CHAPTER XV
THE COMPANION OF HIS SOLITUDE
When he looked up, it was timidly, doubtfully, as if fearful of whathe might see. He glanced about him anxiously from side to side, as ifin search of something or some one.
"Tom!--Tom!" he said, speaking it was difficult to say to whom.
He paused, as if for an answer. When none came, he drew himselfupright gradually, inch by inch. They noticed how his lips weretwitching, and how the whole of his body trembled. He passed his handover his eyes, as a man might who is waking from a dream. Then hestretched it out in front of him, palm upwards, with a something ofsupplication in the action which lent pathos to the words heuttered--words which in themselves were more than sufficientlybizarre.
"Do any of you believe in ghosts?--in disembodied spirits assuming acorporeal shape?--in the dead returning from their graves? Or is a manwho thinks he sees a ghost, who knows he sees a ghost, who knows thata ghost is a continual attendant of his waking and of his sleepinghours alike--must such a man be in labour with some horrible delusionof his senses? Is his brain of necessity unhinged? Must he of acertainty be mad?"
Not only was such an interrogation in itself remarkable, but moreespecially was it so as coming from such a figure as Ballingallpresented. His rags and dirt were in strange contrast with hislanguage. His words, chosen as it seemed with a nice precision, camefrom his lips with all the signs of practiced ease. His manner, evenhis voice, assumed a touch of refinement which before it lacked. Inhim was displayed the spectacle of a man of talent and of partsencased in all the outward semblance of a creature of the kennel.
Madge, to whom the inquiry seemed to be more particularly addressed,replied to it with another.
"Why do you ask us such a question?"
About the man's earnestness, as he responded, there could be no doubt.The muscles of his face twitched as with St. Vitus' Dance; beads ofsweat stood upon his brow; the intensity of his desire to giveadequate expression to his thoughts seemed to hamper his powers ofutterance.
"Because I want some one to help me--some one, God or man. Because,during the last year and more I have endured a continual agony towhich I doubt if the pains of hell can be compared. Because thingswith me have come to such a pitch that it is only at times I know if Iam dead or living, asleep or waking, mad or sane, myself or another."
He pointed to Graham.
"He has told you how it was with me aforetime; how I washaunted--driven by a ghost to gaol. When I was in gaol it was worse athousandfold--I was haunted, always, day and night. The ghost of myold friend--the best friend man ever had--whom in so many ways I hadso blackly and often wronged, was with me, continually, in my cell. Ohfor some sign by which I could know that my sins have been forgivenme!--by which I could learn that by suffering I could atone for theevil I have done! Some sign, O Lord, some sign!"
He threw his hands above his head in a paroxysm of passion. As hasbeen said of more than one great tragic actor, in his voice there weretears. As, indeed, there were in the eyes of at least one of those whoheard. His manner, when he proceeded, was a little calmer--which veryfact seemed to italicise the strangeness of his tale.
"The first day I spent in prison I was half beside myself with rage. Ihad done things for which I had merited punishment, even of man, andnow that punishment had come, it was for something I had not done. Theirony, as well as the injustice of it, made me nearly wild. I had myfirst taste of the crank--which is as miserable, as futile, and asirritating a mode of torture as was ever spewed out of a flesh andblood crank's unhealthy stomach; and I was having, what they calledthere, dinner, when the cell door opened, and--Tom Ossington came in.It was just after noon, in the broad day. He came right in front ofme, and, leaning on his stick, he stood and watched me. I had not beenthinking of him, and, a moment before, had been hot with fury, readyto dare or do anything; but, at the sight of him, the strength wentout of me. My bones might have been made of jelly, they seemed solittle able to support my body. There was nothing about him which wasin the least suggestive of anything unusual. He was dressed in a shortcoat and felt hat, which were just like the coat and hats which healways had worn; and he had in his hand the identical stick which Ihad seen him carry perhaps a thousand times. If it was a ghost, thenthere are ghosts of clothes as well as of men. If it was an opticaldelusion, then there are more things in optics than are dreamt of inour philosophy. If it was an hallucination born of a disordered mind,then it is possible to become lunatic without being conscious of anypreliminary sappings of the brain; and it is indeed but an invisibleborder line which divides the madmen from the sane.
"'Well, Charlie,' he said, in the quiet tones which I had known sowell, 'so it's come to this. You made a bit of a mistake in comingwhen you did to fetch away that fortune of yours.'
"'It seems,' I said, 'as if I had.'
"He laughed--that gentle laugh of his which had always seemed to me tobe so full of enjoyment.
"'Never mind, Charlie, you come another time. The fortune won't runaway while you're in here.'
"With that, he turned and limped out of the cell; the door seeming toopen before him at a touch of his hand, and shutting behind him asnoiselessly as it had opened. It was only after he had gone that Irealised what it was that I had seen. In an instant I was in a muck ofsweat. While I was sitting on my stool, more dead than alive, the dooropened again, this time with clatter and noise enough, and a warderappeared. He glared at me in a fashion which meant volumes.
"'Is that you talking in here? You'd better take care, my lad, oryou'll make a bad beginning.'
"He banged the door behind him--and he went."
Ballingall paused, to wipe his brow with the back of his hand; and hesighed.
"I made a bad beginning, and, from the warder's point of view, I wentfrom bad to worse. I do not know if the man I had injured has beensuffered to torture me before my time, or if, where he is, his naturehas changed, and he seeks, in the grave, the vengeance he never soughtin life. If so, he has his fill of it--he surely has had his fill ofit!--already. It was through him that I was there, and now that I wasthere he made my sojourn in the prison worse than it need have been.Much worse, God knows.
"That first visitation of his was followed by others. Twice, thrice,sometimes four times a day, he would come to me when I was in my cell,and speak to me, and compel me to answer him; and my voice would beheard without. It became quite a custom for the warder on duty tostand outside my cell, often in the middle of the night, and pounce onme as soon as Tom had gone. The instant Tom went, the warder wouldcome in. Never once did an officer enter while he was actually withme, but, almost invariably, his departure was the signal for thewarder to put in his appearance. I don't know how it was, or why itwas, but so it was. I would be accused of carrying on a conversationwith myself, reported, and punished. As a matter of fact, I was incontinual hot water--because of Tom. Not a single week passed fromthat in which I entered the prison, to that in which I left it, duringwhich I did not undergo punishment of some sort or the other, becauseof Tom. As a result, all my marks were bad marks. When I left thegaol, so far from receiving the miserable pittance which good-conductprisoners are supposed to earn, I was penniless; I had not even thewherewithal with which to buy myself a crust of bread.
"A more dreadful form of torture Tom could hardly have invented. A manneed not necessarily suffer although he is in gaol. But I suffered.Always I was in the bad books of the officers. They regarded me as anincorrigible bad-conduct man--which, from their point of view, I was.All sorts of ignominy was heaped on me. Every form of punishment Icould be made to undergo I had to undergo. I never earned my stripe,nor the right of having a coir mattress with which to cover the bareboard on which I was supposed to sleep. I was nearly starved, owing tothe perpetually recurring bread and water. And the horrors I endured,the devils which beset me, in that unspeakable dark cell! To me, gaolwas a long-drawn-out and ever-increasing agony, from the first momen
tto the last.
"God knows it was!"
The speaker paused. He stood, his fists clenched, staring vacantly infront of him, as if he saw there, in a mist, the crowding spectres ofthe past. There seemed to come a break in his voice as he continued.He spoke with greater hesitation.
"Some three months before my sentence was completed, Tom changed histactics. While I was sleeping--such sleep!--on the bare board whichserved me as a bed, I'd have a vision. It was like a vision--like avision, and yet--it was as if I was awake. It seemed as if Tom came tome, and put his arm into mine, and led me out of gaol, and brought mehere to Clover Cottage. He'd stand at the gate and say 'Charlie, thisis Clover Cottage,' and I'd answer, 'I know it is.' Then he'dlaugh--in some way that laugh of his seemed to cut me like a knife.And he'd lead me down the pathway and into the house, to this veryroom. Though"--Ballingall looked about him doubtfully--"it wasn'tfurnished as it is now. It was like it used to be. And he'd go andstand by the door, as you did"--this was to Madge--"and he'd say,'Now, Charlie, pay particular attention to what I am about to do. I'mgoing to show you how to get that fortune of yours--which you came foronce before and went away without. Now observe.'
"Then he'd walk straight across the room, as you did," again toMadge--"and he'd turn to me and say, 'Notice exactly what I'm doing!'Then he'd take a foot rule from his pocket, and he'd measure threefeet from where he stood along the floor. And he'd hold up the rule,and say, 'You see--three feet.' Then he'd measure four feet from thefloor, and hold out the rule again and say, 'You see, four feet.' Thenhe'd put his hand against the panel and move it upwards, and it wouldslide open--and there was an open space within. He'd put his hand intothe open space, and take something out; it looked to me like a sheetof paper. And he'd say, 'This is what will give you that fortune ofyours--when you find it. Only you'll have to find it first. Be sureyou find it, Charlie.'
"And he'd laugh--and, though it was the gentle laugh of his which Ihad known so well of old, there was something about it which seemed tomock me, and cut me like a whip and make me quiver. He'd take my armagain, and lead me from the house and back to the gaol, and I'd waketo find myself lying on the bare board, alone in the dark cell, cryinglike a child.
"In the morning, perhaps at dinner-time, he'd come into the cell inthe usual way, and ask me:
"'Charlie, do you remember last night?' 'Yes, Tom,' I'd reply, 'I do.'And then he'd go on:
"'Mind you don't forget. It's most important, Charlie, that youshouldn't forget. I'll tell you what you must remember. Take this andwrite it down.'
"And he'd give me something, my Bible, or my prayer-book, or eventhe card of rules which was hung against the wall, and a piece ofpencil--though where he got that from I never knew, and he'd say, 'Nowwrite what I dictate.'
"And I did, just as you saw it on the paper which I left behind; thefirst line, 'Tom Ossington's Ghost'--he always made me write that; itwas the only allusion he ever made to there being anything unusualabout his presence there; and the second line, 'right--straightacross--three--four--up.' When I'd written it he'd say:
"'Charlie, mind you take the greatest care of that; don't let it goout of your possession for a moment. It's the guide to that fortune ofyours.'
"Then he'd go. And the moment he had gone the warder would comebursting in, and catch me with the pencil, and the Bible, or whateverit was, in my hand, with the writing on the flyleaf. And he'd begin togird at me.
"'So you're at it again, are you? And you've got a pencil, have you?and been writing in your Bible? You're a pretty sort, upon my word youare. I tell you what it is, my lad, you'll get yourself into serioustrouble before you've done.'
"And he'd take the pencil away with him, and the Bible, and thewriting; and I'd be reported again, and punished with the utmostseverity which was within the compass of the Governor's power."
Ballingall stopped again. A convulsive fit of trembling seemed to goall over him.
"Towards the end, the vision took another form. Tom would bring me tothe house--only I think, not to this room, but to another--and hewould do something--he would do something. I saw quite clearly what itwas he did, and understood it well, but, so soon as I was out of thehouse, the recollection of what he had done became blurred as by amist. I could not remember at all. I'd wake in my cell in an agony tothink that all that Tom had shown me should have slipped my memory. Inthe morning he'd come and ask:
"'Charlie, you remember what we did last night?'
"'No, Tom, I don't. I've tried to think, but I can't. It's allforgotten.'
"He'd laugh--his laugh seeming to mock me more than ever.
"'Never mind, Charlie, I'll tell you all about it. You write down whatI say.'
"And I wrote it down--the last line which was on the scrap of paper.Though I never knew what it meant--never! never! I've searched mybrains many times to think; and been punished for writing it again andagain.
"At last I was released. At last--my God, at last!"
His whole frame quivered. He drew himself upright, as if endeavouringto bear himself as became a man.
"I was treated, when going out, according to my deserts. I had earnedno favour, and I received none. The Governor reprimanded me, by way ofa God-speed; told me that my conduct, while in prison, had been verybad, and warned me that it would go ill with me if I returned. Iwent out in the rags in which I had entered, without a penny in mypocket--hungry at the moment of release, I have not tasted bite or supfrom the time that I came out of gaol until tonight.
"In the afternoon I came round to Clover Cottage. The first thing Isaw was him." He pointed to Graham. "He was afraid of me, and I wasafraid of him--that is the truth. Otherwise I should have gone up tohim and asked him for at least a shilling, because directly I caughtsight of him I knew what he was after, and that I was going to betricked and robbed again. While I was trying to summon up courageenough to beg of the man whom I knew had played me false, I saw someone else, and I ran away.
"I meant to get a bed in the casual ward of the Wandsworth Workhouse.But Tom came to me as I was going there, and told me not to be sosilly, but to come and get the fortune which was waiting for me atClover Cottage. So I came. But I never got the fortune.
"And ever since I've been growing hungrier and hungrier, until I'vegrown beside myself with hunger--because Tom stopped me when I wasgoing to the workhouse again last night, and bade me not to be sosilly, though I don't know why I should have been silly in seeking forshelter and for food. And not a couple of hours ago he came to mewhile I was trying to find a hole on the Common in which to sleep, andpacked me off once more to fetch away my fortune. But I haven't foundit yet--not yet, not yet. Though"--he stretched out his arms on eitherside of him, and on his face there came a strange look of what seemedexultation--"I know it's near."
In the pause which followed, Ella raised her hand.
"Listen," she exclaimed; "who's that? There's some one at the gardengate."
There did seem some one at the garden gate, some one who opened andshut it with a bang. They heard footsteps on the tiles which led tothe front door. While they waited, listening for a knock, anothersound was heard.
"Hark," cried Ella. "There's some one fumbling with a latchkey at thedoor, trying to open it. Whoever can it be--at this hour of the night?There must be some mistake."
"I think," said Madge, in her eyes there was a very odd expression,"it is possible there is no mistake--this time."