Second Sight

by Neil M. Gunn

  “You merely did your job,” said Alick with a strange smile.

  The sky was dark, all the blue out of it, and the stars extremely bright and near. A sign of rain. A soft puff of wind came up the birches, through the slats of the larder where King Brude hung alone, round the Lodge windows and chimneys. The fir trees stirred, making the sighing hissing sound of sea-water. The wind came and the wind went on, up the ways to the forest, into and out of the corries, carrying its tale to sensitive nostrils, through the empty High Corrie, round the bald rock of Benuain, over the moors and ridges, by croft houses and inns and shooting lodges, heard by every sleeping ear in that northern land of mixed uneasy dreams, until it got beyond the last peaks and came to the salt, cleansing sea.

  On Marjory’s sleeping ear it produced a remarkable effect. Between the time that the sound struck her ear and was acknowledged by her brain, in that inconceivably short instant of time, she dreamed a dream that went through hours of slow, detailed misadventures culminating in the horror of being lost in a forest in the Far East. She awoke wide-eyed, and, holding the gulp of her breath, listened. There was no sound in the house. Only the sound of the wind outside.

  Chapter Twelve

  Geoffrey did not get up until the afternoon of the following day. The sound of the wind and rain had been a pleasant background to his thought as he lay in bed. He regretted, of course, that the others could not get to the hill. Any beast now brought home must be in the nature of an anti-climax. At one stroke he had taken the heart out of the forest, he had exhausted the marvellous.

  There was another satisfaction, too. By killing King Brude he had compensated for that first unfortunate, over-long shot, of which Harry had made so much. That incident had rankled more poisonously than he was willing to admit. He could never quite forgive Harry, and would dearly like to take it out of him in some way—and particularly out of that fellow, Alick. There was only one immediate way in which that could be done—by proving them simple, if necessary even honest, credulous fools. Not that he believed Alick was honest. If, by a stroke of vast fun, he could prove Alick to be the sort of native snake that he was, he would at the same time clear up the whole atmosphere that undoubtedly had begun to depress the place. Lady Marway wouldn’t like the process, but she would thank him if in the end.…

  He found Harry alone in the sitting-room. The others had gone out to pay a call or something, Harry explained, with the exception of Marjory, who was somewhere about, he thought. But he did not appear very interested, nor did he brighten perceptibly at the prospect of Geoffrey’s company. Geoffrey turned to the mantelpiece to hide a small smile and helped himself to a cigarette.

  “No further developments?” he asked.

  “About what?” asked Harry.

  Geoffrey offered an amused shrug. “I have never really managed to continue an interesting, not to say a dramatic, conversation with you interrupted a few nights ago. You may remember—about second sight? Have I missed any further developments?”

  Harry looked at him. “Not of any particular moment, I think.”

  “Good. Are you still of the same mind about their importance?”

  “Yes,” said Harry, “I am.”

  Geoffrey looked at him. “Really?”

  Harry smiled. “Amusing, isn’t it?”

  “I must say it is.”

  Harry made no comment.

  Geoffrey stood with his back to the fire. Harry, from his chair, had his face turned towards the window. The day was gloomy with hanging mists and curtains of driving rain.

  “If I remember, you said something about four men, and even about you or me. Was that right?”

  “Quite right,” said Harry.

  “But you did not care to mention the names of the four men? That was a pity, because what this sort of stuff needs badly is evidence recorded beforehand.”

  “Quite,” said Harry. “I merely used my discretion in this matter, as, I suppose, people always have done, because it’s personal. However, if you can give me an assurance you will not divulge the names, I could let you have them now.”

  “I promise,” said Geoffrey.

  “The names are: Sir John, George, Maclean, and Angus.”

  Deliberately Geoffrey repeated them: “Sir John, George, Maclean, and Angus.” He continued to look penetratingly at Harry. “Do you really believe?”

  “Belief does not come into it yet. It’s not a religious topic exactly. I told you what happened. Normally belief waits on proof.”

  “Quite,” said Geoffrey, tilting his head and taking a pull at his cigarette. “Now about the body. You or me. Any suggestion as to which of us?”

  Harry hesitated. “No more than a suggestion.”

  “Am I to interpret that as meaning me rather than you?”

  Harry shrugged. “You may.”

  “I see,” said Geoffrey. “Any statement as to time?”

  “No.”

  “Pity. We may be coming here for years. The grouping you describe may be possible indefinitely. I trust you see my point?”

  “I do. Only he saw us—as we are now.”

  “Naturally. He doesn’t know us any other way. Which should explain much. However, surely you at least see a point like this: If, say, George and I left for London at once and never came back together, we could make the grouping impossible.”

  “Certainly I see that.”

  “Well?”

  “But you’re not in London.”

  “No. But we could go at once. And so make what he alleges he foresaw impossible. Here we are before the event, and the free will you believe in could be used to circumvent the happening. Do you appreciate the illogical knot you’re tying yourself in?”

  “Not exactly—if, as Colonel Brown says, a degree of interference with a vision of the future is mathematically or theoretically possible.”

  “Oh, good God! That sort of mathematical talk in a dreamvacuum! You don’t mean to say you were impressed by that?”

  “I was. For all I know, his mathematical knowledge may be greater than yours. He has been trained to deal scientifically with extremely practical things. You can fight that out between you. I’m an ordinary engineer, with no particular gift for the higher criticism whether in nuclear physics or metaphysics. I merely try to recognise a situation when I see it. And all I am sure of is that you and George are not in London. You’re here.”

  “But we could go.”

  “You could both set out for London at once. You could try to get away from here to-night.”

  “Are you implying we couldn’t get away?”

  “No.” Harry got up. “Look here, Geoffrey. I want to be quite frank about this. You may think me mad. I cannot help that. All I can assure you is that I was never more serious. You are one of this party—usually a pretty happy crowd, and not quite the normal huntin’ and shootin’ kind. If anything unfortunate happened here, the distress would be pretty acute, particularly to, say, our hosts. In a word, I should be delighted if you did get away. I should like to prove this particular second sight a piece of moonshine. The point is—” and he faced Geoffrey —“will you go?”

  Their eyes drew out the silence to an extreme tension.

  Geoffrey broke it harshly. “Good God!” he said.

  Harry turned away.

  “Leave here at once!” Geoffrey’s voice was hoarse with sarcasm. “Great heavens, what would sane people think of me?”

  “You have no excuse like that,” said Harry. “It could be arranged quite simply and naturally.”

  “How?”

  Without hesitation Harry turned from the window and said, “I can walk to the telephone now, ring up your chief, Dr. Lester, in London, say to him that you want an excuse for leaving here immediately. Ask him to ring up Sir John in a couple of hours. Tell him to say to Sir John that a very urgent laboratory affair demands your immediate presence. He’ll apologise and ask to speak to you. Then at six in the morning I’ll run you from here to catch the south train.”


  Geoffrey gaped at him. “You have worked it out—as far as that?”

  “I dallied with the idea of arranging the call without telling you.”

  “Have you gone quite mad?”

  “Don’t think so,” said Harry, holding his eyes.

  The door opened and Marjory came in.

  “Come in, Marjory,” said Geoffrey, “and bring a breath of sanity with you, in heaven’s name.”

  “More arguments?” smiled Marjory, raising her eyebrows and glancing from one to the other.

  “Oh, so so,” said Harry. “Small private affair. This sort of weather affects the mind.”

  “What your mind needs is fresh air,” said Geoffrey.

  “Thanks for the idea,” said Harry—“and the tip.” With a smile, he strolled out and closed the door.

  Marjory looked at Geoffrey. “What’s wrong?”

  “Come here, Marjory, till I talk to you. This is becoming monstrous. Absolutely monstrous.” He took a crippled step or two on the hearth rug. Obviously he accepted Marjory as a natural ally, and the forces held in sarcastic reserve before Harry could now be given expression. He felt angry; he felt vindictive. To score over Harry, to expose this appalling incredible nonsense—at this time of day, not merely amongst superstitious natives, whom one might excuse, but amongst people like Harry and Helen, the so-called educated!—to expose it became imperative, an absolute duty. He spoke to Marjory with considerable heat. “Don’t you agree?”

  “If it could be done,” she murmured hesitantly.

  “Done? We’ll do it all right! And wouldn’t it be a joke if we could frighten the wits out of them? Blow their hocus-pocus sky-high and frighten the wits out of them! And the wits of Colonel Brown and the Dean!”

  His vehemence disturbed Marjory. “It might. But——”

  “Yes. That’s what they need! And that’s what they’ll get!”

  “Aren’t you taking this too much to heart? I mean——”

  “Do you know”, he interrupted her, “what he was trying to get me to do just now?”

  “What?”

  “Clear off to London at once.”

  “Why?” Her eyes opened upon him.

  “Because the poor mut, worked on by that cunning stalker, has gone spoofy.”

  “But why London?”

  “To be out of harm’s way. You see they have arranged between them that I am the corpse-to-be.” He laughed. “Now if.… What are you staring like that for?”

  She turned her face away. “Nothing.”

  “Heavens, you’re not preparing to go temperamental, too, are you?”

  “No. Only it’s sort of everywhere and—one—well—one——”

  “Gets infected. Isn’t that what I say? And you are the only really sane person I could ask to help me. I couldn’t ask anyone outside the house. And inside—you are the only one. You are sane, Marjory, and balanced. I have always admired you, really. You will help me, won’t you?”

  “I should like to help you. But——”

  “Never mind the buts.”

  “Frankly, Geoffrey, I would rather you left the thing alone.” She looked at him.

  He liked her troubled eyes. They were concerned—not for herself.

  “You wouldn’t like me to score over them?”

  He waited as if for an avowal. She stared towards the window.

  “Won’t you answer?” he asked.

  “Yes, I would,” she murmured. “But I don’t think it’s important enough for you to—to risk—I mean, how would you——”

  He laughed, quietly for him. “We’ll think that out.” His eyes were bright with triumph. “I have a working idea. All we need is something to give it a push. We’ll think it out carefully. It will be great fun. Give me your hand on it, Marjory!” He took her hand. He was eager as a malicious schoolboy. He squeezed her hand. Involuntarily she returned the pressure, withdrew her hand, and moved towards the window. A quick step after her, and he paused, clutching at his side.

  “What is it, Geoffrey?” She came quickly up to him, concern in her eyes, her voice.

  His face had paled, his lips were drawn taut. He carefully let himself into a chair. He stared before him, like one who had had a stroke, his eyes alive and gleaming.

  “Geoffrey!”

  He smiled into her terrified face. “Hsh!” he said, holding up his hand. There was the sound of the car drawing up. “Remember,” he said, “not a word. And we’ll meet later. A cigarette, please.” He pointed to the mantelpiece and wiped his forehead. “Don’t worry,” he added, smiling to her over the match-light. “I’m all right. To-night we’ll begin—preparing the atmosphere.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Pretty dull, isn’t it?” said George, half-yawning and looking around the darkening sitting-room.

  “Don’t make it duller, for goodness sake,” replied Joyce. They were alone.

  George got up. “Sunday is such a dull day in the Highlands.”

  “It isn’t Sunday.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. It just rained again.” Turning over some papers, she picked up the Tatler.

  “I’ve seen you read that at least six times,” he remarked.

  “Wrong again. We’ve been here three weeks.”

  “I thought it came out every week?”

  “It does. I brought this copy with me.”

  But George wasn’t interested. “Ah well,” he said, “thank God winter’s coming.”

  “George!”

  His voice gathered some enthusiasm, as he began. “Think of the Saint Moritz run——”

  But she shut him up. “Have a heart!”

  “All right.” He nodded. “Let’s think of the rain. I say, didn’t it rain to-day! Sheets of it. And dear cousin Helen thought the white sheets of rain—being drawn across the brown and the gold or something—were very exciting. She’s a charming child.”

  “I don’t agree with you. I think she is charming.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I thought you said she was a child.”

  “Oh, I suppose it’s her sort of innocence or something.”

  “Innocence,” repeated Joyce.

  “You know what I mean—fresh and naïve, so to speak.”

  “Quite. Being three years older, I am soiled and tarnished, so to speak.”

  “Great Scott, of course! You’re only three years older. I say—what a gulf!”

  Joyce looked at him. “You can be a nasty piece of work.”

  He met her eyes in astonishment, then smiled quickly. “Heavens, I don’t mean—I don’t mean——”

  “No?”

  “I mean the opposite. Quite the opposite. Absolutely.”

  “How clear!”

  “Now hold on there! You know jolly well what I mean. Anyhow, don’t let us quarrel again. It’s this rotten day, with nothing to do. We always quarrel when we have nothing to do.”

  “I am perfectly content, thank you.”

  “There you go! You’ll nag at me now.”

  Joyce jumped up. “Nag? Who’s nagging?”

  “Joyce, hang it all, you know I am gone on you. Have a heart for a fellow. You get me into a sweat until I don’t know where I am.”

  “You said nag.”

  “A nag is an old horse, like me. Nag, you know. Nag, nig, nog.” And with a deft movement he kissed her.

  “I think you’re a perfect ass,” she said, relenting.

  “That’s better. Ooo! I wish I could hit something. I should have taken my punch-ball with me.”

  “Don’t worry. There will be more talk to-night.”

  “Then I will hit someone.”

  “Fine,” said Joyce, sitting down and punching a cushion for her head. “You launch your famous straight left. When Harry and Geoffrey go all over clever.…” She shrugged. “I wish you could chip in sometimes and dish ’em.”

  “Not my line,” said George. “Besides——”

  “Yes?”

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nbsp; “Well, for instance, if they said to me: ‘It is predetermined that you are going to do so and so,’ I should reply ‘What-ho!’ and promptly do the opposite. Seems simple enough, doesn’t it?”

  “Why couldn’t you say so?”

  “Such a remark is always followed by a gaping void. Have a smoke.”

  “No—well, all right. Listen.” As she lit her cigarette at his promptly produced mechanical lighter, she asked between puffs, “What would you do—if you met a ghost?”

  “Met a what?”

  “A ghost.”

  “Oh, a ghost.” He lit his own cigarette. “Uhm, a ghost. Hadn’t thought of that. Tricky customer, I should say.” He blew out the light thoughtfully. “Difficult to land on, by all accounts. Imagine me going up to him and saying: ‘Ghost, what?’ You know—Mr. Livingstone, I presume? He vouch—vouchsafes me no answer—except perhaps a jolly old moan. I lead one to the point—just to prove he’s not celluloid—and then my fist goes right through. It would be pretty upsetting. I mean you’d lose your balance badly.”