After all, why should I tell Grace Bridgeworth—ever? I had had a glimpse
of things that were really no business of hers. If the revelation had
been vouchsafed to me, ought I not to bury it in those deepest depths
where the inexplicable and the unforgettable sleep together? And
besides, what interest could there be to a woman like Grace in a tale
she could neither understand nor believe in? She would just set me down
as “queer”—and enough people had done that already. My first object,
when I finally did get back to New York, was to convince everybody of my
complete return to mental and physical soundness; and into this scheme
of evidence my experience with Mary Pask did not seem to fit. All things
considered, I would hold my tongue.
But after a while the thought of the grave began to trouble me. I
wondered if Grace had ever had a proper grave-stone put on it. The queer
neglected look of the house gave me the idea that perhaps she had done
nothing—had brushed the whole matter aside, to be attended to when she
next went abroad. “Grace forgets,” I heard the poor ghost quaver.... No,
decidedly, there could be no harm in putting (tactfully) just that one
question about the care of the grave; the more so as I was beginning to
reproach myself for not having gone back to see with my own eyes how it
was kept....
Grace and Horace welcomed me with all their old friendliness, and I soon
slipped into the habit of dropping in on them for a meal when I thought
they were likely to be alone. Nevertheless my opportunity didn’t come at
once—I had to wait for some weeks. And then one evening, when Horace was
dining out and I sat alone with Grace, my glance lit on a photograph of
her sister—an old faded photograph which seemed to meet my eyes
reproachfully.
“By the way, Grace,” I began with a jerk, “I don’t believe I ever told
you: I went down to that little place of ... of your sister’s the day
before I had that bad relapse.”
At once her face lit up emotionally. “No, you never told me. How sweet
of you to go!” The ready tears overbrimmed her eyes. “I’m _so_ glad you
did.” She lowered her voice and added softly: “And did you see her?”
The question sent one of my old shudders over me. I looked with
amazement at Mrs. Bridgeworth’s plump face, smiling at me through a veil
of painless tears. “I do reproach myself more and more about darling
Mary,” she added tremulously. “But tell me—tell me everything.”
There was a knot in my throat; I felt almost as uncomfortable as I had
in Mary Pask’s own presence. Yet I had never before noticed anything
uncanny about Grace Bridgeworth. I forced my voice up to my lips.
“Everything? Oh, I can’t—.” I tried to smile.
“But you did see her?”