I thought. And on the woman's? I looked at her, and I remembered. I
could not be mistaken. Spite of her change in manner, dress, and
appearance, it was Mary Simms. This woman some years before, when she
was still very young, had been a sort of humble companion to my mother.
A simple-minded, honest girl, we thought her. Sometimes I had fancied
that she had paid me, in a sly way, a marked attention. I had been
foolish enough to be flattered by her stealthy glances and her sighs.
But I had treated these little demonstrations of partiality as due only
to a silly girlish fancy. Mary Simms, however, had come to grief in our
household. She had been detected in the abstraction of sundry jewels and
petty ornaments. The morning after discovery she had left the house, and
we had heard of her no more. As these recollections passed rapidly
through my mind I looked behind me. The couple had turned back. I turned
to follow again; and spite of carriages and cabs, and shouts and oaths
of drivers, I took the middle of the street in order to pass the man and
woman at a little distance unobserved. No; I was not mistaken. The woman
was Mary Simms, though without any trace of all her former
simple-minded airs; Mary Simms, no longer in her humble attire, but
flaunting in all the finery of overdone fashion. She wore an air of
reckless joyousness in her face; and yet, spite of that, I pitied her.
It was clear she had fallen on the evil ways of bettered
fortune--bettered, alas! for the worse.
I had an excuse now, in my own mind, for my continued pursuit, without
deeming myself an utter madman--the excuse of curiosity to know the
destiny of one with whom I had been formerly familiar, and in whom I had
taken an interest. Presently the game I was hunting down stopped at the
door of the Grand Cafe. After a little discussion they entered. It was a
public place of entertainment; there was no reason why I should not
enter also. I found my way to the first floor. They were already seated
at a table, Mary holding the _carte_ in her hand. They were about to
dine. Why should not I dine there too? There was but one little
objection,--I had an engagement to dinner. But the strange impulse which
overpowered me, and seemed leading me on step by step, spite of myself,
quickly overruled all the dictates of propriety toward my intended
hosts. Could I not send a prettily devised apology? I glided past the
couple, with my head averted, seeking a table, and I was unobserved by
my old acquaintance. I was too agitated to eat, but I made a semblance,
and little heeded the air of surprise and almost disgust on the
bewildered face of the waiter as he bore away the barely touched dishes.
I was in a very fever of impatience and doubt what next to do. They
still sat on, in evident enjoyment of their meal and their constant
draughts of sparkling wine. My impatience was becoming almost unbearable
when the man at last rose. The woman seemed to have uttered some
expostulation, for he turned at the door and said somewhat harshly
aloud, "Nonsense; only one game and I shall be back. The waiter will
give you a paper--a magazine--something to while away the time." And he
left the room for the billiard-table, as I surmised.
Now was my opportunity. After a little hesitation, I rose, and planted
myself abruptly on the vacant seat before the woman.
"Mary," I said.
She started, with a little exclamation of alarm, and dropped the paper
she had held. She knew me at once.
"Master John!" she exclaimed, using the familiar term still given me
when I was long past boyhood; and then, after a lengthened gaze, she
turned away her head. I was embarrassed at first how to address her.
"Mary," I said at last, "I am grieved to see you thus."
"Why should you be grieved for me?" she retorted, looking at me sharply,
and speaking in a tone of impatient anger. "I am happy as I am."
"I don't believe you," I replied.
She again turned away her head.
"Mary," I pursued, "can you doubt, that, spite of all, I have still a
strong interest in the companion of my youth?"
She looked at me almost mournfully, but did not speak. At that moment I
probably grew pale; for suddenly that chilly fit seized me again, and
my forehead became clammy. That voice sounded again in my ear: "Speak
of him!" were the words it uttered. Mary gazed on me with surprise, and
yet I was assured that _she_ had not heard that voice, so plain to me.
She evidently mistook the nature of my visible emotion.
"O Master John!" she stammered, with tears gathering in her eyes,
reverting again to that name of bygone times, "if you had loved me
then--if you had consoled my true affection with one word of hope, one
look of loving-kindness--if you had not spurned and crushed me, I should
not have been what I am now."
I was about to make some answer to this burst of unforgotten passion,
when the voice came again: "Speak of him!"
"You have loved others since," I remarked, with a coldness which seemed
cruel to myself. "You love _him_ now." And I nodded my head toward the
door by which the man had disappeared.
"Do I?" she said, with a bitter smile. "Perhaps; who knows?"
"And yet no good can come to you from a connection with that man," I
pursued.
"Why not? He adores me, and he is free," was her answer, given with a
little triumphant air.
"Yes," I said, "I know he is free: he has lately lost his wife. He has
made good his claim to the sum for which he insured her life."
Mary grew deadly pale. "How did you learn this? what do you know of
him?" she stammered.
I had no reply to give. She scanned my face anxiously for some time;
then in a low voice she added, "What do you suspect?"
I was still silent, and only looked at her fixedly.
"You do not speak," she pursued nervously. "Why do you not speak? Ah,
you know more than you would say! Master John, Master John, you might
set my tortured mind at rest, and clear or confirm those doubts which
_will_ come into my poor head, spite of myself. Speak out--O, do speak
out!"
"Not here; it is impossible," I replied, looking around. The room as the
hour advanced, was becoming more thronged with guests, and the full
tables gave a pretext for my reticence, when in truth I had nothing to
say.
"Will you come and see me--will you?" she asked with earnest entreaty.
I nodded my head.
"Have you a pocketbook? I will write you my address; and you will
come--yes, I am sure you will come!" she said in an agitated way.
I handed her my pocketbook and pencil; she wrote rapidly.
"Between the hours of three and five," she whispered, looking uneasily
at the door; "_he_ is sure not to be at home."
I rose; Mary held out her hand to me, then withdrew it hastily with an
air of shame, and the tears sprang into her eyes again. I left the room
hurriedly, and met her companion on the stairs.
That same evening, in the solitude of my own room, I pondered over the
little event of the day. I had calmed down from my state of excitement.
The living apparition of Mary Simms occupied my mind almost to the
exclusion of the terrors of the ghostly voice which had haunted me, and
my own fears of coming insanity. In truth, what was that man to me?
Nothing. What did his doings matter to such a perfect stranger as
myself? Nothing. His connection with Mary Simms was our only link; and
in what should that affect me? Nothing again. I debated with myself
whether it were not foolish of me to comply with my youthful companion's
request to visit her; whether it were not imprudent in me to take any
further interest in the lost woman; whether there were not even danger
in seeking to penetrate mysteries which were no concern of mine. The
resolution to which I came pleased me, and I said aloud, "No, I will not
go!"
At the same moment came again the voice like an awful echo to my
words--"Go!" It came so suddenly and so imperatively, almost without any
previous warning of the usual shudder, that the shock was more than I
could bear. I believe I fainted; I know I found myself, when I came to
consciousness, in my arm-chair, cold and numb, and my candles had almost
burned down into their sockets.
The next morning I was really ill. A sort of low fever seemed to have
prostrated me, and I would have willingly seized so valid a reason for
disobeying, at least for that day--for some days, perhaps--the
injunction of that ghostly voice. But all that morning it never left me.
My fearful chilly fit was of constant recurrence, and the words "Go! go!
go!" were murmured so perpetually in my ears--the sound was one of such
urgent entreaty--that all force of will gave way completely. Had I
remained in that lone room, I should have gone wholly mad. As yet, to my
own feelings, I was but partially out of my senses.
I dressed hastily; and, I scarce know how--by no effort of my own will,
it seemed to me--I was in the open air. The address of Mary Simms was in
a street not far from my own suburb. Without any power of reasoning, I
found myself before the door of the house. I knocked, and asked a
slipshod girl who opened the door to me for "Miss Simms." She knew no
such person, held a brief shrill colloquy with some female in the
back-parlor, and, on coming back, was about to shut the door in my face,
when a voice from above--the voice of her I sought--called down the
stairs, "Let the gentleman come up!"
I was allowed to pass. In the front drawing-room I found Mary Simms.
"They do not know me under that name," she said with a mournful smile,
and again extended, then withdrew, her hand.
"Sit down," she went on to say, after a nervous pause. "I am alone now;
told I adjure you, if you have still one latent feeling of old kindness
for me, explain your words of yesterday to me."
I muttered something to the effect that I had no explanation to give. No
words could be truer; I had not the slightest conception what to say.
"Yes, I am sure you have; you must, you will," pursued Mary excitedly;
"you have some knowledge of that matter."
"What matter?" I asked.
"Why, the insurance," she replied impatiently. "You know well what I
mean. My mind has been distracted about it. Spite of myself, terrible
suspicions have forced themselves on me. No; I don't mean that," she
cried, suddenly checking herself and changing her tone; "don't heed
what I said; it was madness in me to say what I did. But do, do, do tell
me all you know."
The request was a difficult one to comply with, for I knew nothing. It
is impossible to say what might have been the end of this strange
interview, in which I began to feel myself an unwilling impostor; but
suddenly Mary started.
"The noise of the latchkey in the lock!" she cried, alarmed; "He has
returned; he must not see you; you must come another time. Here, here,
be quick! I'll manage him."
And before I could utter another word she had pushed me into the back
drawing-room and closed the door. A man's step on the stairs; then
voices. The man was begging Mary to come out with him, as the day was so
fine. She excused herself; he would hear no refusal. At last she
appeared to consent, on condition that the man would assist at her
toilet. There was a little laughter, almost hysterical on the part of
Mary, whose voice evidently quivered with trepidation.
Presently both mounted the upper stairs. Then the thought stuck me that
I had left my hat in the front room--a sufficient cause for the woman's
alarm. I opened the door cautiously, seized my hat, and was about to
steal down the stairs, when I was again spellbound by that numb cold.
"Stay!" said the voice. I staggered back to the other room with my hat,
and closed the door.
Presently the couple came down. Mary was probably relieved by
discovering that my hat was no longer there, and surmised that I had
departed; for I heard her laughing as they went down the lower flight.
Then I heard them leave the house.
I was alone in that back drawing-room. Why? what did I want there? I was
soon to learn. I felt the chill invisible presence near me; and the
voice said, "Search!"
The room belonged to the common representative class of back
drawing-rooms in "apartments" of the better kind. The only one
unfamiliar piece of furniture was an old Indian cabinet; and my eye
naturally fell on that. As I stood and looked at it with a strange
unaccountable feeling of fascination, again came the voice--"Search!"
I shuddered and obeyed. The cabinet was firmly locked; there was no
power of opening it except by burglarious infraction; but still the
voice said, "Search!"
A thought suddenly struck me, and I turned the cabinet from its position
against the wall. Behind, the woodwork had rotted, and in many portions
fallen away, so that the inner drawers were visible. What could my
ghostly monitor mean--that I should open those drawers? I would not do
such a deed of petty treachery. I turned defiantly, and addressing
myself to the invisible as if it were a living creature by my side, I
cried, "I must not, will not, do such an act of baseness."
The voice replied, "Search!"
I might have known that, in my state of what I deemed insanity,
resistance was in vain. I grasped the most accessible drawer from
behind, and pulled it toward me. Uppermost within it lay letters: they
were addressed to "Captain Cameron,"--"Captain George Cameron." That
name!--the name of Julia's husband, the man with whom she had eloped;
for it was he who was the object of my pursuit.
My shuddering fit became so strong that I could scarce hold the papers;
and "Search!" was repeated in my ear.
Below the letters lay a small book in a limp black cover. I opened this
book with trembling hand; it was filled with manuscript--Julia's
well-known handwriting.
"Read!" muttered the voice. I read. There were long entries by poor
Julia of her daily life; complaints of her husband's unkindness,
neglect, then cruelty. I turned to the last pages: her hand had grown
very feeble now, and she was very ill. "George seems kinder now," she
wrote; "he brings me all my medicines with his own hand." Later on: "I
am dying; I know I am dying: he has poisoned me. I saw him last night
through the curtains pour something in my cup; I saw it in his evil eye.
I would not drink; I will drink no more; but I feel that I must die."
These were the last words. Below were written, in a man's bold hand, the
words "Poor fool!"
This sudden revelation of poor Julia's death and dying thoughts unnerved
me quite. I grew colder in my whole frame than ever.
"Take it!" said her voice. I took the book, pushed back the cabinet into
its place against the wall, and, leaving that fearful room, stole down
the stairs with trembling limbs, and left the house with all the
feelings of a guilty thief.
For some days I perused my poor lost Julia's diary again and again. The
whole revelation of her sad life and sudden death led but to one
conclusion,--she had died of poison by the hands of her unworthy
husband. He had insured her life, and then----
It seemed evident to me that Mary Simms had vaguely shared suspicions of
the same foul deed. On my own mind came conviction. But what could I do
next? how bring this evil man to justice? what proof would be deemed to
exist in those writings? I was bewildered, weak, irresolute. Like
Hamlet, I shrank back and temporized. But I was not feigning madness; my
madness seemed but all too real for me. During all this period the
wailing of that wretched voice in my ear was almost incessant. O, I must
have been mad!
I wandered about restlessly, like the haunted thing I had become. One
day I had come unconsciously and without purpose into Oxford Street. My
troubled thoughts were suddenly broken in upon by the solicitations of a
beggar. With a heart hardened against begging impostors, and under the
influence of the shock rudely given to my absorbing dreams, I answered
more hardly than was my wont. The man heaved a heavy sigh, and sobbed
forth, "Then Heaven help me!" I caught sight of him before he turned
away. He was a ghastly object, with fever in his hollow eyes and sunken
cheeks, and fever on his dry, chapped lips. But I knew, or fancied I
knew, the tricks of the trade, and I was obdurate. Why, I asked myself,
should the cold shudder come over me at such a moment? But it was so
strong on me as to make me shake all over. It came--that maddening
voice. "Succor!" it said now. I had become so accustomed already to
address the ghostly voice that I cried aloud, "Why, Julia, why?" I saw
people laughing in my face at this strange cry, and I turned in the
direction in which the beggar had gone. I just caught sight of him as he
was tottering down a street toward Soho. I determined to have pity for
this once, and followed the poor man. He led me on through I know not
what streets. His steps was hurried now. In one street I lost sight of
him; but I felt convinced he must have turned into a dingy court. I made
inquiries, but for a time received only rude jeering answers from the
rough men and women whom I questioned. At last a little girl informed me
that I must mean the strange man who lodged in the garret of a house she
pointed out to me. It was an old dilapidated building, and I had much
repugnance on entering it. But again I was no master of my will. I
mounted some creaking stairs to the top of the house, until I could go
no further. A shattered door was open; I entered a wretched garret; the
object of my search lay now on a bundle of rags on the bare floor. He
opened his wild eyes as I approached.
"I have come to succor," I said, using unconsciously the word of the
voice; "what ails you?"
"Ails me?" gasped the man; "hunger, starvation, fever."
I was horrified. Hurrying to the top of the stairs, I shouted till I had
roused the attention of an old woman. I gave her money to bring me food
and brandy, promising her a recompense for her trouble.
"Have you no friends?" I asked the wretched man as I returned.
"None," he said feebly. Then as the fever rose in his eyes and even
flushed his pallid face, he said excitedly, "I had a master once--one I
perilled my soul for. He knows I am dying; but, spite of all my letters,
he will not come. He wants me dead, he wants me dead--and his wish is
coming to pass now."
"Cannot I find him--bring him here?" I asked.
The man stared at me, shook his head, and at last, as if collecting his
faculties with much exertion, muttered, "Yes; it is a last hope; perhaps
you may, and I can be revenged on him at least. Yes revenged. I have
threatened him already." And the fellow laughed a wild laugh.
"Control yourself," I urged, kneeling by his side; "give me his
name--his address."
"Captain George Cameron," he gasped, and then fell back.
"Captain George Cameron!" I cried. "Speak! what of him?"
But the man's senses seemed gone; he only muttered incoherently. The old
woman returned with the food and spirits. I had found one honest
creature in that foul region. I gave her money--provide her more if she
would bring a doctor. She departed on her new errand. I raised the man's
head, moistened his lips with the brandy, and then poured some of the
spirit down his throat. He gulped at it eagerly, and opened his eyes;
but he still raved incoherently, "I did not do it, it was he. He made me
buy the poison; he dared not risk the danger himself, the coward! I knew
what he meant to do with it, and yet I did not speak; I was her murderer
too. Poor Mrs. Cameron! poor Mrs. Cameron! do you forgive?--can you
forgive?" And the man screamed aloud and stretched out his arms as if to
fright away a phantom.
I had drunk in every word, and knew the meaning of those broken accents
well. Could I have found at last the means of bringing justice on the
murderer's head? But the man was raving in a delirium, and I was obliged
to hold him with all my strength. A step on the stairs. Could it be the
medical man I had sent for? That would be indeed a blessing. A man
entered--it was Cameron!
He came in jauntily, with the words, "How now, Saunders, you rascal!
What more do you want to get out of me?"
He started at the sight of a stranger.
I rose from my kneeling posture like an accusing spirit. I struggled for
calm; but passion beyond my control mastered me, and was I not a madman?
I seized him by the throat, with the words, "Murderer! poisoner! where
is Julia?" He shook me off violently.
"And who the devil are you, sir?" he cried.
"That murdered woman's cousin!" I rushed at him again.
"Lying hound!" he shouted, and grappled me. His strength was far beyond
mine. He had his hand on my throat; a crimson darkness was in my eyes; I
could not see, I could not hear; there was a torrent of sound pouring in
my ears. Suddenly his grasp relaxed. When I recovered my sight, I saw
the murderer struggling with the fever-stricken man, who had risen from
the floor, and seized him from behind. This unexpected diversion saved
my life; but the ex-groom was soon thrown back on the ground.
"Captain George Cameron," I cried, "kill me, but you will only heap
another murder on your head!"
He advanced on me with something glittering in his hand. Without a word
he came and stabbed at me; but at the same moment I darted at him a
heavy blow. What followed was too confused for clear remembrance. I
saw--no, I will say I fancied that I saw--the dim form of Julia Staunton
standing between me and her vile husband. Did he see the vision too? I
cannot say. He reeled back, and fell heavily to the floor. Maybe it was
only my blow that felled him. Then came confusion--a dream of a crowd of
people--policemen--muttered accusations. I had fainted from the wound in
my arm.
Captain George Cameron was arrested. Saunders recovered, and lived long
enough to be the principal witness on his trial. The murderer was found
guilty. Poor Julia's diary, too, which I had abstracted, told fearfully
against him. But he contrived to escape the gallows; he had managed to
conceal poison on his person, and he was found dead in his cell. Mary
Simms I never saw again. I once received a little scrawl, "I am at peace
now, Master John. God bless you!"
I have had no more hallucinations since that time; the voice has never
come again. I found out poor Julia's grave, and, as I stood and wept by
its side, the cold shudder came over me for the last time. Who shall
tell me whether I was once really mad, or whether I was not?
DOCTOR FEVERSHAM'S STORY.
"I have made a point all my life," said the doctor, "of believing
nothing of the kind."
Much ghost-talk by firelight had been going on in the library at
Fordwick Chase, when Doctor Feversham made this remark.
"As much as to say," observed Amy Fordwick, "that you are afraid to
tackle the subject, because you pique yourself on being strong-minded,
and are afraid of being convinced against your will."
"Not precisely, young lady. A man convinced against his will is in a
different state of mind from mine in matters like these. But it is true
that cases in which the supernatural element appears at first sight to
enter are so numerous in my profession, that I prefer accepting only the
solutions of science, so far as they go, to entering on any wild
speculations which it would require more time than I should care to
devote to them to trace to their origin."
"But without entering fully into the why and wherefore, how can you be
sure that the proper treatment is observed in the numerous cases of
mental hallucination which must come under your notice?" inquired
Latimer Fordwick, who was studying for the Bar.
"I content myself, my young friend, with following the rules laid down
for such cases, and I generally find them successful," answered the old
Doctor.
"Then you admit that cases have occurred within your knowledge of which
the easiest apparent solution could be one which involved a belief in
supernatural agencies?" persisted Latimer, who was rather prolix and
pedantic in his talk.
"I did not say so," said the Doctor.
"But of course he meant us to infer it," said Amy. "Now, my dear old
Doctor, do lay aside professional dignity, and give us one good
ghost-story out of your personal experience. I believe you have been
dying to tell one for the last hour, if you would only confess it."
"I would rather not help to fill that pretty little head with idle
fancies, dear child," answered the old man, looking fondly at Amy, who
was his especial pet and darling.
"Nonsense! You know I am even painfully unimaginative and
matter-of-fact; and as for idle fancies, is it an idle fancy to think
you like to please me?" said Amy coaxingly.
"Well, after all, you have been frightening each other with so many
thrilling tales for the last hour or two, that I don't suppose I should
do much harm by telling you a circumstance which happened to me when I
was a young man, and has always rather puzzled me."
A murmur of approval ran round the party. All disposed themselves to
listen; and Doctor Feversham, after a prefatory pinch of snuff, began.