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“Which room did you hear it from?”
“From the turret-room, before the ceiling fell.”
“But I heard it from the library only last night. I passed the doors asI was going to bed, and I heard something wailing and praying just asplainly as I hear you. It may be a woman——”
“Why, what else _could_ it be?”
He looked at me hard.
“There are more things in heaven and earth,” said he. “If it is a woman,how does she get there?”
“I don’t know.”
“No, nor I. But if it is the other thing—but there, for a practicalbusiness man at the end of the nineteenth century this is rather aridiculous line of conversation.” He turned away, but I saw that he felteven more than he had said. To all the old ghost stories of Thorpe Placea new one was being added before our very eyes. It may by this time havetaken its permanent place, for though an explanation came to me, itnever reached the others.
And my explanation came in this way. I had suffered a sleepless nightfrom neuralgia, and about mid-day I had taken a heavy dose of chlorodyneto alleviate the pain. At that time I was finishing the indexing of SirJohn Bollamore’s library, and it was my custom to work there from fivetill seven. On this particular day I struggled against the double effectof my bad night and the narcotic. I have already mentioned that therewas a recess in the library, and in this it was my habit to work. Isettled down steadily to my task, but my weariness overcame me and,falling back upon the settee, I dropped into a heavy sleep.
How long I slept I do not know, but it was quite dark when I awoke.Confused by the chlorodyne which I had taken, I lay motionless in asemi-conscious state. The great room with its high walls covered withbooks loomed darkly all round me. A dim radiance from the moonlight camethrough the farther window, and against this lighter background I sawthat Sir John Bollamore was sitting at his study table. His well-sethead and clearly cut profile were sharply outlined against theglimmering square behind him. He bent as I watched him, and I heard thesharp turning of a key and the rasping of metal upon metal. As if in adream I was vaguely conscious that this was the japanned box which stoodin front of him, and that he had drawn something out of it, somethingsquat and uncouth, which now lay before him upon the table. I neverrealized—it never occurred to my bemuddled and torpid brain that I wasintruding upon his privacy, that he imagined himself to be alone in theroom. And then, just as it rushed upon my horrified perceptions, and Ihad half risen to announce my presence, I heard a strange, crisp,metallic clicking, and then the voice.
Yes, it was a woman’s voice; there could not be a doubt of it. But avoice so charged with entreaty and with yearning love, that it will ringfor ever in my ears. It came with a curious far-away tinkle, but everyword was clear, though faint—very faint, for they were the last words ofa dying woman.
“I am not really gone, John,” said the thin, gasping voice. “I am hereat your very elbow, and shall be until we meet once more. I die happy tothink that morning and night you will hear my voice. Oh, John, bestrong, be strong, until we meet again.”
I say that I had risen in order to announce my presence, but I could notdo so while the voice was sounding. I could only remain half lying, halfsitting, paralyzed, astounded, listening to those yearning distantmusical words. And he—he was so absorbed that even if I had spoken hemight not have heard me. But with the silence of the voice came my halfarticulated apologies and explanations. He sprang across the room,switched on the electric light, and in its white glare I saw him, hiseyes gleaming with anger, his face twisted with passion, as the haplesscharwoman may have seen him weeks before.
“Mr. Colmore!” he cried. “You here! What is the meaning of this, sir?”
With halting words I explained it all, my neuralgia, the narcotic, myluckless sleep and singular awakening. As he listened the glow of angerfaded from his face, and the sad, impassive mask closed once more overhis features.
“My secret is yours, Mr. Colmore,” said he. “I have only myself to blamefor relaxing my precautions. Half confidences are worse than noconfidences, and so you may know all since you know so much. The storymay go where you will when I have passed away, but until then I relyupon your sense of honour that no human soul shall hear it from yourlips. I am proud still—God help me!—or, at least, I am proud enough toresent that pity which this story would draw upon me. I have smiled atenvy, and disregarded hatred, but pity is more than I can tolerate.
“You have heard the source from which the voice comes—that voice whichhas, as I understand, excited so much curiosity in my household. I amaware of the rumours to which it has given rise. These speculations,whether scandalous or superstitious, are such as I can disregard andforgive. What I should never forgive would be a disloyal spying andeavesdropping in order to satisfy an illicit curiosity. But of that, Mr.Colmore, I acquit you.
“When I was a young man, sir, many years younger than you are now, I waslaunched upon town without a friend or adviser, and with a purse whichbrought only too many false friends and false advisers to my side. Idrank deeply of the wine of life—if there is a man living who has drankmore deeply he is not a man whom I envy. My purse suffered, my charactersuffered, my constitution suffered, stimulants became a necessity to me,I was a creature from whom my memory recoils. And it was at that time,the time of my blackest degradation, that God sent into my life thegentlest, sweetest spirit that ever descended as a ministering angelfrom above. She loved me, broken as I was, loved me, and spent her lifein making a man once more of that which had degraded itself to the levelof the beasts.
“But a fell disease struck her, and she withered away before my eyes. Inthe hour of her agony it was never of herself, of her own sufferings andher own death that she thought. It was all of me. The one pang which herfate brought to her was the fear that when her influence was removed Ishould revert to that which I had been. It was in vain that I made oathto her that no drop of wine would ever cross my lips. She knew only toowell the hold that the devil had upon me—she who had striven so toloosen it
—and it haunted her night and day the thought that my soulmight again be within his grip.
“It was from some friend’s gossip of the sick room that she heard ofthis invention—this phonograph—and with the quick insight of a lovingwoman she saw how she might use it for her ends. She sent me to Londonto procure the best which money could buy. With her dying breath shegasped into it the words which have held me straight ever since. Lonelyand broken, what else have I in all the world to uphold me? But it isenough. Please God, I shall face her without shame when He is pleased toreunite us! That is my secret, Mr. Colmore, and whilst I live I leave itin your keeping.”
THE BLACK DOCTOR
Bishop’s Crossing is a small village lying ten miles in a south-westerlydirection from Liverpool. Here in the early seventies there settled adoctor named Aloysius Lana. Nothing was known locally either of hisantecedents or of the reasons which had prompted him to come to thisLancashire hamlet. Two facts only were certain about him: the one thathe had gained his medical qualification with some distinction atGlasgow; the other that he came undoubtedly of a tropical race, and wasso dark that he might almost have had a strain of the Indian in hiscomposition. His predominant features were, however, European, and hepossessed a stately courtesy and carriage which suggested a Spanishextraction. A swarthy skin, raven-black hair, and dark, sparkling eyesunder a pair of heavily-tufted brows made a strange contrast to theflaxen or chestnut rustics of England, and the new-comer was soon knownas “The Black Doctor of Bishop’s Crossing.” At first it was a term ofridicule and reproach; as the years went on it became a title of honourwhich was familiar to the whole country-side, and extended far beyondthe narrow confines of the village.
For the new-comer proved himself to be a capable surgeon and anaccomplished physician. The practice of that district had been in thehands of Edward Rowe, the son of Sir William Rowe, the Liverpoolconsultant, but he had not inherited the talents of his father, and Dr.Lana, with his advantages of presence and of manner, soon beat him outof the field. Dr. Lana’s social success was as rapid as hisprofessional. A remarkable surgical cure in the case of the Hon. JamesLowry, the second son of Lord Belton, was the means of introducing himto county society, where he became a favourite through the charm of hisconversation and the elegance of his manners. An absence of antecedentsand of relatives is sometimes an aid rather than an impediment to socialadvancement, and the distinguished individuality of the handsome doctorwas its own recommendation.
His patients had one fault—and one fault only—to find with him. Heappeared to be a confirmed bachelor. This was the more remarkable sincethe house which he occupied was a large one, and it was known that hissuccess in practice had enabled him to save considerable sums. At firstthe local match-makers were continually coupling his name with one orother of the eligible ladies, but as years passed and Dr. Lana remainedunmarried, it came to be generally understood that for some reason hemust remain a bachelor. Some even went so far as to assert that he wasalready married, and that it was in order to escape the consequence ofan early misalliance that he had buried himself at Bishop’s Crossing.And then, just as the match-makers had finally given him up in despair,his engagement was suddenly announced to Miss Frances Morton, of LeighHall.
Miss Morton was a young lady who was well known upon the country-side,her father, James Haldane Morton, having been the Squire of Bishop’sCrossing. Both her parents were, however, dead, and she lived with heronly brother, Arthur Morton, who had inherited the family estate. Inperson Miss Morton was tall and stately, and she was famous for herquick, impetuous nature and for her strength of character. She met Dr.Lana at a garden-party, and a friendship, which quickly ripened intolove, sprang up between them. Nothing could exceed their devotion toeach other. There was some discrepancy in age, he being thirty-seven,and she twenty-four; but, save in that one respect, there was nopossible objection to be found with the match. The engagement was inFebruary, and it was arranged that the marriage should take place inAugust.
Upon the 3rd of June Dr. Lana received a letter from abroad. In a smallvillage the postmaster is also in a position to be the gossip-master,and Mr. Bankley, of Bishop’s Crossing, had many of the secrets of hisneighbours in his possession. Of this particular letter he remarked onlythat it was in a curious envelope, that it was in a man’s handwriting,that the postscript was Buenos Ayres, and the stamp of the ArgentineRepublic. It was the first letter which he had ever known Dr. Lana tohave from abroad, and this was the reason why his attention wasparticularly called to it before he handed it to the local postman. Itwas delivered by the evening delivery of that date.
Next morning—that is, upon the 4th of June—Dr. Lana called upon MissMorton, and a long interview followed, from which he was observed toreturn in a state of great agitation. Miss Morton remained in her roomall that day, and her maid found her several times in tears. In thecourse of a week it was an open secret to the whole village that theengagement was at an end, that Dr. Lana had behaved shamefully to theyoung lady, and that Arthur Morton, her brother, was talking ofhorse-whipping him. In what particular respect the doctor had behavedbadly was unknown—some surmised one thing and some another; but it wasobserved, and taken as the obvious sign of a guilty conscience, that hewould go for miles round rather than pass the windows of Leigh Hall, andthat he gave up attending morning service upon Sundays where he mighthave met the young lady. There was an advertisement also in the _Lancet_as to the sale of a practice which mentioned no names, but which wasthought by some to refer to Bishop’s Crossing, and to mean that Dr. Lanawas thinking of abandoning the scene of his success. Such was theposition of affairs when, upon the evening of Monday, June 21st, therecame a fresh development which changed what had been a mere villagescandal into a tragedy which arrested the attention of the whole nation.Some detail is necessary to cause the facts of that evening to presenttheir full significance.
The sole occupants of the doctor’s house were his housekeeper, anelderly and most respectable woman, named Martha Woods, and a youngservant—Mary Pilling. The coachman and the surgery-boy slept out. It wasthe custom of the doctor to sit at night in his study, which was nextthe surgery in the wing of the house which was farthest from theservants’ quarters. This side of the house had a door of its own for theconvenience of patients, so that it was possible for the doctor to admitand receive a visitor there without the knowledge of any one. As amatter of fact, when patients came late it was quite usual for him tolet them in and out by the surgery entrance, for the maid and thehousekeeper were in the habit of retiring early.
On this particular night Martha Woods went into the doctor’s study athalf-past nine, and found him writing at his desk. She bade himgood-night, sent the maid to bed, and then occupied herself until aquarter to eleven in household matters. It was striking eleven upon thehall clock when she went to her own room. She had been there about aquarter of an hour or twenty minutes when she heard a cry or call, whichappeared to come from within the house. She waited some time, but it wasnot repeated. Much alarmed, for the sound was loud and urgent, she puton a dressing-gown, and ran at the top of her speed to the doctor’sstudy.
