The fault that most people will find with this story is that it is
unconvincing. Its scheme is improbable, its atmosphere artificial. To
confess that the thing really happened--not as I am about to set it down,
for the pen of the professional writer cannot but adorn and embroider,
even to the detriment of his material--is, I am well aware, only an
aggravation of my offence, for the facts of life are the impossibilities
of fiction. A truer artist would have left this story alone, or at most
have kept it for the irritation of his private circle. My lower instinct
is to make use of it. A very old man told me the tale. He was landlord
of the Cromlech Arms, the only inn of a small, rock-sheltered village on
the north-east coast of Cornwall, and had been so for nine and forty
years. It is called the Cromlech Hotel now, and is under new management,
and during the season some four coach-loads of tourists sit down each day
to _table d'hote_ lunch in the low-ceilinged parlour. But I am speaking
of years ago, when the place was a mere fishing harbour, undiscovered by
the guide books.
The old landlord talked, and I hearkened the while we both sat drinking
thin ale from earthenware mugs, late one summer's evening, on the bench
that runs along the wall just beneath the latticed windows. And during
the many pauses, when the old landlord stopped to puff his pipe in
silence, and lay in a new stock of breath, there came to us the murmuring
voices of the Atlantic; and often, mingled with the pompous roar of the
big breakers farther out, we would hear the rippling laugh of some small
wave that, maybe, had crept in to listen to the tale the landlord told.
The mistake that Charles Seabohn, junior partner of the firm of Seabohn &
Son, civil engineers of London and Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and Mivanway
Evans, youngest daughter of the Rev. Thomas Evans, Pastor of the
Presbyterian Church at Bristol, made originally, was marrying too young.
Charles Seabohn could hardly have been twenty years of age, and Mivanway
could have been little more than seventeen, when they first met upon the
cliffs, two miles beyond the Cromlech Arms. Young Charles Seabohn,
coming across the village in the course of a walking tour, had decided to
spend a day or two exploring the picturesque coast, and Mivanway's father
had hired that year a neighbouring farmhouse wherein to spend his summer
vacation.
Early one morning--for at twenty one is virtuous, and takes exercise
before breakfast--as young Charles Seabohn lay upon the cliffs, watching
the white waters coming and going upon the black rocks below, he became
aware of a form rising from the waves. The figure was too far off for
him to see it clearly, but judging from the costume, it was a female
figure, and promptly the mind of Charles, poetically inclined, turned to
thoughts of Venus--or Aphrodite, as he, being a gentleman of delicate
taste would have preferred to term her. He saw the figure disappear
behind a head-land, but still waited. In about ten minutes or a quarter
of an hour it reappeared, clothed in the garments of the
eighteen-sixties, and came towards him. Hidden from sight himself behind
a group of rocks, he could watch it at his leisure, ascending the steep
path from the beach, and an exceedingly sweet and dainty figure it would
have appeared, even to eyes less susceptible than those of twenty. Sea-
water--I stand open to correction--is not, I believe, considered anything
of a substitute for curling tongs, but to the hair of the youngest Miss
Evans it had given an additional and most fascinating wave. Nature's red
and white had been most cunningly laid on, and the large childish eyes
seemed to be searching the world for laughter, with which to feed a pair
of delicious, pouting lips. Charles's upturned face, petrified into
admiration, was just the sort of thing for which they were on the look-
out. A startled "Oh!" came from the slightly parted lips, followed by
the merriest of laughs, which in its turn was suddenly stopped by a deep
blush. Then the youngest Miss Evans looked offended, as though the whole
affair had been Charles's fault, which is the way of women. And Charles,
feeling himself guilty under that stern gaze of indignation, rose
awkwardly and apologised meekly, whether for being on the cliffs at all
or for having got up too early, he would have been unable to explain.
The youngest Miss Evans graciously accepted the apology thus tendered
with a bow, and passed on, and Charles stood staring after her till the
valley gathered her into its spreading arms and hid her from his view.
That was the beginning of all things. I am speaking of the Universe as
viewed from the standpoint of Charles and Mivanway.
Six months later they were man and wife, or perhaps it would be more
correct to say boy and wifelet. Seabohn senior counselled delay, but was
overruled by the impatience of his junior partner. The Reverend Mr.
Evans, in common with most theologians, possessed a goodly supply of
unmarried daughters, and a limited income. Personally he saw no
necessity for postponement of the marriage.
The month's honeymoon was spent in the New Forest. That was a mistake to
begin with. The New Forest in February is depressing, and they had
chosen the loneliest spot they could find. A fortnight in Paris or Rome
would have been more helpful. As yet they had nothing to talk about
except love, and that they had been talking and writing about steadily
all through the winter. On the tenth morning Charles yawned, and
Mivanway had a quiet half-hour's cry about it in her own room. On the
sixteenth evening, Mivanway, feeling irritable, and wondering why (as
though fifteen damp, chilly days in the New Forest were not sufficient to
make any woman irritable), requested Charles not to disarrange her hair;
and Charles, speechless with astonishment, went out into the garden, and
swore before all the stars that he would never caress Mivanway's hair
again as long as he lived.
One supreme folly they had conspired to commit, even before the
commencement of the honeymoon. Charles, after the manner of very young
lovers, had earnestly requested Mivanway to impose upon him some task. He
desired to do something great and noble to show his devotion. Dragons
was the thing he had in mind, though he may not have been aware of it.
Dragons also, no doubt, flitted through Mivanway's brain, but
unfortunately for lovers the supply of dragons has lapsed. Mivanway,
liking the conceit, however, thought over it, and then decided that
Charles must give up smoking. She had discussed the matter with her
favourite sister, and that was the only thing the girls could think of.
Charles's face fell. He suggested some more Herculean labour, some
sacrifice more worthy to lay at Mivanway's feet. But Mivanway had
spoken. She might think of some other task, but the smoking prohibition
would, in any case, remain. She dismissed the subject with a pretty
_hauteur_ that would have graced Marie Antoinette.
Thus tobacco, the good angel of all men, no longer came each day to teach
Charles patience and amiability, and he fell into the ways of short
temper and selfishness.
They took up their residence in a suburb of Newcastle, and this was also
unfortunate for them, because there the society was scanty and middle-
aged; and, in consequence, they had still to depend much upon their own
resources. They knew little of life, less of each other, and nothing at
all of themselves. Of course they quarrelled, and each quarrel left the
wound a little more raw. No kindly, experienced friend was at hand to
laugh at them. Mivanway would write down all her sorrows in a bulky
diary, which made her feel worse; so that before she had written for ten
minutes her pretty, unwise head would drop upon her dimpled arm, and the
book--the proper place for which was behind the fire--would become damp
with her tears; and Charles, his day's work done and the clerks gone,
would linger in his dingy office and hatch trifles into troubles.
The end came one evening after dinner, when, in the heat of a silly
squabble, Charles boxed Mivanway's ears. That was very ungentlemanly
conduct, and he was heartily ashamed of himself the moment he had done
it, which was right and proper for him to be. The only excuse to be
urged on his behalf is that girls sufficiently pretty to have been spoilt
from childhood by everyone about them can at times be intensely
irritating. Mivanway rushed up to her room, and locked herself in.
Charles flew after her to apologise, but only arrived in time to have the
door slammed in his face.
It had only been the merest touch. A boy's muscles move quicker than his
thoughts. But to Mivanway it was a blow. This was what it had come to!
This was the end of a man's love!
She spent half the night writing in the precious diary, with the result
that in the morning she came down feeling more bitter than she had gone
up. Charles had walked the streets of Newcastle all night, and that had
not done him any good. He met her with an apology combined with an
excuse, which was bad tactics. Mivanway, of course, fastened upon the
excuse, and the quarrel recommenced. She mentioned that she hated him;
he hinted that she had never loved him, and she retorted that he had
never loved her. Had there been anybody by to knock their heads together
and suggest breakfast, the thing might have blown over, but the combined
effect of a sleepless night and an empty stomach upon each proved
disastrous. Their words came poisoned from their brains, and each
believed they meant what they said. That afternoon Charles sailed from
Hull, on a ship bound for the Cape, and that evening Mivanway arrived at
the paternal home in Bristol with two trunks and the curt information
that she and Charles had separated for ever. The next morning both
thought of a soft speech to say to the other, but the next morning was
just twenty-four hours too late.
Eight days afterwards Charles's ship was run down in a fog, near the
coast of Portugal, and every soul on board was supposed to have perished.
Mivanway read his name among the list of lost; the child died within her,
and she knew herself for a woman who had loved deeply, and will not love
again.
Good luck intervening, however, Charles and one other man were rescued by
a small trading vessel, and landed in Algiers. There Charles learnt of
his supposed death, and the idea occurred to him to leave the report
uncontradicted. For one thing, it solved a problem that had been
troubling him. He could trust his father to see to it that his own small
fortune, with possibly something added, was handed over to Mivanway, and
she would be free if she wished to marry again. He was convinced that
she did not care for him, and that she had read of his death with a sense
of relief. He would make a new life for himself, and forget her.
He continued his journey to the Cape, and once there he soon gained for
himself an excellent position. The colony was young, engineers were
welcome, and Charles knew his business. He found the life interesting
and exciting. The rough, dangerous up-country work suited him, and the
time passed swiftly.
But in thinking he would forget Mivanway, he had not taken into
consideration his own character, which at bottom was a very gentlemanly
character. Out on the lonely veldt he found himself dreaming of her. The
memory of her pretty face and merry laugh came back to him at all hours.
Occasionally he would curse her roundly, but that only meant that he was
sore because of the thought of her; what he was really cursing was
himself and his own folly. Softened by the distance, her quick temper,
her very petulance became mere added graces; and if we consider women as
human beings and not as angels, it was certainly a fact that he had lost
a very sweet and lovable woman. Ah! if she only were by his side now--now
that he was a man capable of appreciating her, and not a foolish, selfish
boy. This thought would come to him as he sat smoking at the door of his
tent, and then he would regret that the stars looking down upon him were
not the same stars that were watching her, it would have made him feel
nearer to her. For, though young people may not credit it, one grows
more sentimental as one grows older; at least, some of us do, and they
perhaps not the least wise.
One night he had a vivid dream of her. She came to him and held out her
hand, and he took it, and they said good-bye to one another. They were
standing on the cliff where he had first met her, and one of them was
going upon a long journey, though he was not sure which.
In the towns men laugh at dreams, but away from civilisation we listen
more readily to the strange tales that Nature whispers to us. Charles
Seabohn recollected this dream when he awoke in the morning.
"She is dying," he said, "and she has come to wish me good-bye."
He made up his mind to return to England at once; perhaps if he made
haste he would be in time to kiss her. But he could not start that day,
for work was to be done; and Charles Seabohn, lover though he still was,
had grown to be a man, and knew that work must not be neglected even
though the heart may be calling. So for a day or two he stayed, and on
the third night he dreamed of Mivanway again, and this time she lay
within the little chapel at Bristol where, on Sunday mornings, he had
often sat with her. He heard her father's voice reading the burial
service over her, and the sister she had loved best was sitting beside
him, crying softly. Then Charles knew that there was no need for him to
hasten. So he remained to finish his work. That done, he would return
to England. He would like again to stand upon the cliffs, above the
little Cornish village, where they had first met.
Thus a few months later Charles Seabohn, or Charles Denning, as he called
himself, aged and bronzed, not easily recognisable by those who had not
known him well, walked into the Cromlech Arms, as six years before he had
walked in with his knapsack on his back, and asked for a room, saying he
would be stopping in the village for a short while.
In the evening he strolled out and made his way to the cliffs. It was
twilight when he reached the place of rocks to which the fancy-loving
Cornish folk had given the name of the Witches' Cauldron. It was from
this spot that he had first watched Mivanway coming to him from the sea.
He took the pipe from his mouth, and leaning against a rock, whose rugged
outline seemed fashioned into the face of an old friend, gazed down the
narrow pathway now growing indistinct in the dim light. And as he gazed
the figure of Mivanway came slowly up the pathway from the sea, and
paused before him.
He felt no fear. He had half expected it. Her coming was the complement
of his dreams. She looked older and graver than he remembered her, but
for that the face was the sweeter.
He wondered if she would speak to him, but she only looked at him with
sad eyes; and he stood there in the shadow of the rocks without moving,
and she passed on into the twilight.
Had he on his return cared to discuss the subject with his landlord, had
he even shown himself a ready listener--for the old man loved to
gossip--he might have learnt that a young widow lady named Mrs. Charles
Seabohn, accompanied by an unmarried sister, had lately come to reside in
the neighbourhood, having, upon the death of a former tenant, taken the
lease of a small farmhouse sheltered in the valley a mile beyond the
village, and that her favourite evening's walk was to the sea and back by
the steep footway leading past the Witches' Cauldron.
Had he followed the figure of Mivanway into the valley, he would have
known that out of sight of the Witches' Cauldron it took to running fast
till it reached a welcome door, and fell panting into the arms of another
figure that had hastened out to meet it.
"My dear," said the elder woman, "you are trembling like a leaf. What
has happened?"
"I have seen him," answered Mivanway.
"Seen whom?"
"Charles."
"Charles!" repeated the other, looking at Mivanway as though she thought
her mad.
"His spirit, I mean," explained Mivanway, in an awed voice. "It was
standing in the shadow of the rocks, in the exact spot where we first
met. It looked older and more careworn; but, oh! Margaret, so sad and
reproachful."
"My dear," said her sister, leading her in, "you are overwrought. I wish
we had never come back to this house."
"Oh! I was not frightened," answered Mivanway, "I have been expecting it
every evening. I am so glad it came. Perhaps it will come again, and I
can ask it to forgive me."
So next night Mivanway, though much against her sister's wishes and
advice, persisted in her usual walk, and Charles at the same twilight
hour started from the inn.
Again Mivanway saw him standing in the shadow of the rocks. Charles had
made up his mind that if the thing happened again he would speak, but
when the silent figure of Mivanway, clothed in the fading light, stopped
and gazed at him, his will failed him.
That it was the spirit of Mivanway standing before him he had not the
faintest doubt. One may dismiss other people's ghosts as the phantasies
of a weak brain, but one knows one's own to be realities, and Charles for
the last five years had mingled with a people whose dead dwell about
them. Once, drawing his courage around him, he made to speak, but as he
did so the figure of Mivanway shrank from him, and only a sigh escaped
his lips, and hearing that the figure of Mivanway turned and again passed
down the path into the valley, leaving Charles gazing after it.
But the third night both arrived at the trysting spot with determination
screwed up to the sticking point.
Charles was the first to speak. As the figure of Mivanway came towards
him, with its eyes fixed sadly on him, he moved from the shadow of the
rocks, and stood before it.
"Mivanway!" he said.
"Charles!" replied the figure of Mivanway. Both spoke in an awed whisper
suitable to the circumstances, and each stood gazing sorrowfully upon the
other.
"Are you happy?" asked Mivanway.
The question strikes one as somewhat farcical, but it must be remembered
that Mivanway was the daughter of a Gospeller of the old school, and had
been brought up to beliefs that were not then out of date.
"As happy as I deserve to be," was the sad reply, and the answer--the
inference was not complimentary to Charles's deserts--struck a chill to
Mivanway's heart.
"How could I be happy having lost you?" went on the voice of Charles.
Now this speech fell very pleasantly upon Mivanway's ears. In the first
place it relieved her of her despair regarding Charles's future. No
doubt his present suffering was keen, but there was hope for him.
Secondly, it was a decidedly "pretty" speech for a ghost, and I am not at
all sure that Mivanway was the kind of woman to be averse to a little
mild flirtation with the spirit of Charles.
"Can you forgive me?" asked Mivanway.
"Forgive _you_!" replied Charles, in a tone of awed astonishment. "Can
you forgive me? I was a brute--a fool--I was not worthy to love you."
A most gentlemanly spirit it seemed to be. Mivanway forgot to be afraid
of it.
"We were both to blame," answered Mivanway. But this time there was less
submission in her tones. "But I was the most at fault. I was a petulant
child. I did not know how deeply I loved you."
"You loved me!" repeated the voice of Charles, and the voice lingered
over the words as though it found them sweet.
"Surely you never doubted it," answered the voice of Mivanway. "I never
ceased to love you. I shall love you always and ever."
The figure of Charles sprang forward as though it would clasp the ghost
of Mivanway in its arms, but halted a step or two off.
"Bless me before you go," he said, and with uncovered head the figure of
Charles knelt to the figure of Mivanway.
Really, ghosts could be exceedingly nice when they liked. Mivanway bent
graciously towards her shadowy suppliant, and, as she did so, her eye
caught sight of something on the grass beside it, and that something was
a well-coloured meerschaum pipe. There was no mistaking it for anything
else, even in that treacherous light; it lay glistening where Charles, in
falling upon his knees had jerked it from his breast-pocket.
Charles, following Mivanway's eyes, saw it also, and the memory of the
prohibition against smoking came back to him.
Without stopping to consider the futility of the action--nay, the direct
confession implied thereby--he instinctively grabbed at the pipe, and
rammed it back into his pocket; and then an avalanche of mingled
understanding and bewilderment, fear and joy, swept Mivanway's brain
before it. She felt she must do one of two things, laugh or scream and
go on screaming, and she laughed. Peal after peal of laughter she sent
echoing among the rocks, and Charles springing to his feet was just in
time to catch her as she fell forward a dead weight into his arms.
Ten minutes later the eldest Miss Evans, hearing heavy footsteps, went to
the door. She saw what she took to be the spirit of Charles Seabohn,
staggering under the weight of the lifeless body of Mivanway, and the
sight not unnaturally alarmed her. Charles's suggestion of brandy,
however, sounded human, and the urgent need of attending to Mivanway kept
her mind from dwelling upon problems tending towards insanity.
Charles carried Mivanway to her room, and laid her upon the bed.
"I'll leave her with you," he whispered to the eldest Miss Evans. "It
will be better for her not to see me until she is quite recovered. She
has had a shock."
Charles waited in the dark parlour for what seemed to him an exceedingly
long time. But at last the eldest Miss Evans returned.
"She's all right now," were the welcome words he heard.
"I'll go and see her," he said.
"But she's in bed," exclaimed the scandalised Miss Evans.
And then as Charles only laughed, "Oh, ah--yes, I suppose--of course,"
she added.
And the eldest Miss Evans, left alone, sat down and wrestled with the
conviction that she was dreaming.