Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [108]
“Maurice,” I said firmly, “if after twenty years the impression of that experience remains so indelible—and not only the mental impression,” I added, glancing at the mark seared across his cheek, “then it would be most unwise to chance a second encounter with it.” But then I thought he looked at me a little askance, which made me doubt my own motive, and caused me to add impulsively, “but if you wish, I will sit by you while you look at the manuscript again, or even . . .”
There I pulled up, aware that whilst Maurice was as devoid of egotism as it is possible for a man to be, he might not be well pleased by my offering to assume the risk. But he seemed not to catch the last phrase; he took my hand again, and this time I found that mine was the colder.
“Dear Laura, I could not ask so much of you . . . and yet there is no one else on this earth I would ask.”
“Then trust me once more. You must not bear this burden any further; at least, not alone.”
“Very well. If you are certain, let it be now—”
“Do you mean you have it here?”
“Yes, for I never feel quite easy unless I know that it is safe. But Laura, it is late, and you are cold, I think, and perhaps we should wait for daylight—”
“No,” I said, striving to conceal my apprehension, for I could see that he wanted no further delay.
“Very well,” he repeated. “You will watch as I read, and unless I was indeed mistaken, you will witness its destruction.”
He rose and quietly made up the fire and went softly from the room. The bishop, whom I had quite forgotten, stirred amidst the flickering shadows, but did not wake. I drew my wrap more closely about me, almost overwhelmed by several contrary emotions. The dark spell of his narrative still clung to me, and yet I felt as if a long chapter in the history of my friendship with Maurice had just reached its close, leaving me eager to know what the next might bring. Warmed by the cheerful glow and crackle of the reviving fire, I wondered how mere words on paper could possibly bring about the effect that Maurice had so vividly described. Yet there was the mark upon his cheek and the death of the malignant husband, which led me to thoughts of poor Claire, whom I still could not picture with any distinctness; and so my mind ran on for an indefinite interval, until I became aware that Maurice had been gone far longer than it could reasonably have taken him to ascend to his room and return with the manuscript.
There were, of course, a dozen reasons why he might have been delayed, but as I sat upright, with my heart beginning to race and cold apprehension rushing upon me, they seemed to shrink to one, at least to the only one I dared entertain: Maurice had been taken suddenly ill. Really I ought to ring, or wake someone—but whom?—at two in the morning? And what if it proved to be a false alarm . . . ? But fear already had me on my feet and moving towards the mantelpiece to secure a candle. With a last glance at the unconscious bishop, I hastened towards the door and out into the chill hallway.
Going up the stairs, I had to look to my candle, for the wind had risen outside. The sky was fortunately bright: through the windows above the landing, I could see wisps of cloud scudding past the face of the moon. Save for the faint moaning of the wind, the house was deathly quiet, and as I turned into the corridor which led to Maurice’s room, even the sound of the wind dwindled and ceased. My candle flame steadied as I stopped at his door, feeling suddenly conspicuous. No light showed underneath. I tapped as loudly as I dared, glancing over my shoulder. There was no response. Too late to turn back now; I tried the handle, found it unlocked, and entered.
Though I caught the odour of a wick recently extinguished,