THE HAUNTED STAGE BOX.--THE TRAGEDIAN'S STORY.
The following morning was bright, clear, and frosty. At an early hour
two of our guests were to leave the "Headless Lady" by the mail for
London. These two were Captain Toughyarn and our comic friend, Mr.
Jollytoast. Each had urgent business on hand, and the other members of
the club had risen to see them off.
Breakfast had been laid for these two worthies; their companions seated
themselves at the same table, and chatted with them whilst waiting for
the stage-coach.
"Well, captain," said Mr. Oldstone, "after you return from your next
voyage, you'll visit us again and have another dream over our punch like
that last one of yours, won't you?"
"Ay, ay, messmate," replied the captain; "you may be sure of that. That
is to say, if we are all still in the land of the living. I'd come, even
if I had no other inducement than the bright eyes of our host's pretty
daughter."
"Avast there! captain," said Mr. Jollytoast. "Remember the mermaid!
Think of Lurline! Take care, lest Helen should prove even more
dangerous."
Just then the horn of the stage-coach was heard in the distance, and in
a short time the horses were at the door. Our two travellers took their
seats, after having been repeatedly invited to return, and some jovial
sallies having passed between our host and the driver over a stiff glass
of grog, the coach started, and was soon out of sight. After their two
friends had departed the rest of the club set out together for an hour's
stroll before breakfast, to enjoy the fresh morning air, walking all of
them abreast, and taking up all the carriage road.
The way was long and lonely--not a soul stirring, and the landscape as
far as they could see covered with snow; but the sky was cheerful, and
the little birds sang overhead. Our club felt exhilarated by the nipping
air, and discoursed by the way on divers subjects, until Mr. Oldstone,
whose appetite for stories was insatiable, said that he saw no reason
why Mr. Blackdeed's story that was to come next should not enliven their
walk. The proposal was seconded, and Mr. Blackdeed, finding himself
loudly called upon, began his story thus:
I must begin, then, gentlemen, by informing you that my family name is
not the one I bear at present. It is many years since I dropped that. My
father was of good family, and possessed a large estate in ----shire. I
was an only son, and should have inherited my father's estate, had not a
rascally uncle of mine cheated me out of it.
I was looked upon as a lad of great promise by my fond parents, and
from earliest youth seemed destined for the stage; for as far back as I
can remember my greatest delight was to see a pantomime. I was more
precocious than the general run of children at my age, for at an age
when few children have begun to read I was already manager of a toy
theatre. This taste of mine grew with my growth, and was encouraged by
my parents--probably because they saw it was an innocent amusement and
kept me out of mischief.
At ten years old I began to write plays, in which I used to act myself
and invite my schoolfellows to act with me. This rendered me very
popular at school, both with the boys and with the masters, and I won
many a prize for public speaking and for learning by heart long passages
from Shakespeare and other poets.
At fourteen I grew ambitious, and published a book of plays under my own
name, which, unluckily, was cut up unmercifully by the critics. This was
mortifying enough, but added to this I had to bear my father's
displeasure for having published the book under his name, my parent
believing it a great disgrace for a son of his to write books or plays.
So he gave me a severe reprimand, and from that time forth thought it
his duty to discourage my taste for the drama. But nature will have her
own way, in spite of whatever obstacles parents, and friends place in
her path, and at fifteen I yearned for the mysteries of the "green
room."
I had secretly, but no less determinedly, set my heart on following the
stage as a profession, and one day my father took me into his study, and
said it was high time I should make up my mind what profession to
follow. I replied that I had made up my mind already what profession to
follow. I told him that I intended to be an actor. At this he told me to
get such ideas out of my head as soon as possible, that he would never
allow a son of his to disgrace his name by associating it with the
stage.
I repeated my determination. He grew furious, and after beating me,
locked me up in my room and ordered bread and water to be brought to me
by a servant. This treatment, he told me, was to last until I had come
to my senses. However well this mode of proceeding might have answered
with a youth of less spirit, it did not answer with me. Even an ordinary
boy of fifteen is no child, and I at that age was equal to a man of
twenty.
I felt the indignity of this treatment as an excessively sensitive
organisation would. I refused to touch either the bread or the water,
and meditated an escape from the paternal roof, never to return.
Now, it happened that at that time there was in the village a band of
strolling players, who had hired a barn to act in. These I had been in
the habit of seeing act every evening, till my passion for the stage was
augmented to an intense degree.
The players were to leave on the morrow. Here was an opportunity! I
would wait till the evening, escape by the window of my chamber, and
offer my services to the manager. I looked down from my window into the
garden, to ascertain if I could venture upon a leap; but it was much too
high for me, yet there was a ladder against the wall, though not near
enough for me to reach.
What was I to do? I tied sundry pocket-handkerchiefs together, which I
wetted. I then tied an ornament that served as a paper weight, being
rather heavy, and holding one end of the wet handkerchief in my hand, I
threw the heavy end towards the ladder, which it caught, winding itself
round one of the rungs so tightly that I was enabled to draw it towards
me and place it just under my window, ready for the evening.
The evening came. I waited till my parents were at supper. This was just
about the time that the evening's performance would be at an end. I
donned my worst clothes, and tying up some necessaries in a handkerchief
and taking a walking-stick to carry the bundle across my shoulder, I
opened my casement and cautiously descended the ladder till I found
myself in the garden.
There was yet another obstacle to be overcome; the garden wall had to be
scaled, for the gate was already locked. The wall was high, but after
much exertion and many falls, I scrambled up--I hardly know how--and
leapt down the other side into the road. I found that I had ripped up my
coat behind and damaged the knees of my small clothes.
In this plight I made my appearance before the manager. He looked at me
from head to foot, scrutinisingly; asked me my name and what I had been
bred up to. I gave him the name I bear at present, and said that I had
never been brought up to any trade, but had always had a taste for the
stage.
"Humph!" he muttered, observing that I spoke better English than himself
or his company, "you appear a youth of some little education--eh?"
"I trust that will not unfit me for your company?" I said.
"On the contrary, young man," he said, "we are in want of educated
actors; but what brings you in this pitiful plight?"
"The frowns of fortune," I observed, laconically.
"Ah!" he observed, with a smile; "I understand. Well, what can you do?"
"My _forte_," I replied, "is high tragedy."
"Ah! I dare say," said he, satirically, "and I've no doubt you'll tell
me that Macbeth, Hamlet, and Othello are your chief characters."
"Precisely so," I replied; "that is just what I mean to say."
"I thought so," he said. "My dear young man, you're stage-struck like
many others at your age. All you youngsters, when you begin, fancy that
you are going to leap over the heads of us old experienced actors with a
bound; but in everything you must begin at the beginning, and you will
have to serve your apprenticeship at acting as well as anything else."
"Serve my apprenticeship!" I muttered to myself, indignantly. "_I_, the
son of a gentleman, serve an apprenticeship!"
But I held my peace, as it did not suit me to quarrel with the manager
at the onset.
"You must content yourself at present with small parts," said the
manager, "such as a page or walking gentleman, or, being yet very
youthful looking, you might take a female part."
The latter part of the manager's speech offended my dignity, but I said
nothing.
"Come," said he, "let me see what you can do. Give me your idea of
Hamlet. Begin with, 'To be, or not to be.'"
I accordingly began at the well-known passage, and recited it all the
way through.
"Not so bad, by jingo!" said he. "Bravo! I did not think you were such a
clever fellow. Now do the dagger scene in Macbeth."
I then went through that with equal success, and received very high
praise from the manager, who engaged me on the spot. I gave out a hint
that I had eaten nothing all day, and was very hungry, so the manager
invited me to supper. I made the acquaintance of all the other strolling
players--a queer lot--who looked at me askance, doubtless because they
saw I came of a rather better stock than they themselves, and probably
they speculated on what they could make out of me.
Early the next morning we all started for London, and my _debut_ was
made in a low London theatre, where I took the part of a young lady
carried away by brigands. In the next piece I acted a page, in the next
a lover, and so on. But I soon grew discontented with this small
theatre, for I longed to show myself to the educated public, so I left
my first manager, and sought an engagement in some more fashionable
theatre.
Here I had to act a fairy prince in a pantomime. The pantomime was a
great success, and drew many spectators. At the same time that the
pantomime was going on, I had to act a page in one of Shakespeare's
plays. I was now seventeen, and both tall and well grown, and possessed
at that time--I think I can afford to say so now, gentlemen, as I am
verging at present towards "the sear and yellow leaf"--a figure and a
face that were the envy of the whole company.
Well, gentlemen, I improved fast in my profession, and one evening when
the play of Romeo and Juliet was being acted at the theatre, the actor
who should have taken the part of Romeo was indisposed only a few
minutes before the curtain drew up. There was no one else in the company
but myself who was sufficiently up in the part to take his place, so I
offered my services, and they were accepted.
Now, Romeo was one of my favourite characters, and I had studied the
part carefully; but the manager knew nothing of my talents as yet; in
fact, he confessed to me afterwards that he was very doubtful as to the
success of the piece that evening.
When the curtain drew up and the piece proceeded, I fancied I noticed
signs of discontent among the audience at not finding the usual Romeo,
but as I went on with my part the applause was so great that I felt as
if my reputation were established for life. In fact, I completely
eclipsed the actor whose part I had taken, inasmuch that the public
refused to hear him again in that part, and the manager allotted his
part to me.
This led to great jealousy between us. We quarrelled, and I made this
the excuse for leaving the theatre, being anxious to appear in a still
more fashionable one. I sought an engagement in one of the largest
theatres in the metropolis, and as I already had some fame, I was
engaged at once. The manager had seen me perform himself, and promised
me when Romeo and Juliet should be acted again in his theatre that he
would give me the part of Romeo. They happened to be acting Hamlet then;
and the part of Laertes was allotted to me. I acquitted myself with much
_eclat_, and a long and favourable criticism appeared in the papers
afterwards.
One evening I took the part of Hamlet, the usual actor not being able to
perform, and acquitted myself so well that the papers were full of the
wonderful young actor. From this time my name began to be famous. I
received a good salary, dressed fashionably, and entered into the best
society. Nevertheless, I was aware of the prejudice that the world has
against an actor, however celebrated he may be, so whenever I went into
society, I dropped the name of Blackdeed, and resumed my own rightful
one. Many, however, on being introduced to me remarked how much I
resembled the celebrated young actor Blackdeed; but it was not for some
time afterwards that it was generally known that we were one and the
same person.
One evening, as I was entering a ball-room, I noticed that when my name
was announced some confusion took place. As I entered, who should come
forward to meet me but my father, whom I had not seen for three years.
He advanced towards me, more in sorrow than in anger, and addressed me
in tones in which pride and natural affection strove for the mastery.
"We meet at last, sir," he said; "I leave it to your conscience to
imagine the state of anxiety into which you have thrown your poor mother
and myself by your cruel conduct. I would fain have overlooked the whole
as a boyish freak, had you returned home of your own accord and sought
my pardon; as it is, what can I say to you for having disgraced my
name?"
"Disgraced your name, father! How?"
"Yes, sir; disgraced my name, by associating it with the stage--a name
untainted and highly honoured for many generations back."
"Indeed, sir," I said, "I never yet heard that talent or genius could
disgrace a name. However, aware of your prejudice against the stage, I
have dropped your name, which might otherwise have become famous, and
act under a fictitious one."
"Humph!" said he, somewhat pacified that his name had escaped disgrace.
"And what may be your theatrical name?"
"Blackdeed," said I.
"What! So you are the celebrated young actor everyone talks so much
about," said he. "Well, well, you have been very foolish and very wrong,
but if you consent to leave this life and return home with me, all may
yet be well. Come," he said coaxingly.
"Father," I said, "my course is mapped out. I have chosen my profession,
and I must follow my true avocation. The voice of nature is stronger
than yours. Seek not to battle against my destiny."
My father, though immensely disappointed at my determination, would not,
I believe, have cut me off, but dying suddenly, intestate, his estate
was seized by his brother. This led to a law-suit between my uncle and
myself, which lasted until nearly all my father's fortune was squandered
away. I never got a farthing. Thus ever since I have had nothing to
depend upon but my profession for a livelihood.
It now began to be rumoured abroad in society that I was none other than
that very Blackdeed whose acting had created such a _furore_ in the
world. It also began to be said that I was the heir to an immense
fortune, out of which I had been swindled by an unprincipled uncle. I
met those who knew my family well, and my misfortune procured for me the
sympathy of many. I possessed a still greater interest in the eyes of
the world now, and I found myself a greater lion than ever.
On one occasion after I had been acting Romeo at our theatre I donned my
dress clothes and dropped in late at a friend's house where there was a
ball, and here I made the acquaintance of a certain family who resided
not far from my father's house and knew my father intimately. The family
consisted of an elderly gentleman, his wife, and three daughters.
The two elder sisters were very ordinary young ladies, such as one is
sure to find in every ball-room. They were neither pretty nor ugly;
their manners conventional, their conversation flat and insipid. When
talking to one they appeared to be thinking of something else, and their
answers were generally in monosyllables.
The youngest daughter, however, differed much from her two eldest
sisters, both in mind and in features; so much so, indeed, that I
imagined for some time that she must be their step-sister, but this was
not the case, as I found out afterwards. Maud--that was the name of the
younger--was by far the cleverest really of the whole family, and yet
she was looked upon as a ninny by the rest. She had more originality in
her than either of her two sisters, as I soon observed from her remarks;
but she was also more retired, and preferred to hide her light, as it
were, under a bushel. It was only now and then that I could catch a
glimpse of it, but when I did so it was most brilliant.
Without being strikingly beautiful, her face had that in it that
captivates more than mere beauty. The expression was ingenuous and
pensive, at times melancholy. When in society she never seemed like one
of the herd, or to take the slightest interest in what was going on. She
went through her dancing mechanically, and always seemed in the clouds,
or, as her sisters would say, "wool-gathering."
It was easy to see from the first that no very sister-like feeling
existed between the two elder sisters and their younger one. Even the
parents preferred their two elder girls to their youngest daughter.
The fact was that they--none of them--understood her; she was not of
their order, and they set her down as rather wanting. If she was scolded
for anything and she bore the rebuke with patience, this was set down to
indifference and want of feeling, when my own experience of her
character was that she was the most sensitive creature that I had ever
met with. If, as was often the case, she fell into a reverie in company,
it was called sulkiness, and if when asked to perform on the piano, she
meekly obeyed in a sort of languid manner peculiar to herself, it was
called unwillingness to oblige; yet when at the instrument her touch was
so soft and full of feeling, her voice so clear and modulating, that it
seemed as if her whole soul was poured forth in the piece.
Nevertheless, neither her parents nor her sisters appreciated her
playing, or found in it anything more artistic or soul-stirring than in
the performance of other people. She was never thanked or applauded by
her family for any service or kindness of hers towards them, but often
upbraided for selfishness when her dreamy nature would cause her to
forget the wants of others, while in reality she was one of the most
unselfish beings on this earth. How many mistakes might be rectified, if
the different members of a family would take the trouble to study each
other more accurately!
Maud's nature was reserved to a fault; she did not care to shine, and
this was put down to incapacity. Whether it was she felt she could if
she chose, and in so doing utterly eclipse her two elder sisters, and
consequently incur their envy, or whether it was an excess of modesty, I
know not. One thing is certain, she possessed fine talents, and those,
too, of an uncommon kind. Her health was delicate, and her parents,
perhaps attributed her peculiarities to the state of her health, while
her two sisters, without allowing any such excuse, looked upon her as a
downright fool.
She was snubbed on every occasion, and kept as much as possible in the
background. It will be understood that all these observations of mine
were not made in a single evening. It was not until we grew intimate and
I had been repeatedly invited to the house, that I found out how matters
stood in the family. I could not help feeling nettled at the deliberate
way in which poor Maud was put on the shelf by her elder sisters, and I
felt it my duty, as much as good manners would permit me, to take her
part, and pay somewhat more attention to her than to the two elder
daughters.
This preference I saw was observed, and not looked upon very favourably
by the parents, who, I began to find out, had marked me for one of the
elder girls. I saw plainly through their schemes, and heartlessly amused
myself at their discomfiture while I paid my attentions to Maud. During
the summer I was invited to stay at the country seat of this family, and
it was here that our intimacy ripened. Here I observed the fine points
of Maud's character, in spite of all her reserve.
Without being regularly in love with each other, a sympathy had grown up
between us which by others, I have no doubt, was regarded as love. We
appreciated each other's talents, and esteemed each other's characters.
The family had repeatedly seen me act, and Maud, more than any of them,
seemed to appreciate my acting, while I was equally charmed at her skill
on the piano and on the harp, and with her singing.
"I do not know how it is, Mr. Blackdeed," she said to me one day when we
were left alone together in the garden, "but you are the only person I
know who treats me with respect, or, indeed, like a rational being."
"Indeed," said I, feigning not to have observed the way in which she was
treated by her family. "How so?"
"Oh! you know very well how I am treated at home. I have seen the
surprise on your face whenever my sisters snubbed me, and saw that you
felt how unfair it was. You will not pretend that you never observed
it."
"Well, Miss Maud," I replied, "your penetration is such that I cannot do
other than confess that _I have_ observed it, and that I was very much
surprised at it. I have often wondered what the reason could be."
She answered with a slight sigh.
"No one seems to understand me. From childhood I was ever different from
the rest. I seem to live two distinct beings--one with my family, and
before the world, and another in my own thoughts.
"You will have observed my silence when in company. I am aware to what
it is generally attributed; but the fact is, that I have so little in
common with my sisters I feel that if I were to give utterance to my
ideas I should not be understood, but be considered more mad than they
think me at present; hence my silence. I never knew anyone but you who
thought even in the slightest degree like myself, and therefore to you I
feel less inclined to be reserved than to others; in fact, with you I
feel it impossible to be reserved at all.
"It is as if you had some power over me to draw out my ideas--to draw me
out of myself. All my life I have longed to know someone; to have some
friend who was unlike the rest of the world, and more like myself, who
could understand me, and to whom I could pour out my thoughts, and feel
that they were not poured out upon a desert soil."
"Do you know, Miss Maud," said I, "that from the very first I saw that
you were quite different to any other young lady that I had ever met
with? But far from regarding you in the light that I know your family
regard you, I conceived an immense respect for you as a being of a
higher order than the generality of young ladies. There was much, too,
that puzzled me in your character. I was convinced that you could not
but be aware that your abilities were above the ordinary, and it
surprised me much that you should care so little about showing them, or
even asserting your right against the--the tyranny, if I may say so--of
your sisters."
"Well, it is my nature," she said. "What is it to me if they _do_ have
their own way in everything. I do not think it a matter worth disputing
about. I do not live in their world, nor they in mine."
"And do you not long to make yourself better understood to your
sisters?" I asked, after a pause.
"I should like to," she replied; "but that is impossible."
"Why impossible?" I asked. "Have you ever tried to do so?"
"No; but from my knowledge of their characters it would be useless." She
paused, and then added, "Do you know that I sometimes wish that I were
better suited to this world than I am? My nature is so very peculiar
that perhaps you would laugh at me were I to tell you some of my
peculiarities."
"No," said I; "I do not think I should laugh at any peculiarities of
your nature, whatever they might be. Your nature is one to study gravely
and reflect upon, not to laugh at."
"I mean," said she, "that my temperament is subject to certain phenomena
that many, perhaps _you_, might call hallucinations. I have never
confided this to anyone before, fearing that I should be ridiculed or
perhaps placed under the hands of some ignorant doctor."
"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "I am curious to hear of what sort these
phenomena are. I take an immense interest in natural phenomena,
especially that sort connected with the temperament of individuals."
"Well," she answered, "as you encourage me so far, I do not mind telling
you some of those most common to me. Ofttimes when I am alone, either in
my chamber or walking in the fields, a sort of dizziness comes over me,
and I seem to be in the midst of a bed of flowers. When I try to pluck
one they instantly vanish, and the dizziness likewise disappears. At
other times I have seen before me a wreath of stars, which lasts for two
or three minutes, then also vanishes. I have seen, too, distinctly in
the daytime the faces of certain relations of mine, long since dead, and
at night I occasionally start out of my sleep and see human forms
bending over me, and sometimes they speak to me."
"It is very strange," I observed. "And have you never been able to
attribute these visions to any nervous excitement, or to any natural
cause whatever?"
"No; on the contrary, they generally appear when I am most calm."
I told her I had heard before of similar phenomena during, or even a
long time after, a serious illness, and that I thought in most cases
they might be attributed to an over-excitement of the brain, brought on
by indigestion or other causes. She told me that she had never had any
really serious illness in her life, though she admitted that she was
constitutionally delicate. We then went into a metaphysical discussion,
which was interrupted by the rest of the family, who came to meet us in
the garden.
"I am sorry we have disturbed your _tete-a-tete_," said one of the elder
sisters, quizzingly. "It must have been quite a pleasure to have been
concealed behind the summer-house and listened to your intellectual
conversation."
These words to a stranger would have conveyed nothing but a sort of
merry banter, nor was there more conveyed in the tone, yet I, who had
studied the nature of the speaker well, thought I discovered an
undercurrent of sarcasm in the word "intellectual," as if she was
perfectly sure that no conversation between us could be intellectual.
"There is many a true word spoken in jest," I replied. "I assure you
that our conversation _has_ been _most_ intellectual. Miss Maud's ideas
are so lofty, that it is really quite an effort on my part to follow
her," said I, with a smile, though I really meant what I said.
"I wish she would let us have the benefit of them," said the other
sister, laughing, imagining, of course, that I had spoken satirically.
"She never favours us with any of those lofty ideas."
"No?" said I, affecting astonishment. "Then I must be a favoured
individual. Miss Maud's case is, however, not without parallel. Many of
our greatest minds have been most reserved and unassuming. It is a
characteristic of genius to be retired, though, if I had the abilities
of Miss Maud, I am sure I should be too vain to keep them secret."
This was uttered with a sincerity of manner on my part that checked the
laugh that might have arisen from the sisters, and they were silent. The
mother looked at us both, first at one and then at the other, in
amazement, as if she half-believed me, and scrutinised Maud very
narrowly, as if she fancied she must either be a great fool or very
deep.
In the course of the afternoon the lady of the house took me aside and
asked me if I were in earnest in my eulogium of Maud's intellect.
I replied that I was decidedly.
"What a strange girl it is!" she exclaimed. "She never seems to take any
interest in anything or anybody around her. In fact, we none of us can
make her out. What do you think now is the reason of this strange
reserve towards her own kindred?"
"Well, madam," I answered, "if I must tell you my real opinion, her
nature is an uncommon one, and can only live in the society of other
uncommon natures. Her silence I attribute to an excessive sensitiveness,
which not rarely accompanies genius, and which proceeds from a
consciousness that she is not easily understood."
"But surely, Mr. Blackdeed," said the lady of the house, "one would
expect that she would open her heart to her own flesh and blood, rather
than to a comparative stranger like yourself."
"The idiosyncrasies of temperament, madam," said I, "are difficult to
explain. The mere accident of relationship will not necessarily give a
similarity of disposition. Occasionally we do find one in a family
totally unlike the rest, and therefore misunderstood by them. The reason
why Miss Maud takes no interest in what is conventionally termed society
is that she feels above it. She pants, as it were, for a higher
atmosphere. For this reason she prefers lone rambles and the
contemplation of beautiful nature, with no companion save her own
thoughts, to the artificial society of the ball-room, with its insipid
conversation.
"She evidently lives completely in a world of her own, into which she
will admit but very few. To judge from her conversation, she seems
excessively well read, and acquainted with authors who rarely form a
part of a young lady's education. You must have observed that she reads
very much. Indeed, I was perfectly astounded at her research, as well as
the originality of her remarks."
"Ah!" sighed the mother, "she is a very odd girl. It is true that she is
always reading. I have seen some strange books, too, in her library, but
to tell you the truth, Mr. Blackdeed, neither myself nor any of the
family ever thought for a moment that she really had anything in her.
Her sisters look upon her as a perfect ninny."
"A great mistake," I observed; "and if you will take my advice, you will
try to understand her better. It may be difficult at first to get into
her confidence. It is a nature that requires great sympathy and
encouragement and if once ridiculed at any idea she expressed, which to
you might appear strange or wild, you may be sure that she will close
the doors of her confidence upon you once again and for ever."
At this moment the master of the house came to meet us, and inform us
that dinner was ready. At dinner time I was seated opposite Maud. She
was thoughtful and dreamy as usual all the while, and when addressed by
any of the family would start as if out of a dream.
This peculiarity of hers was not taken notice of either by the family or
the servants, who were accustomed to her eccentricity, and the dinner
passed off without any conversation worth recording. In the evening we
assembled again to take a dish of tea together. Maud was still silent
and pensive, and while the others were conversing together, I could not
help admiring the calm, intellectual serenity of her countenance.
I fell into a reverie, my eye being fixed upon her with intense
interest, when to my surprise and horror, she suddenly fell back in her
chair and became as one lifeless.
"Maud! my dear, my dear!" exclaimed her mother, "what can you be
thinking of, to fall asleep like that in company," while her two
sisters, between whom she was sitting, began to shake her, but to their
surprise she felt as rigid as a corpse in their hands, and appeared as
insensible.
"Mamma!" cried one of them, now really frightened. "Send for the
doctor."
Someone went to fetch a glass of cold water, but as I never assisted any
lady before in such a predicament, and not knowing exactly what to do, I
did not offer my services until I was asked to support Maud, who was
falling off her chair, when I rushed suddenly to her aid, and seizing
her by the shoulders, replaced her on the seat. My hands had no sooner
touched her than she again awoke, and opening her eyes sleepily, gazed
about her wonderingly.
It would seem as if my will that she should recover were sufficient, for
I touched her so gently that it was impossible the mere touch could have
awakened her out of the deep magnetic trance I had unwittingly sent her
into.
"How do you feel now, dear?" said her mother. "What can be the meaning
of this swoon? Has it ever happened to you before?"
"No, never."
"I must consult a doctor about it," said her mother. "It may be the
beginning of a series of fits, and must be looked into."
Wonderments on all hands were expressed as to what could be the origin
of this unexpected swoon, but I saw from a look Maud gave me that she
was aware that it arose from my influence over her. Maud and myself
alone were in the secret, but I was more cautious for the future, and
dared not look too fixedly at her, for fear of bringing on another
trance. We spent many happy days together while I was staying at this
country seat, and I enjoyed much of Maud's charming conversation. But
soon I was recalled to London to continue my theatrical career, so I
took leave of the family, and started with the stage for London.
Hamlet was to be acted at our theatre, and it so happened that a famous
actor of ours had died, and the part of Hamlet was allotted to me.
In the middle of my part I could not help wishing to myself that Maud
were present to see me act. The wish was intense; nor was it mere vanity
that prompted it, but I really had a sincere respect for her opinion,
and she was that sort of girl who would have told me to my face of any
defect in my acting she noticed, for she was a merciless critic.
I rather longed to hear my acting severely cut up by her than to receive
unqualified praise, although I was sure that praise from her lips would
be unfeigned.
The memory of Maud's face haunted me throughout my part, but so far from
being an impediment to me, I fancied I acted better than usual, and I
was anxious for Maud to be present that I might hear her candid opinion
of my performance afterwards. I was in the middle of that scene where
Hamlet strains his eyes into space after his father's ghost when I
noticed the figure of a lady seated in one of the boxes near the stage
which up to that time had been empty. Surprise at seeing a lady alone
whom I had not noticed before so near the close of the piece caused me
to look again.
Good Heavens! it was Maud herself. What could she be doing in that box
alone? Not even dressed for the theatre, but wearing the identical dress
I had seen her last in, as if she were at home. I started, in spite of
myself. She seemed to heed no one, for her eyes were constantly fixed on
me. Her appearance there I did not attempt to account for, but I felt a
thrill of delight that my acting was being appreciated by one at least.
I inwardly resolved at the close of the last scene to wrap my cloak
hurriedly over my theatrical dress and rush out to meet her before she
stepped into her carriage, but I was not in time, so I undressed and
leisurely returned home.
A few days afterwards I met the medical attendant of the ---- family in
the street. I inquired after the young ladies and especially Maud.
"It appears they are in London," said I.
"Indeed!" replied he. "Then it must be very lately, for it was only on
the tenth, in the evening, that I was called for to attend upon Miss
Maud, and they did not say anything about coming to town."
"On the tenth!" exclaimed I, in amazement, "you say you saw Miss Maud?"
This was the very evening I had seen her at the theatre.
"Yes; on the tenth."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Perfectly," he said. "In the evening, at about half-past nine."
"At half-past nine, on the tenth!" I exclaimed. "Why, she was at the
theatre at that hour. I saw her."
"Impossible!" said the doctor. "You must have been mistaken; someone
like her, perhaps."
"No, no, doctor," I firmly asserted; "I tell you she was in a box near
the stage while I was acting Hamlet. I was as near to her as I am to you
now; it is impossible that I could be mistaken."
"But I tell you, you _are_ mistaken, most grievously," said the doctor,
somewhat warmly. "I give you my word of honour as a medical man and a
gentleman that I attended Miss Maud at her own country house on the
tenth instant, at about half-past nine in the evening."
"Then it must have been her ghost I saw, that's all," said I. "And do
you know, doctor, that the most strange part of it all was, she was
perfectly alone in the box, and not dressed for the theatre, but wore
the very same dress I saw her last in? I marked her well, and wondering
to myself what brought her there unaccompanied and in such plain attire.
It is true, she is a little eccentric, but then her parents, I thought,
would have looked after her sufficiently to prevent such a breach of
etiquette. Really, doctor, I don't know what to think of it."
"Come," said he, with a smile, "come, confess you are a little smitten
with the young lady. You can't quite get her out of your thoughts, even
while you are acting. She has made a great impression on your
over-sensitive brain, and at the time perhaps your nerves were a little
unstrung from over study or over excitement about your part, or
else"--here he relaxed into another smile--"are you quite, _quite_ sure
you did not take just a _leetle_ drop of _something_ upon an empty
stomach, just to screw yourself up to the right pitch?"
And here he laughed heartily.
"Upon my honour, doctor," said I, "I am not in the habit of having
recourse to stimulants. I assure you----"
He interrupted me with a hearty laugh, and said, "Ah! you actors are sad
dogs."
I smiled and then after a moment's reflection said, "By the way, doctor,
for what were you called to attend upon Miss Maud? I hope she is not
dangerously ill. What is her complaint?"
"Well," said the physician, gravely, "I am afraid it is somewhat
serious. She had a fit that appeared to me to be cataleptic. It is the
second she has had it seems. It lasted for some considerable time, and
when she awoke she complained of a weight over her eyeballs and an
inclination to sleep, with a pain down the whole right side of the body.
She felt extremely nervous, and asked for a fan, with which she begged
me to fan her powerfully, and afterwards to change the movement, so as
to cause the current of air to pass her face in a transverse direction.
This I did, after which she declared that she had recovered."
I was startled at the doctor's relation, but said nothing, for I was now
more convinced than ever that my intense desire for her to be present
had influenced her magnetically, and had been the means, though
unwittingly, of withdrawing her spirit temporarily from the body. But
what would have been the use of my declaring my suspicions to such an
old-fashioned fogey as this worthy doctor? I should only have been
laughed at, so I held my peace.
"Well, doctor," said I, after we had walked on together for some time in
silence, being occupied with my thoughts, "if you have nothing else to
do in the evenings, now that you are in London, I should be glad if you
would drop in at our theatre to see me act. This evening I am going to
act Romeo again. If you have any spare time, I can give you a
box-ticket."
He thanked me, and said that as he was free that evening he would
gladly accept my offer, so we parted.
The evening arrived, and when I made my appearance on the boards I
noticed my friend the doctor already in his box. His appearance put me
in mind of the conversation we had had in the morning, and, do what I
could, I was unable to get Maud out of my head all through the piece. I
certainly _did_ long for her to be present, though I tried not to wish
too strongly, lest I should bring on another magnetic trance. I glanced
towards the box where I had last seen Maud. It was occupied by two
gentlemen, and Maud was not there.
As the piece proceeded, however, I forgot my caution, and an intense
desire to see her again, which I could not restrain, came over me.
Shortly afterwards, glancing casually towards the same box, which was
just opposite the doctor's, _I perceived Maud, dressed as on the evening
before_.
I was horror-struck, for I knew now that I saw her spirit for certain,
and that the body was nearly a hundred miles off. The two gentlemen in
the box did not seem aware of her presence, while she looked neither to
the right nor to the left, but seemed thoroughly absorbed in the piece.
Her apparition there on that night was not of such long duration as on
the evening of the tenth, probably because I was frightened at what I
had done and wished her spirit back to its earthly tenement.
When I looked again towards the box after a quarter-of-an-hour Maud was
no longer there. At the conclusion of the play I undressed hurriedly,
and sought my friend the doctor among the crowd, but I could not find
him, so I strolled into a supper room hard by, just before returning
home, and there at a table I saw my friend.
"Hullo! doctor," said I, "so you have come to refresh yourself after the
fatigue of seeing me act, eh?"
"Why, you see," retorted he, merrily, "your capital acting has quite
given me an appetite."
After one or two complimentary speeches on his part, I took my seat by
his side and gave my orders to a waiter.
"Doctor," I said, after a pause, "I saw her again to-night."
"Who?"
"Why, Maud, to be sure."
"Bah! I'll tell you what it is, young man, you want bleeding."
Pulling out his lancet, he wanted to bleed me on the spot, but I refused
to be bled.
"Nonsense, doctor," said I; "I haven't any more blood than I know what
to do with. I tell you I saw _her_ as distinctly as I see you now. She
was in the box opposite yours where those two gentlemen were, but she
did not seem to belong to them."
"Well," said he, "I saw those two gentlemen in the box opposite mine,
and I can take my oath there was no one else there."
"Mark my word," said I, "when you return to ---- and call on that
family, you will be informed that Maud has had another fit. This is the
15th. Mark the day and the hour, and if she has not, I will lose my
right hand, or I will give you permission to bleed me."
"What connection is there between her having a fit and your imagining
that you saw her at the theatre? If she was at the theatre, I must have
seen her as well as you, and if she were in a fit this evening, how
could she be at the theatre?"
I pretended to be convinced by his arguments, but forbore to explain
myself further, merely adding:
"Well, we shall see--if you hear Maud has had a fit on the evening of
the 15th, at about the same hour as the last one, you will let me know,
will you not?"
"Oh, certainly."
At this moment the waiter returned with my supper, and the conversation
took a different turn; but after we had finished and were returning
home, he urged me again to be bled or to try a little change of air, as
he observed that my nerves were evidently out of order. Having arrived
at the corner of a street, I shook hands with my friend, and we parted.
It was about a week after our parting, on returning from a walk I found
a letter on my table. My servant told me that an elderly gentleman had
called and enquired if I were at home, and receiving an answer in the
negative, he had asked for pen, ink, and paper, and left me the
following lines:--
MY DEAR SIR--Since I saw you last I have received a letter from Mrs.
---- begging me to return as soon as I conveniently could, as Maud had
had another fit on the evening of the 15th, between nine and
half-past--the very day and hour, you will remember, you fancied you saw
her in the box opposite mine. I am not a believer in spiritual
apparitions, and therefore cannot set this down to anything more than a
very strange coincidence. I called at the house of Mrs. ---- and saw the
whole family. When the lady of the house had told me about Maud's fit, I
afterwards related to her, in the presence of the young lady herself,
the curious circumstance of her fancied appearance to you in the stage
box. Maud listened with great attention, and seemed to take more
interest in my recital than the rest did, for afterwards, taking me
apart, she asked me many questions about you; when I had seen you last,
how you were, etc., etc. I returned to town yesterday, and as you asked
me to let you know if your prophecy came true, I have left you this
note. Till we meet again,--Yours very truly,
JOHN MERRIVALE.
How I triumphed inwardly on the perusal of this letter! I placed it in
my pocket, and taking my hat and cane, I left my lodgings and walked
about the streets with a buoyant step, hoping to meet Merrivale, just to
crow over him for disbelieving my vision. I would have called upon him,
had I known his address, but I saw no more of my friend--at least, for
some time afterwards. It happened that on that very evening a piece was
being performed at our theatre in which I did not act, and I thought I
would be a spectator for once in a way, so, from caprice, I took the
very box in which I had seen Maud. On entering the box I experienced all
the awe and veneration of a pious devotee when he kneels at some holy
shrine.
"This place has been visited by Maud's spirit," said I to myself, as I
shut myself in. "This is the very chair she used."
I seated myself, and the curtain drew up. It was a melodrama, if I
remember rightly, which was acted that night, but I was so occupied with
my thoughts about Maud, that I really cannot say with certainty what
piece it was. The audience applauded every now and then, so I suppose it
took well. As for myself, I had fallen into a reverie of which Maud was
the subject.
That stage box had for me a certain sanctity and purity since the first
time I had seen her there. Whether it was that on this evening I had not
my part to think of and so felt my mind open to other thoughts than
those connected with my profession, or whether this hallowed spot awoke
in my breast certain feelings, I know not, but certain it was that never
had Maud so thoroughly taken possession of my thoughts as on that
evening.
I attempted to analyse my thoughts. What was it that I felt for Maud?
What was it that made me think more of her than of other girls? And why
did I think more and more about her every day? I hardly knew myself how
to answer these questions. Was it--could it be--no--_love_, that I felt
for her? No! it was not that; at least, if it was, it was not like other
men's love. It was a feeling far purer, far loftier than falls to the
lot of ordinary men's experience. I thought that the world did
not--never did, nor ever could contain another Maud. She was different
to the rest of her kind. _Her_ beauty, _her_ talents, _her_ beautiful
nature, could never excite in me such a vulgar passion as that which the
world calls love. The thought never entered my head to make her my own,
and I was content to worship her at a distance.
I began to wonder to myself if Maud could be aware of the strong
impression she had made upon me. I even dared to hope, though humbly,
very humbly, she might not _quite_ have forgotten _me_; that there was
still a spare corner in her memory--I had nearly said _heart_--left
vacant in which I might crave a home.
Did she, perhaps--here an electric shock ran through me at the very
thought--did she feel for me _exactly_ in the same way as I felt for
her? Oh, rapture! and I tried to persuade myself that she did, for the
thought comforted me.
"Ah, Maud, Maud," I muttered to myself, in the midst of my reverie.
At that moment I heard the door handle move.
"Confound that box-keeper," muttered I. "What can he want, coming to
disturb my meditation?"
The door opened, and I turned my head to see who it was. Gentlemen, will
you believe it? It was Maud, again dressed exactly the same as before. I
started, and my blood ran cold, my hair stood on end, my teeth
chattered, and my knees knocked together. I essayed to speak, but my
tongue refused to give utterance to what I wished to say. I was then in
the presence, nay close to, a supernatural essence bearing the
lineaments of Maud, whose body I knew for certain to be at her country
seat, nearly a hundred miles away.
The figure gave me a friendly look of recognition, and seated itself. I
fancied it offered me its hand, but I was too dumbfounded to accept it,
and remained stupefied. At length this excessive feeling of terror began
to wear off, and I ventured to say, in a low tone, broken with emotion,
"Maud, is it really you? Speak."
"William," said a voice proceeding from the lips of the figure, but
which sounded as if it came from a long way off, "William!"
And there was the deepest pathos in the tone. It was the first time I
had been called thus by Maud. When she was in the body she always called
me Mr. Blackdeed. I waited for some moments to hear if the voice would
say more.
After a long pause it spoke again, and said, "You called me. Wherefore?"
"Called you, Maud!" said I. "I called you not."
"The concentration of your thoughts has had the power to command my
spirit from afar," said the figure.
"Is it so?" said I. "And can you not battle against such commands?"
The figure replied not, save by a look, which seemed to say, "When you
command, no."
I understood the look, and felt flattered by its meaning, but knew not
how to respond, so I was silent for some moments.
At length I said, "Maud--if I may call you Maud--tell me, do you suffer
much when withdrawn from the body?"
"Less out of it than in it," was the reply.
"How so?" I asked.
"You know how I stand with my family," she said.
"True, true," I observed; "and this must cause you great pain. However,
I hope in time----"
"Never, never," she replied with a sigh.
"Oh, why not? Do you not wish to live happily with them?"
"Oh, how willingly!"
"Then let me see if I cannot make matters a little smooth for you.
Perhaps----"
She shook her head doubtfully, and said, "I feel as if I did not belong
to them nor they to me; in fact, I feel as if I never belonged to
anybody, nor ever should."
"And never should!" exclaimed I. "Why, you do not mean to say
that--that--you never intend to marry?"
"I fear I should make but an indifferent wife."
"Why so? I am sure you possess qualities that many married ladies might
envy. Of course, you would require a husband who understood you and was
able to appreciate your virtues."
"You flatter me," she said. "Nevertheless, you will see that I shall
never marry. Mark my words. I was not born for it. Do you know," she
said, lowering her voice, and speaking in a solemn tone, "that of late I
have had a strange presentiment that my end is not far off."
"Now, really, Maud," said I, "pray do not talk like that, for I
sincerely hope that nothing more serious than a little temporary
indisposition has given rise to such a presentiment."
"My health of late has been, if anything, better than usual. I do not
think this presentiment can be reasonably accounted for in that way. At
other times when I have felt at all poorly such a thought has never
occurred to me."
I merely shook my head and said that I hoped she would not encourage
these presentiments.
"William," she said, "remember my words; I shall not live till the year
is out."
I did not know what to answer, and gazed upon her in astonishment for
some minutes, when suddenly her face grew agonised, and she manifested
symptoms of impatience.
"What is it, Maud?" I asked. "What ails you?" She seemed to have
difficulty in answering, but I fancied that I understood the words, "I
am drawn to the body; let me go."
And rising suddenly from her chair and gasping, she made for the door,
but disappeared from my sight before she had time to reach it.
I remained stupefied at the figure's sudden disappearance, as well as at
the whole occurrence of the evening. I knew not what to think. Had I
been dreaming? No. This was not the first time, either, that I had seen
her. I had been holding converse with no less a being than Maud's ghost;
her own pure and beautiful spirit, drawn by my art from the body while
yet breath remained.
A horrid thought struck me. Perhaps I had detained the spirit too long
away from the body. Perhaps there was no one in the house to wake her
out of her trance. I reproached myself for not foreseeing the mischief
that I might do, and returned home from the theatre that evening with
Maud more than ever in my thoughts.
Next morning when I awoke, whether from the excitement of the previous
evening or from a cold caught by walking home in the rain, or both
combined, perhaps, I found myself in a high fever. I was compelled to
remain in bed, though I was averse to sending for the doctor until some
days later, when I found the fever grew rapidly worse.
A doctor was sent for--not my friend Merrivale, as I knew not where he
lived--and he attributed my illness to over-study and want of proper
exercise. I merely mention my illness to tell you a dream which occurred
to me during a portion of it. I thought that I was transported to realms
of enchantment, and that whilst the most beautiful scenery imaginable
lay before me, I heard in the distance soft strains of music and
singing, which gradually drew nearer and nearer to me.
The atmosphere seemed to fill with a delicious perfume, and looking
upwards, I descried a troop of angels, bearing one with them who seemed
lately of this earth. The angels gradually descended, and left the
figure they carried with them at my feet, whilst they flew upward. I
instantly recognised in the figure before me the features of Maud. She
was dressed in a long robe of white, and, with an expression in her
countenance too beautiful and too unearthly to describe, she spoke these
words:
"Farewell, William; we meet again," and vanished.
I awoke, and the dream remained impressed upon my mind for a long time
afterwards.
Recovering at length from my illness, I resumed my duties at the
theatre, where I was received with immense applause after my long
absence, and continued my career with enthusiasm on my part and
admiration on the part of my audience. Night after night I would go
through my part, and week after week and month after month passed away,
and I neither heard nor saw anything further of Maud since our strange
meeting in the stage box--_viz._, on the 31st of December.
Sometimes a violent desire to see her again would seize me in the midst
of my part, and I would glance furtively towards the haunted spot, half
expecting to see her, but I never saw her again from that day to this.
The dream I had had concerning her during my illness often recurred to
me, and I wondered whether it really was a revelation or only an
ordinary dream to be accounted for by the state of my health at the
time.
I had seen no more of Maud's family, neither had I again met our common
friend the doctor or any other friend of the family from whom I might
learn the state of Maud's health, or whether she were dead or alive.
A year or two passed away, when I was invited by some friends of mine to
spend a week or so at their country seat, not very far from the seat of
Maud's family. I took the stage, and was put down at a country inn, from
whence I had to walk about a mile-and-a-half to reach my friend's house.
It was early in the morning when I arrived at the inn, and not being in
a particular hurry to reach the house, thinking that the family might
not yet have risen, I sauntered leisurely along the carriage road,
halting occasionally and looking around me. The whole scene--the air
itself--seemed to call up memories of Maud.
Absorbed in a reverie, I wandered on until I found myself at the gate of
a cemetery, which I mechanically entered. I had passed the same cemetery
often before in my walks with Maud. What a picturesque old place it was!
Filled with old crumbling monuments with quaint epitaphs and overgrown
with rank grass and weeds.
It was one of Maud's favourite spots for meditation, as she told me. It
was so perfectly solitary--overlooked by no houses and shut out from the
gaze of passers-by with thick yew trees and cypress. Then, when you
entered at the gate, what a silence reigned within! I love those grand
old melancholy retreats, and so did Maud. Here the rich and poor of the
surrounding villages for miles around were buried. I passed by the
elegant marble tombs of the wealthy and the humbler grassy mounds of the
peasantry. My thoughts were filled with the shortness of human life, the
vanity of its noblest pursuits, and the equalling, never-sparing hand of
death.
Even the bracing morning air and the merry sunshine were insufficient to
dispel thoughts like these, for the spot had a solemnity of its own
about it. The abode of the dead is at all times sacred to us, even when
we find it in the heart of a populous city, amidst the bustle and stir
of daily life; but how much more is it sanctified when we discover it in
some rural and secluded spot ungrimed with the smoke of factories,
unbroken in upon by rude voices from without, and the mossy stones and
overgrown weeds and brambles of which even the hand of the trim gardener
has not disturbed.
I seated myself upon an ancient tomb, and gazed around me. Here lay a
knight of old, there a lord of the manor; yonder some poor rustic whose
humble grave of turf bore no record of the name, age, or sex of its
occupant, what its owner's deeds had been on earth, whether fruitful or
unfruitful. Close beside it rose a stately tombstone of white marble
with a long inscription. "Doubtless here lays some rich landowner," I
thought, "whose supposed virtues are here recorded in full."
I was too far off to read what was inscribed, but the tomb was a new
one. It was not there when Maud and I took our rambles together, and I
recollected all the most important gravestones. I rose and advanced a
few steps, when I suddenly halted a few paces from the tomb, and
recoiled in horror. I was seized with trembling, my heart sank, and I
felt my brow covered with a cold sweat. The letters on the monument swam
before my eyes. I brushed away a tear as I read the following lines:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
MAUD E----N,
YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF GEORGE E----N,
OF ----
WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE
THE 31ST OF DECEMBER, 1750.
AGED 21 YEARS.
Then followed one or two verses from the Bible.
"Oh, Maud, Maud!" I cried, in an agony, and throwing myself on her
grave, I wept bitterly.
"What says the gravestone? 'On the 31st of December,'" said I to myself.
"Good heavens! That was the very evening on which I saw her spirit last
in the stage box!"
I had drawn her soul away from her body for too great a length of time.
_I_ then was the cause of her death. Poor Maud! She was right in saying
she should not live the year out, but I little thought that when her
spirit hurried from my presence on that fatal night that it was then
about to leave the body for ever.
I felt like a murderer. The thought that one so good, so innocent, and
so talented should meet with her death through one so worthless as
myself galled me. My agony was insufferable. "Oh, Maud! would that we
had never met!" I cried aloud, for now, but, alas, too late, I began to
feel the consuming fire of an intense love for her that in her lifetime
was as yet undeveloped; added to which were the stings of remorse for my
own careless, if not wicked, conduct.
I felt now that she had loved _me_. Why had I not come forward before to
crave her hand? Could I not see that she loved me, though she confessed
it not? Fool that I was! Could I not have been happy with her and made
her happy? What was it that made me draw back? I know not. There was
something about her which awed me, and kept me aloof.
Then, again, was I in a position at that time to support a wife? Had I
the right to come forward? No, I answered myself, and this thought
consoled me somewhat, but had I not already allowed myself to be carried
away by a passion that had engulfed both her and myself?
Love, grief, and remorse struggled in my breast for the mastery. I wept
aloud, and kissed the cold gravestone fervently. I know not how long I
might have been thus, for in my anguish I took no count of time, when I
was suddenly aroused by a footstep behind and a voice.
"Mercy on us, who is this?" said the stranger.
I turned, and beheld my friend Merrivale. Whilst taking his morning's
walk as usual he had been attracted by my lamentations, and curiosity
led him to enter the cemetery.
"Why, what the--I say--what! Is that _you_?" he said, as I looked up
abashed in the midst of my grief, and knew not what to reply.
"Come, come," said he. "I understand all, I saw all from the beginning.
I am not surprised, you know, with one of your temperament, but do you
know, young man, you might catch your death of cold, indulging your
grief in the morning dew on a cold gravestone. You must be--really, my
dear sir--you must be insane."
"Doctor," said I, "we may meet another time, when I may have more to say
to you. For the present leave me. I arrived here early this morning,
having been invited to a friend's house. It is time for me to make my
appearance. Till we meet again, farewell. And, doctor," said I, "you
will keep this matter secret, eh?"
"Very well," said he, with a smile which seemed to me forced in order to
disguise his emotion, for I noticed that he turned away his head
suddenly, shook my hand, and walked away hurriedly.
We had both of us left the cemetery, and about half-a-mile further on
led me to the door of my friend's house.
I tried to assume an air of indifference before my friend, and
discoursed on various topics; nevertheless, he noticed that my hand
trembled, and that I seemed distracted. I said I had been a little out
of health lately, and was glad of a little change of air.
"My doctor, Mr. Merrivale," said he, "will be here to-day to look at the
children. If you would like to see him----"
"Thank you, thank you; but I hope it is nothing worth mentioning."
In the afternoon Merrivale arrived, and I managed to find an opportunity
of speaking with him alone. I inquired after the family E----n, and was
informed that Maud had died suddenly in a trance, and he had been called
too late. That her two sisters were engaged to be married. That Maud had
spoken much of me before her last fit, and had given out some strange
mysterious hints of a certain power I had over her, and nothing could
induce her mother and sisters to believe otherwise than that I had cast
an evil spell over her.
He added that her father was more reasonable, and did not believe in
those things. The family would be sure to hear of my arrival in the
village, therefore I resolved to call on an early opportunity. I did so,
and was well received by Maud's father, he having been intimate with
mine, but by the mother and sisters with rigid coldness. They did not
even offer me their hand. I expected this, but nevertheless felt it my
duty to call. I made some slight allusion to Maud's death in as delicate
a way as I could, but was checked in the midst of my remarks by scornful
glances from the mother and sisters.
I left the house, and I need hardly say that this was my last call on
that family, although the master of the house wrung my hand cordially,
and said he should be always glad to see me when chance led me to those
parts.
I returned to my friend's house, where I tried to divert myself with a
week's shooting. I frequently met my friend Merrivale. We used to take
walks together sometimes. In one of our rambles I recounted to him all
the particulars of the evening of the 31st of December, when I had last
seen and spoken to Maud in the spirit at the theatre.
He marvelled, but was silent.
* * * * *
By the time the tragedian had finished his recital, our friends had
arrived at the door of the inn, where their host's pretty daughter
waited to receive them.
"Well, Helen, my dear," said Mr. Oldstone. "Is the breakfast ready? We
have had a long story, and we are all very hungry."
"Yes, sir," answered the maiden; "everything is on the table. I'll run
and fetch the eggs. I put them in to boil when I saw you coming in the
distance. The toast and rolls are hot, and all in order."
"Bravo! Helen, bravo!" said Professor Cyanite, rubbing his hands.
"By my troth, Helen," said our artist, "if I wanted an appetite your
bright eyes would be enough to give me one."
Helen blushed and smiled, and skipped lightly away to see after the
eggs.
"Ah! here is a breakfast fit for a king," said Mr. Crucible, as Helen
re-entered with a tray.
"And all made with her own fair hands, too, I'll warrant," said McGuilp.
"What makes you blush so much of late, Helen?" asked Mr. Hardcase.
"Oh, what a shame to tease the poor child," said Mr. Parnassus, with
tenderness.
"Ah! Helen," sighed Dr. Bleedem, "your health and rosy cheeks are worth
all my drugs."
"'I would I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that
cheek,'" quoted the tragedian from his favourite "Romeo and Juliet."
"Order, order!" cried various other members at once.
At that moment our host entered to call away his daughter, so Helen was
spared further banter.
As the meal proceeded the company began to dispute who should tell the
next story. Of those present who had not yet entertained the company
with a tale were Mr. Crucible and Mr. Oldstone. One of the two _must_
tell a story, as the club decreed, but as each of these gentlemen wished
to lay the burden of the story upon the shoulders of the other, nothing
seemed likely to be settled.
Accordingly, after the breakfast things had been removed dice were
called for, and it was agreed that whoever should throw the highest
should tell the story. Our host soon returned with the dice-box, and
remained to see which of the two gentlemen should throw the higher
number.
Mr. Oldstone seized the dice-box, and shaking it well, threw double
five. It was now Mr. Crucible's turn, so taking the dice-box from the
hand of the first thrower, and rattling it twice or thrice, he threw the
number twelve.
"Now then, Crucible," said Mr. Oldstone, laughing, "no shirking, but let
us have the story at once."
"What! so soon after breakfast!" exclaimed Mr. Crucible, "and before we
have had time to digest the last properly."
"I hope you will excuse my presence here gentlemen," said Mr. Hardcase,
"for I have a case to attend to."
"Now really, Hardcase, that's too bad," ejaculated Mr. Oldstone.
At this moment a servant arrived hurriedly at the "Headless Lady," to
call away Dr. Bleedem to see a patient.
"Really, gentlemen," said the doctor, "I am very sorry, but business
_is_ business."
"Business! business!" exclaimed Mr. Oldstone, in horror at such a word
being uttered within the sacred precincts of the club. "Business! Ugh!"
Professor Cyanite, too, had a great scientific work which he was getting
ready for the press, and begged also to be allowed to withdraw.
"Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "this is really very provoking. I
cannot think what ails you all this morning. Since our club is reft of
three such staunch members, there seems nothing else to be done but to
defer the story until the evening, when there will be no excuse for
anyone to be absent."
This was agreed to, and the remaining inmates of the "Headless Lady"
began to while away the time each after his own manner. Our artist began
a portrait of the landlord's pretty daughter. Mr. Blackdeed, who was
only here for the holidays, sat to work to finish a tragedy that he had
begun. Mr. Parnassus composed an ode. Mr. Crucible retired to his
chamber to try some chemical experiment, and Mr. Oldstone, finding
himself deserted, had nothing left him to do but to look over his
cabinet of curiosities.
Let us return to our artist and his model. How happy they both are! Both
of them young and good-looking, and left all to themselves. With what
inspiration the hand of the painter glides over his canvas, and how the
face of the pretty Helen brightens up every time the artist refreshes
his memory by taking a peep at her from behind his easel. There is no
affectation in the expression or the pose of the sitter, it is quite
easy and natural, and beautifully simple. She does not seem conscious
she is sitting for her portrait.
Every now and then, after working in silence for some twenty minutes or
so, McGuilp breaks the monotony by some pleasing remark or question, to
which the maiden replies charmingly. Sometimes she in her turn will ask
him questions about Italy, and whether the country and the people are
the same as in England.
"No, Helen," McGuilp replies; "not the same. Italy is warmer, the sky
bluer, and grapes grow in the open air along the road side. The people's
faces are darker and their language more musical than ours. They are all
Roman Catholics; but, alas, the government is bad, and the country is
infested with brigands, who attack travellers in the mountains and
sometimes keep them as hostages till their friends can be sent for to
pay any ransom they may choose to ask, in default of which their victims
are tortured and maimed in the most inhuman manner."
"Oh, what horrid wretches! I was just going to say, before you told me
that, what a paradise Italy must be to live in! But I don't think I
should like to live there now."
"Well, these are drawbacks, I admit," said McGuilp, "but, nevertheless,
Italy is a very charming country. Fancy a land where every peasant makes
his own wine--good wine, and cheap, too. What merrymakings they have,
too, on their feast days, and how picturesque their costume!"
"Ah! do tell me how they are dressed. I should so like to know."
"Would you, Helen?" said McGuilp. "Then, as the sitting is now at an
end, being past twelve o'clock, I will let you look over my portfolio.
You will find some studies that I have made both of men and women in the
costumes of the Roman peasantry."
"Oh, do show them to me," exclaimed Helen, in delight. "I am so curious
to see what they are like. Did you say it was past twelve o'clock? I
began my sitting at nine, and it does not seem to me more than
half-an-hour that I have been here."
And I have no doubt she spoke the truth. Happy moments are short. Alas!
how rapidly time glides away in youth, and how provokingly long it
appears when we have most reason to wish it should pass quickly. As
Helen was engaged in admiring the studies and sketches of McGuilp our
host knocked at the door to ask if his daughter could be spared, as her
mother wanted her aid in the affairs of the house.
"Oh, certainly," said McGuilp; "but I must have another good sitting
to-morrow."
"Very well, sir. May I be permitted to look at the portrait?" asked the
landlord.
"You may look," replied our artist; "but I warn you the likeness is not
striking at present."
"Gramercy, sir!" exclaimed the landlord, in ecstasy; "if it is not my
girl herself already!"
"Ah! my good host, wait until I have had some half dozen sittings or so,
and then look again," said McGuilp.
Our landlord then looked approvingly over our artist's portfolio, and
said, "Ah, sir, it is a noble art."
Helen was delighted with her portrait, of course, and equally so with
the contents of the portfolio. McGuilp complimented her upon her
sitting, and Helen disappeared for the present.
At one o'clock Helen reappeared with the lunch, and those members of the
club who remained at home met again over their frugal meal. They whiled
away the time until the evening with politics and a rubber at whist.
At length the village clock struck the dinner hour, and all guests were
present. The dinner passed off merrily, and all awaited the story
anxiously. Our host and his daughter were invited to hear it, so having
filled their pipes and stirred the fire, Mr. Crucible, finding himself
loudly called upon, took a sip at his port and began his story.
[Illustration]