Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Misdeal,” he said quietly.

  “What?” demanded his sister in sharp protest.

  “It’s a misdeal,” repeated Malcourt, smiling at her; and, as Tressilvain, half the pack suspended, gazed blankly at him, Malcourt turned and looked him squarely in the eye. The other reddened.

  “Too bad,” said Malcourt, with careless good-humour, “but one has to be so careful in dealing the top card, Herby. You stumble over your own fingers; they’re too long; or perhaps it’s that ring of yours.”

  A curious, almost ghastly glance passed involuntarily between the Tressilvains; Portlaw, who was busy lighting a cigar, did not notice it, but Malcourt laughed lightly and ran over the score, adding it up with a nimble accuracy that seemed to stun his relatives.

  “Why, look what’s here!” he exclaimed, genially displaying a total that, added, balanced all Portlaw’s gains and losses to date. “Why, isn’t that curious, Helen! Right off the bat like that! — cricket-bat,” he explained affably to Tressilvain, who, as dinner was imminent, had begun fumbling for his check-book.

  At Malcourt’s suave suggestion, however, instead of drawing a new check he returned Portlaw’s check. Malcourt took it, tore it carefully in two equal parts.

  “Half for you, William, half for me,” he said gaily. “My — my! What strange things do happen in cards — and in the British Isles!”

  The dull flush deepened on Tressilvain’s averted face, but Lady Tressilvain, unusually pale, watched her brother persistently during the general conversation that preceded dressing for dinner.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  SEALED INSTRUCTIONS

  After the guests had gone away to dress Portlaw looked inquiringly at Malcourt and said: “That misdeal may have been a slip. I begin to believe I was mistaken after all. What do you think, Louis?”

  Malcourt’s eyes wandered toward his wife who still bent low over her sewing. “I don’t think,” he said absently, and sauntered over to Shiela, saying:

  “It’s rather dull for you, isn’t it?”

  She made no reply until Portlaw had gone upstairs; then looking around at him:

  “Is there any necessity for me to sit here while you play cards this evening?”

  “No, if it doesn’t amuse you.”

  Amuse her! She rested her elbow on the window ledge, and, chin on hand, stared out into the gray world of rain — the world that had been so terribly altered for her for ever. In the room shadows were gathering; the dull light faded. Outside it rained over land and water, over the encircling forest which walled in this stretch of spectral world where the monotony of her days was spent.

  To the sadness of it she was slowly becoming inured; but the strangeness of her life she could not yet comprehend — its meaningless days and nights, its dragging hours — and the strange people around her immersed in their sordid pleasures — this woman — her husband’s sister, thin-lipped, hard-featured, drinking, smoking, gambling, shrill in disputes, merciless of speech, venomously curious concerning all that she held locked in the privacy of her wretchedness.

  “Shiela,” he said, “why don’t you pay your family a visit?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re afraid they might suspect that you are not particularly happy?”

  “Yes.... It was wrong to have Gray and Cecile here. It was fortunate you were away. But they saw the Tressilvains.”

  “What did they think of ‘em?” inquired Malcourt.

  “What do you suppose they would think?”

  “Quite right. Well, don’t worry. Hold out a little longer. This is a ghastly sort of pantomime for you, but there’s always a grand transformation scene at the end. Who knows how soon the curtain will rise on fairyland and the happy lovers and all that bright and sparkling business? Children demand it — must have it.... And you are very young yet.”

  He laughed, seeing her perplexed expression.

  “You don’t know what I mean, do you? Listen, Shiela; stay here to dinner, if you can stand my relatives. We won’t play cards. You’ll really find it amusing I think.”

  “Do you wish me to stay?”

  “Yes, I do. I want you to see something.”

  A few moments afterward she took her umbrella and waterproof and went away to dress, returning to a dinner-table remarkable for the silence of the diners. Something, too, had gone wrong with the electric plant, and after dinner candles were lighted in the living-room. Outside it rained heavily.

  Malcourt sat beside his wife, smoking, and, unaided, sustaining what conversation there was; and after a while he rose, dragged a heavy, solid wooden table to the middle of the room, placed five chairs around it, and smilingly invited Shiela, the Tressilvains, and Portlaw to join him.

  “A seance in table-tipping?” asked his sister coldly. “Really, Louis, I think we are rather past such things.”

  “I never saw a bally table tip,” observed Tressilvain. “How do you do it, Louis?”

  “I don’t; it tips. Come, Shiela, if you don’t mind. Come on, Billy.”

  Tressilvain seated himself and glanced furtively about him.

  “I dare say you’re all in this game,” he said, with a rattling laugh.

  “It’s no game. If the table tips it tips, and our combined weight can’t hold it down,” said Malcourt. “If it won’t tip it won’t, and I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that you can’t tip it, Herby.”

  Tressilvain, pressing his hands hard on the polished edge, tried to move the table; then he stood up and tried. It was too heavy and solid, and he could do nothing except by actually lifting it or by seizing it in both hands and dragging it about.

  One by one, reluctantly, the others took seats around the table and, as instructed by Malcourt, rested the points of their fingers on the dully polished surface.

  “Does it really ever move?” asked Shiela of Malcourt.

  “It sometimes does.”

  “What’s the explanation?” demanded Portlaw, incredulously; “spirits?”

  “I don’t think anybody here would credit such an explanation,” said Malcourt. “The table moves or it doesn’t. If it does you’ll see it. I’ll leave the explanation to you, William.”

  “Have you ever seen it move?” asked Shiela, turning again to Malcourt.

  “Yes; so has my sister. It’s not a trick.” Lady Tressilvain looked bored, but answered Shiela’s inquiry:

  “I’ve seen it often. Louis and I and my father used to do it. I don’t know how it’s done, and nobody else does. Personally I think it’s rather a stupid way to spend an evening—”

  “But,” interrupted Portlaw, “there’ll be nothing stupid about it if the table begins to tip up here under our very fingers. I’ll bet you, Louis, that it doesn’t. Do you care to bet?”

  “Shouldn’t the lights be put out?” asked Tressilvain.

  Malcourt said it was not necessary, and cautioned everybody to sit absolutely clear of the table, and to rest only the tips of the fingers very lightly on the surface.

  “Can we speak?” grinned Portlaw.

  “Oh, yes, if you like.” A bright colour glowed in Malcourt’s face; he looked down dreamily at the top of the table where his hands touched. A sudden quiet fell over the company.

  Shiela, sitting with her white fingers lightly brushing the smooth mahogany, bent her head, mind wandering; and her thoughts were very far away when, under her sensitive touch, a curious quiver seemed to run through the very grain of the wood.

  “What’s that!” exclaimed Portlaw.

  Deep in the wood, wave after wave of motion seemed to spread until the fibres emitted a faint splintering sound. Then, suddenly, the heavy table rose slowly, the end on which Shiela’s hands rested sinking; and fell back with a solid shock.

  “That’s — rather — odd!” muttered Tressilvain. Portlaw’s distended eyes were fastened on the table, which was now heaving uneasily like a boat at anchor, creaking, cracking, rocking under their finger-tips. Tressilvain rose from his chair and tried
to see, but as everybody was clear of the table, and their fingers barely touched the top, he could discover no visible reason for what was occurring so violently under his very pointed nose.

  “It’s like a bally earthquake,” he said in amazement. “God bless my soul! the thing is walking off with us!”

  Everybody had risen from necessity; chairs were pushed back, skirts drawn aside as the heavy table, staggering, lurching, moved out across the floor; and they all followed, striving to keep their finger-tips on the top.

  Portlaw was speechless; Shiela pale, tremulous, bewildered; Tressilvain’s beady eyes shone like the eyes of a surprised rat; but his wife and Malcourt took it calmly.

  “The game is,” said Malcourt, “to ask whether there is a spirit present, and then recite the alphabet. Shall I?... It isn’t frightening you, is it, Shiela?”

  “No.... But I don’t understand why it moves.”

  “Neither does anybody. But you see it, feel it. Nor can anybody explain why an absurd question and reciting the alphabet sometimes results in a coherent message. Shall I try it, Helen?”

  His sister nodded indifferently.

  There was a silence, then Malcourt, still standing, said quietly:

  “Is there a message?”

  From the deep, woody centre of the table three loud knocks sounded — almost ripped out, and the table quivered in every fibre.

  “Is there a message for anybody present?”

  Three raps followed in a startling volley.

  “Get the chairs,” motioned Malcourt; and when all were seated clear of the table but touching lightly the surface with their finger-tips:

  “A B C D E F” — began Malcourt, slowly reciting the alphabet; and, as the raps rang out, sig-nalling some letter, he began again in a monotonous voice: “A B C D E F G” — pausing as soon as the raps arrested him at a certain letter, only to begin again.

  “Get a pad and pencil,” whispered Lady Tressilvain to Shiela.

  So Shiela left the table, found a pad and pencil, and seated herself near a candle by the window; and as each letter was rapped out by the table, she put it down in order.

  The recitation seemed endless; Malcourt’s voice grew hoarse with the repetition; letter after letter was added to the apparently meaningless sequence on Shiela’s pad.

  “Is there any sense in it so far?” asked Lady Tressilvain.

  “I cannot find any,” said Shiela, striving with her pencil point to divide the string of letters into intelligible words.

  And still Malcourt’s monotonous voice droned on, and still the raps sounded from the table. Portlaw hung over it as though hypnotized; Tressilvain had fallen to moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, stealthy eyes always roaming about the candle-lit room as though searching for something uncanny lurking in the shadows.

  Shiela shivered, wide-eyed, as she sat watching the table which was now snapping and cracking and heaving under her gaze. A slow fear of the thing crept over her — of this senseless, lifeless mass of wood, fashioned by human hands. The people around it, the room, the house were becoming horrible to her; she loathed them and what they were doing.

  A ripping crash brought her to her feet; everybody sprang up. Under their hands the table was shuddering convulsively. Suddenly it split open as though rent by a bolt, and fell like a live thing in agony, a mass of twisted fibres protruding like viscera from its shattered core.

  Stunned silence; and Malcourt turned to his sister and spoke in a low voice, but she only shook her head, shivering, and stared at the wreck of wood as though revolted.

  “W-what happened?” faltered Portlaw, bewildered.

  “I don’t know,” said Malcourt unsteadily.

  “Don’t know! Look at that table! Why, man, it’s — it’s dying!”

  Tressilvain stood as though stupefied. Malcourt walked slowly over to where Shiela stood.

  She shrank involuntarily away from him as he bent to pick up the pad which had fallen from her hands.

  “There’s nothing to be frightened about,” he said, forcing a smile; and, holding the pad under the light, scanned it attentively. His sister came over to him, asking if the letters made any sense.

  He shook his head.

  They studied it together, Shiela’s fascinated gaze riveted on them both. And she saw Lady Tressilvain’s big eyes widen as she laid her pencil on a sequence; saw Malcourt’s quick nod of surprised comprehension when she checked off a word, then another, another, another; and suddenly her face turned white to the lips, and she caught at her brother’s arm, terrified.

  “Will you keep quiet?” he whispered fiercely, snatching the sheet from the pad and crumpling it into his palm.

  Sister and brother faced each other; in his eyes leaped a flame infernal which seemed to hold her paralyzed for a moment; then, with a gesture, she swept him aside, and covering her eyes with her hands, sank into a chair.

  “What a fool you are!” he said furiously, bending down beside her. “It’s in us both; you’ll do it, too, when you are ready — if you have any sporting blood in you!”

  And, straightening up impatiently, his eyes fell on Shiela, and he shrugged his shoulders and smiled resignedly.

  “It’s nothing. My sister’s nerves are a bit upset.... After all, this parlour magic is a stupid mistake, because there’s always somebody who takes it seriously. It’s only humbug, anyway; you know that, don’t you, Shiela?”

  He untwisted the paper in his hand and held it in the candle flame until it burned to cinders.

  “What was there on that paper?” asked Shiela, managing to control her voice.

  “Why, merely a suggestion that I travel,” he said coolly. “I can’t see why my sister should make a fool of herself over the idea of my going on a journey. I’ve meant to, for years — to rest myself. I’ve told you that often, haven’t I, Shiela?”

  She nodded slowly, but her eyes reverted to the woman crouching in the chair, face buried in her brilliantly jewelled hands. Portlaw and Tressilvain were also staring at her.

  “You’d better go to bed, Helen,” said Malcourt coolly; and turned on his heel, lighting a cigarette.

  A little later the Tressilvains and Shiela started across the lawn to their own apartments, and Malcourt went with them to hold an umbrella over his wife.

  In the lower hall they separated with scarcely a word, but Malcourt detained his brother-in-law by a significant touch on the arm, and drew him into the library.

  “So you’re leaving to-morrow?” he asked.

  “What?” said Tressilvain.

  “I say that I understand you and Helen are leaving us to-morrow.”

  “I had not thought of leaving,” said Tressilvain.

  “Think again,” suggested Malcourt.

  “What do you mean?”

  Malcourt walked up very close and looked him in the face.

  “Must I explain?” he asked contemptuously. “I will if you like — you clumsy card-slipping, ace-pricking blackguard!... The station-wagon will be ready at seven. See that you are, too. Now go and tell my sister. It may reconcile her to various ideas of mine.”

  And he turned and, walking to a leather-covered chair drawn up beside the library table, seated himself and opened a heavy book.

  Tressilvain stood absolutely still, his close-set eyes fairly starting from his face, in which not a vestige of colour now remained; and when at length he left the room he left so noiselessly that Malcourt did not hear him. However, Malcourt happened to be very intent upon his own train of thought, so absorbed, in fact, that it was a long while before he looked up and around, as though somebody had suddenly spoken his name.

  But it was only the voice which had sounded so often and familiarly in his ears; and he smiled and inclined his graceful head to listen, folding his hands under his chin.

  He seemed very young and boyish, there, leaning both elbows on the library table, head bent expectantly as he listened, or lifted when he, in turn, spoke aloud. And sometimes he spok
e gravely, argumentatively, sometimes almost flippantly, and once or twice his laugh rang out through the empty room.

  In the forest a heavy wind had risen; somewhere outside a door or shutter banged persistently. He did not hear it, but Shiela, sleepless in her room above, laid down Hamil’s book; then, thinking it might be the outer door left carelessly unlocked, descended the stairs with lighted candle. Passing the library and hearing voices she halted, astonished to see her husband there alone; and as she stood, perplexed and disturbed, he spoke as though answering a question. But there was no one there who could have asked it; the room was empty save for that solitary figure. Something in his voice terrified her — in the uncanny monologue which meant nothing to her — in his curiously altered laugh — in his intent listening attitude. It was not the first time she had seen him this way.

  “Louis!” she exclaimed; “what are you doing?”

  He turned dreamily toward her, rose as in a trance.

  “Oh, is it you?... Come in here.”

  “I cannot; I am tired.”

  “So am I, Shiela — tired to death. What time is it?”

  “After ten, I think — if that clock is right.”

  She entered, reluctant, uncertain, peering up at the clock; then:

  “I thought the front door had been left open and came down to lock it. What are you doing here at this hour? I — I thought I heard you talking.”

  “I was talking to my father.”

  “What!” she said, startled.

  “Pretending to,” he added wearily; “sit down.”

  “Do you wish me—”

  “Yes; sit down.”

  “I—” she looked fearfully at him, hesitated, and slowly seated herself on the arm of a lounge. “W-what is it you — want, Louis?” she faltered, every nerve on edge.

  “Nothing much; a kindly word or two.”

  “What do you mean? Have I ever been unkind? I — I am too unhappy to be unkind to anybody.” Suddenly her eyes filled.

  “Don’t do that,” he said; “you are always civil to me — never unkind. By the way, my relatives leave to-morrow. That will comfort you, won’t it?”