The little volume of verses entitled, “To Lalage,” made quite a stir in the literary world. One critic of note said that it was instinct with classic grace; another that it was informed by the true spirit of Hellas; a third that it had a whiff of Hymettus; a fourth that it was hardly suitable for family reading; and on the strength of all this laudation, “To Lalage” was a success, and several copies were bonâ fide sold to complete strangers. Imagine, then, the bitterness of heart with which Adrian Pottles, the gifted author, saw himself compelled to maintain strict anonymity, and to conceal from a world thirsting to know him that he was the “A. P.” whose initials appeared in Old English letters on the title-page. Yet he did not hesitate; for he knew that if his uncle, Mr. Thomas Pottles, of Clapham Common, discovered that he wrote not only verses, which was bad, but amatory verses, which was atrocious, his means of present livelihood and prospects of future affluence would vanish into thin air. For Mr. Pottles was a man of strict views; and, whether one regarded this world or the next, there could be no question that a bank clerk of Evangelical connections committed a grave fault in writing love poems. So poor Adrian had to make up his mind to remain unknown, and to hold his tongue even when he heard that another man had been claiming the authorship of “To Lalage.” Luckily, perhaps, he failed to find out who this miscreant was, or probably his indignation would have overcome his prudence, and he would at any cost have claimed his own.
The secret was well kept; and Adrian received the usual check at Christmas-time, and with it the usual invitation to spend the festive season with his uncle, and to bring with him his young friend Peter Allison, to whom old Mr. Pottles had taken a great fancy. Peter was a man of many engagements, but, sought after as he was and proclaimed himself to be, he remembered the good cheer at Mr. Pottles’, and accepted the invitation. They went down together; Adrian bewailing his hard fortune and denouncing the impostor; Peter warmly sympathizing, but counseling continued silence and prudence.
“Ah, if I could only claim it!” cried Adrian, opening his Gladstone bag and gazing fondly at half a dozen neat, clean copies of “To Lalage.” “I should be the lion of the season, Peter.”
Peter smiled and shook his head. “A fortune is better than fame, Adrian,” said he.
For a day or two all went well at Clapham. The old gentleman was in the best of tempers, and the two young men did their best to keep him in it, indorsing all his views as to the lax morality and disgraceful tone which pervaded modern literature and modern society; and when they had done their duty in this way they rewarded themselves by going in next door and having tea with Dora Chatterton, a young lady whom they both thought charming. Indeed, Adrian thought her so charming that, after a short acquaintance, he sent her a copy of “To Lalage”—with the author’s kind regards. Now, Miss Dora Chatterton adored genius. She had thought both Adrian and Peter very pleasant young men; she had perceived that they both thought her a very pleasant young woman; and she had been rather puzzled to know which of them she would, in a certain event, make up her mind to prefer. “To Lalage” settled the question. It was the gifted author, A. P., who deserved her love; and A. P. obviously stood, not for Peter Allison, but for Adrian Pottles.
The very next morning she called early at Mr. Pottles’. She found him alone; the boys, he explained, had gone for a walk. Dora was disappointed; but, failing the author himself, she was content to pour her praises into the ears of an appreciative and proud uncle. She did so, expressing immense admiration for Adrian’s modesty in not having told Mr. Pottles of his achievement.
“Humph!” said Mr. Pottles. “Let me see these—er—things.”
The effect of “To Lalage” on Mr. Pottles was surprising, and particularly so to Dora. In less than ten minutes she found herself being shown the door, and intrusted with a letter to her mother in which Mr. Pottles stated that she had been reading wicked books, and ought, in his opinion, to be sent to her own room for an indefinite period.
“And I shall know if you don’t give it her,” said Mr. Pottles viciously.
Thus it happened that Adrian and Peter, as they were returning, met poor Dora on the steps with this horrid note in one hand and her pocket-handkerchief in the other—for Mrs. Chatterton shared Mr. Pottles’ views, and Dora did not enjoy having to deliver the note. They were just hastening up to speak to her, when Mr. Pottles himself appeared on the steps, holding out “To Lalage” in his hand. Adrian grasped the situation.
“For Heaven’s sake, Peter,” he whispered, “say you wrote the beastly thing; I’m ruined if you don’t.”
“Eh? But he’ll kick me out.”
“I’ll stand a pony.”
“Two,” said Peter firmly.
“Well, two; but be quick.”
Then Peter spoke up like a man, and accepted the blame of “To Lalage.”
“But your initials aren’t A. P.,” objected Mr. Pottles.
“To avoid suspicion, I reversed the order; mine are P. A.”
“James,” said Mr. Pottles to the footman, “pack Mr. Allison’s bag.”
But Dora gave Peter the kindest and most admiring glance as she murmured softly to Adrian, “They’re lovely! Oh, don’t you wish you could write verses, Mr. Pottles?”
Adrian started. He had not bargained for this; but Peter had overheard, and interposed:
“I am more than consoled by your approval, Miss Chatterton.”
Mr. Pottles called to Adrian, and he had to go in, leaving Dora and Peter in close conversation, and to assure his uncle solemnly that he had been entirely disappointed and deceived in Peter, and, worse still, in Dora, and that he never wished to see either of them again. Mr. Pottles shook him by the hand and forgave him.
Adrian passed a wretched week. In several newspapers he saw it openly stated that Peter now admitted he was the author of “To Lalage.” Peter wrote that the fifty pounds were most convenient, and that he had had a most charming letter from Dora, and that all the literary world was paying him most flattering attentions. Adrian ground his teeth, but he had to write back, thanking Peter for all his kindness.
Meanwhile Mr. Pottles grew restless. Every paper he took up was full of the praises of “To Lalage.” The author was becoming famous, and Mr. Pottles began to doubt whether he had done well to drive him forth with contumely.
“Adrian,” he said suddenly one morning, “I don’t know that I did justice to young Allison. I shall have another look at that book. I shall order it at Smith’s.”
“I—I happen to have a copy,” said Adrian timidly.
“Get it,” said Mr. Pottles. Mr. Pottles read it—first with a deep frown, then with a judicial air, then with a smile, lastly with a chuckle.
“Ask him to dinner,” he said. “Oh, and, Adrian, we’ll have the Chattertons. I wish you could do something to get your name up, my boy.”
“You like it, uncle?”
“Yes, and I like the manly way he owned to it. If he had prevaricated about it, I’d never have forgiven him.”
After this Adrian did not dare to confess. It was too bad. Here were both his uncle and Dora admiring Peter for his poems, and crediting Peter with candor and courage. He was to lose both fame and Dora! It was certainly too much. A sudden thought struck him. He went to town, called on Peter, and, as the police reports say, “made a communication” to him.
“It makes me look a scoundrel,” objected Peter.
“Two hundred—at six months,” suggested Adrian.
“And she is a nice girl—— No, I’m dashed——”
“A monkey at three!” cried Adrian.
“Done!” said Peter.
It was a sad tale of depravity on one side, and of self-sacrificing friendship on the other, that Mr. Pottles and Dora Chatterton listened to that evening.
“He had made,” said Adrian sadly, “a deliberate attempt to rob me of my fame before, and he repeated it. And yet, uncle, an old friend—boyhood’s companion—how could I betray him? It was weak, but I could not. I stood by, and let him deceive you.”
“You’re a noble fellow,” said Mr. Pottles, in tones of emotion.
“Indeed, yes,” said Dora, with an adoring glance.
“There, let us say no more about it,” pursued Adrian magnanimously. “I have my reward,” and he returned Dora’s glance behind Mr. Pottles’ broad back.
The next time he met Peter, he said, “I am really immensely indebted to you, old fellow. My uncle has come down handsome, and if the monkey now would be conv——”
“By Gad, yes!” said Peter. He took it in crisp notes, and carefully pocketed them.
“And is Miss Dora kind?” he asked.
“She’s an angel.”
“And you are generally prosperous?”
“Thanks to you, my dear old friend.”
“Then,” said Peter, producing a piece of paper from his pocket, “you might persuade your publishers to withdraw this beastly thing.” It was a writ, and it claimed an injunction to restrain Peter from claiming the authorship of “To Lalage.”
“Then you’ve been publicly claiming it?”
“I had to keep up the illusion, Adrian. Do me justice.”
“But,” said Adrian, “how, Peter—how does it happen that the writ is dated the day before we went to Clapham?”
He paused. Peter grinned uneasily. A light broke in on Adrian.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “you’re the villain who——”
“Exactly. Wonderfully provident of me, wasn’t it? What, you’re not going?”
“Never let me see your face again,” said Adrian. “I have done with you.”
He rushed out. Peter whistled gently, and said to himself, “Not a bad deal! He must stop the action, or the old man will twig.”
Then he whistled again, and added, “Glad I got it in notes. He’d have stopped a check.”
A third time he whistled, and chuckled and said, “Now, I wonder if old Adrian’ll make five hundred and fifty out of it! Not a bad deal, Peter, my boy!”
Middleton was doing very well; everybody admitted that—some patronizingly, others enviously. And yet Middleton aimed high. He eschewed pot-boilers, and devoted himself to important subject pictures, often of an allegorical description. Nevertheless, his works sold, and that so well that Middleton thought himself justified in taking a wife. Here, again, good fortune attended him. Miss Angela Dove was fair to see, possessed of a nice little income, and, finally, a lady of taste, for she accepted Middleton’s addresses. Decidedly a lucky fellow all round was Middleton. But, in spite of all his luck, his face was clouded with care as he sat in his studio one summer evening. Three months before he had been the recipient of a most flattering commission from that wealthy and esteemed connoisseur the Earl of Moneyton. The earl desired two panels for his hall. “I want,” he wrote, “two full-length female figures—the one representing Heavenly Love, the other Earthly Love. Not a very new subject, you will say; but I have a fancy for it, and I can rely on your talent to impart freshness even to a well-worn theme.”
Of course there was no difficulty about Heavenly Love. Angela filled the bill (the expression was Middleton’s own) to a nicety. Her pretty golden hair, her sweet smile, her candid blue eyes, were exactly what was wanted. Middleton clapped on a pair of wings, and felt that he had done his duty. But when he came to Earthly Love the path was not so smooth. The earl demanded the acme of physical beauty, and that was rather hard to find. Middleton tried all the models in vain; he frequented the theaters and music-halls to no purpose; he tried to combine all the beauties of his acquaintance in one harmonious whole, but they did not make what tea-dealers call a “nice blend.” Then he tried to evolve Earthly Love out of his own consciousness, but he could get nothing there but Angela again; and although he did violence to his feelings by giving her black hair and an evil cast in her eye, he knew that, even thus transformed, she would not satisfy the earl. Middleton was in despair; his reputation was at stake. The thought of Angela could not console him.
“I’d give my soul for a model!” cried he, flinging aside his pencil in despair.
At this moment he heard a knock at the door. He existed on the charwoman system, and after six o’clock in the evening had to open his own door. A lady stood outside, and a neat brougham was vanishing round the corner. Even in the darkness Middleton was struck by the grace and dignity of his visitor’s figure.
“Mr. Middleton’s, is it not?” she asked, in a very sweet voice.
Middleton bowed. It was late for a call, but if the lady ignored that fact, he could not remind her of it. Fortunately there was no chance of Angela coming at such an hour. He led the way to his studio.
“May I ask,” he began, “to what I am indebted for this honor?”
“I see you like coming to business directly,” she answered, her neatly gloved hands busy unpinning her veil. She seemed to find the task a little difficult.
“You see, it’s rather late,” said Middleton.
“Not at all. I am only just up. Well, then, to business. I hear you want a model for an Earthly Love.”
“Exactly. May I ask if you——”
“If I am a model? Oh, now and then—not habitually.”
“You know my requirements are somewhat hard to fulfill?”
“I can fulfill them,” and she raised her veil. She certainly could. She realized his wildest dreams—the wildest dream of poets and painters since the world began. Middleton stood half-stupefied before her.
“Well, shall I do?” she asked, turning her smile on him.
Middleton felt as if it were a battery of guns, as he answered that he would be the happiest painter in the world if she would honor him.
“Head only, of course,” she continued.
“Of course,” said he hastily; “unless, that is, you will give me hands and arms too.”
“I think not. My hands are not so good.” And she glanced at her kid gauntlets with a smile.
“And—er—as to terms?” he stammered.
“Oh, the usual terms,” she answered briskly.
Middleton hinted at pre-payment.
“I’m not allowed to take that,” she said. “Come, I will ask for what I want when the time comes. You won’t refuse me?”
“It’s a little vague,” he said, with an uneasy laugh.
“Oh, I can go away.” And she turned toward the door.
“Whatever you like,” he cried hastily.
“Ah, that’s better. I shall not take anything of great value.”
She gave him her hand. He ventured on a slight pressure. The lady did not seem to notice it, and her hand lay quite motionless in his.
“To-morrow, then?” he said.
“Yes. I won’t trouble you to call a cab. I shall walk.”
“Have you far to go?”
“Oh, some little way; but it’s an easy road.”
“Can’t I escort you?”
“Not to-night. Some day, I hope”—and she stepped into the street and disappeared round the corner.
Punctually the next day she reappeared. Apart from her incomparable beauty—and every time she came, Middleton was more convinced that it was incomparable—she was a charming companion. She was very well read, and her knowledge of the world was wonderful.
“I wish it wasn’t rude to ask your age!” he exclaimed one day.
“Ah, I am older than I look. My work keeps me young.”
“Are you very busy, then?”
“I am always busy. But I don’t grudge the time I give to you. No, don’t thank me. I am to be paid, you know.” And she laughed merrily. If there were a flaw in her, it was her laugh. Middleton thought it rather a cruel laugh.
“Do you know,” he resumed, “you have never told me your name yet.”
“I am here incognita.”
“You will tell me some day?”
“Yes, you shall know some day.”
“Before we part forever?”
“Perhaps we shall not part—forever.”
Middleton said he hoped not; but what would Angela say?
“My name is not so pretty a one as your fiancée’s,” the lady continued.
“How do you know I am engaged?”
“I always know that sort of thing. It’s so useful. Angela Dove, isn’t it?”
“Yes; I hope you like it?”
“To be candid, not very much. It happens to have unpleasant associations.”
It was fortunate that Angela was staying out of town. Middleton felt that the two ladies would not have got on well together; and—— He checked himself in shame; for his thought had been that not even for Angela could he send the stranger away. Middleton struggled against the treacherous passion that grew upon him; but he struggled in vain. He was guilty of postponing the finishing of his panel as long as he could. At last the lady grew impatient.
“I shall not come after to-day,” she announced. “You can finish it to-day.”
“Oh, hardly!” he protested.
“I’ll stay late; but I can’t come again.”
Middleton worked hard, and by evening the panel was finished.
“A thousand thanks,” he said. “And now you’ll have something to eat, won’t you?”
She agreed, and they sat down to a merry meal. The lady surpassed herself in brilliancy, and her mad gayety infected Middleton. Forgetful of his honor and allegiance, he leaned over to toast his guest, with a passionate gaze in his eyes. Insensibly the evening sped away; suddenly the clock struck twelve.
“I am going now,” she said.
“Ah, you won’t leave me!” cried Middleton.
“For the moment.”
“But when shall I see you again?”
“As soon as you like, but not later than you must.”
“You are charmingly mysterious. Tell me where you are going?”
“To my home.”
“If you won’t come to me, I shall come to you,” he insisted.
“Yes, you will come to me,” she answered, smiling.
“And we shall be together?”
“Yes.”
“As long as ever I like?”
“Yes—longer.”
“Impossible! Eternity would not be too long.”
“Nous verrons,” said she, with a laugh.
“At least you will write? You’ll send me your picture?”
“I never write, and you have my picture.”
“And another in my heart,” he cried hotly.
“I have tried to put it there.”
“But give me some token—anything—a ribbon—a glove—anything.”
“Well, let it be a glove. As I go I will give you a glove.”
She rose from her chair and rested her right hand on the table.
“Till we meet again!” she said.
“I am yours for ever!” he cried, seizing her hand.
“True! true!” she answered triumphantly. “You are mine forever!” and with a sudden movement she drew her arm away from him and left on the table—her glove, was it, or her hand? It seemed her very hand! and as Middleton looked up he had a vision of a blood-red claw shaken in his face, and devilish laughter rattled in his ears. The lady was gone, and Middleton fell full length on his studio floor.
Middleton is a very devoted husband to Angela Dove. When he is well and cheerful, he blames himself for having made love to a model, and laughs at himself for having been fool enough to fancy—well, all sorts of rubbish. But when he is out of sorts he does not like to be complimented on his figure of Earthly Love, and he gives a shudder if he happens to come across an article which lies hidden in his cupboard—a perfect model of the human hand covered with black kid; the model is hollow, and there is a curious black mark inside it.
And the earl? The earl was delighted with the panel.
“Was she a professional model?” he asked.
“She made it a matter of business with me,” said Middleton uneasily. It was one of his bad days.
“I must know that girl,” continued the earl, with a cunning look in his eye.
“I expect you will some day.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t she sign anything when you paid her?”
“I haven’t paid her yet.”
“But you’re going to?”
“I—I suppose so,” answered Middleton.
“Well, you’ll find out who she is then. And, I say, Middleton, just let me know.”
“I will if I can—unless you’ve found it out before.”
The earl took up his hat with a sigh.
“A glorious creature!” he said. “I hope I shall see her sometime.”
“I think it’s very likely, my lord,” said Middleton.
“Have you any notion where she comes from?”
Middleton compromised. He said he understood that the lady was from Monte Carlo.
There’s no doubt at all about it,” said the rajah, relighting his cigar.
“It’s perfectly easy, if you know how to do it. The skepticism of the West is nothing less than disgusting.”
The rajah had come to Oxford to complete his education and endue himself with the culture of Europe; and he sat in my rooms, in a frock-coat of perfect cut (he always wore a frock-coat), smoking one of my weeds and drinking a whisky-and-soda. The rajah took to European culture with avidity, and I have very little doubt that he learned many new things with which it might or might not be expedient to acquaint his fellow-countrymen and subjects when he returned to India. But all the intellectual interests of Oxford were not strong enough to wean him from his love for the ancient lore of his own country, and he was always ready to expound the hidden wisdom of the East to any inquiring spirit. As soon as I found this out, I cultivated his acquaintance sedulously; for, in common with all intelligent men of the present day, I took a keen interest in that strange learning which seemed to give its possessors such extraordinary powers.
“Can you do it?” I asked.
“I should hope so,” said the rajah contemptuously. “If I couldn’t do that, I’d turn Mahommedan.”
“I wish you’d teach me.”
The rajah took in a deep puff of smoke. “You’re sure you could manage it?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, of course, like anything else, an astral body must be treated with tact, or it gets out of hand.”
“Does it?”
“Why, yes; you must be firm and yet kind. Don’t let it take liberties, or you don’t know where it will land you. I rather doubt if I ought to show you.”
I implored him to do so. I was young, rash, self-confident, and I thought I could manage an astral body as easily as I did the dean.
“Don’t blame me if you find it too much for you, that’s all,” said the rajah. “And of course you must promise not to tell anyone.”
“Oh, must I?”
“Yes, you must; because it’s quite irregular in me to show you like this. You ought, by rights, you know, to go to Thibet for seven years.”
“That would be rather a bore.”
“Beastly,” said the rajah; “but of course they insist on it, because they get the fees.”
He swore me to secrecy by all manner of oaths, and lastly on my word as a gentleman; and then he showed me. I practiced all that evening, and was tolerably proficient by the time the rajah knocked out his last pipe and went off to bed. I must not tell how it is done, as I promised not to; besides, if anyone reads this narrative through, he will never want to know.
At first it was very convenient. I always used to project it to chapel instead of going myself. It did capitally there, because it had only to behave itself and hold its tongue. At lectures it was a failure; it was such an inattentive beggar that its notes were worth nothing. And it was no sort of use in the Torpid; I was told that I should be turned out if I went on “sugaring” like that—there’s no pluck or endurance in these Orientals. On the whole, however, I was very well satisfied with it, and came to rely upon it more and more for all the unpleasant duties of life.
“Well, how do you like it?” asked the rajah one day in Quad.
“My dear fellow, it’s splendid,” I answered. “It’s up in town, being measured for trousers, now. You can’t think how much trouble it saves.”
The rajah smiled and shook his head.
“Be moderate,” he said. “You mustn’t use it too much, or it’ll presume on it.”
“Will it? What will it do?”
“Why, if it’s always being projected, it’s as likely as not it’ll learn the trick of it, and take to projecting itself. Then you’ll be left in the lurch.”
“What shall I do then?”
“I don’t see what you can do,” said the rajah, scratching his head. “Of course, I should merely report it at headquarters; but you can’t, because you’ve no business with it at all.”
“Well, I shan’t grudge it a holiday now and then,” I said magnanimously.
The rajah was right. It did begin to take French leave. Several times when I wanted it I found it had, without a word of apology, projected itself off to Iffley or somewhere, and was not available. I spoke very severely to it. It said nothing, but listened with an unpleasant sort of smile. “We all have our duties,” I remarked, “and yours is to be here”—and I pointed to my chest—“when you are wanted. You’re as bad as a scout.”
“I ought to have a little relaxation,” it answered sulkily.
“I never heard of such a thing in connection with you. Isn’t it enough for you to meditate in four dimensions when you’re not at work? That would satisfy most people.”
“It’s all very well in Thibet,” it grumbled; “but a fellow doesn’t come to Oxford to do that.”
“One would think you had nothing to do with me. You seem to forget that you are simply a projection of mine.”
We had some high words and parted—I mean, united—in very bad temper with one another. It was in the middle of a most impertinent and positively threatening speech, when I terminated the interview by resuming it. It was very unreasonable and irritating, and I made up my mind to ask the rajah to speak to it the next morning. I had an engagement that evening, or I would have done it then. How I wish I had!
At half-past nine I went to an “At Home” at Professor Drayton’s. As a rule, “At Homes” are dull; but I had a reason for going to this one. The professor had a very pretty daughter, and I was vain enough to think that my presence was welcome to her. In fact, we were great friends, and I had not been at the house a quarter of an hour before I had forgotten all my worries with my unruly Astral Body, and was sitting by Bessie in the small drawing room, enjoying myself immensely. Suddenly—mysteriously—I felt something like a violent push. Bessie vanished; the drawing room vanished; and I found myself in the High, standing in dripping rain, without a hat or coat. I stood still in bewilderment. What had happened? A moment later the proctor was upon me. I gave my name and college in a mechanical way, and he passed on, leaving me still standing in the rain. What had happened? Then it flashed across my mind. I understood its threats. It had projected me!
I woke up next morning, determined to have it out with it. I found, as I expected, that it had waited till I was asleep; then it slunk in and united without my knowing it. I went and paid my fine, and then, not waiting to breakfast, I proceeded to project it. It wouldn’t move! I tried again and again. I had no more power over it than a child. I knew it was there; but I could not move it an inch. In wrath, I jumped up, seized my cap, and started for the rajah’s rooms. The rogue saw what I was up to. I give you my word, I had not reached the door when it projected me most viciously, and I landed down in the Parks.
I was not to be beaten. I came back to college at a run, and made straight for the rajah’s rooms. It was on the lookout for me. As I ran by my oak, which I had to pass, it rushed out on me, united, and projected me back again to Magdalen Bridge. This happened three times. Then I sat down in the Parks, just where I dropped, and acknowledged to myself that I was in a pretty fix.
I had a fearful week of it. Of course, wherever I was, it could unite at once by just thinking of me; and, directly it had united, it used, I believe out of pure malice, to project me somewhere where I did not want to go. It was lucky for me that it was new to the business; its powers were as yet very undeveloped, and, consequently, it did not carry very far. If it could, I am sure it would have sent me to the Antipodes; but as it was, I never went further than the University boat-house—a pretty tidy step on a bad morning. Still, it was improving; and I felt that I must act at once if I did not want to be a permanent wanderer on the face of the earth.
My only chance was to engross its attention in some way, so that it would forget me for a little while, and leave me free to speak to the rajah. I pinned all my hopes on the rajah. Well, one morning, about a week after it first projected me, I went for a walk in Christchurch Meadow. We were united, and it had actually left me in peace ever since breakfast. I hoped its better feelings were beginning to get the mastery of it, and, in order to see, I tried to project it. No, it wouldn’t move! The creature was still recalcitrant.
Suddenly I saw Bessie Drayton just in front of me. In delight at seeing her, I forgot about it, and, quickening my pace, overtook her, and lifted my hat. She smiled divinely, saying, “Why, Mr. Nares, I just going to write——” At that moment, when I was listening to her sweet voice, it projected me! Could ill-nature go further? But, luckily, its mind was not really concentrated on what it was doing. I believe it was thinking of Bessie, and consequently it only carried about a hundred yards. I landed behind one of the big elms, where I lay perdu till it had gone by. It and Bessie passed me together, and it was grinning from ear to ear, and looked as pleased as Punch. And poor Bessie, who thought she was talking to me, was being most charming to it.
I did not waste time in swearing. I ran like the wind back to college, hoping that Bessie’s society would prevent it coming after me till I had spoken to the rajah. I still retained one pull over it. In order to unite, it had to come where I was; it could not resume me from a distance, as I used to resume it; so if it united now it would have to leave Bessie.
By a blessed chance, the rajah was at home, and in trembling haste I poured my story into his ear. He burst out laughing.
“I was afraid of it!” he gasped, holding his sides. “How splendid!”
I restrained my annoyance, and after a time he became a little more grave.
“Do help me!” I urged. “It may unite at any moment, and project me the deuce knows where.”
“Oh, it’ll be all right with the young lady.”
“Not for long. She’s very particular, and won’t let it walk far with her.”
“Oh, then we must act. You don’t feel it yet?”
“No; but do be quick!”
The rajah sported his oak, took off his coat, lay down on the floor, and went into strong convulsions.
I regretted putting him to so much trouble, but my need was urgent, and I knew that he was a good-natured man. Presently he cried (and I was just getting alarmed about him):
“Are you there, Nani-Tal?”
“Certainly,” said an old white-haired gentleman, dressed in a sheet, who sat in the rajah’s armchair.
“That’s all right,” said the rajah, getting up and putting on his coat. “You were very difficult.”
“We’re so busy just now,” said Nani-Tal apologetically. “I’m demonstrating three nights a week, and the preparations take all my time.”
“Well, you can’t have a boom for nothing,” said the rajah, smiling.
“I don’t complain,” said Nani-Tal; “I only mentioned it to excuse myself for keeping you waiting. I was in New York when you began materializing. It’s a lively city.”
“You must tell him all about it,” said the rajah to me; “he won’t be very hard on us.”
Nani-Tal was, however, rather severe. He said it was too bad of the rajah. How were they to live, if that sort of thing went on? Then he turned to me, and added, “Of course you couldn’t manage it. If you’d gone through the course, you would have been all right. But there, it’s everything for nothing nowadays!”
“My friend couldn’t go to Thibet.”
“He might have paid the fees anyhow,” grumbled Nani-Tal, “and taken correspondence lessons.”
We smoothed him down with the promise of a handsome donation, and at last he consented to help us. It was only just in time, for at that very moment I felt my Astral Body uniting. A second later it made a violent effort to project me; of course, it saw Nani-Tal, and knew it was in for it. The old gentleman was too quick for it.
“Come out of that!” he cried imperiously, and the wretch stood in the middle of the room.
It did my heart good to hear Nani-Tal fall on the creature. After giving it no end of a lecture, he concluded, “And now, young man, you’ll just go back to your jackal for a thousand years, and learn better manners.”
The wretch protested; it asked for an elephant or even a tiger. Nani-Tal was obdurate.
“A jackal will just suit you,” he said. “Be off!” The creature vanished. Simultaneously Nani-Tal began to disintegrate.
“Wait a bit!” cried the rajah.
“I can’t. I’m summoned to St. James’ Hall. There’s a large audience, and the professor has been in convulsions seven minutes.”
I tried to grasp his hand in thanks. “If you want another,” he said, “you must go through the course—the full course. There’s no other way. Let this be a lesson to you.” And with this parting remark he disintegrated.
The rajah lit a cigar, and I, lighter at heart than I had been for many days, followed his example.
“It was wrong of me,” said the rajah; “I won’t do it again.”
“It’s a pity it turned out so badly,” I remarked; “it was quite a comfort at first.”
“They’re all like that, unless you keep a tight hand on them. Shall you take the course?”
“Not I. I’ve had enough of it.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Excuse me; I have to go to the Deccan on business.”
He fell back on the sofa, apparently in a trance, and I went off to the dean’s lecture. It makes all the difference whether you know how to do a thing or not.