Miracles by Barry Pain

“Miracles” is a short tale of the uncanny, written by Barry Pain in the early 1900s. It was first published in his anthology Short Stories of To-Day and Yesterday (1928), and resurfaced in 1996 when Barnes & Noble Books reprinted it in 100 Tiny Tales of Terror.

 

About Barry Pain

Barry Eric Odell Pain was a British Journalist, poet, humorist, novelist, and short story writer. He was born on September 28, 1864, into a working class family. He was educated at Sedbergh School in Cumbria, and Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. He left Cambridge in 1886, with a B. A, in Classics.

After his graduation, Pain took a position in Surrey as a secondary school master, leaving in 1888, when he became a coach for the army exam at Guildford. During his time at Guildford, Pain began writing for The Granta. Then, in 1889, Cornhill magazine published his short story “The Hundred Gates”.

In 1890, Pain moved to London and joined the staff of the Daily Chronicle and Black & White, also contributing to Punch, The Speaker. and Windsor Magazine.

Although much of Pain’s work was humorous, he also wrote a number of ghost stories and similar tales of terror. It’s now these spine-tinglers, he is mostly remembered for.

Barry Pain died in Bushey, Hertfordshire in May 1928.

 

Miracles

by Barry Pain

(Online Text)

I

Best and Bliss, at that time unknown to one another, enlisted at the beginning of the Great War, Best making a declaration as to his age which was untrue, but accepted, for Best was very hard stuff. At the time, Best was building up a small business as a greengrocer, and had recently and indiscreetly married. Bliss was the son of a poor parson. He had just taken his degree in honours at Cambridge, and was reading for the Bar, his expenses being meanwhile defrayed by a wealthy uncle.

The middle-aged greengrocer and the young student met somewhere in France, and became fast friends. Both of them had the gift of rapid observation and memory to a quite unusual and remarkable extent, and they had weird competitions to see which was the better in these respects. Best would collect twenty or more small, miscellaneous articles, and put them on a table. Bliss would be allowed to see them for five seconds, and no more. Without making any written note of what he had seen he was required to say, twenty-four hours later, what each of the articles was, and to describe any peculiarity that any of them possessed. Then Bliss would put Best through a similar test. There was a system of marking, and the winner took half a crown from the loser. They were very equal. Neither of them ever got ten shillings ahead of the other.

It was while he was lying in hospital that Bliss thought out the code for thought-reading which the two men afterwards used. It was a very good code, involving no speaking, but certain movements so slight as to be practically imperceptible. But it was not a code that everybody could use. It required very quick observation and a marvellous memory. Later, Best learned the code, and they practised together. Occasionally, they gave a friendly performance, calling it Miracles. One of the war correspondents saw it, and gave it rather an enthusiastic notice.

Best and Bliss both did well in France, but at home fortune was not kind to them. Best’s friend, who had promised to keep an eye on the business for him, let him down, and the business was shut up. He also ran away with Best’s wife, and as she had taken to drink and miscellaneousness, Best considered that about balanced the account. Best broke the man’s nose without showing much interest in the performance.

“More a matter of etiquette than anything else,”’ he said to Bliss.

Bliss’s career at the Bar had to be abandoned. His wealthy uncle died, and left all that he had to the woman to whom he had long been secretly married. And Bliss said that he supposed that after the War he would have to be a blinking schoolmaster. Blinking was not the exact word used.

“ What price Miracles?” asked Best.

“What do you mean?” said Bliss.

“We might do it on the halls. We might do it at shows in private houses. It’s my belief there’s a living in it, and nobody here has come within a million miles of finding out how the trick’s done.”

“ Worth thinking over, anyhow,” said Bliss,

And ultimately they did it. It was then that they took the assumed names, Best and Bliss, by which they are known in this story. They had the right to put certain letters, which both gain and deserve respect, after their real names, but these did not appear on their business card, which simply bore the words:

BEST AND BLISS
“Miracles ”

Once more their fortunes turned. At the very first private engagement which they obtained through an entertainment agency, it chanced that Sir Charles Brotherton was present. He came late and left early as was his custom at such functions. He saw only the last part of the performance of Best and Bliss, but he recognized that this was something which he had never seen before, and for which he was unable to offer any explanation. He went up to Bliss and gave him his card. Bliss knew the name. Everybody did.

“If you and Mr Best can come to the office of the Daily Triumph for about ten minutes at three o’clock to-morrow afternoon I think it might do you some good.”

Bliss looked at Best. Best nodded.

“ Thank you very much, Sir Charles,” said Bliss. “We shall be there without fail.”

They were punctual at the office and were shown up immediately to Sir Charles’ private room.

“I’ve not much time,” said Sir Charles. “Show me the best you can do as quickly as you can.”

“Very good,” said Best. “Will you ring and have my friend taken to some room where he cannot see or hear what goes on here, and arrange to have him brought back when you ring again.”

“Certainly,” said Sir Charles. And it was done.

“You will excuse me,” said Best, “if I seem to give directions, but will you take some object from your pocket and hide it anywhere you like?”

Sir Charles drew a handful of silver from his pocket, selected a sixpence, and put it under one of the three ink bottles on his plain roll-top desk.

“And will you also write a telegram which you will permit me to see.”

“I will,” said Sir Charles. ‘“ As a matter of fact, it is a telegram which I shall be sending presently.”

“I think that will do,” said Best. “If you will leave the telegram on the desk and close the top over it, you can then ring for my friend and we will start.”

Sir Charles pulled down the top of the desk, rang, and Bliss was brought in. Best was seated in an easy natural attitude in a chair and did not speak. It was the impression of Sir Charles that he did not subsequently move any part of his body until the trick was over. But this was not quite correct.

Bliss talked slowly, but he began at once.

“Inside that desk, Sir Charles, you have an inkstand of walnut wood with three bottles in it. They are marked on ivory labels fixed to the wood, Black, Red, and Copying. Underneath the bottle marked Copying is the sixpence which you took from your pocket. The date of it is 1918, and there is a noticeable scratch right across it on the other side. You have a good deal of silver in that pocket—twenty-three shillings in all. Eight of the coins are half crowns, and there is also a florin and a shilling. There is a blotting pad inside that desk, and the colour of the blotting pad is green. On it lies a telegram addressed to Peterson, 23 Shell Street, Brixton. The message consists of the two words, ‘Nothing doing.’ There is no signature on the front of the telegram, nor by the way, is the name and address filled in at the back. You have no less than eleven pen holders on your desk, and I notice that you write with a gilt J. But the telegram is not written in ink. That was written with a common indelible Seven which you took from your lower right-hand waistcoat-pocket.”

Sir Charles showed no signs of surprise. “I know something of conjuring,” he said, “but I am not an expert. Are you prepared to give me a similar performance to-morrow afternoon at the same time here, when experts will be present who will suggest test conditions?”

“Certainly,” said Best.

Sir Charles scribbled a few words on a slip of paper and handed it to Best.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Sir Charles. “Give that slip of paper to the cashier downstairs. Anybody will tell you where to find him.”

The slip instructed the cashier to pay Best and Bliss ten guineas, and to take their receipt.

At the next performance there were present two expert illusionists, a man of science who was also a spiritualist, a very good descriptive writer, and of course Sir Charles Brotherton. Best and Bliss gave a more extended and elaborate show, and left when it was over.

“How’s it done?” Sir Charles asked the illusionists.

“Code, of course. Couldn’t be done any other way.”

“What code?”

“Well, we might have to see that show twenty times before we could state that completely.”

“Good. Will you two do all that Best and Bliss do in three weeks’ time for a fee of two-fifty?”

But they did not like to give a fixed guarantee, and besides they were very busy.

“I see,” said Sir Charles, and turned to the man of science.

“Would you mind telling me your views?”

“There is no code at all. The amount could not be transmitted in the time. The gift of Mr Bliss, I take it, is analogous to the gift of a good medium. He probably is himself a good medium, though, of course, he may not know it.”

There was a shortage of news at the time, and Best and Bliss got two columns in the next day’s Daily Triumph. A leading article dealt with them judicially. Either these two men had some supernormal gift or they were amazingly clever. In a short time the public would probably have an opportunity of seeing them on the stage and could then form their own judgment. The only thing that Best and Bliss disliked about it was the interview with Professor Moon, the scientific spiritualist, suggesting that they had the gift of mediums, and the floods of letters from those who believed or were trying to believe in spiritualism, which immediately followed. They had been in war. They had seen the real thing. The idea that a dishonest medium should take money from a bereaved mother for pretending to put her into communication with her lost son, moved them to disgust, expressed in very plain and improper terms. They sent the briefest of letters to the Daily Triumph, saying that they made no claim to any supernatural gift whatever, and would be extremely sorry to be classed as mediums.

II

They had been in London for a year. Best had thought there might be a living in it. It seemed to them now that there was something of a fortune in it. During that year they had worked very hard and taken no holidays. But they were able to do the provincial tour which the agent had mapped out for them quite comfortably in a four-figure motor-car.

They had played for a week in Manchester. On the fourth night they drove back to their hotel after the show and had a whisky-and-soda as their custom was.

Suddenly Best said to Bliss: ‘‘What about that woman in black?”

“Yes,” said Bliss. “She’s been there every night and also at the matinée. Third row of the stalls and the seat nearest the gangway on the right—stage right. Wonder what on earth she does it for?”

“She looks pretty awful,” said Best. ‘“Looks sort of as if someone was hurting her. Must have been a good-looking girl in her time too.”

“She looks to me about half mad,”’ said Bliss.

They thought no more about the subject until the following day, when a letter was handed to them at the theatre, signed Edna Durnavel.

She said that her only son, Arthur, had been killed in the War. Ever since then she had been trying to communicate with him, but she wished to be sure that the communication was genuine and authentic. And for that reason her first step was to make herself acquainted with the tricks practised by mediums. She had spent much money on mediums, and had found nothing— nothing that she could trust.

She had, however, recalled an article which appeared a long time ago in the Daily Triumph, in which Professor Moon expressed his opinion that Mr Bliss was certainly possessed of inexplicable and supernormal gifts, and was almost certainly, though perhaps unconsciously, a medium. Professor Moon had said much the same thing about Mr Best. She recalled also that they had written and disclaimed any such gift, but she thought there might have been a reason for that.

At any rate, she had now witnessed their performance several times, and all her study of the arts of illusion did not suggest to her any possible explanation, except that they really did possess some such power as Professor Moon had described.

If they were able and willing to put her into communication with her son, Arthur, they would have her undying gratitude. She might add that she was a wealthy woman, and would be glad to pay any fee they asked.

“ Nothing doing,” said Best.

“We’ll talk about it afterwards,” said Bliss. “We’ve got to hurry. The orchestra’s started.”

“Look here,” said Bliss, after the show. “You remember our Mr Arthur Durnavel, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Best, “and wish I could forget him. Oh, chuck it. He’s dead, anyhow. And there are things that don’t stand talking about.”

“I can’t chuck it,” said Bliss. “Ive got that woman in my mind. Lucky for Durnavel the Huns got him when they did. It would have been far worse for him otherwise. But I suppose she thought a lot of him. Looks as if she hadn’t thought of much else these last years. Suppose we put up something for her? Just to—well, sort of comfort her.”

Best had been pacing up and down the room. He paused and said angrily, “I won’t touch it. Do it on your own if you must. I won’t take any of the money.”

“Did you think I meant to take any myself?”

“No, not really. Sorry.”

They talked the matter over further, and in consequence Mrs Durnavel received a letter next day saying that Messrs Best and Bliss would, on certain conditions, attempt automatic writing on her behalf if she would come round to their dressingroom after the evening performance.

At the interview Mrs Durnavel was pale and trembled visibly with excitement. Her voice was very low and she seemed to find a difficulty in speaking. She thanked them for seeing her and said she was willing to accept any conditions.

“You must hear what the conditions are first,” said Best. “Firstly, you will offer us no money or present of any kind for what we are going to do. Secondly, you will never let anybody know that we have done it. And lastly, you will promise never to ask us to do anything of the kind again.”

“I agree and promise,” said Mrs Durnavel.

“One more point. If we get a message it will naturally have a great effect upon you. We think it will be better for you if you go the moment you have read it. We wish to avoid emotional scenes.”

“Yes, yes. Anything you wish.”

“We will begin, then. Are you ready, Bliss?”

Bliss sat down at a little table at which was a writing-pad and pencil. He took up the pencil.

“Quite ready.”

Best crossed over to him and made a few passes in the air before Bliss’s eyes. This had been arranged between them. Suddenly Bliss’s eyes closed. And this had not been arranged.

Best stood behind Bliss to read what he wrote, but Bliss’s hand remained motionless. Outside in the dark and dirty passage some girl laughed loudly and uncontrollably.

Then the laughter stopped abruptly. Nothing could be heard but the dim sounds of traffic, like a distant sea. And immediately the hand moved and the pencil began to write. It wrote a few lines very rapidly and then the pencil dropped from the fingers.

Best’s round and rubicund face showed no vestige of surprise or wonder. Nothing could upset that man’s stolidity. Yet the words that Bliss had written were not what had been arranged between them. And there was another point that puzzled Best. He took the sheet from the pad and handed it over to Mrs Durnavel.

“But it’s his handwriting,” she said, breathless. “My boy’s own handwriting!”

She read the message and pressed it close to her. She looked up, her eyes full of tears. But all the tension and twist had gone from the face, and it was only happiness that was overpowering her. Bliss still sat with his eyes closed, quite motionless, his right hand on the table, his left arm hanging limply.

Best opened the door.

“You can find your way out, Mrs Durnavel?”

“Yes, yes. My maid’s waiting for me at the further end of the passage. Goodbye. I can never thank you enough. It’s hopeless.”

She came towards the door. As she passed the table where Bliss was sitting, with an uncontrollable impulse she bent down and kissed the hand that had written the message. Then she went out quietly.

Best walked quickly to Bliss and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘‘ Wake up,” he said.

Bliss stood up and rubbed his eyes.

“I think I’ve been dead,” he said.

“Dead asleep. But everything went all tight. She’s quite satisfied. Here, get your hat and let’s get back to the hotel. If ever we wanted a drink we want one tonight.”

As they sat over their whisky-and-soda, Best said: “Did you know that our Mr Arthur Durnavel called his mother ‘Dearest,’ and signed his letters to her ‘Chick’?”

“I didn’t.”

“You wrote it anyhow.”

“And what else did I write?”

“Oh, the usual things. It was all right.”

“I didn’t write a word of it,” said Bliss. “And I don’t know who did.”

Best remembered every word of that letter perfectly, especially this sentence: “Within one hour we shall be happy together.”

He thought of it next morning when he read in the newspaper the account of Mrs Durnavel’s death in an accident to her motor when she was returning from the theatre. Bliss was not given a chance to see the paper that morning.

Barry Pain (1864 – 1928)

______________________