"How can I?"
"You can do it perfectly. Ask her why she is left out in the cold. Give
her a piece of your mind. Make it unpleasant for her. I give Jehu no
good time."
"Who is Jehu?"
"Jehu Post is the ghost who haunts me. When in the flesh he was a great
admirer of mine, and in his cumbrous way tried to court me; but I never
liked him, and gave him no encouragement. I snubbed him unmercifully,
but he was one of those self-satisfied, self-assured creatures incapable
of taking a snubbing. He was a Plymouth Brother."
"My wife was a Plymouth Sister."
"I know she was, and I always felt for you. It was so sad. Well, to go
on with my story. In a frivolous mood Jehu took to a bicycle, and the
very first time he scorched he was thrown, and so injured his back that
he died in a week. Before he departed he entreated that I would see him;
so I could not be nasty, and I went. And he told me then that he was
about to be wrapped in glory. I asked him if this were so certain.
'Cocksure' was his reply; and they were his last words. And _he has not
kept his word_."
"And he haunts you now?"
"Yes. He dangles about with his great ox-eyes fixed on me. But as to his
envelope of glory I have not seen a fag end of it, and I have told him
so."
"Do you really mean this, Philippa?"
"I do. He wrings his hands and sighs. He gets no change out of me, I
promise you."
"This is a very strange condition of affairs."
"It only shows how well matched we are. I do not suppose you will find
two other people in England so situated as we are, and therefore so
admirably suited to one another."
"There is much in what you say. But how are we to rid ourselves of the
nuisance--for it is a nuisance being thus haunted. We cannot spend all
our time in a theatre."
"We must defy them. Marry in spite of them."
"I never did defy my wife when she was alive. I do not know how to pluck
up courage now that she is dead. Feel my hand, Philippa, how it
trembles. She has broken my nerve. When I was young I could play
spellikins--my hand was so steady. Now I am quite incapable of doing
anything with the little sticks."
"Well, hearken to what I propose," said Miss Weston. "I will beard the
old cat----"
"Hush, not so disrespectful; she was my wife."
"Well, then, the ghostly old lady, in her den. You think she will appear
if I go to pay you a visit?"
"Sure of it. She is consumed with jealousy. She had no personal
attractions herself, and you have a thousand. I never knew whether she
loved me, but she was always confoundedly jealous of me."
"Very well, then. You have often spoken to me about changes in the
decoration of your villa. Suppose I call on you to-morrow afternoon, and
you shall show me what your schemes are."
"And your ghost, will he attend you?"
"Most probably. He also is as jealous as a ghost can well be."
"Well, so be it. I shall await your coming with impatience. Now, then,
we may as well go to our respective homes."
A cab was accordingly summoned, and after Mr. Woolfield had handed
Philippa in, and she had taken her seat in the back, he entered and
planted himself with his back to the driver.
"Why do you not sit by me?" asked the girl.
"I can't," replied Benjamin. "Perhaps you may not see, but I do, my
deceased wife is in the cab, and occupies the place on your left."
"Sit on her," urged Philippa.
"I haven't the effrontery to do it," gasped Ben.
"Will you believe me," whispered the young lady, leaning over to speak
to Mr. Woolfield, "I have seen Jehu Post hovering about the theatre
door, wringing his white hands and turning up his eyes. I suspect he is
running after the cab."
As soon as Mr. Woolfield had deposited his bride-elect at her residence
he ordered the cabman to drive him home. Then he was alone in the
conveyance with the ghost. As each gaslight was passed the flash came
over the cadaverous face opposite him, and sparks of fire kindled
momentarily in the stony eyes.
"Benjamin!" she said, "Benjamin! Oh, Benjamin! Do not suppose that I
shall permit it. You may writhe and twist, you may plot and contrive how
you will, I will stand between you and her as a wall of ice."
Next day, in the afternoon, Philippa Weston arrived at the house. The
late Mrs. Woolfield had, however, apparently obtained an inkling of what
was intended, for she was already there, in the drawing-room, seated in
an armchair with her hands raised and clasped, looking stonily before
her. She had a white face, no lips that showed, and her dark hair was
dressed in two black slabs, one on each side of the temples. It was done
in a knot behind. She wore no ornaments of any kind.
In came Miss Weston, a pretty girl, coquettishly dressed in colours,
with sparkling eyes and laughing lips. As she had predicted, she was
followed by her attendant spectre, a tall, gaunt young man in a black
frock-coat, with a melancholy face and large ox-eyes. He shambled in
shyly, looking from side to side. He had white hands and long, lean
fingers. Every now and then he put his hands behind him, up his back,
under the tails of his coat, and rubbed his spine where he had received
his mortal injury in cycling. Almost as soon as he entered he noticed
the ghost of Mrs. Woolfield that was, and made an awkward bow. Her
eyebrows rose, and a faint wintry smile of recognition lighted up her
cheeks.
"I believe I have the honour of saluting Sister Kesiah," said the ghost
of Jehu Post, and he assumed a posture of ecstasy.
"It is even so, Brother Jehu."
"And how do you find yourself, sister--out of the flesh?"
The late Mrs. Woolfield looked disconcerted, hesitated a moment, as if
she found some difficulty in answering, and then, after a while, said:
"I suppose, much as do you, brother."
"It is a melancholy duty that detains me here below," said Jehu Post's
ghost.
"The same may be said of me," observed the spirit of the deceased Mrs.
Woolfield. "Pray take a chair."
"I am greatly obliged, sister. My back----"
Philippa nudged Benjamin, and unobserved by the ghosts, both slipped
into the adjoining room by a doorway over which hung velvet curtains.
In this room, on the table, Mr. Woolfield had collected patterns of
chintzes and books of wall-papers.
There the engaged pair remained, discussing what curtains would go with
the chintz coverings of the sofa and chairs, and what papers would
harmonise with both.
"I see," said Philippa, "that you have plates hung on the walls. I don't
like them: it is no longer in good form. If they be worth anything you
must have a cabinet with glass doors for the china. How about the
carpets?"
"There is the drawing-room," said Benjamin.
"No, we won't go in there and disturb the ghosts," said Philippa. "We'll
take the drawing-room for granted."
"Well--come with me to the dining-room. We can reach it by another
door."
In the room they now entered the carpet was in fairly good condition,
except at the head and bottom of the table, where it was worn. This was
especially the case at the bottom, where Mr. Woolfield had usually sat.
There, when his wife had lectured, moralised, and harangued, he had
rubbed his feet up and down and had fretted the nap off the Brussels
carpet.
"I think," remarked Philippa, "that we can turn it about, and by taking
out one width and putting that under the bookcase and inserting the
strip that was there in its room, we can save the expense of a new
carpet. But--the engravings--those Landseers. What do you think of them,
Ben, dear?"
She pointed to the two familiar engravings of the "Deer in Winter," and
"Dignity and Impudence."
"Don't you think, Ben, that one has got a little tired of those
pictures?"
"My late wife did not object to them, they were so perfectly harmless."
"But your coming wife does. We will have something more up-to-date in
their room. By the way, I wonder how the ghosts are getting on. They
have let us alone so far. I will run back and have a peep at them
through the curtains."
The lively girl left the dining apartment, and her husband-elect,
studying the pictures to which Philippa had objected. Presently she
returned.
"Oh, Ben! such fun!" she said, laughing. "My ghost has drawn up his
chair close to that of the late Mrs. Woolfield, and is fondling her
hand. But I believe that they are only talking goody-goody."
[Illustration: "I BELIEVE THAT THEY ARE TALKING GOODY-GOODY."]
"And now about the china," said Mr. Woolfield. "It is in a closet near
the pantry--that is to say, the best china. I will get a benzoline lamp,
and we will examine it. We had it out only when Mrs. Woolfield had a
party of her elect brothers and sisters. I fear a good deal is broken.
I know that the soup tureen has lost a lid, and I believe we are short
of vegetable dishes. How many plates remain I do not know. We had a
parlourmaid, Dorcas, who was a sad smasher, but as she was one who had
made her election sure, my late wife would not part with her."
"And how are you off for glass?"
"The wine-glasses are fairly complete. I fancy the cut-glass decanters
are in a bad way. My late wife chipped them, I really believe out of
spite."
It took the couple some time to go through the china and the glass.
"And the plate?" asked Philippa.
"Oh, that is right. All the real old silver is at the bank, as Kesiah
preferred plated goods."
"How about the kitchen utensils?"
"Upon my word I cannot say. We had a rather nice-looking cook, and so my
late wife never allowed me to step inside the kitchen."
"Is she here still?" inquired Philippa sharply.
"No; my wife, when she was dying, gave her the sack."
"Bless me, Ben!" exclaimed Philippa. "It is growing dark. I have been
here an age. I really must go home. I wonder the ghosts have not worried
us. I'll have another look at them."
She tripped off.
In five minutes she was back. She stood for a minute looking at Mr.
Woolfield, laughing so heartily that she had to hold her sides.
"What is it, Philippa?" he inquired.
"Oh, Ben! A happy release. They will never dare to show their faces
again. They have eloped together."