第 十一 章 · MANIFESTATIONS.

. MANIFESTATIONS.

Miss Heydinger declined to disbelieve in the spirits of the dead, and

this led to controversy in the laboratory over Tea. For the girl

students, being in a majority that year, had organised Tea between

four o'clock and the advent of the extinguishing policeman at

five. And the men students were occasionally invited to Tea. But not

more than two of them at a time really participated, because there

were only two spare cups after that confounded Simmons broke the

third.

Smithers, the square-headed student with the hard grey eyes, argued

against the spirits of the dead with positive animosity, while

Bletherley, who displayed an orange tie and lank hair in unshorn

abundance, was vaguely open-minded, "What is love?" asked Bletherley,

"surely that at any rate is immortal!" His remark was considered

irrelevant and ignored.

Lewisham, as became the most promising student of the year, weighed

the evidence--comprehensively under headings. He dismissed the

mediumistic _séances_ as trickery.

"Rot and imposture," said Smithers loudly, and with an oblique glance

to see if his challenge reached its mark. Its mark was a grizzled

little old man with a very small face and very big grey eyes, who had

been standing listlessly at one of the laboratory windows until the

discussion caught him. He wore a brown velvet jacket and was reputed

to be enormously rich. His name was Lagune. He was not a regular

attendant, but one of those casual outsiders who are admitted to

laboratories that are not completely full. He was known to be an

ardent spiritualist--it was even said that he had challenged Huxley to

a public discussion on materialism, and he came to the biological

lectures and worked intermittently, in order, he explained, to fight

disbelief with its own weapons. He rose greedily to Smithers'

controversial bait.

"I say _no_!" he said, calling down the narrow laboratory and

following his voice. He spoke with the ghost of a lisp. "Pardon my

interrupting, sir. The question interests me profoundly. I hope I

don't intrude. Excuse me, sir. Make it personal. Am I a--fool, or an

impostor?"

"Well," parried Smithers, with all a South Kensington student's want

of polish, "that's a bit personal."

"Assume, sir, that I am an honest observer."

"Well?"

"I have _seen_ spirits, _heard_ spirits, _felt_ the touch of spirits,"

He opened his pale eyes very widely.

"Fool, then," said Smithers in an undertone which did not reach the

ears of the spiritualist.

"You may have been deceived," paraphrased Lewisham.

"I can assure you ... others can see, hear, feel. I have tested,

sir. Tested! I have some scientific training and I have employed

tests. Scientific and exhaustive tests! Every possible way. I ask you,

sir--have you given the spirits a chance?"

"It is only paying guineas to humbugs," said Smithers.

"There you are! Prejudice! Here is a man denies the facts and

consequently _won't_ see them, won't go near them."

"But you wouldn't have every man in the three kingdoms, who

disbelieved in spirits, attend _séances_ before he should be allowed

to deny?"

"Most assuredly yes. Most assuredly yes! He knows nothing about it

till then."

The argument became heated. The little old gentleman was soon under

way. He knew a person of the most extraordinary gifts, a medium ...

"Paid?" asked Smithers.

"Would you muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn?" said Lagune

promptly.

Smithers' derision was manifest.

"Would you distrust a balance because you bought it? Come and see."

Lagune was now very excited and inclined to gesticulate and raise his

voice. He invited the whole class incontinently to a series of special

_séances_. "Not all at once--the spirits--new influences." But in

sections. "I warn you we may get nothing. But the chances are ... I

would rejoice infinitely ..."

So it came about that Lewisham consented to witness a

spirit-raising. Miss Heydinger it was arranged should be there, and

the sceptic Smithers, Lagune, his typewriter and the medium would

complete the party. Afterwards there was to be another party for the

others. Lewisham was glad he had the moral support of Smithers.

"It's an evening wasted," said Smithers, who had gallantly resolved to

make the running for Lewisham in the contest for the Forbes

medal. "But I'll prove my case. You see if I don't." They were given

an address in Chelsea.

The house, when Lewisham found it at last, proved a large one, with

such an air of mellowed dignity that he was abashed. He hung his hat

up for himself beside a green-trimmed hat of straw in the wide,

rich-toned hall. Through an open door he had a glimpse of a palatial

study, book shelves bearing white busts, a huge writing-table lit by a

green-shaded electric lamp and covered thickly with papers. The

housemaid looked, he thought, with infinite disdain at the rusty

mourning and flamboyant tie, and flounced about and led him upstairs.

She rapped, and there was a discussion within. "They're at it already,

I believe," she said to Lewisham confidentially. "Mr. Lagune's always

at it."

There were sounds of chairs being moved, Smithers' extensive voice

making a suggestion and laughing nervously. Lagune appeared opening

the door. His grizzled face seemed smaller and his big grey eyes

larger than usual.

"We were just going to begin without you," he whispered. "Come

along."

The room was furnished even more finely than the drawing-room of the

Whortley Grammar School, hitherto the finest room (except certain of

the State Apartments at Windsor) known to Lewisham. The furniture

struck him in a general way as akin to that in the South Kensington

Museum. His first impression was an appreciation of the vast social

superiority of the chairs; it seemed impertinent to think of sitting

on anything quite so quietly stately. He perceived Smithers standing

with an air of bashful hostility against a bookcase. Then he was aware

that Lagune was asking them all to sit down. Already seated at the

table was the Medium, Chaffery, a benevolent-looking, faintly shabby

gentleman with bushy iron-grey side-whiskers, a wide, thin-lipped

mouth tucked in at the corners, and a chin like the toe of a boot. He

regarded Lewisham critically and disconcertingly over gilt

glasses. Miss Heydinger was quite at her ease and began talking at

once. Lewisham's replies were less confident than they had been in the

Gallery of Old Iron; indeed there was almost a reversal of their

positions. She led and he was abashed. He felt obscurely that she had

taken an advantage of him. He became aware of another girlish figure

in a dark dress on his right.

Everyone moved towards the round table in the centre of the room, on

which lay a tambourine and a little green box. Lagune developed

unsuspected lengths of knobby wrist and finger directing his guests to

their seats. Lewisham was to sit next to him, between him and the

Medium; beyond the Medium sat Smithers with Miss Heydinger on the

other side of him, linked to Lagune by the typewriter. So sceptics

compassed the Medium about. The company was already seated before

Lewisham looked across Lagune and met the eyes of the girl next that

gentleman. It was Ethel! The close green dress, the absence of a hat,

and a certain loss of colour made her seem less familiar, but did not

prevent the instant recognition. And there was recognition in her

eyes.

Immediately she looked away. At first his only emotion was

surprise. He would have spoken, but a little thing robbed him of

speech. For a moment he was unable to remember her surname. Moreover,

the strangeness of his surroundings made him undecided. He did not

know what was the proper way to address her--and he still kept to the

superstition of etiquette. Besides--to speak to her would involve a

general explanation to all these people ...

"Just leave a pin-point of gas, Mr. Smithers, please," said Lagune,

and suddenly the one surviving jet of the gas chandelier was turned

down and they were in darkness. The moment for recognition had

passed.

The joining of hands was punctiliously verified, the circle was linked

little finger to little finger. Lewisham's abstraction received a

rebuke from Smithers. The Medium, speaking in an affable voice,

premised that he could promise nothing, he had no "_directing_" power

over manifestations. Thereafter ensued a silence....

For a space Lewisham was inattentive to all that happened.

He sat in the breathing darkness, staring at the dim elusive shape

that had presented that remembered face. His mind was astonishment

mingled with annoyance. He had settled that this girl was lost to him

for ever. The spell of the old days of longing, of the afternoons

that he had spent after his arrival in London, wandering through

Clapham with a fading hope of meeting her, had not returned to

him. But he was ashamed of his stupid silence, and irritated by the

awkwardness of the situation. At one moment he was on the very verge

of breaking the compact and saying "Miss Henderson" across the

table....

How was it he had forgotten that "Henderson"? He was still young

enough to be surprised at forgetfulness.

Smithers coughed, one might imagine with a warning intention.

Lewisham, recalling his detective responsibility with an effort,

peered about him, but the room was very dark. The silence was broken

ever and again by deep sighs and a restless stirring from the

Medium. Out of this mental confusion Lewisham's personal vanity was

first to emerge. What did she think of him? Was she peering at him

through the darkness even as he peered at her? Should he pretend to

see her for the first time when the lights were restored? As the

minutes lengthened it seemed as though the silence grew deeper and

deeper. There was no fire in the room, and it looked, for lack of that

glow, chilly. A curious scepticism arose in his mind as to whether he

had actually seen Ethel or only mistaken someone else for her. He

wanted the _séance_ over in order that he might look at her again.

The old days at Whortley came out of his memory with astonishing

detail and yet astonishingly free from emotion....

He became aware of a peculiar sensation down his back, that he tried

to account for as a draught....

Suddenly a beam of cold air came like a touch against his face, and

made him shudder convulsively. Then he hoped that she had not marked

his shudder. He thought of laughing a low laugh to show he was not

afraid. Someone else shuddered too, and he perceived an

extraordinarily vivid odour of violets. Lagune's finger communicated a

nervous quivering.

What was happening?

The musical box somewhere on the table began playing a rather trivial,

rather plaintive air that was strange to him. It seemed to deepen the

silence about him, an accent on the expectant stillness, a thread of

tinkling melody spanning an abyss.

Lewisham took himself in hand at this stage. What _was_ happening? He

must attend. Was he really watching as he should do? He had been

wool-gathering. There were no such things as spirits, mediums were

humbugs, and he was here to prove that sole remaining Gospel. But he

must keep up with things--he was missing points. What was that scent

of violets? And who had set the musical box going? The Medium, of

course; but how? He tried to recall whether he had heard a rustling or

detected any movement before the music began. He could not

recollect. Come! he must be more on the alert than this!

He became acutely desirous of a successful exposure. He figured the

dramatic moment he had prepared with Smithers--Ethel a spectator. He

peered suspiciously into the darkness.

Somebody shuddered again, someone opposite him this time. He felt

Lagune's finger quiver still more palpably, and then suddenly the raps

began, abruptly, all about him. _Rap_!--making him start violently. A

swift percussive sound, tap, rap, dap, under the table, under the

chair, in the air, round the cornices. The Medium groaned again and

shuddered, and his nervous agitation passed sympathetically round the

circle. The music seemed to fade to the vanishing point and grew

louder again.

How was it done?

He heard Lagune's voice next him speaking with a peculiar quality of

breathless reverence, "The alphabet?" he asked, "shall we--shall we

use the alphabet?"

A forcible rap under the table.

"No!" interpreted the voice of the Medium.

The raps were continued everywhere.

Of course it was trickery, Lewisham endeavoured to think what the

mechanism was. He tried to determine whether he really had the

Medium's little finger touching his. He peered at the dark shape next

him. There was a violent rapping far away behind them with an almost

metallic resonance. Then the raps ceased, and over the healing silence

the little jet of melody from the musical box played alone. And after

a moment that ceased also....

The stillness was profound, Mr. Lewisham was now highly strung. Doubts

assailed him suddenly, and an overwhelming apprehension, a sense of

vast occurrences gathering above him. The darkness was a physical

oppression....

He started. Something had stirred on the table. There was the sharp

ping of metal being struck. A number of little crepitating sounds like

paper being smoothed. The sound of wind without the movement of air. A

sense of a presence hovering over the table.

The excitement of Lagune communicated itself in convulsive tremblings;

the Medium's hand quivered. In the darkness on the table something

faintly luminous, a greenish-white patch, stirred and hopped slowly

among the dim shapes.

The object, whatever it was, hopped higher, rose slowly in the air,

expanded. Lewisham's attention followed this slavishly. It was

ghostly--unaccountable--marvellous. For the moment he forgot even

Ethel. Higher and higher this pallid luminosity rose overhead, and

then he saw that it was a ghostly hand and arm, rising,

rising. Slowly, deliberately it crossed the table, seemed to touch

Lagune, who shivered. It moved slowly round and touched Lewisham. He

gritted his teeth.

There was no mistaking the touch, firm and yet soft, of

finger-tips. Almost simultaneously, Miss Heydinger cried out that

something was smoothing her hair, and suddenly the musical box set off

again with a reel. The faint oval of the tambourine rose, jangled, and

Lewisham heard it pat Smithers in the face. It seemed to pass

overhead. Immediately a table somewhere beyond the Medium began moving

audibly on its castors.

It seemed impossible that the Medium, sitting so still beside him,

could be doing all these things--grotesquely unmeaning though they

might be. After all....

The ghostly hand was hovering almost directly in front of

Mr. Lewisham's eyes. It hung with a slight quivering. Ever and again

its fingers flapped down and rose stiffly again.

Noise! A loud noise it seemed. Something moving? What was it he had

to do?

Lewisham suddenly missed the Medium's little finger. He tried to

recover it. He could not find it. He caught, held and lost an

arm. There was an exclamation. A faint report. A curse close to him

bitten in half by the quick effort to suppress it. Tzit! The little

pinpoint of light flew up with a hiss.

Lewisham, standing, saw a circle of blinking faces turned to the group

of two this sizzling light revealed. Smithers was the chief figure of

the group; he stood triumphant, one hand on the gas tap, the other

gripping the Medium's wrist, and in the Medium's hand--the

incriminatory tambourine.

"How's this, Lewisham?" cried Smithers, with the shadows on his face

jumping as the gas flared.

"_Caught_!" said Lewisham loudly, rising in his place and avoiding

Ethel's eyes.

"What's this?" cried the Medium.

"Cheating," panted Smithers.

"Not so," cried the Medium. "When you turned up the light ... put my

hand up ... caught tambourine ... to save head."

"Mr. Smithers," cried Lagune. "Mr. Smithers, this is very

wrong. This--shock--"

The tambourine fell noisily to the floor. The Medium's face changed,

he groaned strangely and staggered back. Lagune cried out for a glass

of water. Everyone looked at the man, expecting him to fall, save

Lewisham. The thought of Ethel had flashed back into his mind. He

turned to see how she took this exposure in which he was such a

prominent actor. He saw her leaning over the table as if to pick up

something that lay across it. She was not looking at him, she was

looking at the Medium. Her face was set and white. Then, as if she

felt his glance, her eyes met his.

She started back, stood erect, facing him with a strange hardness in

her eyes.

In the moment Lewisham did not grasp the situation. He wanted to show

that he was acting upon equal terms with Smithers in the exposure. For

the moment her action simply directed his attention to the object

towards which she had been leaning, a thing of shrivelled membrane, a

pneumatic glove, lying on the table. This was evidently part of the

mediumistic apparatus. He pounced and seized it.

"Look!" he said, holding it towards Smithers. "Here is more! What is

this?"

He perceived that the girl started. He saw Chaffery, the Medium, look

instantly over Smithers' shoulders, saw his swift glance of reproach

at the girl. Abruptly the situation appeared to Lewisham; he perceived

her complicity. And he stood, still in the attitude of triumph, with

the evidence against her in his hand! But his triumph had vanished.

"Ah!" cried Smithers, leaning across the table to secure it. "_Good_

old Lewisham!... Now we _have_ it. This is better than the

tambourine."

His eyes shone with triumph. "Do you see, Mr. Lagune?" said

Smithers. "The Medium held this in his teeth and blew it out. There's

no denying this. This wasn't falling on your head, Mr. Medium, was

it? _This_--this was the luminous hand!"