Wyatt gave a glance towards the darkening windows, and shrugged his shoulders.
“I will go with you,” he said, “on condition that I am not to stay for the performance. I will introduce the subject and put matters in proper train, and then you shall have your séance to yourself.”
“Don’t go to-night,” said Allen; “it only wants half-an-hour of chapel time. I know you will not give up the anthem for Mauleverer.”
However, I was determined to satisfy my curiosity at once. Even the anthem (a nuisance to most men, from the fact of its lengthening the service), to which I always looked forward as a pleasure, became of secondary importance to the gratification of my sudden whim.
Wyatt swung his surplice across his shoulders, and we descended from Allen’s rooms.
Mauleverer “kept” (another University word) on the opposite side of the court, between the great gateway which opened on Holy Bottle Street and the chapel.
As we crossed the court the moon was struggling through the thick damp mists. The fountain in the centre of the open space, the lantern of the Hall and the tower of the chapel loomed large and vague through the white fog.
“It is a hundred to one if his oak is not sported,” said Wyatt, “and then you will be disappointed. I half hope you will. You will never wish to repeat the experiment.”
When we had ascended the stairs, however, Mauleverer had just opened his door, and was standing in the gap.
Of course we entered. The cold dampness of Mauleverer’s hand again struck me with a kind of shock. He seemed shy and absent, as I had found him on my first visit; but he evidently made exertions to talk and to receive us in a friendly manner. We all lighted cigars, as a necessary preliminary.
There was no lamp in the room on our entrance, but light streamed through a doorway in one corner.
“Grinding, as usual, I suppose,” said Wyatt; and he followed Mauleverer towards the light.
The door led into a small circular closet, groined, after a fashion, in the roof. This roof and the walls bore fading traces of colour. Opposite to and just above the table on which stood the lamp, was painted a ghastly, pain-tortured face. This fixed my attention on entering.
“You have never seen my little snuggery before?” said Mauleverer to me. “Some former tenant of these rooms, they tell me, was a Roman Catholic, and he fitted up this closet as an oratory.”
As he spoke, he traced with his finger about and beneath the ghastly face the faint outlines of a crucifix.
“This little room,” he continued, “is in one of the small towers that flank the gateway.”
We went back through the doorway, Mauleverer bringing the lamp.
The room, as I had before observed, was lined with books. This was the only point remarkable in it. There were no pictures, no whips, or fishing-tackle, or gun-cases, or fencing foils—the ordinary furniture of a young man’s sanctum—books, and books only.
“You are a great reader?” I asked. “Classics or mathematics—which do you take to?”
“To neither,” he answered, laughing. “I read only for my own amusement. I have read a great deal more astrology than mathematics proper; and I understand mediæval Latin much better than classical.”
I gave a glance round his book-shelves. Of the names ranged there I then knew nothing—a strange collection of folios, big and little, in decayed bindings, and with a decidedly musty odour.
Wyatt, apropos of the turn of conversation, cleverly managed to lead up to the subject of my curiosity.
Mauleverer was silent and grave at first. He blushed, and appeared uneasy. I feared that the subject was painful to him, and that he would shrink from discussing it.
“I am afraid you must think me a very strange sort of fellow?” he at length said to me, in a tone that was apologetic. “But I expect, if the truth were known, other people could do just the same as—as—as this that I can do, if they were to try. I daresay it appears to you a very eerie proceeding, but really there is not much in it. It is no more unnatural after the first time or two than simply going to sleep.”
His uneasiness seemed to be caused only by fear lest I should look upon his peculiarity with horror and disgust.
“My dear Mauleverer,” I said, “I take the greatest interest in the matter. I heard for the first time, half an hour ago, that you had this power. I hope you will forgive my feeling what I suppose I can call by no better name than an intense curiosity. If to talk of the subject is disagreeable to you, pray let us drop it at once; but if it is not so, I shall be very much obliged to you to satisfy the interest which I feel.”
“Oh no, it is not disagreeable to me. I am so used to it, that I suppose I look upon it in a different light to what other people do.”
The chapel bell had been ringing for some minutes. Wyatt put on his surplice and left us. Mauleverer, who seemed a little flushed and excited, walked to one of the windows, and, throwing it open, sat down on the window-seat. I leaned against the shutter-case, and listened as he spoke.
Through the window the court, full of mist, rendered semi-transparent by faint moonlight, lay before us. I can see the scene at this moment. The men were pouring into chapel, rushing along from all directions, their wide white surplices floating behind them as they ran. Now a flock came together, now a single figure; and as the time for closing the chapel gates drew nigh, the whole quadrangle became alive with the fluttering white draperies. Through the moonlit mist these figures assumed an indefiniteness mysterious and solemn. Light slanted down through the long array of chapel windows, showing the wavering movement of the vapour; and the music of the organ was audible, now reaching us in a gush of