[Illustration]
This is the story Marston told me. He didn’t want to tell it. I had to
tear it from him bit by bit. I’ve pieced the bits together in their time
order, and explained things here and there, but the facts are the facts
he gave me. There’s nothing that I didn’t get out of him somehow.
Out of _him_—you’ll admit my source is unimpeachable. Edward Marston,
the great K.C., and the author of an admirable work on “The Logic of
Evidence.” You should have read the chapters on “What Evidence Is and
What It Is Not.” You may say he lied; but if you knew Marston you’d know
he wouldn’t lie, for the simple reason that he’s incapable of inventing
anything. So that, if you ask me whether I believe this tale, all I can
say is, I believe the things happened, because he said they happened and
because they happened to him. As for what they _were_—well, I don’t
pretend to explain it, neither would he.
You know he was married twice. He adored his first wife, Rosamund, and
Rosamund adored him. I suppose they were completely happy. She was
fifteen years younger than he, and beautiful. I wish I could make you
see how beautiful. Her eyes and mouth had the same sort of bow, full and
wide-sweeping, and they stared out of her face with the same grave,
contemplative innocence. Her mouth was finished off at each corner with
the loveliest little moulding, rounded like the pistil of a flower. She
wore her hair in a solid gold fringe over her forehead, like a child’s,
and a big coil at the back. When it was let down it hung in a heavy
cable to her waist. Marston used to tease her about it. She had a trick
of tossing back the rope in the night when it was hot under her, and it
would fall smack across his face and hurt him.
There was a pathos about her that I can’t describe—a curious, pure,
sweet beauty, like a child’s; perfect, and perfectly immature; so
immature that you couldn’t conceive its lasting—like that—any more than
childhood lasts. Marston used to say it made him nervous. He was afraid
of waking up in the morning and finding that it had changed in the
night. And her beauty was so much a part of herself that you couldn’t
think of her without it. Somehow you felt that if it went she must go
too.
Well, she went first.
For a year afterwards Marston existed dangerously, always on the edge of
a break-down. If he didn’t go over altogether it was because his work
saved him. He had no consoling theories. He was one of those bigoted
materialists of the nineteenth century type who believe that
consciousness is a purely physiological function, and that when your
body’s dead, _you’re_ dead. He saw no reason to suppose the contrary.
“When you consider,” he used to say, “the nature of the evidence!”
It’s as well to bear this in mind, so as to realize that he hadn’t any
bias or anticipation. Rosamund survived for him only in his memory. And
in his memory he was still in love with her. At the same time he used to
discuss quite cynically the chances of his marrying again.
It seems that in their honeymoon they had gone into that. Rosamund said
she hated to think of his being lonely and miserable, supposing she died
before he did. She would like him to marry again. If, she stipulated, he
married the right woman.
He had put it to her: “And if I marry the wrong one?” And she had said,
That would be different. She couldn’t bear that.
He remembered all this afterwards; but there was nothing in it to make
him suppose, at the time, that she would take action.
We talked it over, he and I, one night.
“I suppose,” he said, “I shall have to marry again. It’s a physical
necessity. But it won’t be anything more. I shan’t marry the sort of
woman who’ll expect anything more. I won’t put another woman in
Rosamund’s place. There’ll be no unfaithfulness about it.”
And there wasn’t. Soon after that first year he married Pauline Silver.
She was a daughter of old Justice Parker, who was a friend of Marston’s
people. He hadn’t seen the girl till she came home from India after her
divorce.
Yes, there’d been a divorce. Silver had behaved very decently. He’d let
her bring it against _him_, to save her. But there were some queer
stories going about. They didn’t get round to Marston, because he was so
mixed up with her people; and if they had he wouldn’t have believed
them. He’d made up his mind he’d marry Pauline the first minute he’d
seen her. She was handsome; the hard, black, white and vermilion kind,
with a little aristocratic nose and a lascivious mouth.
It was, as he had meant it to be, nothing but physical infatuation on
both sides. No question of Pauline’s taking Rosamund’s place.
Marston had a big case on at the time.
They were in such a hurry that they couldn’t wait till it was over; and
as it kept him in London they agreed to put off their honeymoon till the
autumn, and he took her straight to his own house in Curzon Street.
This, he admitted afterwards, was the part he hated. The Curzon Street
house was associated with Rosamund; especially their bedroom—Rosamund’s
bedroom—and his library. The library was the room Rosamund liked best,
because it was his room. She had her place in the corner by the hearth,
and they were always alone there together in the evenings when his work
was done, and when it wasn’t done she would still sit with him, keeping
quiet in her corner with a book.
Luckily for Marston, at the first sight of the library Pauline took a
dislike to it.
I can hear her. “Br-rr-rh! There’s something beastly about this room,
Edward. I can’t think how you can sit in it.”
And Edward, a little caustic:
“_You_ needn’t, if you don’t like it.”
“I certainly shan’t.”
She stood there—I can see her—on the hearthrug by Rosamund’s chair,
looking uncommonly handsome and lascivious. He was going to take her in
his arms and kiss her vermilion mouth, when, he said, something stopped
him. Stopped him clean, as if it had risen up and stepped between them.
He supposed it was the memory of Rosamund, vivid in the place that had
been hers.
You see it was just that place, of silent, intimate communion, that
Pauline would never take. And the rich, coarse, contented creature
didn’t even want to take it. He saw that he would be left alone there,
all right, with his memory.
But the bedroom was another matter. That, Pauline had made it understood
from the beginning, she would have to have. Indeed, there was no other
he could well have offered her. The drawing-room covered the whole of
the first floor. The bedrooms above were cramped, and this one had been
formed by throwing the two front rooms into one. It looked south, and
the bathroom opened out of it at the back. Marston’s small northern room
had a door on the narrow landing at right angles to his wife’s door. He
could hardly expect her to sleep there, still less in any of the tight
boxes on the top floor. He said he wished he had sold the Curzon Street
house.
But Pauline was enchanted with the wide, three-windowed piece that was
to be hers. It had been exquisitely furnished for poor little Rosamund;
all seventeenth century walnut wood, Bokhara rugs, thick silk curtains,
deep blue with purple linings, and a big, rich bed covered with a purple
counterpane embroidered in blue.
One thing Marston insisted on: that _he_ should sleep on Rosamund’s side
of the bed, and Pauline in his own old place. He didn’t want to see
Pauline’s body where Rosamund’s had been. Of course he had to lie about
it and pretend he had always slept on the side next the window.
I can see Pauline going about in that room, looking at everything;
looking at herself, her black, white and vermilion, in the glass that
had held Rosamund’s pure rose and gold; opening the wardrobe where
Rosamund’s dresses used to hang, sniffing up the delicate, flower scent
of Rosamund, not caring, covering it with her own thick trail. And
Marston (who cared abominably)—I can see him getting more miserable and
at the same time more excited as the wedding evening went on. He took
her to the play to fill up the time, or perhaps to get her out of
Rosamund’s rooms; God knows. I can see them sitting in the stalls, bored
and restless, starting up and going out before the thing was half over,
and coming back to that house in Curzon Street before eleven o’clock.
[Illustration]
It wasn’t much past eleven when he went to her room.
I told you her door was at right angles to his, and the landing was
narrow, so that anybody standing by Pauline’s door must have been seen
the minute he opened his. He hadn’t even to cross the landing to get to
her.
Well, Marston swears that there was nothing there when he opened his own
door; but when he came to Pauline’s he saw Rosamund standing up before
it; and, he said, “_She wouldn’t let me in._”
Her arms were stretched out, barring the passage. Oh yes, he saw her
face, Rosamund’s face; I gathered that it was utterly sweet, and utterly
inexorable. He couldn’t pass her.
So he turned into his own room, backing, he says, so that he could keep
looking at her. And when he stood on the threshold of his own door she
wasn’t there.
No, he wasn’t frightened. He couldn’t tell me what he felt; but he left
his door open all night because he couldn’t bear to shut it on her. And
he made no other attempt to go in to Pauline; he was so convinced that
the phantasm of Rosamund would come again and stop him.
I don’t know what sort of excuse he made to Pauline the next morning. He
said she was very stiff and sulky all day; and no wonder. He was still
infatuated with her, and I don’t think that the phantasm of Rosamund had
put him off Pauline in the least. In fact, he persuaded himself that the
thing was nothing but a hallucination, due, no doubt, to his excitement.
Anyhow, he didn’t expect to see it at the door again the next night.
Yes. It was there. Only, this time, he said, it drew aside to let him
pass. It smiled at him, as if it were saying, “Go in, if you must;
you’ll see what’ll happen.”
He had no sense that it had followed him into the room; he felt certain
that, this time, it would let him be.
It was when he approached Pauline’s bed, which had been Rosamund’s bed,
that she appeared again, standing between it and him, and stretching out
her arms to keep him back.
[Illustration: ... stretching out her arms to keep him back.]
All that Pauline could see was her bridegroom backing and backing, then
standing there, fixed, and the look on his face. That in itself was
enough to frighten her.
She said, “What’s the matter with you, Edward?”
He didn’t move.
“What are you standing there for? Why don’t you come to bed?”
Then Marston seems to have lost his head and blurted it out:
“I can’t. I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” said Pauline from the bed.
“Can’t sleep with you. She won’t let me.”
“She?”
“Rosamund. My wife. She’s there.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“She’s there, I tell you. She won’t let me. She’s pushing me back.”
He says Pauline must have thought he was drunk or something. Remember,
she _saw_ nothing but Edward, his face, and his mysterious attitude. He
must have looked very drunk.
She sat up in bed, with her hard, black eyes blazing away at him, and
told him to leave the room that minute. Which he did.
The next day she had it out with him. I gathered that she kept on talking
about the “state” he was in.
“You came to my room, Edward, in a _disgraceful_ state.”
I suppose Marston said he was sorry; but he couldn’t help it; he wasn’t
drunk. He stuck to it that Rosamund was there. He had seen her. And
Pauline said, if he wasn’t drunk then he must be mad, and he said
meekly, “Perhaps I _am_ mad.”
That set her off, and she broke out in a fury. He was no more mad than
she was; but he didn’t care for her; he was making ridiculous excuses;
shamming, to put her off. There was some other woman.
Marston asked her what on earth she supposed he’d married her for. Then
she burst out crying and said she didn’t know.
Then he seems to have made it up with Pauline. He managed to make her
believe he wasn’t lying, that he really had seen something, and between
them they arrived at a rational explanation of the appearance. He had
been overworking. Rosamund’s phantasm was nothing but a hallucination of
his exhausted brain.
This theory carried him on till bed-time. Then, he says, he began to
wonder what would happen, what Rosamund’s phantasm would do next. Each
morning his passion for Pauline had come back again, increased by
frustration, and it worked itself up crescendo, towards night. Supposing
he _had_ seen Rosamund. He might see her again. He had become suddenly
subject to hallucinations. But as long as you _knew_ you were
hallucinated you were all right.
So what they agreed to do that night was by way of precaution, in case
the thing came again. It might even be sufficient in itself to prevent
his seeing anything.
Instead of going in to Pauline he was to get into the room before she
did, and she was to come to him there. That, they said, would break the
spell. To make him feel even safer he meant to be in bed before Pauline
came.
Well, he got into the room all right.
It was when he tried to get into bed that—he saw her (I mean Rosamund).
She was lying there, in his place next the window, her own place, lying
in her immature child-like beauty and sleeping, the firm full bow of her
mouth softened by sleep. She was perfect in every detail, the lashes of
her shut eyelids golden on her white cheeks, the solid gold of her
square fringe shining, and the great braided golden rope of her hair
flung back on the pillow.
He knelt down by the bed and pressed his forehead into the bedclothes,
close to her side. He declared he could feel her breathe.
He stayed there for the twenty minutes Pauline took to undress and come
to him. He says the minutes stretched out like hours. Pauline found him
still kneeling with his face pressed into the bedclothes. When he got up
he staggered.
She asked him what he was doing and why he wasn’t in bed. And he said,
“It’s no use. I can’t. I can’t.”
But somehow he couldn’t tell her that Rosamund was there. Rosamund was
too sacred; he couldn’t talk about her. He only said:
“You’d better sleep in my room to-night.”
He was staring down at the place in the bed where he still saw Rosamund.
Pauline couldn’t have seen anything but the bedclothes, the sheet
smoothed above an invisible breast, and the hollow in the pillow. She
said she’d do nothing of the sort. She wasn’t going to be frightened out
of her own room. He could do as he liked.
He couldn’t leave them there; he couldn’t leave Pauline with Rosamund,
and he couldn’t leave Rosamund with Pauline. So he sat up in a chair
with his back turned to the bed. No. He didn’t make any attempt to go
back. He says he knew she was still lying there, guarding his place,
which was her place. The odd thing is that he wasn’t in the least
disturbed or frightened or surprised. He took the whole thing as a
matter of course. And presently he dozed off into a sleep.
A scream woke him and the sound of a violent body leaping out of the bed
and thudding on to its feet. He switched on the light and saw the
bedclothes flung back and Pauline standing on the floor with her mouth
open.
He went to her and held her. She was cold to the touch and shaking with
terror, and her jaws dropped as if she was palsied.
She said, “Edward, there’s something in the bed.”
He glanced again at the bed. It was empty.
“There isn’t,” he said. “Look.”
He stripped the bed to the foot-rail, so that she could see.
“There _was_ something.”
“Do you see it?”
[Illustration]
“No, I felt it.”
She told him. First something had come swinging, smack across her face.
A thick, heavy rope of woman’s hair. It had waked her. Then she had put
out her hands and felt the body. A woman’s body, soft and horrible; her
fingers had sunk in the shallow breasts. Then she had screamed and
jumped.
And she couldn’t stay in the room. The room, she said, was “beastly.”
She slept in Marston’s room, in his small single bed, and he sat up with
her all night, on a chair.
She believed now that he had really seen something, and she remembered
that the library was beastly, too. Haunted by something. She supposed
that was what she had felt. Very well. Two rooms in the house were
haunted; their bedroom and the library. They would just have to avoid
those two rooms. She had made up her mind, you see, that it was nothing
but a case of an ordinary haunted house; the sort of thing you’re always
hearing about and never believe in till it happens to yourself. Marston
didn’t like to point out to her that the house hadn’t been haunted till
she came into it.
The following night, the fourth night, she was to sleep in the spare
room on the top floor, next to the servants, and Marston in his own
room.
But Marston didn’t sleep. He kept on wondering whether he would or would
not go up to Pauline’s room. That made him horribly restless, and
instead of undressing and going to bed, he sat up on a chair with a
book. He wasn’t nervous; but he had a queer feeling that something was
going to happen, and that he must be ready for it, and that he’d better
be dressed.
It must have been soon after midnight when he heard the door-knob
turning very slowly and softly. The door opened behind him and Pauline
came in, moving without a sound, and stood before him. It gave him a
shock; for he had been thinking of Rosamund, and when he heard the
door-knob turn it was the phantasm of Rosamund that he expected to see
coming in. He says, for the first minute, it was this appearance of
Pauline that struck him as the uncanny and unnatural thing.
She had nothing, absolutely nothing on but a transparent white chiffony
sort of dressing-gown. She was trying to undo it. He could see her hands
shaking as her fingers fumbled with the fastenings. He got up suddenly,
and they just stood there before each other, saying nothing, staring at
each other. He was fascinated by her, by the sheer glamour of her body,
gleaming white through the thin stuff, and by the movement of her
fingers. I think I’ve said she was a beautiful woman, and her beauty at
that moment was overpowering.
And still he stared at her without saying anything. It sounds as if
their silence lasted quite a long time, but in reality it couldn’t have
been more than some fraction of a second.
Then she began. “Oh, Edward, for God’s sake say something. Oughtn’t I to
have come?”
And she went on without waiting for an answer. “Are you thinking of
_her_? Because, if—if you are, I’m not going to let her drive you away
from me.... I’m not going to.... She’ll keep on coming as long as we
don’t— Can’t you see that this is the way to stop it...? When you take
me in your arms.”
She slipped off the loose sleeves of the chiffon thing and it fell to
her feet. Marston says he heard a queer sound, something between a groan
and a grunt, and was amazed to find that it came from himself.
He hadn’t touched her yet—mind you, it went quicker than it takes to
tell, it was still an affair of the fraction of a second—they were
holding out their arms to each other, when the door opened again without
a sound, and, without visible passage, the phantasm was there. It came
incredibly fast, and thin at first, like a shaft of light sliding
between them. It didn’t do anything; there was no beating of hands,
only, as it took on its full form, its perfect likeness of flesh and
blood, it made its presence felt like a push, a force, driving them
asunder.
Pauline hadn’t seen it yet. She thought it was Marston who was beating
her back. She cried out: “Oh, don’t, don’t push me away!” She stooped
below the phantasm’s guard and clung to his knees, writhing and crying.
For a moment it was a struggle between her moving flesh and that still,
supernatural being.
And in that moment Marston realized that he hated Pauline. She was
fighting Rosamund with her gross flesh and blood, taking a mean
advantage of her embodied state to beat down the heavenly, discarnate
thing.
He called to her to let go.
“It’s not I,” he shouted. “Can’t you _see_ her?”
Then, suddenly, she saw, and let go, and dropped, crouching on the floor
and trying to cover herself. This time she had given no cry.
The phantasm gave way; it moved slowly towards the door, and as it went
it looked back over its shoulder at Marston, it trailed a hand,
signalling to him to come.
He went out after it, hardly aware of Pauline’s naked body that still
writhed there, clutching at his feet as they passed, and drew itself
after him, like a worm, like a beast, along the floor.
[Illustration: ... drew itself after him along the floor.]
She must have got up at once and followed them out on to the landing;
for, as he went down the stairs behind the phantasm, he could see
Pauline’s face, distorted with lust and terror, peering at them above
the stairhead. She saw them descend the last flight, and cross the hall
at the bottom and go into the library. The door shut behind them.
Something happened in there. Marston never told me precisely what it
was, and I didn’t ask him. Anyhow, that finished it.
The next day Pauline ran away to her own people. She couldn’t stay in
Marston’s house because it was haunted by Rosamund, and he wouldn’t
leave it for the same reason.
And she never came back; for she was not only afraid of Rosamund, she
was afraid of Marston. And if she _had_ come it wouldn’t have been any
good. Marston was convinced that, as often as he attempted to get to
Pauline, something would stop him. Pauline certainly felt that, if
Rosamund were pushed to it, she might show herself in some still more
sinister and terrifying form. She knew when she was beaten.
And there was more in it than that. I believe he tried to explain it to
her; said he had married her on the assumption that Rosamund was dead,
but that now he knew she was alive; she was, as he put it, “there.” He
tried to make her see that if he had Rosamund he couldn’t have _her_.
Rosamund’s presence in the world annulled their contract.
You see I’m convinced that something _did_ happen that night in the
library. I say, he never told me precisely what it was, but he once let
something out. We were discussing one of Pauline’s love-affairs (after
the separation she gave him endless grounds for divorce).
“Poor Pauline,” he said, “she thinks she’s so passionate.”
“Well,” I said, “wasn’t she?”
Then he burst out. “No. She doesn’t know what passion is. None of you
know. You haven’t the faintest conception. You’d have to get rid of your
bodies first. _I_ didn’t know until—”
He stopped himself. I think he was going to say, “until Rosamund came
back and showed me.” For he leaned forward and whispered: “It isn’t a
localized affair at all.... If you only knew—”
So I don’t think it was just faithfulness to a revived memory. I take it
there had been, behind that shut door, some experience, some terrible
and exquisite contact. More penetrating than sight or touch. More—more
extensive: passion at all points of being.
Perhaps the supreme moment of it, the ecstasy, only came when her
phantasm had disappeared.
He couldn’t go back to Pauline after _that_.