  "Ah, no!"

  Simone sprang suddenly to her feet.

  "I will not, I will not. It is to be all finished - all done with. You promised me, Raoul."

  Raoul stared at her in astonishment as she stood wavering, facing him almost like a creature at bay. He got up and took her hand.

  "Yes, yes," he
said. "Certainly it is finished, that is understood. But I am so proud of you, Simone, that is why I mentioned those letters."

  She threw him a swift sideways glance of suspicion.

  "It is not that you will ever want me to sit again?"

  "No, no," said Raoul, "unless perhaps you yourself would care to, just occasionally for these old friends..."

  But she interrupted him, speaking excitedly. "No, no, never again. There is danger. I tell you I can feel it, great danger."

  She clasped her hands on her forehead a minute, then walked across to the window.

  "Promise me never again," she said in a quieter voice over her shoulder.

  Raoul followed her and put his arms round her shoulders.

  "My dear one," he said tenderly, "I promise you after today you shall never sit again."

  He felt the sudden start she gave.

  "Today," she murmured. "Ah, yes - I had forgotten Madame Exe."

  Raoul looked at his watch. "She is due any minute now; but perhaps, Simone, if you do not feel well..."

  Simone hardly seemed to be listening to him; she was following out her own train of thought.

  "She is - a strange woman, Raoul, a very strange woman. Do you know - I have almost a horror of her."

  "Simone!"

  There was reproach in his voice, and she was quick to feel it.

  "Yes, yes, I know, you are like all Frenchmen, Raoul. To you a mother is sacred and it is unkind of me to feel like that about her when she grieves so for her lost child. But - I cannot explain it, she is so big and black, and her hands - have you ever noticed her hands, Raoul? Great big strong hands, as strong as a man's. Ah!"

  She gave a little shiver and closed her eyes. Raoul withdrew his arm and spoke almost coldly.

  "I really cannot understand you, Simone. Surely you, a woman, should have nothing but sympathy for another woman, a mother bereft of her only child."

  Simone made a gesture of impatience.

  "Ah, it is you who do not understand, my friend! One cannot help these things. The first moment I saw her I felt..."

  She flung her hand out. "Fear! You remember, it was a long time before I would consent to sit for her? I felt sure in some way she would bring me misfortune."