The Land Of Mist - Doyle Arthur Conan (прочитать книгу TXT) 📗
McArdle gave his dry chuckle at the concluding words.
«I'm thinking they are getting pairsonal there, friend Malone, for if you are no a supporter, you're well on the way. But are you no of the opeenion that this chiel and you between you might put up a spook and get two racy columns off him?»
«Well, I can see Lord Roxton,» said Malone. «He's still, I suppose, in his old rooms in the Albany. I would wish to call in any case, so I can open this up as well.»
Thus it was that in the late afternoon just as the murk of London broke into dim circles of silver, the pressman found himself once more walking down Vigo Street and accosting the porter at the dark entrance of the old-fashioned chambers. Yes, Lord John Roxton was in, but a gentleman was with him. He would take a card. Presently he returned with word that in spite of the previous visitor, Lord Roxton would see Malone at once. An instant later, he had been ushered into the old luxurious rooms with their trophies of war and of the chase. The owner of them with outstretched hand was standing at the door, long, thin, austere, with the same gaunt, whimsical, Don Quixote face as of old. There was no change save that he was more aquiline, and his eyebrows jutted more thickly over his reckless, restless eyes.
«Hullo, young fellah!» he cried. «I was hopin' you'd draw this old covert once more. I was comin' down to the office to look you up. Come in! Come in! Let me introduce you to the Reverend Charles Mason.»
A very tall, thin clergyman, who was coiled up in a large basket chair, gradually unwound himself and held out a bony hand to the newcomer. Malone was aware of two very earnest and human grey eyes looking searchingly into his, and of a broad, welcoming smile which disclosed a double row of excellent teeth. It was a worn and weary face, the tired face of the spiritual fighter, but it was very kindly and companionable, none the less. Malone had heard of the man, a Church of England vicar, who had left his model parish and the church which he had built himself in order to preach freely the doctrines of Christianity, with the new psychic knowledge super-added.
«Why, I never seem to get away from the Spiritualists!» he exclaimed.
«You never will, Mr. Malone,» said the lean clergyman, chuckling. «The world never will until it has absorbed this new knowledge which God has sent. You can't get away from it. It is too big. At the present moment, in this great city there is not a place where men or women meet that it does not come up. And yet you would not know it from the Press.»
«Well, you can't level that reproach at the Daily Gazette,» said Malone. «Possibly you may have read my own descriptive articles.»
«Yes, I read them. They are at least better than the awful sensational nonsense which the London Press usually serves up, save when they ignore it altogether. To read a paper like The Times you would never know that this vital movement existed at all. The only editorial allusion to it that I can ever remember was in a leading article when the great paper announced that it would believe in it when it found it could, by means of it, pick out more winners on a race-card than by other means.»
«Doosed useful, too,» said Lord Roxton. «It's just what I should have said myself. What!»
The clergyman's face was grave and he shook his head.
«That brings me back to the object of my visit,» he said. He turned to Malone. «I took the liberty of calling upon Lord Roxton in connection with his advertisement to say that if he went on such a quest with a good intention, no better work could be found in the world, but if he did it out of a love of sport, following some poor earth-bound soul in the same spirit as he followed the white rhinoceros of the Lido, he might be playing with fire.»
«Well, padre, I've been playin' with fire all my life and that's nothin' new. What I mean – if you want me to look at this ghost business from the religious angle, there's nothin' doin', for the Church of England that I was brought up in fills my very modest need. But if it's got a spice of danger, as you say, then it's worth while. What!»
The Rev. Charles Mason smiled his kindly, toothsome grin.
«Incorrigible, is he not?» he said to Malone. «Well, I can only wish you a fuller comprehension of the subject.» He rose as if to depart.
«Wait a bit, padre!» cried Lord Roxton, hurriedly. «When I'm explorin', I begin by ropin' in a friendly native. I expect you're just the man. Won't you come with me?»
«Where to?»
«Well, sit down and I'll tell you.» He rummaged among a pile of letters on his desk. «Fine selection of spooks!» he said. «I got on the track of over twenty by the first post. This is an easy winner, though. Read it for yourself. Lonely house, man driven mad, tenants boltin' in the night, horrible spectre. Sounds all right – what!»
The clergyman read the letter with puckered brows.
«It seems a bad case,» said he.
«Well, suppose you come along. What! Maybe you can help clear it up.»
The Rev. Mason pulled out a pocket-almanac. «I have a service for ex-Service men on Wednesday, and a lecture the same evening.»
«But we could start to-day.»
«It's a long way.»
«Only Dorsetshire. Three hours.»
«What is your plan?»
«Well, I suppose a night in the house should do it.»
«If there is any poor soul in trouble it becomes a duty. Very well, I will come.»
«And surely there is room for me,» pleaded Malone.
«Of course there is, young fellah! What I mean – I expect that old, red-headed bird at the office sent you round with no other purpose. Ah, I thought so. Well, you can write an adventure that is not perfect bilge for a change – what! There's a train from Victoria at eight o'clock. We can meet there, and I'll have a look in at old man Challenger as I pass.»
They dined together in the train and after dinner reassembled in their first-class carriage, which is the snuggest mode of travel which the world can show. Roxton, behind a big black cigar, was full of his visit to Challenger.
«The old dear is the same as ever. Bit my head off once or twice in his own familiar way. Talked unadulterated tripe. Says I've got brain-softenin', if I could think there was such a thing as a real spook. 'When you're dead you're dead'». That's the old man's cheery slogan. Surveyin' his contemporaries' he said, extinction was a doosed good thing! 'It's the only hope of the world', said he. 'Fancy the awful prospect if they survived'. Wanted to give me a bottle of chlorine to chuck at the ghost. I told him that if my automatic was not a spook-stopper, nothin' else would serve. Tell me, padre, is this the first time you've been on safari after this kind of game?»
«You treat the matter too lightly, Lord John,» said the clergyman gravely. «You have clearly had no experience of it. In answer to your question I may say that I have several times tried to help in similar cases.»
«And you take it seriously?» asked Malone, making notes for his article.
«Very, very seriously.»
«What do you think these influences are?»
«I am no authority upon the general question. You know Algernon Mailey, the barrister, do you not? He could give you facts and figures. I approach the subject rather perhaps from the point of view of instinct and emotion. I remember Mailey lecturing on Professor Bozzano's book on ghosts where over five hundred well-authenticated instances were given, every one of them sufficient to establish an a priori case. There is Flammarion, too. You can't laugh away evidence of that kind.»
«I've read Bozzano and Flammarion, too,» said Malone, «but it is your own experience and conclusions that I want.»
«Well, if you quote me, remember that I do not look on myself as a great authority on psychic research. Wiser brains than mine may come along and give some other explanation. Still, what I have seen has led me to certain conclusions. One of them is to think that there is some truth in the theosophical idea of shells.»
