Part 2

The random shot went home; Enid’s face flushed crimson to the fair curls lying on her forehead. ‘You speak plainly enough,’ she faltered. ‘You need say no more. I am dazed and bewildered by your wonderful knowledge.’

‘It will be clear enough presently. The clouds are dark now; but I see rays of light here and there. Do you study spiritualism?’

‘No,’ Enid answered, puzzled by the abruptness and inconsequence of the question. ‘I cannot say that I have. But why?’

‘If your father is in the house, I shall be glad to see him. Will you be good enough to ascertain if he can be seen?’

‘If I tell him he is wanted on supernatural affairs, he will come.’ Enid smiled as she rang the bell. ‘It is his craze.’

After a little pause, the baronet entered the room, and, like his daughter, stood inthralled by the visitor’s perfect beauty. He bowed low; in spite of his age, he was a lover of the beautiful still. He looked up admiringly in the perfect eyes, and waited for her to speak.

‘Sir Geoffrey, you are a swindled, deluded man!’

‘Bless me!’ the startled baronet exclaimed at this unceremonious opening. ‘Swindled, deluded, I? Who by? Impossible!’

‘By the conjurer, Le Gautier.’

Sir Geoffrey stared in open-mouthed amazement; even the breeding of the Charterises did not rise to this occasion. Enid’s heart gave one leap, and then began to beat violently. She was conscious of some coming revelations of the deepest interest to her, and waited with impatience for Isodore to speak.

‘Some time ago, you went to a house near Paddington. You will please correct me if I am in error, Sir Geoffrey. During your presence there you saw several startling manifestations: you were commanded to do certain things, one of which affected deeply your daughter’s happiness, and which, by some happy accident, were equally acceptable to Le Gautier. Am I right?’

‘Perfectly,’ the baronet gasped. ‘And I need not say they will be carried out to the letter. I believe’——

‘They were a common, vulgar, barefaced swindle!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Sir Geoffrey interposed politely, ready to do battle in defence of his pet scheme. ‘I cannot agree with you. Le Gautier’——

‘Is a low adventurer. I am not talking idly; I can prove every word I say. This very morning, I was at Paddington, and saw the manifestation room, or whatever you may choose to call it. At the back of the room is a large mirror; over the window is another. Preparations for the manufacture of visions to suit any taste were manifest. And one thing in conclusion: the girl who personated your better self and your dead brother, who never was married, is at present under your roof. She is Linda Despard, the girl who met with the accident in Piccadilly.’

Sir Geoffrey began to feel uncomfortable, and moreover experienced a twinge of common-sense. There was something so horribly realistic about the beautiful stranger’s story, that it shook his faith to its foundation. ‘But really, such an extraordinary tale,’ he stammered, ‘and everything appeared so real. I cannot doubt, the likeness to my brother was so perfect. Am I mad that I should believe this?’

‘If you will excuse me for a moment and permit me to see this Linda Despard, I will introduce you to your brother in a few moments.—Miss Charteris, have I your permission?’

‘You have my permission to do anything which will clear up the wretched mystery,’ Enid cried passionately. ‘Even now, I am totally at a loss to know what you are speaking of. Go! Do anything you may desire, so that we can have a little quietness hereafter.’

Without another word, Isodore vanished, leaving Sir Geoffrey pacing the drawing-room in great perturbation and casting uneasy glances in Enid’s direction. He was not convinced yet, but his doubts were troublesome. ‘It is all nonsense,’ he exclaimed. ‘I saw with my own eyes’——

‘Your brother, Sir Geoffrey.’

The baronet looked up, and there, standing in the doorway, saw Isodore, holding by the hand a figure dressed in a slouch-hat and enveloped in a cloak. For a moment, he staggered back in amazement: it was the lost Ughtred to the life!

‘This is the long-lost brother,’ Isodore continued.—‘Linda, throw your hat away, and tell Sir Geoffrey the tale you told Lucrece.—Listen, Sir Geoffrey, and you will hear something entertaining, and Miss Charteris something that will restore the bloom to her cheeks.’

Linda Despard pushed her hat aside, and stood, half-boldly, half-timidly, before the startled baronet. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at Enid.

‘But what can this possibly have to do with Le Gautier?’ Sir Geoffrey demanded.

Isodore waved him aside haughtily. ‘Much, if you will have patience,’ she said.—‘Linda, you had best commence. We are trifling.’

There was an air of command in these words there was no disputing. Enid sank into a chair pale but collected, the baronet standing behind her, looking anything but comfortable. Lucrece took up her place beside her mistress. Isodore stood through the interview.

‘Well, I will do anything to help that angel of mercy who has been so good and kind to me!’ the actress commenced, with a grateful glance at Enid. ‘I tried to do her a great injury; but, thank heaven, I am not too late to save her yet. I am much to blame; but this is a hard world, and there are times when a few shillings are a godsend to me. It is not a long story. Lucrece here, and Isodore, knew my husband, and how he used to treat me, beating, half-starving me, and taking all my earnings to spend at the cafés. Well, I put up with that life as long as I could; and then, after one awful night, I left him. I came to England, and brought my boy with me. After some hardships, I contrived to get a situation in a London theatre under a new name. It was only a small part, for my imperfect English was against me. One night, some months ago, as I was coming out of the theatre, I met Le Gautier. I had known him in better days, and though I was not ignorant of his character, it was pleasant to hear the old familiar tongue again. It appeared he had been in the theatre, and recognised me, and waited to say a few words as I came out. Time went on, and he was really kind to me. Through his influence I obtained a rise of salary, and I was grateful. What he really wanted with me you shall hear presently.’ The narrator paused a moment here, and looked round in the eager faces. Every sound could be heard distinctly—the ticking of the clocks, and Sir Geoffrey’s heavy breathing. ‘One night he came to my lodgings,’ the speaker resumed, ‘and then he asked me if I had forgotten the old spiritualism tricks. I must tell you that once on a time I travelled the continent with a company that played ghostly pieces, such, for instance, as translations of Dickens’ _Christmas Carol_, a simple thing, a mere optical illusion, what you call Pepper’s Ghost. I told him I thought I could remember, and then he made a proposal to me. I never hesitated; the pay was too good for that. I was to meet Le Gautier at a house near Paddington one night, and go through the old tricks for a gentleman deeply interested in spiritualism. I learnt my lesson well. I was first to personate the better self of the spectator, and afterwards the spirit of his brother.’

‘Ah!’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘Go on!’

‘I interest you now. I thought I should. I knew at the time, to my shame let me confess it, from the things I had to say, that the spectator was to be got into Le Gautier’s power. Well, the night came; the simple apparatus was fixed; everything promised well. I was a bit nervous, for I was out of practice, and I wanted to see what sort of a man the victim was. While they were at dinner, I looked into the room, and there I saw the gentleman whom I now know to be Sir Geoffrey Charteris. When I saw your credulous face,’ the narrator continued, addressing the baronet, ‘I was no longer afraid. Presently, when it became dark and they sat over their wine, I listened till a word agreed upon was uttered by Le Gautier, and I commenced. First, there was some music, sounding strangely enough in the room, but not to me, for I played it. That was simple to an unbeliever with ordinary nerves; then came flashes of light, also easy enough; and when I deemed I had created a sufficient sense of fear, I entered the room. It was quite dark by that time, and I was dressed from head to foot in close garments. I touched Sir Geoffrey on the face and whispered in his ear; and once when he showed signs of unbelief, I clutched him by the throat and nearly strangled him.—Sir Geoffrey, if I make a mistake in a single particular, correct me.’

‘You are perfectly correct,’ the baronet answered, flushing scarlet. ‘Pray, continue. You do not know what the suspense is to me.’

‘Had you been quick and strong of nerve, you would have found it out then, for, as it was, you grasped my arm, covered in wet eel-skins, a creepy thing to touch in the dark, even if you know what it is. That was the first part of the performance, and then the real business commenced in earnest. Le Gautier led you to a room at the back of the house, a room draped in black cloth, and seated you in a certain spot, daring you to move at your peril. I wonder I did not laugh at this; I did once or twice, I know, so that I had to finish with an hysterical scream, which had the advantage of relieving me and heightening the effect. Well, the jugglery commenced—the meanest trickery, hardly sufficient to deceive a child. It was easy enough to work it under cover of the incense and smoke; for behind your chair, Sir Geoffrey, the curtains were pulled back and a mirror exposed. I stood upon a pedestal in the window, behind another mirror. The illusion is perfect, and all I had to do was to ask and answer questions. I got through the first part of the performance well enough; but when I had to personate Sir Geoffrey’s brother, the case was different. Had you, sir, been calm and collected, you must have discovered. I personated the spirit of your brother, desiring penance for some fancied wrong done to my children; and to heighten the effect, two ragged little boys were introduced to personate the dead man’s starving and abandoned family. Frightened almost to death by the fear of being haunted, Sir Geoffrey, you promised me anything. You promised to join some League, the meaning of which I do not know, to carry out your dead brother’s work; and last, but not least, that my good angel and preserver there should become Le Gautier’s wife. The illusion was perfect, and a little of Le Gautier’s matchless ventriloquism completed it.—And now,’ the speaker continued, running forward and falling at Enid’s feet, ‘let me implore your forgiveness! My benefactress, how grateful I am that I have been able to serve you!’

‘I have nothing to forgive,’ Enid replied. ‘You have taken far too great a load off my mind for me to reproach you now.’

‘But the whole thing is inexplicable to me,’ Sir Geoffrey exclaimed. ‘How did you manage to impersonate my late brother so accurately?’

Linda Despard smiled and pointed to a photograph album. ‘Easy enough with plenty of these about. What simpler than to abstract a likeness from one of these books and give it me! With my theatrical training and knowledge of make-up, the task was nothing.’

‘I am all the more astonished,’ Isodore remarked, ‘that the audacity of the command relating to Miss Enid did not open your eyes.’

‘But you understand Le Gautier professed to know nothing of what had taken place,’ Sir Geoffrey explained. ‘I even had to broach the subject to him. He never by any chance alluded to it.’

‘Such cunning as his always proves too deep for simple honesty. I need not ask if you believe what you have heard, Sir Geoffrey?’

‘Indeed, I do.—Enid, my child, come and kiss me, and say you forgive your foolish old father. Take me away into the country, where people cannot find me. I am not fit to mix with men of sense; and, O Enid, as soon as it is convenient, tell Varley to go into the library and pick out all the works he can find on spiritualism and burn them.’

‘You are sure you have forgiven me?’ Linda Despard asked Enid timidly.

‘From the bottom of my heart. You have done me a service to-day which I cannot forget, or indeed ever repay.—And to you, Isodore, if I may call you so, I am grateful. You will pardon me if I seemed harsh or hard when you came here, but I have distrusted every one of late.’

‘You have no cause to thank me,’ Isodore replied simply. ‘I am afraid I must confess that it is not entirely upon your behalf I have done this thing.’

‘I care not for that. I shall always remember you with gratitude.’

Isodore turned quickly from the window. ‘Le Gautier is coming up the steps,’ she exclaimed. ‘He must not see me here now, or everything will be ruined. I must see you again before I leave the house. Where can I hide? I would not have him discover me now for ten thousand pounds!’

STORIES OF CATS.

So much praise has been lavished on dogs and horses, as exceptionally favoured friends, that scant measure of justice is meted to equally deserving if less popular animals. Notably is this the case towards one animal which Shakspeare, with all his marvellous knowledge of creation, has denominated the ‘harmless, necessary cat.’ Persons most familiar with the feline race will indeed plead their cause enthusiastically; but such honourable exceptions are few and far between. Those who consider no luxury too costly for the indulgence of a dog, think it no sin to tacitly countenance—if not worse—any amount of harsh treatment or indifference that may under the same roof be accorded to a cat. The origin of so unfair and ignorant a prejudice is somewhat difficult to trace; for, in point of fact, one is no more faultless than the other, although their failings are very differently judged and condoned. At the generality of houses, cats are merely tolerated—as a choice between two evils—lest rats and mice should abound; and supposed to fare sumptuously on such prey, even where, through ill-requited service, none are to be found. When theft or destruction of fragile articles is discovered, blame is usually awarded in one convenient quarter only; whereas the accused thereby is too often made a scapegoat for the shortcomings of others. An animal may be driven by sheer hunger to purloin food, because, through inhumanity, none has been given. A clear case of justifiable larceny! Dumb plaintiffs, unable to employ counsel, can tell no tales. Could they contradict plausible but false evidence, how many high and hitherto unimpeachable reputations for honesty and veracity would perish!

Cats, in the abstract, might well exclaim with Shylock, ‘Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.’ They nevertheless have numerous estimable qualities, from which little credit is derived. They are devoted mothers as a rule, guarding their young at the risk of life itself; facing opponents on their behalf from which, by nature, they would fly in abject terror; playing juvenile games, even at an advanced age, to amuse their kittens; keeping them sleek and glossy as satin, while patiently teaching those accomplishments that they will need when left to their unaided resources in after-life. A pattern for the imitation of too many parents. Notwithstanding such creditable traits of character, kittens are mercilessly destroyed; though some of all other progeny are spared, out of consideration for maternal affection and well-being. A cat is vulgarly said to have ‘nine lives;’ but, in sober truth, the single existence it can lay claim to is seldom open to envy. Without entering here upon details of many cruelties almost too barbarous for belief, it cannot be ignored that boys, and even men, not otherwise supposed to be utterly devoid of common humanity, think nothing of allowing this most unoffending animal to be deliberately tortured to death by dogs, or similarly revolting practices. They appear to be under a delusion that there is something manly in expressing detestation of cats, while professing fondness for animals in general, and choosing for pets very uninviting specimens. Sundry so-called ‘sports’—save the mark!—are now happily illegal; offenders in brutality towards cats are rarely convicted; and—under the present imperfect state of the law for the protection of dumb animals—can then be only very inadequately punished.

Cats are tolerably popular in stables, where they are able to render good return for their lodging at little cost for board. They become greatly attached to horses, their favourite sleeping-place being frequently on a horse’s back; a strange selection, which yet appears to be mutually agreeable. It has been widely said that cats are incapable of any great degree of affection, and that the small amount evinced is for their home, and not its inmates. They are, in addition, considered unable to learn tricks and actions which make dogs such amusing companions. It is also thought to be much more difficult to cure the former of faults and natural aversions. Too great reliance may, however, be placed on these assertions. A bad name is easily acquired where champions are few and little intimacy is allowed. ‘Leading the life of a cat and dog,’ for instance, is popularly supposed to represent the reverse of harmony; yet some cats and dogs—which have not been _made_ enemies—become devoted friends, affording an illustration of peaceful unanimity that many of their biped detractors might profitably imitate. Again, cats, though they have a decided instinct for killing birds, have been taught to abstain from molesting those in cages. Two cases came under the writer’s notice where cats were left constantly in places filled with birds, yet never injured any, having been early impressed by the idea that there are birds and birds, some species requiring even protection from harm. The home of one conscientious creature was at a bird-fancier’s shop, and no breach of faith resulted from the watchman’s being left nightly on guard. The experiment might be hazardous to quote, but other examples could be mentioned. A few well-authenticated anecdotes may clear away some mistaken notions, and tend to the saving of helpless animals from cruelty and neglect.

A military chaplain, when living with his family at Madras, had a favourite cat. Having to change his residence, he removed to another side of the city, a distance of several miles. The in-coming tenant’s wife took a great fancy to the cat, and begged that it might be transferred with the house. Through fear that it would be lost in going so far from familiar haunts, added to the knowledge that a good home would be given, and, more especially, because poor Puss was then in delicate health, she was, after much hesitation, allowed to remain. About three weeks afterwards, the chaplain’s wife sitting in the drawing-room of her new home, was amazed to see their old friend enter the veranda, spring into her lap, overwhelming her with caresses, and showing every possible demonstration of delight at their reunion. It was assumed that she had, in an unaccountable manner, come to take up her quarters where an unequivocal welcome was received. Towards evening, the visitor disappeared, as mysteriously as she had arrived, returning the following day, but this time not alone, for in her mouth was a very small kitten, which she gently laid at the feet of her mistress with a pleading and most eloquent expression, as though craving for sanctuary. It need hardly be said that both refugees were incorporated into the household. Upon inquiry, it was ascertained that one kitten only had been spared out of a family born at the former residence. With this ‘sole daughter of her house and heart,’ the faithful creature had travelled to those she had ‘loved and lost a while.’ How such a journey could have been thrice accomplished, through the intricate and wholly unknown streets of so large and populous a city as Madras, bringing on the last occasion so young a kitten safely with her, surmounting all the difficulties and dangers of such a formidable transit, is inexplicable, and must certainly be deemed a marvellous feat. No member of the chaplain’s family had visited their old home, not even a servant had passed between the two localities, nor had the new tenants called on the original inhabitants. The extraordinary reflection and foresight shown in first taking the journey alone to insure success, and then fetching the fragile little being prudently left behind, is perhaps the most curious part of this ‘owre true tale.’ It will be conceded readily that this strong attachment could only have been for those with whom she had so long and happily dwelt. Truth is again stranger than fiction.

A lady living near Eton College—close to that memorable spot, dear to the heart of Eton boys, ‘Chalvey Ditch’—possessed, amongst her children’s many pets, a beautifully marked tortoiseshell cat, whose ‘lot had fallen in a fair ground,’ amidst ‘the smooth stones of the stream.’ When the lady’s sons left college, she removed to London—where the cat would not only have led an unhappy life, after roaming about of her own free will, but would probably have been lost—she was, to the sincere regret of her young companions, presented to some friends living at a considerable distance in Windsor Forest, where a luxurious home was offered. A family from elsewhere took the remainder of the lady’s lease off her hands, through which arrangement the following story came to light. When writing on business, the question was asked if the lady while living near Eton had amongst her pets a beautifully marked tortoiseshell cat; which being answered in the affirmative, a striking proof of intelligence was narrated. Not long after possession was taken, such a cat—identified by minute description—arrived during the night, and was found next morning, with a newly born family of kittens, in an outhouse—her chosen lodging on previous interesting occasions—having found her way from far in the Forest, whither she had been taken after dark, through or round Eton and Windsor, and thence to her once happy home. It may be a disputed point in this instance whether such fidelity to old associations might be attributed to love for the house or its former owners. Nevertheless, from the warm affection shown by the cat towards the latter, no doubt was felt on the subject by those best able to decide. They were gone beyond her reach, but she had done her utmost, in loving memory of them.