The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy

by Brian Stableford

  “I give him in charge,” he cried, as a policeman came up. “I give him in charge - robbery with violence.”

  “But my dear sir,” explained Jocelyn, “it is a mistake. You have got the wrong man.”

  “Dessay,” said the policeman. “You can explain that little matter at the station, where you are a-going to.”

  “Little matter?” repeated the man who had been robbed. “You call it a little matter to be robbed of watch and chain in Piccadilly, by a fellow who asks you for a light to his cigar, and then plants as neat a left-hander between your eyes as you can -”

  “Why!” cried Jocelyn. “It’s Annesley!”

  It was.

  “Well,” said the policeman, when he understood, and ceased to suspect; “as for him, he’s got safe enough off, this journey. And as for you, sir,” he addressed Jocelyn, “you couldn’t have done a better turn to that fellow - I know who he is - than to let him chuck you into the other gentleman’s arms.”

  Again Jocelyn had obtained the wish of his heart. He had, thanks to the Cap, done something to help one of “these poor wretches.”

  V

  Jocelyn reserved his final trial of his power for Wednesday evening. Meanwhile, he thought he would let the Cap rest. But one thing happened which troubled him greatly. His housekeeper’s daughter - she was a girl of fourteen or so, all knuckles and elbows - brought up his breakfast crying.

  “What is the matter?” he asked.

  “Please, Sir Jocelyn, mother’s had a terrible loss.”

  “What has she lost?”

  “She’s lost her purse, Sir Jocelyn, sir, with three pound fourteen and ninepence farthing in it. I don’t know what we shall do. And I’ve lost my lucky sixpence. And Bobby, he’s lost his ha’penny.”

  Jocelyn turned crimson with wrath and shame. His house-keeper’s purse! The girl’s lucky sixpence! And the child’s half-penny! His Jinn had placed them all in his pocket!

  “I am very sorry,” he stammered. “As for your purse, I can’t restore - I mean - find that for you. But - have you looked everywhere?”

  “Oh, everywhere, sir.”

  “Look here, Eliza. Here are four pounds,” - he would have handed over the exact sum, but he remembered in time that the lucky sixpence was among the coins in his pocket, and would certainly be identified - “here are four sovereigns. Tell your mother to buy herself a new purse, and if she loses her money again, I shall not find it for her. Turn your lucky sixpence into a shilling, and Bobby’s halfpenny into a sixpence.”

  When she was gone he pulled out the Cap, and set it before him on the table. “You are a common thief,” he said, shaking his forefinger. “You are so lazy that, when I ask for money, you go to the housekeeper’s room and steal - steal her purse. You are a disgraceful sneak and thief. Another such action, and I will -” here he remembered that he wanted the services of the Cap for Wednesday, and said no more. But he was profoundly disgusted. If money could only be had by stealing, how could he accept any money at all? Then he reflected. There is so much money and no more in the world. All this money has owners. The owners do not part with their money except as pay for services done. How, then, can money be got by any servants of a Wishing Cap except by stealing it? But to steal a poor housekeeper’s money! Mean! - mean! Yet for a Baronet to accept money stolen from anybody! Impossible. And so vanished at one blow his income of £13,477 8s 10 1/2d. The matter opened a large field for inquiry, which he “argued out” as before. That is to say, he got hopelessly fogged over it.

  This matter caused him a good deal of annoyance. There were other things too, which made him suspect the power, or the intelligence, of the Cap. Thus, it was vexatious, when he had merely wished, as so many well-meaning people do sometimes wish, that he was able to send to certain cases of distress, coals or help in other ways, to be told by the housekeeper that the ton of coals he had ordered was come, “and please, here is the bill.” He paid it silently. Again, he was in his dressing-room, thinking of Nelly Staunton. “The case is as hopeless,” he said to himself, “as if seas divided us. I wish,” he added gloomily, “seas did divide us”. Was it by accident, or was it by the meddlesome and mistaken action of the Cap - he always called it the Cap, to avoid the somewhat invidious phrase, Slave, or Demon of the Cap - that at this moment he kicked over the can containing his bath water, and made, of course, a great and horrible pool? He sat down and considered. As for the ton of coals, he had ordered them; but then they came at the very moment when he was wishing that he had coals to send. He had himself kicked over the can; but then, could it have been zeal on the part of the Cap to carry out, however imperfectly, even impossible orders?

  On the Monday evening he met a lot of people who had all at some time or other gone in for spiritualistic business. This was indeed their bond of union. After dinner a good many wonderful stories were told, and there was talk about Volition, Magnetism, Clairvoyance, and the like.

  “I am sometimes interested,” said a lady, who was present, one of those who believe everything, “in the old stories about Slaves of the Lamp, the Ring, or the Jewel. They seem to me illustrative of the supreme power which the Will of man has been known to achieve in rare cases; that namely, when he can command even senseless matter and make it obey him.”

  “As, for instance,” said Jocelyn, waking up, for this seemed likely to interest him, “if I was to order this glass to be upset. Pardon me, but I did not ask Mr Andersen to upset it.”

  Yet it was upset. Mr. Andersen, one of the guests, had at that moment knocked it over.

  “That certainly,” observed the lady, “would be an exercise of Will of a very singular and remarkable kind. It belongs to the class of phenomena which the Orientals accounted for by the invention of their so-called Slaves. Solomon had such Slaves. Mohammed had them. Every great man had them.”

  “Do you think,” asked Jocelyn anxiously, “that they exist now?”

  “The Slaves? Certainly not.” This lady, it is evident, knew a great deal. “But the power - yes - oh yes! - that exists if we can attain to it.” She was a woman about thirty years of age, with large full eyes. “If I choose to exercise my Will, Sir Jocelyn, you will advance towards me whether you like it or not.”

  “I very much doubt that; but,” said Jocelyn recklessly, “if I choose to exercise my Will, you shall recede from me.”

  “Really!” said the lady scornfully; “we will try, if you please. My Will against your Will. You shall advance, but I will not recede.”

  No one had ever before suspected young Sir Jocelyn of any pretence at supernatural powers, so that they all laughed, and expected instant discomfiture. Yet a remarkable thing happened. The lady sat in a chair before him, and Jocelyn fixed his eyes upon hers, which met his with a dilated glare. He did not advance, but presently the lady’s chair began to move backward, very slowly. She sprang up with a shriek of fright, and the chair fell over.

  “What have you done?” she cried. “Some one was pulling the chair.”

  “Very clever indeed,” observed a man who was addicted to feats of legerdemain and deception. “Very clever, Sir Jocelyn; you have deceived even me. But you will not do it twice, otherwise I shall find out how you did it.”

  “No,” he replied, half ashamed, “not twice. A trick,” he added, “ought not to be done over again.”

  “A trick?” said the lady. “But no - that was no trick. If the chair were not actually pulled, why, you must have the power, Sir Jocelyn. Yes; you have the Will that causes even inanimate matter to move. It was not me, but the chair that you repelled.”

  He deprecated, modestly, the possession of so strong a Will. The story, however, without the names, has been preserved, and may be read among the papers of the Psychical Society. It is one of their choicest and best authenticated anecdotes. But the real simple truth is not known to them, and in revealing it one does but set the narrative, so to speak, upon a different platform. It is no longer a mysterious Agent.

  “It is a lon
g time,” observed the Mr. Andersen who had upset the glass - he was a bright and sprightly Americanised Dane - “it is a long time since I did busy myself with the secrets and mysteries of the unseen world; but, if you please, I will give you, of the final result at which I arrived, an account.”

  “You did get a result, then?” said the lady of the strong Will.

  “You shall hear. I was out camping one night; all the fellows had gone to sleep except me, and I was keeping watch by the campfire with my six-shooter, and the big dog for company. The sky above us was as clear and pure as a young maiden’s heart, and the tall trees stood up against the sky like sentinels, dark and steadfast, and the whole air was as still - as still as a fellow keeps when he want to see if the other fellow will copper a queen or not. But I fell to thinking and thinking; and there was some one far away that I wanted so much to see and to know what … that person - might be thinking and doing -”

  ““And you saw her!” cried the lady.

  “I remembered,” he went on, not regarding the interruption, “how the fellow who taught us the mesmeric passes told me what an ever so strong mesmeric power I possessed, and I thought that here, if ever, was a high old time to try that power. I looked round at the still sky, and the quiet trees, and the sleeping fellows, and I just began to wish. Then the big dog lifted up his head and made as though he’d like to give a howl, and he looked at my face, and it seemed as if he believed he’d best swallow that howl. The more he didn’t howl the more I wished; and I wished and I wished and I wished till it seemed as if the whole world was standing still to judge how wonderful I was wishing, and then there came a faint rustle, way off among the tops of the trees, and I thought there was something, maybe, beginning to come out of it all. And I wished and I wished and I wished. And -” here he paused in a manner which thrilled his hearers.

  “Well?” asked Jocelyn, giving voice to the general expectation.

  “And, by Jupiter, Sir Jocelyn,” said the narrator, “by Jupiter nothing never came of it!”

  VI

  Before coming to the ball at Lady Hambledon’s, Jocelyn took the most careful precautions to prevent any possible mistake. He put the Cap before him and lectured it solemnly.

  “Now, you understand, there is to be no fooling this evening. I am going to Lady Hambledon’s - don’t confound her with any other Hambledon - Lady Hambledon in Brook Street; the Stauntons are going to be there: you will arrange an opportunity for me to speak to - the young lady; you will do your best to - to stimulate - to give me a shove if I get stuck; you will also, if that is possible, predispose the young lady in my favour. I don’t think there is anything more you can do. See that, this evening at least, you make no blunders. Remember the housekeeper’s purse.” By this time he had learned to avoid the phrase “I wish” as most dangerous and misleading, when a servant of limited intellect interprets every wish literally.

  He went off, however, comforted with the conviction that really he had said all that was necessary to say. If this Cap, or the Slave of the Cap, was not a fool and an imbecile, his orders would be executed to the letter. He was a little excited, of course; anybody would have been so under the circumstances. Not only was his happiness at stake - at five-and-twenty one’s whole future happiness is very often at stake - but he was about to test and prove the power of the Cap. Hitherto that power had not been exercised to his advantage in anyway. He should now ascertain exactly whether he was going to be a real wizard, or quite a common person like any other young Baronets. On the stairs he overheard a whispered conversation which made him feel uneasy.

  “I saw the Stauntons go up just now,” said one.

  “And I saw Annesley go up just before them,” said another.

  “Everybody says that he is hard hit. Came here after her, of course.”

  Nothing absolutely to connect Annesley with Nelly. Yet he was uneasy. Certainly, Annesley would not be hard hit by Caroline. Two people full of ideas cannot marry and be happy. No, it must be Nelly. He fortified himself with the thought of his Cap, and went on upstairs.

  The first thing he saw was Nelly herself, dancing with Annesley. “Confound him!” said Jocelyn, “He is as graceful as an ostrich!” On the other side of the room sat Mrs. Staunton. To her he made his way, and reached her just at the moment when Caroline was brought back to the same spot by her partner in the last dance. He could do nothing less than ask Caroline for the valse which had just begun. She was disengaged.

  At this juncture there fell upon him the strangest feeling possible. It was exactly as if he was being guided. He felt as if some one were leading him, and he seemed to hear a whisper saying, “Everything is arranged according to your Excellency’s commands.” The consciousness of supernatural presence in a London ball-room is a very strange thing. There is an incongruity in it; it makes one act and feel as if in a dream. It was in a waking dream that Jocelyn performed that dance. Presently - he was not in the least surprised now, whatever should happen - he found himself sitting in the conservatory with Caroline. She was discoursing in a broad philosophical spirit on the futility of human hopes and opportunities.

  Then he heard his own voice asking her: “What is the use of opportunities unless one knows how to use them?”

  “What indeed?” replied Caroline; “but surely, Sir Jocelyn, it is only the weaker sort to whom that happens? The strong” - here she directed an encouraging glance at him - “can always use, and can even make, if need be, their opportunities.”

  “Yes:” Jocelyn forced the conversation a step lower, “but if a girl won’t give a fellow a chance.”

  “I think,” said Caroline, “that any man can find his chance, if he likes to seize it.”

  There was a pause - Jocelyn felt himself impelled to speak. It was as if some one was pushing him towards a precipice. When he afterwards thought of himself and his extraordinary behaviour at this moment, he could only account for it by the theory that he was compelled to speak and to conduct himself in this wonderful way. “You must have seen,” he whispered, “you must have seen all this time, that I have been hoping for a chance and was unable to get one. There was always your mother or your sister in the way. And I did hope - I mean - I did think that the Cap - I mean that I did rather fancy that one might perhaps get a chance here, though it isn’t exactly what I ordered and wished. But I can’t help it. In fact, I made up my mind last Sunday that it must be to-night or never. But what with the crush, and seeing other fellows cut in - Annesley and the others -”

  Caroline interrupted this incoherent speech, which, however, could have but one meaning. “This is not the only place or the only time in the world.”

  “Well,” said Jocelyn, “may I call to-morrow? But then - oh! this isn’t what I wanted - may I call -” his eyes wandered, and he began a kind of love-babble, yet with a look of bewilderment.

  Caroline listened calmly. She remembered another love-scene years before, when much the same kind of thing was said to her, though her lover then had a far different expression in his eyes. They were burning eyes, and terrified her. Jocelyn’s were bewildered eyes, and made her feel just a little contemptuous. Even the coldest women like some fierceness in their wooer.

  “Hush!” she said, “you will be overheard. Take me now back to mamma. We are going immediately. You may come to-morrow at five.”

  He pressed her hand, and took her back. Nelly was with her mother, Annesley in attendance. She glanced at her sister, and caught in reply a smile so full of meaning, that she did not hesitate to bestow a look upon Jocelyn of the sweetest sympathy. Her pretty eyes and this sympathetic look of sisterly - yes! sisterly - pleasure, completed the business. It wanted nothing but Nelly’s sympathy to round off the situation and fill up his cup of misery.

  Then they went away. Jocelyn retired to a comparatively secluded place on the landing, and there, leaning against a door, he began to curse his fate and folly. He was so absorbed in railing at fortune and in self-pity, that he absolutely forgot the very exis
tence of the Cap. The situation was too desperate; in a lesser stress of circumstances he would have remembered it; but as yet he did not even connect the Cap with the present fearful disaster, of which the worst was that it could not possibly be worse; it was hopeless; he had told a girl to whom he was utterly indifferent, that he was in love with her; without being drunk, or blinded for a space by her charms, he had addressed words to her which he had intended for her sister. “Oh,” he groaned, “I wish I were somehow, anyhow, out of this horrible situation!”

  As he spoke, he involuntarily straightened his legs and leaned back with a jerk. The door opened, and he fell back with a fearful crash of broken glass upon the back stairs and a tray of ices on the way to the tea-room.

  Unlucky Jocelyn! To fall downstairs backwards is at best undignified, but who can describe the indignity and discomfort of falling in such circumstances as this? He was helped to his feet by some of the servants, and slipped away as quickly as he could.

  The cool night air restored him a little; he found himself able to think coherently; and he now understood that the whole of this miserable evening’s work was due to his infernal Cap.

  He took it out of the cabinet as soon as he reached his chambers.

  “You fool! you beast! you blind, blundering blockhead!” he thus addressed the Cap. “It is all your doing. The wrong girl? Yes: of course it was the wrong girl. Didn’t give you her name? You ought to have known it. Girl you talked so long with?” - All this time he seemed to be hearing and answering excuses. “Talked so long with -” He sank in a chair and groaned. Alas! it was his own fault; he had forgotten to name the girl; the Slave of the Cap knew that he wanted one of the Stauntons, and supposed that he wanted the one with whom he had conversed so much on Sunday. How should he know?

  He mixed a glass of whisky and seltzer.

  “I wish,” he said desperately, “that the stuff would poison me.”

  He drank off half the tumbler. Heavens! it was methylated spirits, not selzer (the bottles were alike in shape), that he had poured into the whisky. His wish was very nearly gratified. Fortunately the quantity he had drunk proved the cause of his safety. Over the bad quarter of an hour which followed let us drop the veil of pity.