"Don't you see him?" said Mr Thornton at last, in a voice of desolate appeal. A blotched and trembling finger indicated the end of the bench nearest the fountain. Peering more closely, Cordelia suddenly saw that if you took a semicircular splash of light, falling roughly where the head of a seated person might have been, to be the lower half of a human face, the confusing patchwork of light and shadow beneath could form the suggestion of a body-a man's body, if you took the shadows of (presumably) two vertical branches for legs
… and if you then went back to the "face", there were indistinct patches of shadow which would do for his mouth and nostrils, and yes, two faint specks of light more or less where his eyes ought to be… and below, glimpses of a collar, a shoulder, a lapel…
Robert Thornton, as she had last seen him nine years ago, in his officer's cap, uniform jacket, breeches and boots, materialised upon the bench. The back of her neck prickled; she glanced at her uncle, whose bewildered expression had not altered; then up at Mr Thornton's anxious, imploring face, and back to the picture.
The figure had vanished. There was nothing but the empty bench, and the dappled shadows of leaves and branches. Again she fixed her eyes upon the "face", but she could not summon the illusion a second time; it remained simply a patch of sunlight on the hedge. Something drew her gaze away from the picture, to the framed photographs ranged along the mantelpiece; there was a gap near the end to the left, where last time, she was sure, there had been a picture of Robert Thornton, in uniform, seated on this same bench.
She heard a quavering intake of breath. Mr Thornton's gaze had followed her own.
"It is true then. He was there." He was smiling, and tears were streaming down his cheeks.
"Yes," she said, unhesitatingly, though the figure-or rather the memory of the other photograph-had not returned, and Uncle Theodore was looking as bewildered as ever. "Yes, I am sure he was."
Cordelia stood up and embraced the old man, who was almost sobbing with joy and relief.
"I thought I should move… the other… so as not to influence you. It was his favourite place in the garden, you see," he added, beaming down at Uncle Theodore, who could plainly see nothing at all.
"It is Robert, uncle," said Cordelia, hastily resuming her place in order to indicate where the "face" had been, "here on the bench, by the fountain."
"Oh-er-yes, yes of course. I am sure I see him now. Tell me-er-when was this taken, Percival?"
"Last week, dear friend."
"Last week? I mean-er, how extraordinary; that is to say, how wonderful…"
"Yes," said the old man. "I had not quite dared to believe it until Cordelia saw him too. I feared I might be deluding myself. And after so long… I had almost given up hope."
He moved slowly across to a cabinet on the other side of the room, and returned with a file-box which he set before them. It was full of photographs. Looking through them, Cordelia saw with something like horror that they were all of the empty bench, all taken from the same angle, in every degree of brightness from full sunlight to near-darkness, hundreds and hundreds of them.
"I read about it here, you see." Mr Thornton, his eyes still wet with emotion, passed them a large book. Photographing the Invisible, Practical Studies in Spirit Photographs, Spirit Portraits and Other Rare Phenomena, by James Mclntyre. "The camera, as you see, can sometimes detect what the naked eye cannot." To Cordelia, leafing through the pages, it seemed that a great deal of what the camera had detected was plainly fraudulent: ghostly faces, conveniently shrouded in a sort of soap-bubble haze, floated behind group portraits, or bobbed about on staircases with no visible means of support. She could tell that her uncle was struggling to hide his scepticism. Yet her own illusion had been utterly lifelike. Despite knowing what had caused it, the memory was still so vivid that she understood Mr Thornton's reaction only too well.
"I do all my own developing now," he continued. "Mr Mclntyre says-or at least implies-that commercial developers are not always to be trusted. The Church, you know; they don't approve. And I had almost despaired, after so many attempts. But now… I am so happy, now you have seen him too."
Soon after, they went out into the garden. Though it was a mild, tranquil autumn day, Cordelia could not repress a slight shiver as they approached the now-celebrated bench. I don't think I could ever sit there again, she said to herself; it would seem-like trespass, or tempting fate. Yet why should I find it sinister? I should simply be delighted for poor Mr Thornton.
But as the extremity of their host's emotion subsided, she became aware that he was not as happy as he professed to be. His earlier anxiety reappeared; he asked them several times whether they were completely certain they had seen Robert in the photograph. With each repetition, Uncle Theodore's assurances sounded less convincing, her own more forced. Her spirits sank lower as the afternoon wore on, until the pressure of Mr Thornton's haunted, beseeching gaze became quite unbearable, and despite the warmth of their farewells, she left with the dismal feeling that their visit had done him more harm than good.
"I wish he had never seen that book!" she said passionately, as they were walking back to the station. "What he really wants is for Robert not to have died in the war; to have him back alive and warm and breathing, and he can't have that, and cant bear it, and the photograph only torments him."
"Indeed. But-er-how did you know, my dear, exactly what he wanted us to see?"
She explained about her illusion.
"I see-or rather, I didn't. So you think it was simply your memory of the other photograph?"
"I suppose it must have been," she replied uneasily, remembering that Mr Thornton had not actually brought out the earlier picture for comparison, "only just for that instant, I really did see Robert, sitting there in his uniform…"
Cordelia was startled out of her recollection by the awareness that Uncle Theodore was standing beside her on the landing, contemplating the portrait on which her own unseeing eyes had been fixed.
"I am so sorry, my dear. I did not mean to alarm you. You seemed so deep in thought, I didn't like to interrupt."
"No, I'm glad to be interrupted. I was remembering our last visit to poor Mr Thornton."
Uncle Theodore, when agitated, had a habit of running his hands through his thick, unruly silver-grey hair; today it was sticking out wildly in all directions. Small and wiry (at five feet seven, he was only a little above Cordelia's height), he had always looked years younger than his age. But today he seemed to be feeling the burden of his sixty-seven years; his face had taken on a greyish tinge, making the lines scored vertically down his cheek seem more than ever like fine scars or claw-marks. And there was a lurking indecision or anxiety in his bloodhound eyes that reminded her suddenly of Mr Thornton.
"Is something troubling you, uncle?" she asked, when he did not immediately reply.
"Not exactly-the fact is, my dear, I have something to say to you, and I don't know where to begin."
"Well," she smiled, "you should take the advice you always used to give me: begin at the beginning, and go on until you come to the end."
"Ah, the beginning…" he murmured, his eyes upon the face of Imogen de Vere. "Did you know" he continued, as if irrelevantly, "that your grandmother and I were once engaged to be married?"
"No, I didn't," said Cordelia, surprised.
"Ah. I thought perhaps Una might have said something."
"No, she hasn't."
I see.
He paused, as if seeking guidance from the portrait.
"As you know, I grew up mainly in Holland Park; we only came here for the summers, then. Her fathers house was only a few hundred yards from ours, but much grander. He was a City man-stocks and shares and directorships, all that sort of thing-and did very well out of it. Whereas we were in tea, as you know; perfectly comfortable, but by no means rich."