The Countess of Lowndes Square and Other Stories Read online

  “And that to me,” said Hampden, licking his lips as he spoke. “Me, who adore dogs. Don’t you, Mr. Archdale?”

  As he said that I knew that he lied; that Fifi’s detestation of him was met with a hatred quite as vivid but more controlled. I can no more account for that conviction than for the sense of hellish evil that my first glance at him had conveyed to me. He was quite young, twenty-two or twenty-three for a guess, and yet from behind the mask of that soft boyish face there looked out a spirit hard and malignant and mature, an adept in terrible paths. The impression was quite inexplicable but perfectly clear. Then, looking across to Roupert, I saw he was watching his cousin with eager intentness.

  I had to answer the direct question he had put to me, but it required an effort to speak to him or to look at him.

  “No; personally I don’t care about dogs,” I said. “I rather dislike them, and so enjoy a most unwelcome popularity among them. Fifi, for instance: your cousin will tell you how blind is her adoration for me!”

  “See if Fifi will come to you if I stand by you,” said Hampden. Fifi had half-emerged from her ambush behind the curtains, and I called to her. But she would not leave the retreat where her rage and terror had driven her. She gave a little apologetic whine, as if to signify that I was asking an impossible thing, and beat with her stumpy tail on the carpet.

  “Now go back to your chair again, Frank,” said Roupert.

  Fifi needed no further invitation when he had left my neighbourhood. She bundled herself across the room to me, her thin white body curled like a comma, wriggling with delight and making incomprehensible little explanations of her previous conduct. But the moment that Hampden moved in his chair, she bolted away from me again.

  He laughed and got up.

  “Well, I think I shall go to bed now that you have come to keep Arthur company,” he said. “By the way, where’s your cat, Arthur? I haven’t seen her about all day.”

  He was facing sideways to Roupert as he spoke, and I noticed that he did not turn his head towards him. This gave a certain casual cursory tone to his question, making it appear a mere careless inquiry.

  “I haven’t seen her either,” said Roupert. “Perhaps, after taking counsel with Fifi, she has thought it prudent to fly from your baleful presence. Good night, Frank. Can you manage for yourself with your bandaged arm, or shall I come and help you?”

  “Oh, I’m all right, thanks,” he said; “good night. A kind good night, Fifi. We shall be good friends before long.”

  Arthur Roupert had retired some two years before from regular medical practice, in which, as all the world knows, he was undoubtedly the first authority on disease and aberrations of the brain and nervous system, devoting his attention more particularly to those riddles of obscure and baffling disorders to which he so often supplied strange and correct answers. He was possessed of an ample competence, and so, finding that his large professional practice did not permit him the leisure which was necessary for these exploratory studies, he had, though always willing to be consulted by his colleagues, thrown up an active career for one of research. He wanted to learn rather than to practise, and without precisely mistrusting the methods which had earned him so brilliant a success, had inferred the presence of huge fields of the unknown, huge expanses of further possibilities which would perhaps put utterly out of date the most advanced of theories and treatments hitherto recognized in his profession. At the time of his retirement he had once talked to me about the uncharted seas on to which he proposed to push forth.

  “The most advanced of actual practitioners,” he said, “are but groping in the dark on the threshold of real knowledge, feeling for the handle, fumbling for the bell. At the most, that is to say, in cases of brain disease and nerve disorder we try to get at the mind of the patient, and influence that, so that it, not we, may exert its healing power, and cure the imperfect functioning of the material part. Of course that is a tremendous step forward when we look at what medical science was twenty years ago, when doctors prescribed tonics, tonics to heal the physical damage caused by a disordered mind. But mind itself is but a very subordinate denizen in that house of mystery which we call man.

  “Mind is no more than the servant who comes to the door, and takes your hat and coat, and tells you in a word or two how the patient has been. Mind is not the master of the house, whom you have really come to see, and who sits there alone, mortally sick, perhaps, and in terror and darkness for the master of the house is the spirit. We have got to examine him before we can touch the source of these diseases. For the farther that science advances, the more certain it is that there is a master sitting within to whom the mind is only the servant. As for the body, the tissues, the nerves, the grey matter, what shall we say that is? Why, it’s no more than the servant’s clothes, his jacket, or his boots. I’m not going to stay talking in the hall to ‘mind,’ the servant, any longer. I shall leave him there, and go straight up to the sick-chamber. I shall be called all sorts of names—charlatan, spiritualist, what you will—but I don’t care two straws about that. Besides, I know quite well that my colleagues will still be glad to call me in when they are puzzled, and I hope to be better equipped to help them.... I won’t reject any jungle-path without exploring it, not witchcraft, nor demoniacal possession, nor all the myths which science thinks she has exploded. In its first origin everything must be spiritual, be it comet or toothache or genius. Just as mental suggestion has taken the place of tonics, so must spiritual healing take the place of mental suggestion. The spirit is the original manifestation of God in man, and it is on prayer and on faith that the whole science of healing will some day rest. But first we have to investigate the conditions, the environment, the life....”

  For these two years, then, which had followed his retirement, Roupert had given himself to these studies of occult and spiritual influences, learning about the healing powers contained in mental suggestion, and trying to get behind that into the more elemental and essential mysteries of man; leaving the servant, as he had said, in the hall of the house, while he went further into the presence of the master of the house. Often, during these “go-to-bed” cigarettes that multiplied themselves into the night, he told me tales that did not make going to sleep any easier. Nothing was too extravagant for his investigations; witchcraft, spiritualism, Satanism, the healing touch, and, above all, demoniacal possession were the subjects of this study that went deeper into the human organism than mind. There was no myth or exploded superstition that he did not examine, to see whether the explosion had been complete and shattering, or whether among the débris there did not remain some grains of solid stuff that were still solid, though science had affirmed that a puff of scattered smoke was all that was extant.... Consequently this evening, when Frank Hampden had gone to bed, I was quite prepared to find that Roupert had something to tell, some guess to hazard that had illumined his inquiries, the more so indeed because I had not seen him for some dozen nights.

  “Did you receive the message I left at your house?” he asked abruptly as the door closed behind his cousin.

  “No; I haven’t been home. But your servant told me you had asked me to come in,” said I.

  “Yes, I did. You have done just what I wanted. In my note I asked you to come in and observe my cousin, and tell me your impression. I saw you couldn’t help observing him, so now let us have the impression.”

  “Quite frankly? All?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “I never saw anyone so utterly terrible,” I said.

  “Terrible? Exactly how?” he asked.

  The very intensity of my feeling about Hampden blurred the outline of it, and I paused trying to put a definite shape to it.

  “Incomparably terrible,” I said. “Murderous, I think: murderous for the fun of it. I felt like Fifi.”

  “I saw you did,” he said; “and I suspect you are right, you and Fifi....”

  He walked up and down the room once or twice, then sat down with the air of set
tling himself.

  “Did you hear him ask about my cat?” he said. “He killed her last night; he buried her in the garden.”

  There was a grotesqueness, a ludicrousness even in this after the talk of murder, but that only added horror to it.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Precisely what I say. It so happened that I slept very badly last night, because, as a matter of fact, I was thinking about Frank, and wondering if I was on the horrible track which would show me what ailed him. About three in the morning I heard the door into the garden being opened: the window of my bedroom, which was open, is just above it. The idea of burglars occurred to me, and, without turning on my light, I went and looked out. There was bright clear starlight, and I saw Frank come out of the house carrying something white in his arm. He put it down to fetch a spade from the tool-house, and I saw what it was. He dug up a couple of plants with lumps of soil round their roots, working slowly, for he could only use one arm. He buried the cat in the excavation, and very carefully replanted the Michaelmas daisies over it. Then, more terribly yet, he knelt down by the grave, and I could hear him sobbing.”

  “Sobbing?” I asked.

  “Yes. What he said to-night is, or was, perfectly true. He used to be devoted to dogs and, indeed, all animals, especially cats.... Now last night, out in the garden, he was in his dressing-gown. Well, when he came down to breakfast this morning he said his nose had been bleeding rather severely. He was uneasy about it, and I went up to his bedroom and found a good deal of blood in his slop-pail. His dressing-gown was lying on his bed, and there, too, was more blood and a quantity of cat’s hairs. I told him not to think about it any more; there was nothing in the least alarming, and when he had gone out, in order to make quite sure, I dug up the Michaelmas daisies for the second time. Below, I found the body of my poor cat. He had cut its throat.... He would kill Fifi if he could; he is longing to.”

  “But the fellow is a fiend!” said I.

  “For the present he is a fiend, or something very like it. He used not to be until the day on which he broke his arm. Pray God he will cease being what he is.”

  “Till the day he broke his arm?” I asked.

  “Yes. Now do you want to hear the wildest and most extravagant tale, which I believe to be literally and awfully true?”

  “Concerning this?” I asked.

  “Of course. Also, are you disposed to sit up late to-night? There may be some confirmatory evidence about my story. I expect Reid, the medium, here at twelve. There is time for me to give you my theory before he comes.”

  “Till any hour,” said I.

  “Good. Then listen.”

  He spoke slowly, putting his hands over his eyes, as he so often does when he wants to shut out all external disturbances and concentrate himself on the history of a case.

  “Two months ago,” he said, “as you may possibly remember, a man called James Rolls was hanged at Beltonborough for the most atrocious murder of his wife. The deed apparently was quite objectless; there had been no quarrel, and after it was done he seemed sometimes to be distressed at the crime, sobbing and crying, sometimes to gloat over it, recounting it with gusto. There was no question whatever about his guilt, only about his sanity, and with regard to that these fits of remorse and enjoyment might be assumed in order to produce the impression that he was not accountable for his actions. He was examined by a Government expert, who asked me to come down with him and form my conclusion. We could neither of us find any other symptom of insanity about him. But there was a certain conjecture in my head about what we call the history of the case, and I stopped down at Beltonborough for a day or two in order to make further observations.

  “As I was having an interview with him, I suddenly asked him this question, ‘Did you begin by killing flies?’ Usually he was rather sullen and silent, and often would not answer; but when I asked him this, his eye brightened, and he said, ‘Yes, flies first, and then cats and dogs.’ After that I could get nothing further out of him, but I had got what I expected to get. In all other respects he was, as far as I could judge, perfectly sane, and it was scarcely possible to call him a homicidal maniac, for he had never before shown signs of wanting to take human life. As it was, he had committed an atrocious murder, and had he been shut up as a homicidal maniac, I do not think there is any doubt that by this time he would have killed a warder.

  “Now no man in a fit of rage is altogether sane, and yet we do not commute the sentence of those who have killed another when beside themselves with passion, and James Rolls had not even that extenuation. He was hanged.... But I feel convinced that Frank is suffering from an early stage of James Rolls’s malady; I feel convinced also that the hanging of James Rolls infected him with it.”

  “The hanging of James Rolls caused it?” I asked.

  “I do not doubt it, as you will see when I state my theory. But I hope to prove that my theory is correct, and I hope to cure my cousin.”

  Roupert sat up and looked at me while he said this; then he sank back in his chair again, and, as before, covered his eyes with his hands.

  “Now for the theory,” he said. “There is a very steep hill in Beltonborough with a sharp, dangerous corner just outside the prison gate. Practically at the moment when James Rolls was being taken to the scaffold, Frank came tearing down this hill on his bicycle to catch an early train to town. He skidded and fell just outside the prison, and sustained compound fracture of his right arm. It was important that he should be moved as little as possible, and they carried him straight into the prison infirmary, where chloroform was administered and the prison surgeon set his arm. It was a very bad fracture, and he was under the anæsthetic for a considerable time. And when he came round, he was changed.... It seemed as if another spirit had taken possession of his body. He was not the same person: from being a charming boy, he had become something hellish.”

  Roupert sat up again and looked at me.

  “There is a theory,” he said, “that in certain conditions, such as deep mesmeric trance, or under the stupefaction of some complete anæsthetic, the bonds that seem so indissolubly to unite a man’s spirit to his mind and his body are strangely loosened. The condition approaches to that of temporary death: often under an anæsthetic the beat of the heart is nearly suspended, often the breathing is nearly suspended, and this happened to Frank under chloroform that morning. The connexion between his spirit and his body was loosened....

  “There is another theory which you must consider also. It is proved, I think, beyond all doubt, that at the moment of death, particularly of sudden and violent death, the spirit, though severed from the body which it has inhabited, does not at once leave its vicinity, but remains hovering near to its discarded tenement, from which it has been expelled. Well, at that hour when Frank’s spirit was maintaining but a relaxed hold on his body, another spirit, violent and strong, was close at hand—a spirit that had just been disembodied.... And I believe the spirit of James Rolls entered and took possession.”

  I felt then what I have felt before and since, namely, some stir of horror in my head that made my hair move. You can often see it in dogs (I had seen it to-night in Fifi) when terror or rage erects their hackles. But the experience was only momentary, and the flame of this thing, its awful and burning quality, licked hotly round me....

  “And how is Reid to help?” I asked.

  “He may be able to test for us part, at any rate, of my theory,” said Roupert. “He is an extraordinarily powerful medium in the way of producing materialized forms of spirits, and I believe him to be honest and high-minded. Now if Frank’s body is possessed by this murderous spirit, it is at least possible that Frank’s own spirit, now unhoused and evicted, will be hovering near its rightful habitation. We will ask if the spirit of Frank Hampden is here. We will ask if it can assume material form. If Reid can produce this materialization, it will doubtless wear the appearance of Frank. We will try, anyhow.... Ah, no doubt that is Reid....”


  A very gentle tapping sounded on the front door just outside the room, and Roupert got up.

  “I told Reid not to ring,” he said, “for fear that Frank should hear. I will let him in.”

  He left the room, and in another moment came back with the medium, a small, perfectly commonplace looking man, smug and prosperous. Then I met his eyes and thought him commonplace no longer. They seemed to look out and through and beyond.

  In a few minutes Roupert, who had often sat with Reid before, explained what was wanted. He told him that we wished to know if the spirit of Frank Hampden was about, and, if so, whether we could communicate with it, or see it. That was all.

  Reid asked only one question.

  “Has Frank Hampden’s spirit been long out of his body?” he said.

  Roupert hesitated for a moment.

  “I believe it to have been out of his body for about two months,” he answered.

  The electric light was put out, but the glow from the fire was bright enough to make a red twilight in the room. I could clearly see the profile of the medium, black against that illumination, the back of the chair in which he sat, the full face of Roupert, glints of reflected light on the glass of pictures, and, with perfect distinctness, Fifi, who had curled herself up on the hearthrug. Almost immediately the medium went into trance, and I saw his head bowed over his chest, and heard his breathing, which had been short and panting, as he passed into unconsciousness, grow quiet again. How long we sat there in silence, without anything supernormal occurring, I do not know, but it appeared to me not to be many minutes before a very loud rap sounded from the table, which began to quiver under our hands. Then Roupert asked:

  “Is the spirit of Frank Hampden here?”

  There was the assent of three raps.

  “Shall we be able to see you?” he asked.

  There were two raps, and, after a pause, a third.