Mr. Benjamin Woolfield was a widower. For twelve months he put on
mourning. The mourning was external, and by no means represented the
condition of his feelings; for his married life had not been happy. He
and Kesiah had been unequally yoked together. The Mosaic law forbade the
union of the ox and the ass to draw one plough; and two more uncongenial
creatures than Benjamin and Kesiah could hardly have been coupled to
draw the matrimonial furrow.
She was a Plymouth Sister, and he, as she repeatedly informed him
whenever he indulged in light reading, laughed, smoked, went out
shooting, or drank a glass of wine, was of the earth, earthy, and a
miserable worldling.
For some years Mr. Woolfield had been made to feel as though he were a
moral and religious pariah. Kesiah had invited to the house and to
meals, those of her own way of thinking, and on such occasions had
spared no pains to have the table well served, for the elect are
particular about their feeding, if indifferent as to their drinks. On
such occasions, moreover, when Benjamin had sat at the bottom of his own
table, he had been made to feel that he was a worm to be trodden on. The
topics of conversation were such as were far beyond his horizon, and
concerned matters of which he was ignorant. He attempted at intervals to
enter into the circle of talk. He knew that such themes as football
matches, horse races, and cricket were taboo, but he did suppose that
home or foreign politics might interest the guests of Kesiah. But he
soon learned that this was not the case, unless such matters tended to
the fulfilment of prophecy.
When, however, in his turn, Benjamin invited home to dinner some of his
old friends, he found that all provided for them was hashed mutton,
cottage pie, and tapioca pudding. But even these could have been
stomached, had not Mrs. Woolfield sat stern and silent at the head of
the table, not uttering a word, but giving vent to occasional, very
audible sighs.
When the year of mourning was well over, Mr. Woolfield put on a light
suit, and contented himself, as an indication of bereavement, with a
slight black band round the left arm. He also began to look about him
for someone who might make up for the years during which he had felt
like a crushed strawberry.
And in casting his inquiring eye about, it lighted upon Philippa Weston,
a bright, vigorous young lady, well educated and intelligent. She was
aged twenty-four and he was but eighteen years older, a difference on
the right side.
It took Mr. Woolfield but a short courtship to reach an understanding,
and he became engaged.
On the same evening upon which he had received a satisfactory answer to
the question put to her, and had pressed for an early marriage, to which
also consent had been accorded, he sat by his study fire, with his hands
on his knees, looking into the embers and building love-castles there.
Then he smiled and patted his knees.
He was startled from his honey reveries by a sniff. He looked round.
There was a familiar ring in that sniff which was unpleasant to him.
What he then saw dissipated his rosy dreams, and sent his blood to his
heart.
At the table sat his Kesiah, looking at him with her beady black eyes,
and with stern lines in her face. He was so startled and shocked that he
could not speak.
"Benjamin," said the apparition, "I know your purpose. It shall never be
carried to accomplishment. I will prevent it."
"Prevent what, my love, my treasure?" he gathered up his faculties to
reply.
"It is in vain that you assume that infantile look of innocence," said
his deceased wife. "You shall never--never--lead her to the hymeneal
altar."
"Lead whom, my idol? You astound me."
"I know all. I can read your heart. A lost being though you be, you have
still me to watch over you. When you quit this earthly tabernacle, if
you have given up taking in the _Field_, and have come to realise your
fallen condition, there is a chance--a distant chance--but yet one of
our union becoming eternal."
"You don't mean to say so," said Mr. Woolfield, his jaw falling.
"There is--there is that to look to. That to lead you to turn over a new
leaf. But it can never be if you become united to that Flibbertigibbet."
Mentally, Benjamin said: "I must hurry up with my marriage!" Vocally he
said: "Dear me! Dear me!"
"My care for you is still so great," continued the apparition, "that I
intend to haunt you by night and by day, till that engagement be broken
off."
"I would not put you to so much trouble," said he.
"It is my duty," replied the late Mrs. Woolfield sternly.
"You are oppressively kind," sighed the widower.
At dinner that evening Mr. Woolfield had a friend to keep him company, a
friend to whom he had poured out his heart. To his dismay, he saw seated
opposite him the form of his deceased wife.
He tried to be lively; he cracked jokes, but the sight of the grim face
and the stony eyes riveted on him damped his spirits, and all his mirth
died away.
"You seem to be out of sorts to-night," said his friend.
"I am sorry that I act so bad a host," apologised Mr. Woolfield. "Two is
company, three is none."
"But we are only two here to-night."
"My wife is with me in spirit."
"Which, she that was, or she that is to be?"
Mr. Woolfield looked with timid eyes towards her who sat at the end of
the table. She was raising her hands in holy horror, and her face was
black with frowns.
His friend said to himself when he left: "Oh, these lovers! They are
never themselves so long as the fit lasts."
Mr. Woolfield retired early to bed. When a man has screwed himself up to
proposing to a lady, it has taken a great deal out of him, and nature
demands rest. It was so with Benjamin; he was sleepy. A nice little fire
burned in his grate. He undressed and slipped between the sheets.
Before he put out the light he became aware that the late Mrs. Woolfield
was standing by his bedside with a nightcap on her head.
"I am cold," said she, "bitterly cold."
"I am sorry to hear it, my dear," said Benjamin.
"The grave is cold as ice," she said. "I am going to step into bed."
"No--never!" exclaimed the widower, sitting up. "It won't do. It really
won't. You will draw all the vital heat out of me, and I shall be laid
up with rheumatic fever. It will be ten times worse than damp sheets."
"I am coming to bed," repeated the deceased lady, inflexible as ever in
carrying out her will.
As she stepped in Mr. Woolfield crept out on the side of the fire and
seated himself by the grate.
He sat there some considerable time, and then, feeling cold, he fetched
his dressing-gown and enveloped himself in that.
He looked at the bed. In it lay the deceased lady with her long slit of
a mouth shut like a rat-trap, and her hard eyes fixed on him.
"It is of no use your thinking of marrying, Benjamin," she said. "I
shall haunt you till you give it up."
Mr. Woolfield sat by his fire all night, and only dozed off towards
morning.
During the day he called at the house of Miss Weston, and was shown into
the drawing-room. But there, standing behind her chair, was his deceased
wife with her arms folded on the back of the seat, glowering at him.
It was impossible for the usual tender passages to ensue between the
lovers with a witness present, expressing by gesture her disapproval of
such matters and her inflexible determination to force on a rupture.
The dear departed did not attend Mr. Woolfield continuously during the
day, but appeared at intervals. He could never say when he would be
free, when she would not turn up.
In the evening he rang for the housemaid. "Jemima," he said, "put two
hot bottles into my bed to-night. It is somewhat chilly."
"Yes, sir."
"And let the water be boiling--not with the chill off."
"Yes, sir."
When somewhat late Mr. Woolfield retired to his room he found, as he had
feared, that his late wife was there before him. She lay in the bed with
her mouth snapped, her eyes like black balls, staring at him.
"My dear," said Benjamin, "I hope you are more comfortable."
"I'm cold, deadly cold."
"But I trust you are enjoying the hot bottles."
"I lack animal heat," replied the late Mrs. Woolfield.
Benjamin fled the room and returned to his study, where he unlocked his
spirit case and filled his pipe. The fire was burning. He made it up. He
would sit there all night During the passing hours, however, he was not
left quite alone. At intervals the door was gently opened, and the
night-capped head of the late Mrs. Woolfield was thrust in.
"Don't think, Benjamin, that your engagement will lead to anything," she
would say, "because it will not. I shall stop it."
So time passed. Mr. Woolfield found it impossible to escape this
persecution. He lost spirits; he lost flesh.
At last, after sad thought, he saw but one way of relief, and that was
to submit. And in order to break off the engagement he must have a
prolonged interview with Philippa. He went to the theatre and bought two
stall tickets, and sent one to her with the earnest request that she
would accept it and meet him that evening at the theatre. He had
something to communicate of the utmost importance.
At the theatre he knew that he would be safe; the principles of Kesiah
would not suffer her to enter there.
At the proper time Mr. Woolfield drove round to Miss Weston's, picked
her up, and together they went to the theatre and took their places in
the stalls. Their seats were side by side.
"I am so glad you have been able to come," said Benjamin. "I have a most
shocking disclosure to make to you. I am afraid that--but I hardly know
how to say it--that--I really must break it off."
"Break what off?"
"Our engagement."
"Nonsense. I have been fitted for my trousseau."
"Your what?"
"My wedding-dresses."
"Oh, I beg pardon. I did not understand your French pronunciation. I
thought--but it does not matter what I thought."
"Pray what is the sense of this?"
"Philippa, my affection for you is unabated. Do not suppose that I love
you one whit the less. But I am oppressed by a horrible
nightmare--daymare as well. I am haunted."
"Haunted, indeed!"
"Yes; by my late wife. She allows me no peace. She has made up her mind
that I shall not marry you."
"Oh! Is that all? I am haunted also."
"Surely not?"
"It is a fact."
"Hush, hush!" from persons in front and at the side. Neither Ben nor
Philippa had noticed that the curtain had risen and that the play had
begun.
"We are disturbing the audience," whispered Mr. Woolfield. "Let us go
out into the passage and promenade there, and then we can talk freely."
So both rose, left their stalls, and went into the _couloir_.
"Look here, Philippa," said he, offering the girl his arm, which she
took, "the case is serious. I am badgered out of my reason, out of my
health, by the late Mrs. Woolfield. She always had an iron will, and she
has intimated to me that she will force me to give you up."
"Defy her."
"I cannot."
"Tut! these ghosts are exacting. Give them an inch and they take an ell.
They are like old servants; if you yield to them they tyrannise over
you."
"But how do you know, Philippa, dearest?"
"Because, as I said, I also am haunted."
"That only makes the matter more hopeless."
"On the contrary, it only shows how well suited we are to each other. We
are in one box."
"Philippa, it is a dreadful thing. When my wife was dying she told me
she was going to a better world, and that we should never meet again.
_And she has not kept her word._"