In Ghostly Company (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) (21 page)

Mr Carmichael was not a society man, in fact, he rather avoided the companionship of women, preferring the seclusion of one of our best and most exclusive Clubs, where he spent much of his leisure time and where he possessed a number of acquaintances of his own sex. Amongst these he was popular enough, for, although perhaps slightly effeminate and by no means fond of masculine sports, Mr Carmichael was a really good fellow, ready at all times to aid with advice or purse others less fortunate than himself.

In person he was of middle size and distinctly good-looking, though of rather slight frame and with a faint touch of the feminine in him. He was, when his peculiar experiences began, about thirty-seven years of age.

In due course of time his parents died, sincerely mourned by Oliver, who presently parted with their old London house and moved into smaller quarters, where he settled himself down to lead an easy bachelor life, waited on by a staff of old family servants, some of whom he had known all his life.

This is but a brief and imperfect sketch of Oliver Carmichael, but it is intended to portray him as he was: an easy-going, high-minded, good fellow, who had never been confronted with any serious problem in life, and whose aim was to lead a quiet and honourable existence in charity with all men.

An event was now, however, about to occur, which brought about a fundamental change in his nature and in his outlook on the world about him.

One night Mr Carmichael had a succession of unpleasant dreams. On waking in the morning, he could not recall their details, but he felt depressed and disturbed, and this depression and disturbance may have caused him to be a little less careful than usual over his toilet. For, whilst walking to his office – a custom which he kept up with meticulous care as being beneficial to his health-he suddenly became aware that he had left his pocket-handkerchief behind him. Though annoying, this was a matter easy to remedy, and Oliver sought out the nearest hosier’s shop and entered it to purchase the needed article.

The day was yet young and the shop was nearly empty of customers. Mr Carmichael made his way to the counter indicated and a young woman stepped forward to serve him. Instantly he experienced a most curious and unpleasant sensation for which there was apparently no reason. He felt an instinctive and violent repulsion to the girl; he glanced at her more closely, but there was little externally to account for his feeling. The young woman appeared to be of the usual shop-girl class, modest and demure in manner and neatly and quietly dressed. She was a tall and strongly built person, apparently about twenty-five years of age and – was actually ugly. Not only were her features unprepossessing, but there was an indefinable look about them of something evil, not in any positive sense, but rather negatively; it was the look of one whose thoughts and aspirations were set on a low and maleficent plane.

Mr Carmichael purchased his handkerchief and paid for it by handing the girl a sovereign. Up to the present she had paid him no more attention than was demanded by her duties, but as she gave him his change she looked him straight in the face, and he saw, for an instant, a look of exulting triumph flash into her eyes. She instantly averted them. Oliver turned to leave the shop, feeling a faint sensation of fear, an indefinite fear of something that he could not understand. As he reached the door he turned and looked back; the girl was watching him steadily.

He proceeded on his way to the office revolving the little adventure in his mind. At first he treated it but lightly and endeavoured to analyse the cause of his sudden aversion to a perfectly respectable and civil shop-girl. But gradually he found the affair taking on a more serious aspect: the personality of the girl began to oppress him, her image kept rising before him, and it was an image presaging ill and wretchedness to himself. All day the affair haunted him and, even in the evening at his Club and during his usual quiet game of bridge after dinner, that baleful look of evil triumphant in the girl’s eyes continued to obtrude itself.

When at last he went to bed and finally fell asleep he dreamed again, and this time the recollection of his vision remained with him the next day. He dreamed that he was alone on an apparently desert plain, enveloped in a luminous grey mist, which whirled round him in sweeping masses ever driven by the wind. Across this plain he was journeying, exactly whither he knew not, but filled with a set purpose to reach his unknown destination. Suddenly out of the mist a figure loomed up, which he instantly recognised as that of the shop-girl. She came towards him, her eyes gleaming with an evil joy. In wild panic he turned and fled, forgetting his destination, careless of his fate, seeking only to escape from the swift-moving figure which pursued him. The grey luminosity around him grew darker, his confusion increased, the threatening pursuer gained upon him. He woke with a cry; daylight was stealing into the room.

He rose that morning from his bed unrefreshed and still agitated over his dream. He endeavoured in the light of a new day to look at the whole episode more calmly, and gradually forced himself to believe that he had succeeded in stilling the nervous agitation that had possessed him the day before. He found himself presently walking to his office, but it was by a new, a pleasanter route as he fondly imagined; he laughed bitterly to himself as he gradually realised that he had selected this new route to avoid passing the hosier’s shop. All that day the thought of the girl haunted him and at last after much reflection he decided on a new means of obliterating her memory. His annual leave was soon due, affairs at the office were quiet, he would ask his chief to permit him to forestall his holiday, and would go away at once. No sooner decided upon than done. His chief readily gave the required permission, and Mr Carmichael astonished his household by announcing on his return that evening that he was going to Brighton the following day, to remain there for a week before he proceeded on the round of quiet country-house visits which he had arranged for his regular holiday.

To Brighton Oliver Carmichael went accordingly, but change of scene did not serve to distract him from his prevailing obsession. He thought very often of the girl, of whom he now had an unutterable loathing, and he also found himself pursued by other thoughts. Hitherto his life’s habits had induced in him a train of pleasant and amiable ideas, not perhaps marked by any special eminence in the way of ability, but the thoughts of a clean-minded, honourable man. Now he found himself imperceptibly drifting into other trains of thought: evil notions passed through his mind, views of humanity taken from a hostile and a wicked standpoint, impressions of the worst side of human nature obtruded themselves. He fought desperately against these new ideas, but he felt it was a losing fight; he began to lose all confidence in himself, his integrity, his honour; he began to despair.

He no longer dreamed of nights, but lay buried in profound slumber, slumber in which it may well be that the thing we call the soul may leave its earthly shell and wander to realms and seek affinities utterly unknown to our waking personalities.

Mr Carmichael, deep though his sleep might he, was now in the habit of waking unrefreshed and troubled, and though he exerted himself, both inwardly for the sake of his own peace of mind and outwardly for the sake of the conventions of life, to preserve his usual demeanour it was noticed later on by his friends that he seemed distraught and to have lost his former happy and placid content and generous instincts.

His holiday over, Mr Carmichael returned to town filled with a new resolve. He would go again and see this ill-omened girl; he persuaded himself that her haunting personality would be dissipated by another sight of her in the flesh. He had made, he said to himself, a mountain out of a molehill; because he had taken a dislike to a girl’s face there was no reason that she should drive him into madness from thinking of her. A second inspection would, no doubt, show her to be just an ordinary plain-faced girl, full of her own affairs, who had never given another thought to the casual buyer of a handkerchief some weeks before. He resolved, therefore, once more to visit the shop on the pretext of making a small purchase, and, this decision being taken, he felt easier in his mind. The next morning he made the trial, and it was, it must be confessed, with a nervous although more hopeful heart that Mr Carmichael pushed opened the shop doors and entered.

His first glance around did not disclose the girl, but when he had approached the well-remembered counter she stepped forward quietly to meet him. As before she moved modestly and demurely; she glanced casually at him, her manner was that of an absolute and totally indifferent stranger. Carmichael felt reassured, he was right: he had made a fool of himself, the girl had never thought of him and did not now even remember him.

She asked him his needs. Mr Carmichael hesitated and then blundered out the first thing he could think of. Gloves. She produced them and asked him his size; Mr Carmichael had forgotten, his valet usually bought such articles for him. Then she must measure his hand.

He held it out and she stooped to her slight task. As she stretched the glove across his hand she touched it with her own, momentarily, perhaps accidentally. The touch sent a shock as of electricity through him, all his self-possession vanished, all his belief in the unreality of the past few weeks. For one blinding instant he saw into deeps hitherto unsuspected and sensed a horror hitherto undreamt of. Scarcely knowing what he did he took the gloves, paid for them and stood for a moment looking at the girl.

So far her manner had been that of the shop assistant, doing her work carefully and politely but somewhat mechanically; she had shown no trace of recognition or of any sense of understanding. Suddenly she raised her eyes and looked straight into his own and once more he saw a blaze of exultation, a look of power light them up. She knew herself mistress of the situation; she knew and understood the secret links that bound him to her, links that he felt dimly controlled him, but the nature of which he could not comprehend.

All this passed in a moment, the girl averted her eyes and turned carelessly from him; Mr Carmichael left the shop almost unmanned. He reached his office, but was utterly incapable of concentrating his mind upon his work, and presently his chief, seeing him to be unwell, advised him to go home. Mr Carmichael leapt at the idea, he would go back to the shop, he felt he must go back to the shop, he would see her again, he felt he must see her again; perhaps she would explain things, perhaps he would see his way clearer. He put on his hat and left the office.

But on arrival at the shop he was doomed to disappointment; it was early closing day and all the assistants had gone home. He walked on towards his own house, in a state of mingled disappointment and relief. He felt he must see her, and yet he dreaded the interview; he knew it would be a decisive one, but how he would emerge from it he felt to be uncertain.

He found himself drawing near home and passing through one of our quiet London squares. As he turned a corner of it, he met his enemy, for so he felt the girl to be, face to face.

She was walking quietly towards him, neatly and modestly dressed, demure as ever in her expression, but with perhaps a shade of anxiety in it also. As they approached each other, she raised her eyes. There was no blaze of triumph in them now, they were deep and watchful as they rested on his face. Almost unconsciously he raised his hat; she acknowledged the salute and the next moment found him walking on beside her.

For a few minutes silence reigned, then Mr Carmichael, collecting himself, began: ‘I am glad to have met you, I was anxious to see you, I went by Messrs — and found the shop shut.’ He paused.

‘Yes?’ said the other interrogatively.

‘I do not understand things,’ went on Oliver. ‘Ever since that day nearly five weeks ago when I came into the shop to buy a handkerchief, I have been haunted by you. I have thought of you waking, I have, I know it now, been possessed by you in sleep.’ Again he paused.

‘Are you trying to make love to me?’ said the girl with a short laugh.

This notion so astounded Mr Carmichael that for an instant he was struck dumb. Then he ejaculated: ‘Love! Make love to you! Oh, Heaven forbid!’

‘You are not very polite,’ said his companion. ‘Well, if you are not moved by love, perhaps you are moved by its opposite, and you hate me.’

She looked keenly at him, and Mr Carmichael hesitated for a reply. She went on: ‘You need not trouble to mince matters. I know your feelings, know them far better than you do yourself.’

By this time their wanderings had led them into the Park and the girl, motioning towards two vacant chairs, said: ‘Let us sit down, there may be much to speak of.’

He complied without answering her and looked long and fixedly at her. As always, she looked calm, demure and mistress of herself; only in her eyes there burned a sombre light, powerful, mysterious, menacing. She turned away.

‘What has happened to me?’ he said. ‘Who are you, what do you want of me? I am at sea.’

She answered slowly: ‘You have asked several questions, the full answers to which you are not yet fit to understand, but I will tell you something. Who am I? Well, you will find out some day who and what I really am, but you may now call me by the name my parents gave me, Phyllis Rourke; I was not always, even here, what I now am, a shop-girl. My father was a man of wisdom, a gentleman who taught me how to learn’ – she hesitated – ‘many things, truths, facts, which are obscure to you and all your like. What do I want of you? Well, much, and much that you will dread to part with, but I hold you’ – she detached a blossom from her dress and held it in her hand – ‘like I hold this flower, and I can crush you as I do it.’