The Door of the Unreal

by Gerald Biss

  “No, not yet,” he answered; “but I gave orders for it to be done this afternoon.”

  “Well, please have them countermanded first thing to-morrow morning for a day or two, old chap,” I said. “I won’t want to arouse the least suspicion or chance any of my plans going agley. No, my dear Manders, with your kind consent I propose to put you in charge of the back-door squad, as I must have someone there whom I can rely upon absolutely. You can be round with us in no time, once the shooting begins.”

  “Just as you wish,” he acquiesced, with that prompt self-effacement and cordiality that helps generalship so much. “I’m entirely at your disposal in the matter, though for preference I would love a shot at old Père Garou. He has got on my nerves and makes me itch to rid the earth of his foul presence every time I think of him—phew!”

  “And your other guns?” asked Burgess quietly.

  “I would have preferred them all amateur,” I answered, “but I shall be one short. I propose to enlist Verjoyce and Wellingham to-morrow, and put them under Manders’ command at the back. They are a couple of real sporting white youngsters, and both excellent shots, as I have taken the trouble to find out for the third gun at the front, I am a bit at a loss.”

  “Hedges,” said Burgess promptly. “he, like Jevons, was born and brought up on the estate, and both went through the Boer War with me in the Yeomanry; and I would trust them both absolutely and without reservation. I will guarantee both of them to do anything I do or tell them to do, and not to talk.”

  “Right,” said I; “then Hedges let it be. That takes a weight off my mind.”

  “I will talk to Verjoyce and Wellingham,” volunteered Manders, “if you chaps like. I know them a bit better than you do now, and they have got a bit of a respect for my views and opinions,” he added, with a laugh; “and I’ll call in Blenkinsopp to give it a proper convincing official air. They will come in quick enough, you may be sure, if there is any excitement going.”

  “Splendid,” I agreed; “and Burgess shall tackle Hedges, and I think that Jevons should be told as well, as we are pretty sure to want his help, if only to cover up our tracks. I will get out a plan and work out all details; and on Sunday evening we will have a consultation. Further, without wishing in any way to be melodramatic, I would suggest an oath of secrecy, which will at least impress the youngsters and the men of the great seriousness of the undertaking.”

  “Yes, I am quite with you there,” said Blenkinsopp. “It is quite as well and can do no possible harm.”

  So it was agreed.

  “And now to bed,” I said. “We all need our rest; and we shall want our nerves in the best possible order on Tuesday night. Our plans are now well forward, thank God.”

  And thus we broke up; and before turning into bed I took one long last look at the cold face of the moon out of my window, wondering what she at her hour of fullness was destined to bring forth.

  V

  The next day, Saturday, the twenty-seventh, was beautifully bright and sunny, a glorious morning: and I spent the early part of it in the garden with Ann until she had to go in to read to Bullingdon, as I found she often did.

  “The nurses tell me that he quite looks forward to it,” she said naïvely, as we finished a grand review of the tulips, which were all coming up in fine formation against the impending arrival of May.

  “I’ve no doubt, my dear,” said I a trifle cynically. “I would stay in bed every morning myself, if only I could guarantee nice girls to come up and read to me: but I suppose that I’m not pale or interesting or good-looking enough to attract them.”

  “Linc, you’re a perfect beast,” exclaimed Ann, blushing hotly: “and here have I been wasting half my valuable morning taking you round the garden and being polite to you.”

  “Nothing more than common decency demands, and your duty as hostess, my dear Ann: and you know that both Burgess and I have spared no effort in the past to instil nice manners into you from the days when you were a shocking little hoyden.”

  Ann made a face at me.

  “There, that shows how unsuccessful you have been. Never again will I waste a single moment upon such an unappreciative and unattractive person, Mr. Osgood!”

  And with a sarcastic curtsey she turned on her heel and ran down the terrace and in at the hall-door, singing a merry little snatch that belied her simulated disdain.

  I followed more slowly, refilling my pipe, and entered by the library window.

  There I found Manders and Burgess talking.

  “Do you know,” said the former, obviously interested, “that Clymping here has just been taking the wind out of our cosmopolitan sails, after all, by telling me that what we had forgotten in our town surroundings and wider spheres is still extant amongst the country folk in their lore, and firmly believed in by them nowadays? Not exactly werewolves,” he added, “but hell-hounds, which are at least first cousins and much the same thing for all practical purposes. In fact, you remember when Llewellyn slays poor old faithful Gelert, he cries ‘Hell-hound, by thee my child devoured,’ when the old dog has been actually killing the hell-hound or werewolf—‘a great wolf all torn and dead—tremendous still in death.’ ”

  “Yes,” broke in Burgess, “for once I did not sleep much last night, a strange thing for me, turning the whole thing over and over again in my mind and viewing it from every angle; and it came back to me irresistibly that, even in these days in England, the old rustic population in many places still believe in ‘the hell-hounds,’ and there are cases even recently of their hearing them, like a pack in full cry—perhaps not so much in Sussex, which is alas, fast becoming suburbanized by the spreading of London, its handiness to town, motorcars, and the whole trend of things—but in parts more remote and farther west, for instance. Modern board-school education, with its intensely prosaic outlook, has had a devastating effect upon folk-lore and rustic tradition: yet, despite it, the older yokels remember, even if they do not talk too openly to mere strangers about such things for fear of ridicule, secretive ‘with two soul-sides, one to face the world with’ and the other that harbours the traditions of their forefathers. Hell-hounds are today believed in in many secluded cottage homes, where a night outing is regarded as something of a spiritual adventure, a thing not to be lightly or unadvisedly undertaken. Only recently, in the Times itself, a correspondent quoted the case of a servant girl who turned back to her cottage home after her evening out, because she heard the hell-hounds and dared not face the malign spirits in desolate places ready to spring out upon incautious travellers.”

  “And I suppose her unimaginative mistress sacked her the next day?” commented the ever-cynical Manders, with his characteristic little laugh.

  “That is very interesting indeed,” I said, strangely gratified by this unexpected touch of confirmation so near home, “and quite a new viewpoint to me. Though tradition undoubtedly dies hard, it would seem to show that the werewolf has not so long been an unknown form of spiritual projection in this country as one thought, although unrecognized in its infrequent manifestations.”

  For a short time we discussed the question; and then I turned to Burgess.

  “Now then, old chap, what I came in to do was to sketch out a map of the Dower House and its surroundings, upon which to draw out in detail our plan of action. It will help to show everyone his exact post at the critical moment without any talking and moving about, which might be heard and arouse suspicion. At such times such super-physicals are apt to be acutely supersensitive. Can you give me a suitable large piece of paper?”

  “An excellent scheme,” Burgess cordially agreed. “Come into my own particular sanctum, and I’ll fix you up all right: and there on the wall you will have the ordnance map of the whole estate, with the Dower House bit as big as you will want for your purposes.”

  So leaving Manders to stroll out on the terrace, we went across the hall to a pleasant panelled room in the right-hand corner facing the drive. It was the most comfortable room in a
n essentially comfortable house, full of odd easy chairs, with a couple of low deep couches, a big writing-table in the window, and another in the middle of the room, at which Burgess transacted all his estate business. One wall was partially covered by the big map he had referred to, flanked by two old Chippendale tallboys, holding papers, while a big cupboard in the corner, which was in reality a safe, held all sorts of deed-boxes and the unsightly paraphernalia of record and organization—the whole being concealed by panelling, which opened back on hinges. Round the other walls were prints, photographs, and sporting trophies, mostly of a more personal than actual value, and over the mantelpiece was a big cigar-cupboard—a regular man’s room arranged for comfort and business, combined with an eye to privacy and especial confidences in a house full of guests.

  It was there, if not in the hall, that Ann and he and I always sat in the evenings, when quite alone.

  “That’s just the thing,” I said, examining the big map. “It will help to keep my proportions accurate.”

  Burgess soon had me fixed up and left me to my plan. Fortunately I have a bit of a knack for sketching and architectural work; and it did not take me long to rough out a small one, upon which I marked in the individual places roughly for discussion. And in a little over an hour I had the larger sketch ready as well, but without any places put in, leaving that until after a general conference upon the subject, to see what other suggestions might be offered.

  I had just finished and rolled up my smaller drawing, lest perchance it might fall into the wrong hands and arouse any sort of suspicion—the larger one did not matter so much, as it was a plan pure and simple—when I heard the angry eructations of a Klaxon, as a car turned in at the gates: and soon a long, low “ninety” Mercédès, with a wonderful white body, bounded up the drive with Harry Verjoyce, recognizable only by impression in his overall touring-coat and goggles, at the wheel, and Bill Wellingham beside him. They were instinct with life and audacity, ever on the look-out for what they termed “fun,” which might mean anything so long as it spelt a new sensation, preferably spiced with danger: and I knew that there I had the right stuff, especially when, under the veneer of abandonment and carelessness, there was the discipline of the Guards to work upon.

  I went out into the hall and found Burgess greeting them, as they pulled oft their driving-coats over their heads and revealed the very latest things in tweeds and silk socks underneath.

  “What about the old Mere, Mr. Clymping?” asked Verjoyce. “I’ve left the engine running, as she’s the devil to start. Shall I take her round to the garage, as she’s got a bit of ginger under her bonnet and isn’t so easy to tackle till you know her little ways? “Right-oh,” said Burgess, laughing like a schoolboy, which did him good, I could feel. “I’ll come round with you myself and show you the way, as I’m always interested in big cars, while Osgood here can mix us one of his famous bronxes against our return.”

  Soon we were all assembled in the hall, outwardly a cheerful enough party as usual, but with the horror ever lurking in the background, of which so far the two youngsters and Ann were happily ignorant.

  “One of you may see Lord Bullingdon when he has had his nap after lunch—that is, probably about three o’clock—” announced Ann officially: “but the doctors think it better that it should not he both the first time. You will have to settle it between yourselves.”

  “It’d better be Bill,” said Harry Verjoyce promptly. “He’s better at these things than I am.”

  “These things” was eminently vague: but we all had an instinct what he meant and what it covered.

  “Right-oh,” said young Wellingham gruffly: “here’s luck.”

  And he swallowed his cocktail to cover his feelings: and Manders came to the rescue again with some questions about the big white Mercédès racer, which was Verjoyce’s latest addition to his auto-stud and a very safe topic.

  And then lunch, itself a merry enough meal, at which the ball was tossed about from one to another with the deliberate purpose of banishing unpleasant things to the background of memory: and I never met a better man at the game than Manders, who always seems to have the knack of the right note to keep things at the required pitch.

  “I will call you, Mr. Wellingham,” Ann said, leaving us over the port, “when you can see Lord Bullingdon; but don’t stay more than ten minutes, please, and keep him off unpleasant subjects as much as ever you can. We want to keep the circumstances surrounding the shock as much out of his mind as we can.”

  Ann put on a professional manner which was quite becoming, and would have been amusing if the circumstances had not been so grave—I night say, appalling.

  “I’ll do my best, Miss Clymping,” said Bill Wellingham, holding the door open for her. “Trust me, though I’m afraid a poor wretched subaltern can’t be counted on for the tact, to say nothing of the airs and graces, of these barrister chaps.”

  It was quite happy, and allowed Ann to leave us in the midst of a general laugh.

  “All right, my lad,” said Manders, laughing, “I’ll get back on you before I’ve done. I often hope myself that there’s more affectation than real idiocy amongst the junior officers of the Guards’ Brigade.”

  Then Blenkinsopp spoke, introducing a more serious vein.

  “Could you two chaps get two or three days’ leave for a very particular purpose,” he asked— “say from Monday to Wednesday or Thursday? It’s rather important; and I’ll explain the whole business later on.”

  “Might be wangled, Bill, mightn’t it?” said Harry Verjoyce.

  Wellingham nodded.

  “Think so. We’ve both been very good boys lately, and doing quite a lot of beastly duty one way and another.”

  “Well then,” said Blenkinsopp quietly, “I’ll put you wise after Wellingham has seen Bullingdon. It’s man’s work I want of you both, no kid’s game: and it’s connected with the cleaning up of this infernal business.

  The boys started; and their faces instantly grew serious, assuming a new and very businesslike look.

  “Then it’s got to be done,” they said in chorus. “We’re game, you can bet.”

  “It may be a shooting matter,” added Blenkinsopp. “Can you chaps shoot?”

  “Some,” replied Wellingham succinctly, pursing his lips: “and as for old Harry, he’s a topper, not only high birds, but big game in Africa with his guv’nor once, lucky devil, before the old man got laid out by a rhino.”

  I recalled the incident a year or two back.

  And then we talked on neutral subjects, such as Wellingham’s legitimate grievance against his Irish tenants, who refused to pay their rents and finance him as an officer in the Guards should be financed, and Verjoyce’s views of the unfair incidence of taxation upon the “upper rich,” till Ann looked in at the door.

  “He’s waiting for you, Mr. Wellingham,” she said in her dear, soft voice. “Come along.”

  And Wellingham clicked to attention with that serious look on his face I had liked so much all along. I knew instinctively that there was the right stuff in the lad all through—in both of them, I may say—despite their deliberately cultivated carelessness of manner and frivolity of outlook upon such a boring subject as life.

  VI

  The rest of us adjourned to the library when Wellingham went upstairs, and strolled up and down the terrace until his return less than a quarter of an hour later, all worried and anxious and glad to get on the move.

  His face was white, and I could see that it was a bit of an effort to keep it from twitching.

  “Poor old Tony-Boy,” he said with more feeling than he wanted to show, as we all returned to the library, “he looks fearfully knocked out and as white as a ghost—more like a girl than a man: and it knocked me over a bit to see him like that. He was always so full of life and go, and the first over the top in every harum-scarum joy-ride.”

  ***

  [Memo. Here let me, as chronicler, interpolate that at Wellingham’s special request, and n
ot deeming it essential, I have agreed to reproduce, in a few words, what he told us, instead of asking him this time to make a separate document of it.]

  ***

  “He couldn’t give me a grip,” he went on, “hardly a squeeze: and it seemed to comfort him to hold my hand like a girl, and all he said at first was ‘dear old Bill’ twice, in such a small soft voice that a great lump came into my throat, and I’m damned if I didn’t want to blub like a new kid at school. I couldn’t speak, and just patted his white hand, which you could almost see through, like a sentimental lunatic: and then it was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing at myself.”

  He took out a yellow silk handkerchief with crimson bull-dogs on it and wiped his lips, a bizarre contrast to his emotion.

  “Give me a cigarette, Harry, old top,” he said; and as he lit it, he seemed to get a fresh grip on himself. “It was too beastly for words, as the poor old chap wanted to get at what had happened. I told him there had been an accident, and he said he didn’t remember anything about it: and then—oh, my God, then he asked after poor old Wuffles, and was most insistent. Not that he was in love with her really, you know, though at first he thought he was, and then she complicated matters by falling in love with him, which wouldn’t surprise anyone in the least who knew old Tony: but he felt some sort of responsibility. And at last, when he would have it and forced my hand, I told him she had been killed—that was all. I didn’t tell him anything more, except that it was painless. His face was contracted horribly for a moment, and then he squeezed my hand ever so weakly and said, ‘Thank, you, Bill, old boy’—in such a weak pathetic little voice—leave me now; but come and see me again to-morrow, if you can, and Harry too.’ “You shall,” said Burgess warmly, “if you’ll stay the night. We shall he delighted.”