The Man with a Shadow

The housekeeper went away, and came back in five minutes, looking troubled.

“Master says you must excuse him, sir. That you are to please ask for what you want, but he is too unwell to see you.”

“Dear me, Mrs Milt; I’m sorry to hear this,” said the solicitor, with a look of commiseration. “But, then, he is a doctor, and must know his symptoms. Has he had any one to see him?”

“No, sir.”

“Then he is not very bad. I mean no doctor?”

“No, sir; no doctor.”

“I didn’t mean solicitor, Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, laughing unpleasantly. “Of course, if he required a solicitor he would send for me, eh?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“He has not sent for a solicitor, of course – to make his will, eh?” jocularly. “No, no; of course not.”

“Perhaps you had better ask master about such things as that, sir,” said Mrs Milt, with asperity. “I know nothing about that.”

“You do, you hag!” said Cousin Thompson to himself: “you do, or you wouldn’t be so eager to disclaim all knowledge of such an act – and deed. This must be seen to, for I can’t afford to have you coming between me and my rights, madam. This must be seen to.”

“What would you like to take, sir?”

“Anything, my dear Mrs Milt, anything. Too busy a man to trouble about food. I’m going to see a client, and while I’m gone perhaps you will get a snack ready for me.”

“You will not sleep here, I suppose?”

“But I will sleep here, Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, smiling. “I do not feel as if I could go back to town without being able to take with me the knowledge that my cousin is in better health.”

“And not at the mercy of thieves and scheming people,” he muttered, as he went off to see Mrs Berens, as he put it, “re shares.”

North’s bedroom bell rang violently as Cousin Thompson disappeared down the road, and Mrs Milt went up to the door and knocked.

“Has that man gone?” came from within.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring up the brandy.”

Mrs Milt uttered a sigh.

“May I bring you up a little broth, sir, too?” she whispered, with her face close to the panel. “You’ve had nothing to-day, sir, and you must be growing faint.”

“Bring up the brandy!” roared North fiercely. “Do you hear?”

“And him to speak to me like that!” sighed the housekeeper, as she went down for the spirit decanter; “and for him, too, who never took anything but tea for days together, to be asking for brandy in this reckless way. Five times have I filled up the spirit decanter this week.”

She returned with the brandy and knocked.

No answer.

“I’ve brought the brandy, sir.”

“Set it down.”

“Can I speak to you, sir?”

There was a fierce stamp of the foot which made the jug rattle in the basin on the washstand, and Mrs Milt set down the decanter close to the door, and went down again, raising her apron to her eyes.

“I wouldn’t have any one know how bad he is for the world,” she sighed; and, resisting the temptation to stand and watch the opening of the door, the old lady went into her own room and shut herself in.

As the sound of the closing door rose to the upstair rooms, that of North’s chamber was cautiously opened and a hand was thrust out to go on feeling about till it came in contact with the decanter, which it seized and bore in, the door being reclosed as the hand and arm disappeared.

The room within was darkened, and the figure of Horace North looked shadowy and strange as he walked hastily to and fro, now here, now there, as some wild animal restlessly parades the sides of his cage.

He held the decanter in his hand, and seemed in no hurry to use the spirit; but at last he set it down upon the dressing-table, drew the curtain a little on one side, and went to the washstand, from which he brought the water-bottle and tumbler.

As he poured out some of the spirit into a glass, the light shone full upon his face, and he blinked as if his eyes were dazzled by the glare.

The decanter made a chattering noise against the glass till he rested his trembling hand upon the side, ceased pouring, and closed his eyes for a few moments to rest.

As he opened them again his gaze fell upon his reflection in the dressing-glass upon the table, and he stood fixed to the spot, glaring at the wild-looking object before him, with its sunken eyes, wrinkled brow, and horrified, hunted, and frightened look.

He had seen such a face as that hundreds of times in the case of patients suffering from some form of mania, generally in connection with drink, and it petrified him for the time, for his brain refused to accept the fact that he was gazing at his own reflection.

It was a strange scene in that darkened room, with the one broad band of light shining in through the half-drawn curtain, falling upon that haggard and ghastly face gazing at its counterpart, each displaying a haunted look of horror – a dread so terrible that it explained North’s next action, which was to let fall decanter and glass with a crash upon the floor, before slowly backing away right to the furthest portion of the room, where he stood against the wall, panting heavily.

The curtain fell back, as if an invisible hand had held it for a time, and once more the room was in semi-gloom, while the faint, sick odour of the brandy gradually diffused itself through the place till it reached the trembling man’s nostrils and made him shudder.

“Like the smell of that place – like the smell of that place! Is this to go on for ever?”

Again he determinedly argued the question, and felt that, failing to arrest the decay of Luke Candlish, he had imbibed the essence of the man which, needing a fleshy body in which to live, had possessed him, so that his fate seemed to be that he must evermore lead a double life, in which there was one soul under the control of his well-schooled brain; the other wild, independent, and for whose words and actions he must respond.

“I cannot bear it,” he muttered, as he stood back against the wall, as far from the faint light as the room would allow. “It must be like madness in others’ eyes, and yet I am sane. I feel like a man haunted by a shadow, and yet it is a fancy – a terrible waking dream. But I will – Heaven help me! – I will look at it from a scientific point of view; say it is so – that I have arrested spirit and not body. Well, what then? Is there anything to fear?

“No; and I will not fear it,” he muttered, “any more than I would the dead; but,” he added, after a pause, “it is the living I fear. I cannot explain – I cannot control – this horror – bah! this essence – when it speaks, and the living give me the blame. No, I cannot, I dare not, explain. Who would believe? No one. They would say I was mad.”

A gentle tap at the door, but no response. A louder tapping, and no answer.

“Mr Thompson, sir, says he must see you on very particular business.”

North heard the words. His crafty, keen-eyed cousin was there. How could he see him now? It was impossible. He had declined before, and he was persisting again.

“Will you come down and see him, sir?”

“No: don’t do that, Horace, if you are ill. Open the door and I’ll come and chat to you there.”

No sound in reply; but directly after there was a loud noise of mocking laughter from within the room, a boisterous shout, and a partly-heard speech.