The Complete Novels of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Arthur Conan DoyleЧитать онлайн книгу.
whose appearance told its own tale. Linden motioned her to a chair away from the light. Then he looked through his papers.
“You are Mrs. Blount, are you not? You had an appointment?”
“Yes — I wanted to ask —”
“Please ask me nothing. It confuses me.”
He was looking at her with the medium’s gaze in his light grey eyes — that gaze which looks round and through a thing rather than at it.
“You have been wise to come, very wise. There is someone beside you who has an urgent message which could not be delayed. I get a name . . . Francisyes, Francis.” The woman clasped her hands.
“Yes, yes, it is the name.”
“A dark man, very sad, very earnest — oh, so earnest. He will speak. He must speak! It is urgent. He says, ‘Tink-a-bell’. Who is Tink-a-bell?”
“Yes, yes, he called me so. Oh, Frank, Frank, speak to me! Speak!”
“He is speaking. His hand is on your head. ‘Tink-a-bell’, he says, ‘If you do what you purpose doing it will make a gap that it will take many years to cross’. Does that mean anything?”
She sprang from her chair. “It means everything. Oh, Mr. Linden, this was my last chance. If this had failed — if I found that I had really lost him I meant to go and seek him. I would have taken poison this night.”
“Thank God that I have saved you. It is a terrible thing, madame, to take one’s life. It breaks the law of Nature, and Nature’s laws cannot be broken without punishment. I rejoice that he has been able to save you. He has more to say to you. His message is, ‘If you will live and do your duty I will for ever be by your side, far closer to you than ever I was in life. My presence will surround you and guard both you and our three babes.’”
It was marvellous the change! The pale, worn woman who had entered the room was now standing with flushed cheeks and smiling lips. It is true that tears were pouring down her face’ but they were tears of joy. She clapped her hands. She made little convulsive movements as if she would dance.
“He’s not dead! He’s not dead! How can he be dead if he can speak to me and be closer to me than ever? Oh, it’s glorious! Oh, Mr. Linden, what can I do for you? You have saved me from shameful death! You have restored my husband to me! Oh, what a God-like power you have!”
The medium was an emotional man and his own tears were moist upon his cheeks.
“My dear lady, say no more. It is not I. I do nothing. You can thank God Who in His mercy permits some of His mortals to discern a spirit or to carry a message. Well, well, a guinea is my fee, if you can afford it. Come back to me if ever you are in trouble.”
“I am content now,” she cried, drying her eyes, “to await God’s will and to do my duty in the world until such time as it shall be ordained that we unite once more.”
The widow left the house walking on air. Tom Linden also felt that the clouds left by his brother’s visit had been blown away by this joyful incident, for there is no happiness like giving happiness and seeing the beneficient workings of one’s own power. He had hardly settled down in his chair, however, before another client was ushered in. This time it was a smartly-dressed, white-spatted, frock-coated man of the world, with a bustling air as of one to whom minutes are precious.
“Mr. Linden, I believe? I have heard, sir, of your powers. I am told that by handling an object you can often get some clue as to the person who owned it?”
“It happens sometimes. I cannot command it.”
“I should like to test you. I have a letter here which I received this morning. Would you try your powers upon that?”
The medium took the folded letter, and, leaning back in his chair, he pressed it upon his forehead. He sat with his eyes closed for a minute or more. Then he returned the paper.
“I don’t like it” he said. “I get a feeling of evil. I see a man dressed all in white. He has a dark face. He writes at a bamboo table. I get a sensation of heat. The letter is from the tropics.”
“Yes, from Central America.”
“I can tell you no more.”
“Are the spirits so limited? I thought they knew everything.”
“They do not know everything. Their power and knowledge are as closely limited as ours. But this is not a matter for the spirit people. What I did then was psychometry, which, so far as we know, is a power of the human soul.”
“Well, you are right as far as you have gone. This man, my correspondent, wants me to put up the money for the half-share in an oil boring. Shall I do it?”
Tom Linden shook his head.
“These powers are given to some of us, sir, for the consolation of humanity and for a proof of immortality. They were never meant for worldly use. Trouble always comes of such use, trouble to the medium and trouble to the client. I will not go into the matter.”
“Money’s no object,” said the man, drawing a wallet from his inner pocket.
“No, sir, nor to me. I am poor, but I have never ill-used my gift.”
“A fat lot of use the gift is, then!” said the visitor, rising from his chair. “I can get all the rest from the parsons who are licensed, and you are not. There is your guinea, but I have not had the worth of it.”
“I am sorry, sir, but I cannot break a rule. There is a lady beside you — near your left shoulder — an elderly lady . . . ”
“Tut! tut!” said the financier, turning towards the door.
“She wears a large gold locket with an emerald cross upon her breast.”
The man stopped, turned and stared.
“Where did you pick that up?”
“I see it before me, now.”
“Why, dash it, man, that is what my mother always wore! D’you tell me you can see her?”
“No, she is gone.”
“What was she like? What was she doing?”
“She was your mother. She said so. She was weeping.”
“Weeping! My mother! Why, she is in heaven if ever a woman was. They don’t weep in heaven!”
“Not in the imaginary heaven. They do in the real heaven. It is only we who ever make them weep. She left a message.”
“Give it to me!”
“The message was: ‘Oh, Jack! Jack! you are drifting ever further from my reach’”
The man made a contemptuous gesture.
“I was a damned fool to let you have my name when I made the appointment. You have been making inquiries. You don’t take me in with your tricks. I’ve had enough of it — more than enough!”
For the second time that morning the door was slammed by an angry visitor.
“He didn’t like his message.” Linden explained to his wife. “It was his poor mother. She is fretting over him. Lord! If folk only knew these things it would do them more good than all the forms and ceremonies.”
“Well, Tom, it’s not your fault if they don’t,” his wife answered. “There are two women waiting to see you. They have not an introduction but they seem in great trouble.”
“I’ve a bit of a headache. I haven’t got over last night. Silas and I are the same in that. Our night’s work finds us out next morning. I’ll just take these and no more, for it is bad to send anyone sorrowin’ away if one can help it.”
The two women were shown in, both of them austere figures dressed in black, one a stern-looking person of fifty, the