Ghost Stories and Mysteries (31 page)

“Was he alone, and in his pyjamas?”

“Yes,” returned the steward to both questions. The chief went on to the deck again, now crowded and busy, and drew the two men aside.

“There was a man and a woman with Vincent?”

“Yes,” they both affirmed; they had seen the three figures distinctly.

“I don’t think we’ll say anything about them,” said the chief. “I wonder whether Vincent saw them, too?”

“Poor devil,” said Reynolds. “Dreamt he was in a big sea on a dark night fighting for his life, and watching the lights of the steamer disappearing.”

THE GIRL BODY-STEALER

(1901-02)

THE ELDER BACKFORD’S STORY: FEBRUARY 5

Those who persist in saying that I, in any way, consented to the experiment, either lie deliberately, or are entirely ignorant of the circumstances.

Bletchford could bear me out in this if he chose; but he is only anxious to evade all responsibility, although he was the prime mover in the matter.

My younger brother Francis had always been weak and delicate, and possessed a highly imaginative disposition. This did not assist him to regain health and strength: his mind was too vigorous for his body, and was gradually wearing it out.

Many times, when we were boys, have I had to follow him through the house to see that he did not come to harm during his somnambulistic rambles. Gradually he grew out of this habit, but became a confirmed visionary, always attracted by any new speculations on the occult and the unknown.

Fortunately he had too keen a brain to permit of his becoming a prey of the vulgar impostors calling themselves mediums; but where the theory appeared rational and logical he pursued it with avidity.

The separation of the soul from the body during life had a peculiar fascination for him; and he used to fast and experimentalise on himself to see if he could attain the desired object of leaving his body at will.

In vain I remonstrated with him, and pointed out how he was undermining his health, of which he had none too much to spare. He only laughed at me, and told me that because I was robust and found my pleasure in outdoor sports, I was not capable of appreciating such deep and abstruse questions as occupied his time.

It was just then that Bletchford came on a visit to us. At this period I was thirty-six, and my brother thirty. Our parents were dead; we had each a small private fortune, and lived together for the sake of company. Bletchford was an old friend, and I hoped that his coming would rouse my brother, and lead to his interesting himself in less morbid pursuits.

In this, to my great disgust, I was greatly disappointed. Bletchford had caught the craze, and was deeper in the duty of occultism than my brother. Instead of weaning him from his studies he encouraged him to continue in them, and, disgusted and sick at heart, I left them to themselves and sought my own diversions.

About three weeks after Bletchford had been with us he came to me, and, taking my arm confidentially, said “We have completely succeeded, at least in the case of your brother. I am too gross, apparently, to enter into the higher circle.”

“Higher humbug,” I replied rudely. “What does all this tommyrot mean?”

“It means that your brother can enter at will into the spirit world, leaving his body apparently lifeless.”

I forget what I said, though it was something very personal and offensive, but Bletchford took it quietly.

“As yet,” he said, “your brother has made no sustained effort, and instead of there being any injury to his health, he looks better and stronger. To-night we are going to prolong the experiment. Will you be present?”

I told him hotly that I would not countenance any such sinful folly. Then I went to my brother, and sought earnestly to dissuade him from dabbling with things better left alone. He only smiled good-naturedly, and told me he was surely old enough to judge for himself. I departed in anger, and left them to continue their experiment by themselves. I declare that I did my best to stop it, and failed.

I saw neither of them again that night, but at breakfast next morning Bletchford turned up, looking very white and haggard. Where’s Francis?” I asked.

“He’s lying down,” he said.

He spoke very little, and I concluded that their precious experiment had failed, and that they both felt ashamed of themselves. Breakfast finished, I rose, intending to go and see my brother, when Bletchford stopped me at the door.

“Are you going up to Francis?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” I answered.

“Don’t be alarmed, but he’s still unconscious, but it will be right directly. The experiment was only to last three hours, but his soul has not returned yet.”

I shook his hand off, and hastened upstairs without a word. My brother lay on his bed fully dressed; his countenance was calm and placid, but there seemed no sign of life about him.

Hastily brushing past Bletchford with a very strong oath, I called our man-servant, and told him to go directly for a doctor. Bletchford tried to speak to me while we awaited the doctor’s arrival, but I refused to answer him.

The doctor came and made an exhaustive examination of my poor brother’s body.

“He is not dead,” he said, when he had concluded. “It is more like a cataleptic trance than anything else. The pulse is extremely weak, but steady. He must be watched continuously, and at the first indication of returning life the vitality must be carefully nursed back with restoratives.”

After a few more instructions the doctor departed, and I got everything ready for the return of life. Bletchford wandered about with a hangdog look on his face, but I felt no pity for him.

All at once there was a movement in the inanimate body. A deep sigh escaped the lips, and I hastened to follow out the doctor’s injunctions to the letter. With joy I noticed that I was successful. The life seemed to grow while I watched. In a short time he sat up, and looked wonderingly around, then at us in a dazed sort of way.

“Where am I? What’s the meaning of this?” Francis said.

Bletchford and I looked at each other, dumb with astonishment. My brother, although so delicate, had a strong manly voice. The voice that asked the above questions was the soft and rather pleasing voice of a young girl.

Then I looked in the eyes, and they were not the eyes of Francis.

“Now, is this some trick?” went on the voice. “Why am I here dressed in man’s clothes? It’s a very poor joke, and not one gentleman would indulge in.”

“Oh, great heavens!” said Bletchford, sinking on a chair, with a look of despair on his face. “There’s been a mix up somehow, and the wrong soul has comeback. A girl’s soul, too!” and he covered his face with his hands.

“Gracious! What’s the matter with him?” said the new Francis. “What does he mean about the wrong soul coming back? Let me think a bit.”

We all remained silent. The situation was too tremendous.

“I remember flying headlong out of the buggy,” went on the girlish voice after awhile. “Then sparks, and nothing more. What’s today?”

“Thursday,” I answered, finding my voice at last.

“That was on Tuesday. Where am I?”

“In one of the suburbs of Altonia,” said Bletchford, speaking up like a man for the first time. “From what you say you were thrown from a buggy and rendered unconscious?”

“Yes; Jessie Carter bet me a new hat that I couldn’t drive the buckboard buggy over a three-feet log.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Why, where we live, in the bush at Koorinanga.”

“Let me explain,” went on Bletchford. “While you have been unconscious, your soul, absent from your body, has entered the body of Francis Backford, then lying in a trance. His soul, therefore, cannot get back to its rightful body, but I think I can put matters straight. If you will permit me to put you into a mesmeric sleep, the soul of Francis Backford will regain its shell, and you will be able to do the same.”

“Who am I, after all?”

“At present you are my brother, Francis Backford,” I answered. “You have eight hundred a year of your own, and, as my brother was not an extravagant man, I expect there is a balance in the bank. Now I think you will see the reason of submitting to Mr. Bletchford’s mesmeric powers, and get rid of a body which must only be an incumbrance to you, and make way for the rightful owner, whom you are keeping out in the cold.”

Our strange visitor pondered, and presently raised her—no, I mean his—head, and I saw a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Now I’m here, I think I’ll stop here. I’ve often wished to be a man; they have much better times than women. Now I have a chance, I’ll try what it is like.”

“But,” stammered Bletchford, “that would be unfair, preposterous, unwomanly”—

“I am not a woman,” interrupted Francis; “and I intend to stop.”

“But,” I said, “your people will bury your real body.”

“Let them; I’ve got this one. Now, a last word. I’m your brother, and you can’t deny it, and this is my home. Is this my room?”

“It is,” I sighed.

“Then I’ll trouble you to go out. I want to overhaul my new wardrobe, and get the hang of these masculine garments.”

We left, and I was too downcast even to reproach Bletchford.

MARCH 5

It is just a month since the new Francis arrived, and my hair is rapidly turning grey.

Bletchford has deserted me, and she—no, he—has been going on in a way to blast my brother’s character for ever. Whether it is owing to the new vitality infused in the body of my poor lost brother or not, I cannot say; but it has developed an appearance of health and strength really wonderful.

Every girl in the neighbourhood is in love with him, and I have received countless letters warning me that he would get his bones broken if I didn’t stop him from interfering with other men’s fiancées; but he only laughs.

His innate knowledge of the sex, I suppose, renders him perfectly irresistible. Didn’t Olivia fall hopelessly in love with Viola?

MARCH 9

He informed me to-night that he had joined a ‘push.’ Says he never imagined that men had such jolly times of it; wouldn’t be a girl again for anything. I’ll advertise for Bletchford; he left no address. At least he must see me through, for I cannot stand it alone much longer.

MARCH 15

Three communications from different lawyers, stating that unless compensation is forthcoming, writs for actions of breach of promise will be at once issued. Only three! I expected a dozen.

MARCH 16

Had to bail him out of the lockup last night. Thank Heaven! Bletchford has written to say that he will be here to-morrow.

THE STORY OF BLETCHFORD

Backford has told the tale of our unhappy experiment, and has asked me to write the sequel.

But, first, I want to state that I have solemnly renounced all accursed dabblings with things that are wisely hidden from us; and I earnestly entreat all others to do the same, lest they go through the tribulation we have gone through.

Old Backford welcomed me with effusion. Poor fellow, he looks ten years older. The new Francis didn’t seem to like my coming at all. I see a gleam of hope. This racketting about has upset his nervous system, and if I get the chance I’ll soon have him under control.

Francis has come back. Yesterday a tall, gaunt, powerful man, with a broken nose, came to the door and inquired for Backford. Soon afterwards I heard my name loudly called, and going downstairs found the two standing hand in hand.

“This is Francis—my Francis,” said Backford, with tears in his eyes.

I held out my hand in doubt and astonishment.

“Yes, Bletchford,” said the man in a deep, hoarse voice, with a villainous accent which I won’t reproduce; “I got tired of hanging round waiting for that vixen to let me have my property back, so I collared the first body that came to hand. I’m Boko Ben, a pugilist, at present. ‘Knocked out’ in a glove-fight at Kooyong City the other night.”

We both were delighted, and at once proceeded to discuss our plans.

“Supposing I pick a quarrel with him, and knock him senseless?” said the real Francis, bringing his leg-of-mutton fist down on the table.

“Never do; he wouldn’t fight,” said his brother. “He’d only scratch and pull your hair.”

“Well, we must wait and watch for an opportunity,” said the real Francis, alias Boko Ben.

The new Francis did not seem to enjoy the advent of Ben at all; somehow he seemed instinctively frightened of him. So things went on for nearly a week, Francis still continuing to pursue his wild career; whilst poor Ben groaned to witness the way in which his body and reputation were being treated.

I never have seen Miss Sophy Humber in her own proper person. She might possibly be well-behaved and fascinating; but while she was masquerading in her stolen body there never was such an incarnate spirit of evil, nor one more cordially hated by the three of us.

We’d have poisoned her willingly: but that would only have spoiled everything. During my absence I learned her name from the papers, the incident of her lying at her parents’ residence in a cataleptic state having naturally aroused much interest.