Tales of Wonder | Page 5

It was by now seven o' clock and Sir Richard told me he
dined at half past seven. There was no question of clothes for me other than those I stood
in, as my host was shorter and broader. He showed me presently to the drawing-room and
there he reappeared before half past seven in evening dress and a white waistcoat. The
drawing-room was large and contained old furniture but it was rather worn than
venerable, an Aubusson carpet flapped about the floor, the wind seemed momently to
enter the room, and old draughts haunted corners; the stealthy feet of rats that were never
at rest indicated the extent of the ruin that time had wrought in the wainscot; somewhere
far off a shutter flapped to and fro, the guttering candles were insufficient to light so large
a room. The gloom that these things suggested was quite in keeping with Sir Richard's
first remark to me after he entered the room: "I must tell you, sir, that I have led a wicked
life. O, a very wicked life."
Such confidences from a man much older than oneself after one has known him for half
an hour are so rare that any possible answer merely does not suggest itself. I said rather
slowly, "O, really," and chiefly to forestall another such remark I said "What a charming
house you have."
"Yes," he said, "I have not left it for nearly forty years. Since I left the 'Varsity. One is
young there, you know, and one has opportunities; but I make no excuses, no excuses."
And the door slipping its rusty latch, came drifting on the draught into the room, and the
long carpet flapped and the hangings upon the walls, then the draught fell rustling away
and the door slammed to again.
"Ah, Marianne," he said, "we have a guest to-night. Mr. Linton. This is Marianne Gib."
And everything became clear to me. "Mad," I said to myself, for no one had entered the
room.
The rats ran up the length of the room behind the wainscot ceaselessly, and the wind
unlatched the door again and the folds of the carpet fluttered up to our feet and stopped
there, for our weight held it down.
"Let me introduce Mr. Linton," said my host--"Lady Mary Errinjer."
The door slammed back again. I bowed politely. Even had I been invited I should have
humoured him, but it was the very least that an uninvited guest could do.
This kind of thing happened eleven times, the rustling, and the fluttering of the carpet and
the footsteps of the rats, and the restless door, and then the sad voice of my host
introducing me to phantoms. Then for some while we waited while I struggled with the
situation; conversation flowed slowly. And again the draught came trailing up the room,
while the flaring candles filled it with hurrying shadows. "Ah, late again, Cicely," said
my host in his soft, mournful way. "Always late, Cicely." Then I went down to dinner
with that man and his mind and the twelve phantoms that haunted it. I found a long table
with fine old silver on it and places laid for fourteen. The butler was now in evening dress,

there were fewer draughts in the dining-room, the scene was less gloomy there. "Will you
sit next to Rosalind at the other end," Richard said to me. "She always takes the head of
the table, I wronged her most of all." I said, "I shall be delighted."
I looked at the butler closely, but never did I see by any expression of his face or by
anything that he did any suggestion that he waited upon less than fourteen people in the
complete possession of all their faculties. Perhaps a dish appeared to be refused more
often than taken but every glass was equally filled with champagne. At first I found little
to say, but when Sir Richard speaking from the far end of the table said, "You are tired,
Mr. Linton," I was reminded that I owed something to a host upon whom I had forced
myself. It was excellent champagne and with the help of a second glass I made the effort
to begin a conversation with a Miss Helen Errold for whom the place upon one side of
me was laid. It came more easy to me very soon, I frequently paused in my monologue,
like Mark Anthony, for a reply, and sometimes I turned and spoke to Miss Rosalind
Smith. Sir Richard at the other end talked sorrowfully on, he spoke as a condemned man
might speak to his judge, and yet somewhat as a judge might speak to one that he once
condemned wrongly. My own mind began to turn to mournful things. I drank