Part 29

“Not at all. I'm from Upper Tooting.”

“Good afternoon,” said Paul abruptly, and turned away.

It struck him afterwards that his action might have seemed uncivil, and even inhuman, to the bruised cyclist, who could hardly walk. But it was getting late, and he was still far from the Hall, which, oddly enough, seemed to be no longer visible from the road. He wandered on for some time, half convinced that he had passed the lodge gates, yet hoping to find some other entrance to the domain. Dusk was falling; the rounded outlines of the park trees beyond the wall were solid masses of shadow. The full moon, presently rising, restored them again to symmetry, and at last he, to his relief, came upon the massive gateway. Two lions ramped in stone on the side pillars. He thought it strange that he had not noticed the gateway on his previous entrance, but he remembered that he was fully preoccupied with the advancing figure of his uncle. In a few minutes the Hall itself appeared, and here again he was surprised that he had overlooked before its noble proportions and picturesque outline. Its broad terraces, dazzlingly white in the moonlight; its long line of mullioned windows, suffused with a warm red glow from within, made it look like part of a wintry landscape--and suggested a Christmas card. The venerable ivy that hid the ravages time had made in its walls looked like black carving. His heart swelled with strange emotions as he gazed at his ancestral hall. How many of his blood had lived and died there; how many had gone forth from that great porch to distant lands! He tried to think of his father--a little child--peeping between the balustrades of that terrace. He tried to think of it, and perhaps would have succeeded had it not occurred to him that it was a known fact that his uncle had bought the estate and house of an impoverished nobleman only the year before. Yet--he could not tell why--he seemed to feel higher and nobler for that trial.

The terrace was deserted, and so quiet that as he ascended to it his footsteps seemed to echo from the walls. When he reached the portals, the great oaken door swung noiselessly on its hinges--opened by some unseen but waiting servitor--and admitted him to a lofty hall, dark with hangings and family portraits, but warmed by a red carpet the whole length of its stone floor. For a moment he waited for the servant to show him to the drawing-room or his uncle's study. But no one appeared. Believing this to be a part of the characteristic simplicity of the Quaker household, he boldly entered the first door, and found himself in a brilliantly lit and perfectly empty drawing-room. The same experience met him with the other rooms on that floor--the dining-room displaying an already set, exquisitely furnished and decorated table, with chairs for twenty guests! He mechanically ascended the wide oaken staircase that led to the corridor of bedrooms above a central salon. Here he found only the same solitude. Bedroom doors yielded to his touch, only to show the same brilliantly lit vacancy. He presently came upon one room which seemed to give unmistakable signs of HIS OWN occupancy. Surely there stood his own dressing-case on the table! and his own evening clothes carefully laid out on another, as if fresh from a valet's hands. He stepped hastily into the corridor--there was no one there; he rang the bell--there was no response! But he noticed that there was a jug of hot water in his basin, and he began dressing mechanically.

There was little doubt that he was in a haunted house, but this did not particularly disturb him. Indeed, he found himself wondering if it could be logically called a haunted house--unless he himself was haunting it, for there seemed to be no other there. Perhaps the apparitions would come later, when he was dressed. Clearly it was not his uncle's house--and yet, as he had never been inside his uncle's house, he reflected that he ought not to be positive.

He finished dressing and sat down in an armchair with a kind of thoughtful expectancy. But presently his curiosity became impatient of the silence and mystery, and he ventured once more to explore the house. Opening his bedroom door, he found himself again upon the deserted corridor, but this time he could distinctly hear a buzz of voices from the drawing-room below. Assured that he was near a solution of the mystery, he rapidly descended the broad staircase and made his way to the open door of the drawing-room. But although the sound of voices increased as he advanced, when he entered the room, to his utter astonishment, it was as empty as before.

Yet, in spite of his bewilderment and confusion, he was able to follow one of the voices, which, in its peculiar distinctness and half-perfunctory tone, he concluded must belong to the host of the invisible assembly.

“Ah,” said the voice, greeting some unseen visitor, “so glad you have come. Afraid your engagements just now would keep you away.” Then the voice dropped to a lower and more confidential tone. “You must take down Lady Dartman, but you will have Miss Morecamp--a clever girl--on the other side of you. Ah, Sir George! So good of you to come. All well at the Priory? So glad to hear it.” (Lower and more confidentially.) “You know Mrs. Monkston. You'll sit by her. A little cut up by her husband losing his seat. Try to amuse her.”

Emboldened by desperation, Paul turned in the direction of the voice. “I am Paul Bunker,” he said hesitatingly. “I'm afraid you'll think me intrusive, but I was looking for my uncle, and”--

“Intrusive, my dear boy! The son of my near neighbor in the country intrusive? Really, now, I like that! Grace!” (the voice turned in another direction) “here is the American nephew of our neighbor Bunker at Widdlestone, who thinks he is 'a stranger.'”

“We all knew of your expected arrival at Widdlestone--it was so good of you to waive ceremony and join us,” said a well-bred feminine voice, which Paul at once assumed to belong to the hostess. “But I must find some one for your dinner partner. Mary” (here her voice was likewise turned away), “this is Mr. Bunker, the nephew of an old friend and neighbor in Upshire;” (the voice again turned to him), “you will take Miss Morecamp in. My dear” (once again averted), “I must find some one else to console poor dear Lord Billingtree with.” Here the hostess's voice was drowned by fresh arrivals.

Bewildered and confused as he was, standing in this empty desert of a drawing-room, yet encompassed on every side by human voices, so marvelous was the power of suggestion, he seemed to almost feel the impact of the invisible crowd. He was trying desperately to realize his situation when a singularly fascinating voice at his elbow unexpectedly assisted him. It was evidently his dinner partner.

“I suppose you must be tired after your journey. When did you arrive?”

“Only a few hours ago,” said Paul.

“And I dare say you haven't slept since you arrived. One doesn't on the passage, you know; the twenty hours pass so quickly, and the experience is so exciting--to US at least. But I suppose as an American you are used to it.”

Paul gasped. He had passively accepted the bodiless conversation, because it was at least intelligible! But NOW! Was he going mad?

She evidently noticed his silence. “Never mind,” she continued, “you can tell me all about it at dinner. Do you know I always think that this sort of thing--what we're doing now,--this ridiculous formality of reception,--which I suppose is after all only a concession to our English force of habit,--is absurd! We ought to pass, as it were, directly from our houses to the dinner-table. It saves time.”

“Yes--no--that is--I'm afraid I don't follow you,” stammered Paul.

There was a slight pout in her voice as she replied: “No matter now--we must follow them--for our host is moving off with Lady Billingtree, and it's our turn now.”

So great was the illusion that he found himself mechanically offering his arm as he moved through the empty room towards the door. Then he descended the staircase without another word, preceded, however, by the sound of his host's voice. Following this as a blind man might, he entered the dining-room, which to his discomfiture was as empty as the salon above. Still following the host's voice, he dropped into a chair before the empty table, wondering what variation of the Barmecide feast was in store for him. Yet the hum of voices from the vacant chairs around the board so strongly impressed him that he could almost believe that he was actually at dinner.

“Are you seated?” asked the charming voice at his side.

“Yes,” a little wonderingly, as his was the only seat visibly occupied.

“I am so glad that this silly ceremony is over. By the way, where are you?”

Paul would have liked to answer, “Lord only knows!” but he reflected that it might not sound polite. “Where am I?” he feebly repeated.

“Yes; where are you dining?”

It seemed a cool question under the circumstances, but he answered promptly,--

“With you.”

“Of course,” said the charming voice; “but where are you eating your dinner?”