Flames. Robert Hichens
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There was something uncanny about that trance of mine which frightened the little beggar."
"Perhaps. But the oddest thing is, that while you were insensible Rip lay with his head upon your arm as contented as possible. It was only just as you began to show signs of life that he seemed to turn against you. I can't understand it."
"Nor I. Have you seen Marr to-day?"
"No. I haven't been to the club. I am so glad you don't know him."
Valentine laughed. He was lying back in a big chair, smoking a cigarette.
His face was unclouded and serene, and he had never looked more entirely
healthy. Indeed, he appeared much more decisively robust than usual.
Julian noticed this.
"Your trance seems positively to have done you good," he said.
"It certainly has not done me harm. My short death of the senses has rested me wonderfully. I wonder if I am what is called a medium."
"I shouldn't be surprised if you are," Julian said. "But I don't think I could be surprised at anything to-day. Indeed, I have found myself dwelling with childish pleasure upon the most preposterous ideas, hugging them to my soul, determining to believe in them."
"Such as—what?"
"Well, such as this."
And then Julian told Valentine of his curious notion that some wandering soul was beginning to companion him, and described how he had thought he saw it when he was gazing at the old woman in Grosvenor Place, and again when he was with the lady of the feathers.
"But," Valentine said, "you say you were staring very hard at the old woman?"
"Yes."
"That might account for the matter of the first appearance of the flame in daylight. If you look very steadily at some object, a kind of slight mirage will often intervene between you and it."
"Perhaps. But I have seen this shadow of a flame when I was not thinking of it or expecting it."
"When?"
"Just now. As you came into the room I saw it float out at that door."
"You are sure?"
"I believe so. Yes, I am."
"But why should this soul, if soul it be, haunt you?"
"I can't tell. Perhaps, Val, you and I ought not to have played at spiritualism as we should play at a game. Perhaps—"
Julian paused. He was looking anxious, even worried.
"Suppose we have not stopped in time," he said.
Valentine raised his eyebrows.
"I don't understand."
Julian was standing exactly opposite to him, leaning against the mantelpiece and looking down at him.
"We ought never to have sat again after our conversation with the doctor," Julian said. "I feel that to-day, so strongly. I feel that perhaps we have taken just the one step too far—the one step in the dark that may be fatal."
"Fatal! My dear Julian, you are unstrung by the events of the night."
But the calm of Valentine's voice did not seem to sway Julian. He continued:
"Valentine, now that I am with you, I am attacked by a strange idea."
"What is it?"
"That last night may have its consequences; yes, even though we strive to forget it, and to forget our sittings. If it should be so! If anything—"
He was curiously upset, and did not seem able to-day to take the influence of Valentine's mood. Indeed, this new anxiety of his was only born in Valentine's presence, was communicated apparently by him.
"Everything one does has its following consequence," Julian said.
"It is the fashion to say so. I do not believe it. I believe, on the contrary, that we often do things with a special view to the doctrine of consequence, and that our intentions are frustrated by the falseness of the doctrine. Suppose I kiss a woman. I may do so with intention to make her love me, or, on the other hand, to make her hate me. The chances are that she does neither the one nor the other. She simply forgets all about such a trifle, and we go on shaking hands politely for the rest of our natural lives. Julian, the memories of most people are like winter days—very short."
"Perhaps. But there is some hidden thing in life whose memory is everlasting. All the philosophers say so, especially those who are inclined to deny the Deity. They put their faith in the chain of cause and effect. What we have done—you and I, Valentine—must have an effect of some sort."
"It will have a very bad effect upon you, I can see," said Valentine, smiling, "unless you pull yourself together. Come, this is nonsense. We have sat once too often, and the consequence followed, and is over: I went into a trance. I have fortunately come out of it, so the penalty which you so firmly believe in has been paid. The score is cleared, Julian."
"I suppose so."
"I have no doubt of it. Let us forget the whole matter, since to remember it seems likely to affect those devils that make the hell of the physical man—the nerves. Let us forget it. Where are you dining to-night?"
"Nowhere in particular. I have not thought about it," Julian said, rather listlessly.
"Dine with me then."
"Yes, Valentine."
Julian hesitated, then added:
"But not in Victoria Street, if you don't mind."
"At the Savoy then; or shall we say the Berkeley?"
"Very well—the Berkeley."
"At eight o'clock. Good-bye till then. I must ask you to give the shelter of your roof to Rip till he returns to a more reasonable frame of mind about me."
When Valentine had gone Julian put on his coat, and walked down to the club, ostensibly to look at the evening papers, really because he had a desire to see Marr. His intention, if he did meet the latter, was to question him closely as to the consequences which might follow upon a sitting, or series of sittings, undertaken by two people for some reason unsuited to carry out such an enterprise together. That Marr would be in the club he felt no shadow of doubt. Apparently the club had for Marr all the attraction that induces the new member to haunt the smoking and reading rooms of his freshly acquired home during the first week or two of its possession. He was incessantly there, as Julian had had reason to know.
But to-day proved to be an exception. Julian explored the club from end to end without finding the object of his search. Finally he went to the hall-porter.
"Is Mr. Marr in the club to-day?"
"No, sir; he has not been in at all since yesterday afternoon."
"Oh, thanks."
Julian felt strongly, even absurdly, disappointed, and found himself wishing that he possessed Marr's private address. He would certainly have called upon him. However, he had no idea where Marr lived, so there was nothing to be done. He went back to his rooms, dressed for dinner, and was at the Berkeley by five minutes past eight. The restaurant was very crowded that night, but Valentine had secured a table in the window, and was waiting when Julian arrived. The table next to theirs was the only one unoccupied in the room.
The two friends sat down and began to eat rather silently in the midst of the uproar of conversation round them. Valentine seemed quite unconscious of the many glances directed towards him. He never succeeded in passing unnoticed anywhere, and although he had never done anything remarkable, was one of the best-known men in town merely by virtue of his unusual personality.
"There's the Victoria Street Saint," murmured a pretty girl to her companion. "What a fortune that man could make on the stage."
"Yes,