The Golden Ball and Other Stories Read online

  THE LAMP 157

  he waited day after day for his father's return. Unfortunately,

  it had been impressed upon him that he was never

  under any circumstances to go out of the house or to speak

  to anyone. He was a weak, ailing, little creature, and did

  not dream of disobeying this command. In the night, the

  neighbours, not knowing that his father had gone away,

  often heard him sobbing in the awful loneliness and desolation

  of the empty house."

  Mr. Raddish paused.

  "And--er--the child starved to death," he concluded in

  the same tones as he might have announced that it had just

  begun to rain.

  "And it is the child's ghost that is supposed to haunt the

  place?" asked Mrs. Lancaster.

  "It is nothing of consequence really," Mr. Raddish hastened

  to assure her. "There's nothing seen, not seen, only

  people say, ridiculous, of course, but they do say they

  hear--the child--crying, you know."

  Mrs. Lancaster moved towards the front door.

  "I like the house very much," she said. "I shall get nothing

  as good for the price. I will think it over and let you

  know."

  "It really looks very cheerful, doesn't it, Papa?"

  Mrs. Lancaster surveyed her new domain with approval.

  Gay rugs, well-polished furniture, and many knickknacks,

  had quite transformed the gloomy aspect of No, 19.

  She spoke to a thin, bent old man with stooping shoulders

  and a delicate mystical face. Mr. Winburn did not resemble

  his daughter; indeed no greater contrast could be imagined

  than that presented by her resolute practicalness and his

  dreamy abstraction.

  "Yes," he answered with a smile, "no one would dream

  the house was haunted."

  "Papa, don't talk nonsense! On our first day, too."

  Mr. Winburn smiled.

  "Very well, my dear, we will agree that there are no

  such things as ghosts."

  "And please," continued Mrs. Lancaster, "don't say a

  word before Geoff. He's so imaginative."

  Geoff was Mrs. Lancaster's little boy. The family con

  158

  Agatha Christie

  sisted of Mr. Winburn, his widowed daughter, and Geoffrey.

  Rain had begun to beat against the window--pitter-pat-ter, pitter-patter.

  "Listen," said Mr. Winburn. "Is it not like little footsteps?"

  "It's more like rain," said Mrs. Lancaster, with a smile.

  "But that, that is a footstep," cried her father, bending forward to listen.

  Mrs. Lancaster laughed outright.

  "That's Geoff coming downstairs."

  Mr. Winbum was obliged to laugh, too. They were having tea in the hall, and he had been sitting with his back to

  the staircase. He now turned his chair round to face it.

  Little Geoffrey was coming down, rather slowly and sedately, with a child's awe of a strange place. The stairs

  were of polished oak, uncarpeted. He came across and stood

  by his mother. Mr. Winburn gave a slight start. As the child

  was crossing the floor, he distinctly heard another pair of

  footsteps on the stairs, as of someone following Geoffrey.

  Dragging footsteps, curiously painful they were. Then he

  shrugged his shoulders incredulously. "The rain, no doubt," he thought.

  "I'm looking at the sponge cakes," remarked Geoff with the admirably detached air of one who points out an interesting

  fact.

  His mother hastened to comply with the hint.

  "Well, Sonny, how do you like your new home?" she

  "Lots," replied Geofgrey with his mouth generously filled. "Pounds and pounds and pounds." Ater this last assertion,

  which was evidently expressive of the deepest contentment,

  he relapsed into silence, only anxious to remove the sponge

  cake from the sight of man in the least time possible.

  Having bolted the last mouthful, he burst forth into speech. "Oh! Mummy, there's attics here, Jane says; and can I

  go at once and eggzplore them? And there might be a secret

  door. Jane says there isn't, but I think there must be, and,

  anyhow, I know there'll be pipes, water pipes (with a face

  full of ecstasy), and can I play with them, and, oh! can I

  · rm LA 159

  go and see the boi-i-ler?" He Slm out t last word with

  such evident rapture that his grndfather felt ashamed to

  reflect that this peerless delight of childh%d only conjured

  up to his imagination the pictu of hot ater that wasn't

  hot, and heavy and numerous pmber's$ills.

  "We'll see about the attics toorrow, drling," said Mrs.

  Lancaster. "Suppose you fetch 0ur bric and build a nice

  house, or an engine."

  "Don't want to build an 'ou.'

  "House."

  "House, or h'engine h'either."

  "Build a boiler," suggested his grandfather.

  Geoffrey brightened.

  "With pipes?"

  "Yes, lots of pipes."

  Geoffrey ran away happily to fetch tis bricks.

  The rain was still falling. 1M. Winbarn listened. Yes, it

  must have been the rain he hadheard; bat it did sound like

  footsteps.

  He had a queer dream a!ight-

  He dreamt that he was waing thru. gh a t,o-wn, a grat

  city it seemed to him. But itwa., .a ¢,llildren s city; there

  wese no grown-up people there, notmn[mt children, crowds

  of them. In his dream they alia:shed t0the stranger cryirg:

  "Have you brought him?" It sgmed the he understood wlqat

  they meant and shook his heat sadly. When they saw this,

  the children turned away andbegan tOCry, sobbing bitter'ly.

  The city and the children faded a,ay and he awoke to

  find himself in bed, but thembbingvas still in his eatrs.

  Though wide awake, he he it disctly; and he remm~

  bered that Geoffrey slept on the fl0qr below, while Ilthis

  sound of a child's sorrow decended m above. He satl: up

  and struck a match. Instantly the sobbing ceased.

  Mr. Winbum did not tell his daughter of the drearoa or

  its sequel. That it was no trick of lzs imagination, he ' was

  convinced; indeed soon aftevards k heard it again ins the

  daytime. The wind was h0ling ithe chimney but this was a separate sounddisact, umistakable: pitiful glittle

  heartbroken sobs.

  158

  Agatha Christie

  sisted of Mr. Winbum, his widowed daughter, and Geoffrey.

  Rain had begun to beat against the window--pitter-pat-ter, pitter-patter.

  "Listen," said Mr. Winbum. "Is it not like little footsteps?"

  "It's more like rain," said Mrs. Lancaster, with a smile.

  "But that, that is a footstep," cried her father, bending forward to listen.

  Mrs. Lancaster laughed outright.

  "That's Geoff coming downstairs."

  Mr. Winburn was obliged to laugh, too. They were having tea in the ha!l, and he had been sitting with his back to

  the staircase. He now turned his chair round to face it.

  Little Geoffrey was coming down, rather slowly and sedately, with a child's awe of a strange place. The stairs

  were of polished oak, uncarpeted. He came across and stood

  by his mother. Mr. Winburn gave a slight start. As the child

  was crossing the floor, he distinctly heard another pair of

  footsteps on the stairs, as of someone following Geoffre
y.

  Dragging footsteps, curiously painful they were. Then he

  shrugged his shoulders incredulously. 'he rain, no doubt,"

  he thought.

  "I'm looking at the sponge cakes," remarked Geoff with the admirably detached air of one who points out an interesting

  fact.

  His mother hastened to comply with the hint.

  "Well, Sonny, how do you like your new home?" she asked.

  "Lots," replied Geoy with his mouth generously filled. "Pounds and pounds and pounds." After this last assertion,

  which was evidently expressive of the deepest contentment,

  he relapsed into silence, only anxious to remove the sponge

  cake from the sight of man in the least time possible.

  Having bolted the last mouthful, he burst forth into speech' "Oh! Mummy, there's attics here, Jane says; and can I

  go at once and eggzplore them? And there might be a secret

  door. Jane says there isn't, but I think there must be, and,

  anyhow, I know there'll be pipes, water pipes (with a face

  full of ecstasy), and can I play with them, and, oh! can I

  TH LAMP 159

  go and see the boi-i-ler?" He spun out the last word with such evident rapture that his grandfather felt ashamed to

  reflect that this peerless delight of childhood only conjured

  up to his imagination the picture of hot water that wasn't

  hot, and heavy and numerous plumber's bills.

  "We'll see about the attics tomorrow, darling," said Mrs. Lancaster. "Suppose you fetch your bricks and build a nice

  house, or an engine."

  "Don't want to build an 'ouse."

  "House."

  "House, or h'engine h'either."

  "Build a boiler," suggested his grandfather. Geoffrey brightened.

  "With pipes?"

  "Yes, lots of pipes."

  Geoffrey ran away happily to fetch his bricks.

  The rain was still falling. Mr. Winburn listened. Yes, it must have been the rain he had heard; but it did sound like

  footsteps.

  He had a queer dream that night.

  He dreamt that he was walking through a town, a great city it seemed to him. But it was a children's city; there

  were no grown-up people there, nothing but children, crowds

  of them. In his dream they all rushed to the stranger crying:

  "Have you brought him?" It seemed that he understood what

  they meant and shook his head sadly. When they saw this,

  the children turned away and began to cry, sobbing bitterly.

  The city and the children faded away and he awoke to find himself in bed, but the sobbing was still in his ears.

  Though wide awake, he heard it distinctly; and he remembered

  that Geoffrey slept on the floor below, while this

  sound of a child's sorrow descended from above. He sat up

  and struck a match. Instantly the sobbing ceased.

  Mr. Winburn did not tell his daughter of the dream or its sequel. That it was no trick of his imagination, he was

  convinced; indeed soon afterwards he heard it again in the

  daytime. The wind was howling in the chimney but this was a separate sound--distinct, unmistakable: pitiful little

  heartbroken sobs.

  160 Agatha Christie

  He found out, too, that he was not the only one to hear

  them. He overheard the housemaid saying to the parlour-maid

  that she "didn't think as that there nluse was kind to

  Master Geoffrey, she'd 'e a rd 'ira crying 'is little 'cart out

  only that very morning." Geoffrey had com down to breakfast

  and lunch beaming with health and ha. piness; and Mr.

  Winbum knew that it was not Geoff who had been crying,

  but that other child whose dragging footSps had startled

  him more than once.

  Mrs. Lancaster alone never heard anYthing. Her cars

  were not perhaps attuned to catch sounds frorrl another world.

  Yet one day she also received a shock.

  "Mummy," said Geoff plaintively. "I Wish you'd let me

  play with that little boy."

  Mrs. Lancaster looked up from her writing table with a

  smile.

  "What little boy, dear?"

  "I don't know his name. He was in a attic, sitting on the

  floor crying, but he ran away when he saw me. I suppose

  he was shy (with slight contempt), not like a big boy, and

  then, when I was in the nursery building, I sw him standing

  in the door watching me build, and he !qoked so awful

  lonely and as though he wanted to play 'iv me. I said:

  'Come and'buiM a h'engine,' but he didwt say nothing,

  just looked as--as though he saw a lot of hoeolates, and

  his mummy had told him not to touch them.', Geoff sighed,

  sad personal reminiscences evidently recurrihg to him. "But

  when I asked Jane who he was and told he' I wanted to

  play wiv him, she said there wasn't no little loy in the 'ouse

  and not to tell naughty stories. I don't love lane at all."

  Mrs. Lancaster got up.

  "Jane was right. There was no little boy.,,

  "But I saw him. Oh! Mummy, do let me play wiv him,

  he did look so awful lonely and unhappy, l'do want to do

  something to 'make him better.'"

  Mrs. Lancaster was about to speak again, but her father

  shook his head.

  "Geoff,' he said very gently, "that poor little boy is lonely, and perhaps you may do something tq comfort him;

  but you must find out how by yourself--like a puzzle--do

  you seeT'

  TIlE LAMP

  1

  "Is it because I am getting big I must do it all my lone "Yes, because you are getting big."

  As the boy left the room, Mrs. Lancaster turned to h father impatiently.

  "Papa, this is absurd. To encourage the boy to belie' the servants' idle tales!"

  "No servant has told the child anything," said the c man gently. "He's seen--what I hear, what I could ·

  perhaps if I were his age."

  "But it's such nonsense! Why don't I see it or bear it'

  Mr. Winburn smiled, a curiously tired smile, but did n reply.

  "Why?" repeated his daughter. "And why did you te him he could help the--the--thing. It's--it's all so in

  possible."

  The old man looked at her with his thoughtful glanc "Why not?" he said. "Do you remember these words:

  "What Lamp has Destiny to guide

  Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"

  "A Blind Understanding," Heaven replied.

  "Geoffrey has' that--a blind understanding. All childr possess it. It is only as we grow older that we lose it, th

  we cast it away from us. Sometimes, when we are qui

  old, a faint gleam comes back to us, but the Lamp bun

  brightest in childhood. That is why I think Geoffrey m:

  help."

  "I don't understand," murmured Mrs. Lancaster feebl: "No more do I. That--that child is in trouble and wants-to

  be set free. But how? I do not know, but--it's awful,

  think of it--sobbing its heart out--a child.'

  A month after this conversation Geoffrey fell very il The east wind had been severe, and he was not a stror

  child. The doctor shook his head and said that it was a gra

  case. To Mr. Winburn he divulged more and confessed th · the case was quite hopeless. "The child would never ha'

  lived to grow up, under any circumstances," he adde,

  "There has been serious lung trouble for a long time."

  162 Agatha Christie

  It was when nursing Geoff that Mrs. Lancaster became aware of that--other child. At first
the sobs were an indistinguishable

  part of the wind, but gradually they became

  more distinct, more unmistakable. Finally she heard them

  in moments of dead calm: a child's sobs--dull, hopeless,

  heartbroken.

  Geoff grew steadily worse and in his delirium he spoke of the "little boy" again and again. "I do want to help him

  get away, I do!" he cried.

  Succeeding the delirium there came a state of lethargy. Geoffrey lay very still, hardly breathing, sunk in oblivion.

  There was nothing to do but wait and watch. Then there

  came a still night, clear and calm, without one breath of

  wind.

  Suddenly the child stirred. His eyes opened. He looked past his mother towards the open door. He tried to speak

  and she bent down to catch the half-breathed words.

  "All right, I'm comin'," he whispered; then he sank back. The mother felt suddenly terrified; she crossed the room

  to her father. Somewhere near them the other child was

  laughing. Joyful, contented, triumphant, the silvery laughter

  echoed through the room.

  "I'm frightened; I'm frightened," she moaned.

  He put his arm round her protectingly. A sudden gust of wind made them both start, but it passed swiftly and left

  the air quiet as before.

  The laughter had ceased and there crept to them a faint sound, so faint as hardly to be heard, but growing louder

  till they could distinguish it. Footsteps--light footsteps,

  swiftly departing.

  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, they ran--those well-known halting little feet. Yet--surely--now other footsteps suddenly

  mingled with them, moving with a quicker and a

  lighter tread.

  With one accord they hastened to the door.

  Down, down, down, past the door, close to them, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, went the unseen feet of the little children

  together.

  Mrs. Lancaster looked up wildly.

  "There are two of them--4wo!"

  THE LAMP 163

  Grey with sudden fear, she turned towards the cot in the

  corner, but her father restrained her gently and pointed away.

  "There," he said simply.