"A ghost," I repeated, holding the poor trembling little thing more
closely. I think my first sensation was a sort of rage at whomever or
whatever--ghost or living being--had frightened her so terribly. "Oh,
Nora darling, it couldn't be a ghost. Tell me about it, and I will try
to find out what it was. Or would you rather try to forget about it just
now, and tell me afterwards? You are shivering so dreadfully. I _must_
get you warm first of all."
"But let me tell you, mamma--I _must_ tell you," she entreated
piteously. "If you _could_ explain it, I should be so glad, but I am
afraid you can't," and again a shudder passed through her.
I saw it was better to let her tell it. I had by this time drawn her
inside; a door in front stood open, and a bright fire caught my eyes.
It was the kitchen, and the most inviting-looking room in the house. I
peeped in--there was no one there, but from an inner room we heard the
voice of the landlady hushing her baby to sleep.
"Come to the fire, Nora," I said. Just then Reggie came clattering
downstairs, followed by Lieschen, the taciturn "maid of the inn."
"She has taken a candle upstairs, mamma, but I've not taken off my
boots, for there's a little calf, she says, in the stable, and she's
going to show it me. May I go?"
"Yes, but don't stay long," I said, my opinion of the sombre Lieschen
improving considerably; and when they were out of hearing, "Now, Nora
dear, tell me what frightened you so."
"Mamma," she said, a little less white and shivering by now, but still
with the strange strained look in her eyes that I could not bear to see,
"it _couldn't_ have been a real man. Listen, mamma. When you and Reggie
went, I got out a needle and thread--out of your little bag--and first
I mended a hole in my glove, and then I took off one of my boots--the
buttoning-up-the-side ones, you know--to sew a button on. I soon
finished it, and then, without putting my boot on, I sat there, looking
out of the window and wondering if you and Reggie would soon be back.
Then I thought perhaps I could see if you were coming, better from the
window of the place outside our room, where the hay and bags of flour
are." (I think I forgot to say that to get to our room we had to cross
at the top of the stair a sort of landing, along one side of which, as
Nora said, great bags of flour or grain and trusses of hay were ranged;
this place had a window with a somewhat more extended view than that of
our room.) "I went there, still without my boot, and I knelt in front of
the window some time, looking up the rough path, and wishing you would
come. But I was not the least dull or lonely. I was only a little tired.
At last I got tired of watching there, and I thought I would come back
to our room and look for something to do. The door was not closed, but
I think I had half drawn it to as I came out. I pushed it open and went
in, and then--I seemed to feel there was something that had not been
there before, and I looked up; and just beside the stove--the door
opens _against_ the stove, you know, and so it had hidden it for a
moment as it were--there, mamma, _stood a man_! I saw him as plainly as
I see you. He was staring at the stove, afterwards I saw it must have
been at your little blue paper parcel. He was a gentleman, mamma--quite
young. I saw his coat, it was cut like George Norman's. I think he must
have been an Englishman. His coat was dark, and bound with a little very
narrow ribbon binding. I have seen coats like that. He had a dark blue
neck-tie, his dress all looked neat and careful--like what all gentlemen
are; I saw all that, mamma, before I clearly saw his face. He was tall
and had fair hair--I saw that at once. But I was not frightened; just at
first I did not even wonder how he _could_ have got into the room--now
I see he _couldn't_ without my knowing. My first thought, it seems so
silly," and Nora here smiled a little, "my first thought was, 'Oh, he
will see I have no boot on,'"--which was very characteristic of the
child, for Nora was a very "proper" little girl,--"and just as I thought
that, _he_ seemed to know I was there, for he slowly turned his head
from the stove and looked at me, and then I saw his face. Oh, mamma!"
"Was there anything frightening about it?" I said.
"I don't know," the child went on. "It was not like any face I ever saw,
and yet it does not _sound_ strange. He had nice, rather wavy fair hair,
and I think he must _have been_ nice-looking. His eyes were blue, and he
had a little fair moustache. But he was so _fearfully_ pale, and a look
over all that I can't describe. And his eyes when he looked at me _seemed
not to see me_, and yet they turned on me. They looked dreadfully sad,
and though they were so close to me, as if they were miles and miles
away. Then his lips parted slightly, very slightly, as if he were going
to speak. Mamma," Nora went on impressively, "they would have spoken
if _I_ had said the least word--I felt they would. But just then--and
remember, mamma, it couldn't have been yet two seconds since I came in,
I hadn't yet had _time_ to get frightened--just then there came over me
the most awful feeling. I _knew_ it was not a real man, and I seemed to
hear myself saying inside my mind, 'It is a ghost,' and while I seemed
to be saying it--I had not moved my eyes--while I looked at him----"
"He disappeared?"
"No, mamma, he did not even disappear. He was just _no longer there_.
I was staring at nothing! Then came a sort of wild fear. I turned and
rushed downstairs, even without my boot, and all the way the horrible
feeling was that even though he was no longer there he might still be
coming after me. I should not have cared if there had been twenty tipsy
peasants downstairs! But I found Lieschen. Of course I said nothing to
her; I only asked her to come up with a light to help me to find my
boot, and as soon as I had put it on I came outside, and ran up and
down--it was a long time, I think--till you and Reggie came at last.
Mamma, _can_ you explain it?"
How I longed to be able to do so! But I would not deceive the child.
Besides, it would have been useless.
"No, dear. As yet I cannot. But I will try to understand it. There are
several ways it may be explained. Have you ever heard of optical
delusions, Nora?"
"I am not sure. You must tell me;" and she looked at me so appealingly,
and with such readiness to believe whatever I told her, that I felt I
would give anything to restore her to her former happy fearlessness.
But just then Reggie came in from the stable.
"We must go upstairs," I said; "and Lieschen," turning to her, "bring up
our supper at once. We are leaving very early to-morrow morning, and we
will go early to bed."
"Oh, mamma," whispered Nora, "if only we had not to stay all night in
that room!"
But there was no help for it, and she was thankful to hear of the
success of our expedition to the post-office. During supper we, of
course, on Reggie's account, said nothing of Nora's fright, but as
soon as it was over, Reggie declaring himself very sleepy, we got him
undressed and put to bed on the settee originally intended for Nora. He
was asleep in five minutes, and then Nora and I did our utmost to arrive
at the explanation we so longed for. We thoroughly examined the room;
there was no other entrance, no cupboard of any kind even. I tried to
imagine that some of our travelling cloaks or shawls hanging on the
back of a chair might, in the uncertain light, have taken imaginary
proportions; that the stove itself might have cast a shadow we had not
before observed; I suggested everything, but in vain. Nothing shook
Nora's conviction that she had seen something _not_ to be explained.
"For the light was _not_ uncertain just then," she maintained; "the
mist had gone and it had not begun to get dark. And then I saw him _so_
plainly! If it had been a fancy ghost it wouldn't have looked like
that--it would have had a long white thing floating over it, and a
face like a skeleton perhaps. But to see somebody just like a regular
gentleman--I could never have _fancied_ that!"
There was a good deal in what she said. I had to give up my suggestions,
and I tried to give Nora some idea of what are called "optical delusions,"
though my own comprehension of the theory was of the vaguest. She
listened, but I don't think my words had much weight. And at last I
told her I thought she had better go to bed and try to sleep. I saw she
shrank from the idea, but it had to be.
"We can't sit up all night, I suppose," she said, "but I wish we could.
I am so dreadfully afraid of waking in the night, and--and--_seeing him
there again_."
"Would you like to sleep in my bed? though it is so tiny, I could make
room and put you inside," I said.
Nora looked wistfully at the haven of refuge, but her good sense and
considerateness for me came to the front.
"No," she said, "neither of us would sleep, and you would be _so_ tired
to-morrow. I will get into my own bed, and I _will_ try to sleep, mamma."
"And listen, Nora; if you are the least frightened in the night, or if
you can't sleep, call out to me without hesitation. I am sure to wake
often, and I will speak to you from time to time."
That was the longest night of my life! The first part was not the
worst. By what I really thought a fortunate chance it was a club night
of some kind at Silberbach--a musical club, of course; and all the
musically-gifted peasants of the countryside assembled in the sanded
parlour of the "Katze." The noise was something indescribable, for
though there may have been some good voices among them, they were
drowned in the din. But though it prevented us from sleeping, it also
fairly drove away all ghostly alarms. By twelve o'clock or thereabouts
the party seemed to disperse, and all grew still. Then came some hours I
can never forget. There was faint moonlight by fits and starts, and I
not only found it impossible to sleep, I found it impossible to keep
my eyes shut. Some irresistible fascination seemed to force them open,
and obliged me ever and anon to turn in the direction of the stove,
from which, however, before going to bed, I had removed the blue paper
parcel. And each time I did so I said to myself, "Am I going to see that
figure standing there as Nora saw it? Shall I remain sane if I do? Shall
I scream out? Will it look at _me_, in turn, with its sad unearthly
eyes? Will it speak? If it moves across the room and comes near me, or
if I see it going towards Nora, or leaning over my Reggie sleeping there
in his innocence, misdoubting of no fateful presence near, what, oh!
what _shall_ I do?"
For in my heart of hearts, though I would not own it to Nora, I felt
convinced that what she had seen was no living human being--whence it
had come, or _why_, I could not tell. But in the quiet of the night I
had thought of what the woman at the china factory had told us, of the
young Englishman who had bought the other cup, who had promised to write
and never done so! What had become of him? "If," I said to myself, "if
I had the slightest reason to doubt his being at this moment alive and
well in his own country, as he pretty certainly is, I should really
begin to think he had been robbed and murdered by our surly landlord,
and that his spirit had appeared to us--the first compatriots who have
passed this way since, most likely--to tell the story."
I really think I must have been a little light-headed some part of that
night. My poor Nora, I am certain, never slept, but I can only hope her
imagination was less wildly at work than mine. From time to time I spoke
to her, and every time she was awake, for she always answered without
hesitation.
"I am quite comfortable, dear mamma, and I don't think I am very
frightened;" or else, "I have not slept much, but I have said my prayers
a great many times, and all the hymns I could remember. Don't mind about
me, mamma, and do try to sleep."
I watched the dawn slowly breaking. From where I lay I could see through
the window the high mound of rough stones and fragments of rock that I
have described. At its foot there was a low wall loosely constructed of
these same unhewn blocks, and the shapes that evolved themselves out
of this wall, beside which grew two or three stunted trees, were more
grotesque and extraordinary than I could describe. They varied like
the colours in a kaleidoscope with the wavering and increasing light.
At one time it seemed to me that one of the trees was a gipsy woman
enveloped in a cloak, extending her arm towards me threateningly; at
another, two weird dogs seemed to be fighting together; but however
fantastic and fearsome had been these strange effects of light and fancy
mingled together, I should not have minded--I knew what they were; it
was a relief to have anything to look at which could keep my eyes from
constantly turning in the direction of that black iron stove.
I fell asleep at last, though not for long. When I woke it was bright
morning--fresher and brighter, I felt, as I threw open the window, than
the day before. With the greatest thankfulness that the night was over
at last, as soon as I was dressed I began to put our little belongings
together, and then turned to awake the children. Nora was sleeping
quietly; it seemed a pity to arouse her, for it was not much past six,
but I heard the people stirring about downstairs, and I had a feverish
desire to get away; for though the daylight had dispersed much of the
"eerie" impression of Nora's fright, there was a feeling of uneasiness,
almost of insecurity, left in my mind since recalling the incident of
the young man who had visited the china factory. How did I know but that
some harm had really come to him in this very place? There was certainly
nothing about the landlord to inspire confidence. At best it was a
strange and unpleasant coincidence. The evening before I had half
thought of inquiring of the landlord or his wife, or even of Lieschen,
if any English had ever before stayed at the "Katze." If assured by
them that we were the first, or at least the first "in their time," it
would, I thought, help to assure Nora that the ghost had really been a
delusion of some kind. But then, again, supposing the people of the inn
hesitated to reply--supposing the landlord to be really in any way
guilty, and my inquiries were to rouse his suspicions, would I not be
risking dangerous enmity, besides strengthening the painful impression
left on my own mind, and this corroboration of her own fear might be
instinctively suspected by Nora, even if I told her nothing?
"No," I decided; "better leave it a mystery, in any case, till we are
safely away from here." For, allowing that these people are perfectly
innocent and harmless, their even telling me simply, like the woman at
Gruenstein, that such a person _had_ been here, that he had fallen ill,
possibly died here--I would rather not know it. It is certainly not
probable that it was so; they would have been pretty sure to gossip
about any occurrence of the kind, taciturn though they are. The wife
would have talked of it to me--she is more genial than the others--for I
had had a little kindly chat with her the day before, _a propos_ of what
every mother, of her class at least, is ready to talk about--the baby!
A pretty baby too, though the last, she informed me with a sort of
melancholy pride, of four she had "buried"--using the same expression
in her rough German as a Lancashire factory hand or an Irish peasant
woman--one after the other. Certainly Silberbach was not a cheerful or
cheering spot. "No, no," I made up my mind, "I would rather at present
know nothing, even if there is anything to know. I can the more honestly
endeavour to remove the impression left on Nora."
The little girl was so easily awakened that I was half inclined to doubt
if she had not been "shamming" out of filial devotion. She looked ill
still, but infinitely better than the night before, and she so eagerly
agreed with me in my wish to leave the house as soon as possible,
that I felt sure it was the best thing to do. Reggie woke up rosy and
beaming--evidently no ghosts had troubled _his_ night's repose. There
was something consoling and satisfactory in seeing him quite as happy
and hearty as in his own English nursery. But though he had no uncanny
reasons like us for disliking Silberbach, he was quite as cordial in
his readiness to leave it. We got hold of Lieschen, and asked for our
breakfast at once. As I had told the landlady the night before that we
were leaving very early, our bill came up with the coffee. It was, I
must say, moderate in the extreme--ten or twelve marks, if I remember
rightly, for two nights' lodging and _almost_ two days' board for three
people. And such as it was, they had given us of their best. I felt a
little twinge of conscience, when I said good-bye to the poor woman, for
having harboured any doubts of the establishment. But when the gruff
landlord, standing outside the door, smoking of course, nodded a surly
"adieu" in return to our parting greeting, my feeling of unutterable
thankfulness that we were not to spend another night under his roof
regained the ascendant.
"Perhaps he is offended at my not having told him how I mean to get
away, notwithstanding his stupidity about it," I said to myself, as we
passed him. But no, there was no look of vindictiveness, of malice, of
even annoyance on his dark face. Nay, more, I could almost have fancied
there was the shadow of a smile as Reggie tugged at his Tam o' Shanter
by way of a final salute. That landlord was really one of the most
incomprehensible human beings it has ever been my fate to come across,
in fact or fiction.
We had retained Lieschen to carry our modest baggage to the post-house,
and having deposited it at the side of the road just where the coach
stopped, she took her leave, apparently more than satisfied with the
small sum of money I gave her, and civilly wishing us a pleasant
journey. But though less gruff, she was quite as impassive as the
landlord. She never asked where we were going, if we were likely ever to
return again, and like her master, as I said, had we been staying there
still, I do not believe she would ever have made an inquiry or expressed
the slightest astonishment.
"There is really something very queer about Silberbach," I could not
help saying to Nora, "both about the place and the people. They almost
give one the feeling that they are half-witted, and yet they evidently
are not. This last day or two I seem to have been living in a sort of
dream or nightmare, and I shall not get over it altogether till we are
fairly out of the place;" and though she said little, I felt sure the
child understood me.
We were of course far, far too early for the post. The old man came out
of his house, and seemed amused at our haste to be gone.
"I am afraid Silberbach has not taken your fancy," he said. "Well, no
wonder. I think it is the dreariest place I ever saw."
"Then you do not belong to it? Have you not been here long?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"Only a few months, and I hope to get removed soon," he said. So _he_
could have told me nothing, evidently! "It is too lonely here. There is
not a creature in the place who ever touches a book--they are all as
dull and stupid as they can be. But then they are very poor, and they
live on here from year's end to year's end, barely able to earn their
daily bread. Poverty degrades--there is no doubt of it, whatever the
wise men may say. A few generations of it makes men little better
than----" He stopped.
"Than?" I asked.
"Than," the old philosopher of the post-house went on, "pardon the
expression--than pigs."
There were two or three of the fraternity grubbing about at the side of
the road; they may have suggested the comparison. I could hardly help
smiling.
"But I have travelled a good deal in Germany," I said, "and I have never
anywhere found the people so stupid and stolid and ungenial as here."
"Perhaps not," he said. "Still there are many places like this, only
naturally they are not the places strangers visit. It is never so bad
where there are a few country houses near, for nowadays it must be
allowed it is seldom but that the gentry take some interest in the
people."
"It is a pity no rich man takes a fancy to Silberbach," I said.
"That day will never come. The best thing would be for a railway to be
cut through the place, but that, too, is not likely."
Then the old postmaster turned into his garden, inviting us civilly to
wait there or in the office if we preferred. But we liked better to
stay outside, for just above the post-house there was a rather tempting
little wood, much prettier than anything to be seen on the other side of
the village. And Nora and I sat there quietly on the stumps of some old
trees, while Reggie found a pleasing distraction in alternately chasing
and making friends with a party of ducks, which, for reasons best known
to themselves, had deserted their native element and come for a stroll
in the woods.
From where we sat we looked down on our late habitation; we could almost
distinguish the landlord's slouching figure and poor Lieschen with a
pail of water slung at each side as she came in from the well.
"What a life!" I could not help saying. "Day after day nothing but work.
I suppose it is not to be wondered at if they grow dull and stolid, poor
things." Then my thoughts reverted to what up here in the sunshine and
the fresh morning air and with the pleasant excitement of going away I
had a little forgotten--the strange experience of the evening before. It
was difficult for me now to realise that I had been so affected by it.
I felt _now_ as if I wished I could see the poor ghost for myself, and
learn if there was aught we could do to serve or satisfy him! For in the
old orthodox ghost-stories there is always some reason for these eerie
wanderers returning to the world they have left. But when I turned to
Nora and saw her dear little face still white and drawn, and with an
expression half-subdued, half-startled, that it had never worn before, I
felt thankful that the unbidden visitor had attempted no communication.
"It might have sent her out of her mind," I thought. "Why, if he had
anything to say, did he appear to her, poor child, and not to me?--though,
after all, I am not at all sure that _I_ should not have gone out of my
mind in such a case."
Before long the post-horn made itself heard in the distance; we hurried
down, our hearts beating with the fear of possible disappointment. It
was all right, however, there were _no_ passengers, and nodding adieu to
our old friend, we joyfully mounted into our places, and were bowled
away to Seeberg.
There and at other spots in its pretty neighbourhood we pleasantly
enough spent two or three weeks. Nora by degrees recovered her roses and
her good spirits. Still, her strange experience left its mark on her.
She was never again quite the merry, thoughtless, utterly fearless
child she had been. I tried, however, to take the good with the ill,
remembering that thorough-going childhood cannot last for ever, that
the shock possibly helped to soften and modify a nature that might have
been too daring for perfect womanliness--still more, wanting perhaps in
tenderness and sympathy for the weaknesses and tremors of feebler
temperaments.
At Kronberg, on our return, we found that Herr von Walden was off on a
tour to the Italian lakes, Lutz and young Trachenfels had returned to
their studies at Heidelberg, George Norman had gone home to England. All
the members of our little party were dispersed except Frau von Walden.
To her and to Ottilia I told the story, sitting together one afternoon
over our coffee, when Nora was not with us. It impressed them both.
Ottilia could not resist an "I told you so."
"I knew, I felt," she said, "that something disagreeable would happen to
you there. I never will forget," she went on naively, "the dreary, dismal
impression the place left on me the only time I was there--pouring rain
and universal gloom and discomfort. We had to wait there a few hours to
get one of the horses shod, once when I was driving with my father from
Seeberg to Marsfeldt."
Frau von Walden and I could not help smiling at her. Still there was no
smiling at my story, though both agreed that, viewed in the light of
unexaggerated common sense, it was most improbable that there was any
tragedy mixed up with the disappearance of the young man we had heard of
at Gruenstein.
"And indeed why we should speak of his 'disappearance' I don't know,"
said Frau von Walden. "He did not write to send the order he had spoken
of--that was all. No doubt he is very happy at his own home. When you
are back in England, my dear, you must try to find him out--perhaps by
means of the cup. And then when Nora sees him, and finds he is not at
all like the 'ghost,' it will make her the more ready to think it was
really only some _very strange_, I must admit, kind of optical delusion."
"But Nora has never heard the Gruenstein story, and is not to hear it,"
said Ottilia.
"And England is a wide place, small as it is in one sense," I said.
"Still, if I _did_ come across the young man, I half think I would tell
Nora the whole, and by showing her how _my_ imagination had dressed it
up, I think I could perhaps lessen the effect on her of what she thought
she saw. It would prove to her better than anything, the tricks that
fancy may play us.
"And in the meantime, if you take my advice, you will allude to it as
little as possible," said practical Ottilia. "Don't _seem_ to avoid the
subject, but manage to do so in reality."
"Shall you order the tea-service?" asked Frau von Walden.
"I hardly think so. I am out of conceit of it somehow," I said. "And it
might remind Nora of the blue paper parcel. I think I shall give the cup
and saucer to my sister."
And on my return to England I did so.
* * * * *
Two years later. A very different scene from quaint old Kronberg, or
still more from the dreary "Katze" at Silberbach. We are in England
now, though not at our own home. We are staying, my children and I--two
older girls than little Nora, and Nora herself, though hardly now to
be described as "little"--with my sister. Reggie is there too, but
naturally not much heard of, for it is the summer holidays, and
the weather is delightful. It is August again--a typical August
afternoon--though a trifle too hot perhaps for some people.
"This time two years ago, mamma," said Margaret, my eldest daughter,
"you were in Germany with Nora and Reggie. What a long summer that
seemed! It is so much nicer to be all together."
"I should like to go to Kronberg and all those queer places," said Lily,
the second girl; "especially to the place where Nora saw the ghost."
"I am quite sure you would not wish to _stay_ there," I replied. "It is
curious that you should speak of it just now. I was thinking of it this
morning. It was just two years yesterday that it happened."
We were sitting at afternoon tea on the lawn outside the drawing-room
window--my sister, her husband, Margaret, Lily, and I. Nora was with the
schoolroom party inside.
"How queer!" said Lily.
"You don't think Nora has thought of it?" I asked.
"Oh no, I am sure she hasn't," said Margaret. "I think it has grown
vague to her now. You know she spoke about it to us when she first came
home. You had prepared us, you remember, mamma, and told us not to make
too much of it. The first year after, she _did_ think of it. She told me
she was dreadfully frightened all that day for fear he should appear
again. But since then I think she has gradually forgotten it."
"She is a very sensible child," said my sister. "And she is especially
kind and sympathising with any of the little ones who seem timid. I
found her sitting beside Charlie the other night for ever so long
because he heard an owl hooting outside, and was frightened."
Just then a servant came out of the house, and said something to my
brother-in-law. He got up at once.
"It is Mr. Grenfell," he said to his wife, "and a friend with him. Shall
I bring them out here?"
"Yes, it would really be a pity to go into the house again--it is so
nice out here," she replied. And her husband went to meet his guests.
He appeared again in a minute or two, stepping out through the low
window of the drawing-room, accompanied by the two gentlemen.
Mr. Grenfell was a young man living in the neighbourhood, whom we had
known from his boyhood; the stranger he introduced to us as Sir Robert
Masters. He was a middle-aged man, with a quiet, gentle bearing and
expression.
"You will have some tea?" said my sister, after the first few words of
greeting had passed. Mr. Grenfell declined. His friend accepted.
"Go into the drawing-room, Lily, please, and ring for a cup and saucer,"
said her aunt, noting the deficiency. "There was an extra one, but some
one has poured milk into the saucer. It surely can't have been you,
Mark, for Tiny?" she went on, turning to her husband. "You _shouldn't_
let a dog drink out of anything we drink out of ourselves."
My brother-in-law looked rather comically penitent; he did not attempt
to deny the charge.
"Only, my dear, you must allow," he pleaded, "that we do not drink our
tea out of the _saucers_."
On what trifling links hang sometimes important results! Had it not been
for Mark's transgressing in the matter of Tiny's milk we should never
have learnt the circumstances which give to this simple relation of
facts--valueless in itself--such interest, speculative and suggestive
only, I am aware, as it may be found to possess.
Lily, in the meantime, had disappeared. But more quickly than it would
have taken her to ring the bell, and await the servant's response to the
summons, she was back again, carrying something carefully in her hand.
"Aunt," she said, "is it not a good idea? As you have a tea-spoon--I
don't suppose Tiny used the spoon, did he?--I thought, instead of
ringing for another, I would bring out the ghost-cup for Sir Robert. It
is only fair to use it for once, poor thing, and just as we have been
speaking about it. Oh, I assure you it is not dusty," as my sister
regarded it dubiously. "It was inside the cabinet."
"Still, all the same, a little hot water will do it no harm," said her
aunt--"provided, that is to say, that Sir Robert has no objection to
drink out of a cup with such a name attached to it?"
"On the contrary," replied he, "I shall think it an honour. But you
will, I trust, explain the meaning of the name to me? It puzzles me
more than if it were a piece of ancient china--a great-great-grandmother's
cup, for instance. For I see it is not old, though it is very pretty,
and, I suppose, uncommon?"
There was a slight tone of hesitation about the last word which struck
me.
"I have no doubt my sister will be ready to tell you all there is to
tell. It was she who gave me the cup," replied the lady of the house.
Then Sir Robert turned to me. Looking at him full in the face I saw that
there was a thoughtful, far-seeing look in his eyes, which redeemed his
whole appearance from the somewhat commonplace gentlemanliness which was
all I had before observed about him.
"I am greatly interested in these subjects," he said. "It would be very
kind of you to tell me the whole."
I did so, more rapidly and succinctly of course than I have done here.
It is not easy to play the part of narrator, with five or six pairs of
eyes fixed upon you, more especially when the owners of several of them
have heard the story a good many times before, and are quick to observe
the slightest discrepancy, however unintentional. "There is, you see,
very little to tell," I said in conclusion, "only there is always a
certain amount of impressiveness about any experience of the kind when
related at first hand."
"Undoubtedly so," Sir Robert replied. "Thank you very much indeed for
telling it me."
He spoke with perfect courtesy, but with a slight absence of manner,
his eyes fixed rather dreamily on the cup in his hand. He seemed as if
trying to recall or recollect something.
"There should be a sequel to that story," said Mr. Grenfell.
"That's what I say," said Margaret eagerly. "It will be too stupid if
we never hear any more. But that is always the way with modern ghost
stories--there is no sense or meaning in them. The ghosts appear to
people who never knew them, who take no interest in them, as it were,
and then they have nothing to say--there is no _denouement_, it is all
purposeless."
Sir Robert looked at her thoughtfully.
"There is a good deal in what you say," he replied. "But I think there
is a good deal also to be deduced from the very fact you speak of,
for it is a fact. I believe what you call the meaninglessness and
purposelessness--the arbitrariness, one may say, of modern experiences
of the kind are the surest proofs of their authenticity. Long ago people
mixed up fact and fiction, their imaginations ran riot and on some very
slight foundation--often, no doubt, genuine, though slight--they built
up a very complete and thrilling 'ghost story.' Nowadays we consider and
philosophise, we want to get to the root and reason of things, and we
are more wary of exaggeration. The result is that the only genuine
ghosts are most unsatisfactory beings; they appear without purpose,
and seem to be what, in fact, I believe they _almost_ always are,
irresponsible, purposeless will-o'-the-wisps. But from these I would
separate the class of ghost stories the best attested and most
impressive--those that have to do with the moment of death; any vision
that appears just at or about that time has _generally_ more meaning in
it, I think you will find. Such ghosts appear for a reason, if no other
than that of intense affection, which draws them near those from whom
they are to be separated."
We listened attentively to this long explanation, though by no means
fully understanding it.
"I have often heard," I said, "that the class of ghost stories you speak
of are the only thoroughly authenticated ones, and I think one is
naturally more inclined to believe in them than in any others. But I
confess I do not in the least understand what you mean by speaking of
_other_ ghosts as 'will-o'-the-wisps.' You don't mean that though at the
moment of death there is a real being--the soul, in fact, as distinct
from the body, in which all but materialists believe--that this has
no permanent existence, but melts away by degrees till it becomes an
irresponsible, purposeless _nothing_--a will-o'-the-wisp in fact? I
think I heard of some theory of the kind lately in a French book, but
it shocked and repelled me so that I tried to forget it. Just as well,
_better_, believe that we are nothing but our bodies, and that all is
over when we die. Surely you don't mean what I say?"
"God forbid," said Sir Robert, with a fervency which startled while it
reassured me. "It is my profound belief that not only we are something
more than our bodies, but that our bodies are the merest outer dress of
the real ourselves. It is also my profound belief that at death we--the
real we--either enter at once into a state of rest temporarily, or, in
some cases--for I do not believe in any cut-and-dry rule independently
of _individual_ considerations--are privileged at once to enter upon a
sphere of nobler and purer labour," and here the speaker's eyes glowed
with a light that was not of this world. "Is it then the least probable,
is it not altogether discordant with our 'common sense'--a Divine gift
which we may employ fearlessly--to suppose that these real 'selves,'
freed from the weight of their discarded garments, would leave either
their blissful repose, _or_, still less, their new activities, to come
back to wander about, purposelessly and aimlessly, in this world, at
best only perplexing and alarming such as may perceive them? Is it not
contrary to all we find of the wisdom and _reasonableness_ of such laws
as we _do_ know something about?"
"I have often thought so," I said, "and hitherto this has led me to be
very sceptical about all ghost stories."
"But they are often true--so far as they go," he replied. "Our natures
are much more complex than we ourselves understand or realise. I cannot
now go at all thoroughly into the subject, but to give you a rough idea
of my will-o'-the-wisp theory--can you not imagine a sort of shadow, or
echo of ourselves, lingering about the scenes we have frequented on
this earth, which under certain very rare conditions--the state of the
atmosphere among others--may be perceptible to those still 'clothed
upon' with this present body? To attempt a simile, I might suggest the
perfume that lingers when the flowers are thrown away, the smoke that
gradually dissolves after the lamp is extinguished! This is very, very
loosely and roughly the _sort_ of thing I mean by my 'will-o'-the-wisps.'"
"I don't like it at all," said Margaret, though she smiled a little. "I
think I should be more frightened if I saw that kind of ghost--I mean if
I thought it that kind--than by a good, honest, old-fashioned one, who
knew what it was about and meant to come."
"But you have just said," he objected, "that they never do seem to know
what they are about. Besides, why should you be frightened?--our fears,
ourselves in fact--are the only thing we really need be frightened
of--our weaknesses and ignorances and folly. There was great truth in
that rather ghastly story of Calderra's, allegory though it is, about
the man whose evil genius was himself; have you read it?"
We all shook our heads.
"It is ignorance that frightens us," he went on. "In this instance think
of the appearances we are speaking of as almost of the nature of a
photograph, or the reflection in a looking-glass. I daresay we should
have been terrified by these, had we not grown used to them, did we not
know what they are. Somebody said lately what appalling things we should
think our own _shadows_, if we had suddenly for the first time become
aware of them."
"I don't mind so much," said Margaret, "when you speak of ghosts as a
sort of photograph. But----" she hesitated.
"Pray say what you are thinking."
"Just now when you said how incredible it was that _real souls_ should
return to this earth, you only spoke of good people, did you not?"
In his turn Sir Robert hesitated.
"It is difficult to draw a line even in thought between good and bad
people," he said, "and, thank God, it is not for us to do so. 'To my
Maker alone I stand or I fall.' There is evil in the best; there is, I
would fain hope," but here his face grew grave and sad, "good in the
worst. But even allowing that we could draw the line, is it likely that
the bad, even those who have all but lost the last spark, who don't want
to be good, is it likely that they, if, as we must believe, under Divine
control, would be allowed to leave their new life of punishment--punishment
in the sense of _correction_, mind you--to come back here, wasting
their time, one may say, to frighten perfectly innocent people for no
purpose? No, I think I am quite consistent. Only try to get rid of all
_fears_--that is what we can all do. But really I should apologise for
all this lecture;" and he was turning to me with a smile, when his eyes
fell on the cup which he had replaced on the table.
"I cannot get over the impression that I have seen that cup--no, not
that cup, but one just like it, before. Not long ago, I fancy," he said.
"Oh, you must let us know if you find out anything," we all exclaimed.
"I certainly shall do so," he said, and a few minutes afterwards he and
Mr. Grenfell took their leave.
But I had time for a word or two with the latter out of hearing of the
others.
"Who is Sir Robert Masters?" I asked. "Have you known him long? He is a
very uncommon and impressive sort of man."
"Yes, I thought you would like him. I have not personally known him
long, but he is an old friend of friends of ours. He is of good family,
an old baronetcy, but he is not much known in fashionable society. He
travels a great deal, or has done so rather, and people say he has
'peculiar ideas,' though that would not go against him in the world.
Peculiar ideas, or the cant of them, are rather the fashion it seems to
me! But there is no cant about him. And whatever his ideas are," went on
young Grenfell warmly, "he is one of the _best_ men I ever knew. He has
settled down for some years, and devotes his whole life to doing good,
but so quietly and unostentatiously that no one knows how much he does,
and others get the credit of it very often."
That was all I heard.
I have never seen Sir Robert again. Still I have by no means arrived yet
at the end of my so-called ghost story.
The cup and saucer were carefully washed and replaced in the
glass-doored cabinet. The summer gradually waned, and we all returned to
our own home. It was at a considerable distance from my sister's, and
we met each other principally in the summer time. So, though I did not
forget Sir Robert Masters, or his somewhat strange conversation, amid
the crowd of daily interests and pleasures, duties and cares, none of
the incidents I have here recorded were much in my mind, and but that I
had while still in Germany carefully noted the details of all bearing
directly or indirectly on "Nora's ghost," as we had come to call
it--though it was but rarely alluded to before the child herself--I
should not now have been able to give them with circumstantiality.
Fully fifteen months after the visit to my sister, during which we had
met Sir Robert, the whole was suddenly and unexpectedly recalled to my
memory. Mark and Nora the elder--my sister, that is,--were in their turn
staying with us, when one morning at breakfast the post brought for the
latter an unusually bulky and important-looking letter. She opened it,
glanced at an outer sheet enclosing several pages in a different
handwriting, and passed it on to me.
"We must read the rest together," she said in a low voice, glancing at
the children, who were at the table. "How interesting it will be!"
The sheet she had handed to me was a short note from Mr. Grenfell. It
was dated from some place in Norway where he was fishing, and from
whence he had addressed the whole packet to my sister's own home, not
knowing of her absence.
"MY DEAR MRS. DAVENTRY"--it began--"The enclosed will have been a long
time of reaching its real destination, for it is, as you will see,
really intended for your sister. No doubt it will interest you too, as
it has done me, though I am too matter-of-fact and prosaic to enter into
such things much. Still it is curious. Please keep the letter; I am sure
my friend intends you to do so.
"Yours very truly,
"RALPH GRENFELL."
The manuscript enclosed was, of course, from Sir Robert himself. It was
in the form of a letter to young Grenfell; and after explaining that he
thought it better to write to him, not having my address, he plunged
into the real object of his communication.
"You will not," he said, "have forgotten the incident of the 'ghost-cup,'
in the summer of last year, and the curious story your friend was so
good as to tell us about it. You may remember--Mrs. ---- will, I am
sure, do so--my strong impression that I had recently seen one like it.
After I left you I could not get this feeling out of my head. It is
always irritating not to be able, figuratively speaking, 'to lay your
hand' on a recollection, and in this instance I really wanted to get the
clue, as it might lead to some sort of 'explanation' of the little
girl's strange experience. I cudgelled my brains, but all to no purpose;
I went over in memory all the houses at which I had visited within a
certain space of time; I made lists of all the people I knew interested
in 'china,' ancient or modern, and likely to possess specimens of it.
But all in vain. All I got for my pains was that people began to think I
was developing a new crotchet, or, as I heard one lady say to another,
not knowing I was within earshot, 'the poor man must be a little off his
head, though till now I have always denied it. But the revulsion from
benevolent schemes to china-collecting shows it only too plainly.' So I
thought I had better leave off cross-questioning my 'collecting' friends
about porcelain and faience, German ware in particular. And after a
while I thought no more about it. Two months ago I had occasion to make
a journey to the north--the same journey and to stay at the same house
where I have been four or five times since I saw the 'ghost-cup.' But
this was what happened _this_ time. There is a junction by which one
must pass on this journey. I generally manage to suit my trains so as to
avoid waiting there, but this is not always feasible. This time I found
that an hour at the junction was inevitable. There is a very good
refreshment room there, kept by very civil, decent people. They knew me
by sight, and after I had had a cup of tea they proposed to me, as they
have done before, to wait in their little parlour just off the public
room. 'It would be quieter and more comfortable,' said either the mother
or the daughter who manage the concern. I thanked them, and settled
myself in an arm-chair with my book, when, looking up--there on the
mantelpiece stood the fellow cup--the identical shape, pattern, and
colour! It all flashed into my mind then. I had made this journey just
before going into your neighbourhood last year, and had waited in this
little parlour just as this time.
"'Where did you get that cup, Mrs. Smith?' I asked.
"There were two or three rather pretty bits of china about. The good
woman was pleased at my noticing it.
"'Yes, sir. Isn't it pretty? I've rather a fancy for china. That cup was
sent me by my niece. She said she'd picked it up somewhere--at a sale, I
think. It's foreign, sir; isn't it?'
"'Yes, German. But can't you find out _where_ your niece got it?' for
at the word 'sale' my hopes fell.
"'I can ask her. I shall be writing to her this week,' she replied; and
she promised to get any information she could for me within a fortnight,
by which time I expected to pass that way again. I did so, and Mrs.
Smith proved as good as her word. The niece had got the cup from a
friend of hers, an auctioneer, and he, not she, had got it at a sale.
But he was away from home--she could hear nothing more at present. She
gave his address, however, and assurances that he was very good-natured
and would gladly put the gentleman in the way of getting china like it,
if it was to be got. He would be home by the middle of the month. It
was now the middle of the month. The auctioneer's town was not above a
couple of hours off my line. Perhaps you will all laugh at me when I
tell you that I went those two hours out of my way, arriving at the town
late that night and putting up at a queer old inn--worth going to see
for itself--on purpose to find the man of the hammer. I found him.
He was very civil, though rather mystified. He remembered the cup
perfectly, but there was no chance of getting any like it where it
came from!
"'And where was that?' I asked eagerly.
"'At a sale some miles from here, about four years ago,' he replied. 'It
was the sale of the furniture and plate, and everything, in fact, of a
widow lady. She had some pretty china, for she had a fancy for it. That
cup was not of much value; it was quite modern. I bought it in for a
trifle. I gave it to Miss Cross, and she sent it to her aunt, as you
know. As for getting any like it----'
"But I interrupted him by assuring him I did not wish that, but that
I had reasons for wanting some information about the person who, I
believed, had bought the cup. 'Nothing to do any harm to any one,' I
said; 'a matter of feeling. A similar cup had been bought by a person
I was interested in, and I feared that person was dead.'
"The auctioneer's face cleared. He fancied he began to understand me.
"'I am afraid you are right, sir, if the person you mean was young Mr.
Paulet, the lady's son. You may have met him on his travels? His death
was very sad, I believe. It killed his mother, they say--she never
looked up after; and as she had no near relative to follow her, everything
was sold. I remember I was told all that, at the sale, and it seemed to
me particularly sad, even though one comes across many sad things in our
line of business.'
"'Do you remember the particulars of Mr. Paulet's death?' I asked.
"'Only that it happened suddenly--somewhere in foreign parts. I did not
know the family till I was asked to take charge of the sale,' he replied.
"'Could you possibly get any details for me? I feel sure it is the same
Mr. Paulet,' I said boldly.
"The auctioneer considered.
"'Perhaps I can. I rather think a former servant of theirs is still in
the neighbourhood,' he replied.
"I thanked him and left him my address, to which he promised to write. I
felt it was perhaps better not to pursue my inquiries further in person;
it might lead to annoyance, or possibly to gossip about the dead, which
I detest. I jotted down some particulars for the auctioneer's guidance,
and went on my way. That was a fortnight ago. To-day I have his answer,
which I transcribe:--
"'SIR--The servant I spoke of could not tell me very much, as she was
not long in the late Mrs. Paulet's service. To hear more, she says, you
must apply to the relations of the family. Young Mr. Paulet was tall and
fair and very nice-looking. His mother and he were deeply attached to
each other. He travelled a good deal and used to bring her home lots
of pretty things. He met his death in some part of Germany where there
are forests, for though it was thought at first he had died of heart
disease, the doctors proved he had been struck by lightning, and his
body was found in the forest, and the papers on him showed who he was.
The body was sent home to be buried, and all that was found with it; a
knapsack and its contents, among which was the cup I bought at the sale.
His death was about the middle of August 18--. I shall be glad if this
information is of any service.'
"This," continued Sir Robert's own letter, "is all I have been able to
learn. There does not seem to have been the very slightest suspicion of
foul play, nor do I think it the least likely there was any ground for
such. Young Paulet probably died some way farther in the forest than
Silberbach, and it is even possible the surly landlord never heard of
it. It _might_ be worth while to inquire about it should your friends
ever be there again. If I should be in the neighbourhood I certainly
should do so; the whole coincidences are very striking."
Then followed apologies for the length of his letter which he had been
betrayed into by his anxiety to tell all there was to tell. In return he
asked Mr. Grenfell to obtain from me certain dates and particulars as he
wished to note them down. It was the 18th of August on which "Nora's
ghost" had appeared--just two years after the August of the poor young
man's death!
There was also a postscript to Sir Robert's letter, in which he said, "I
think, in Mrs. ----'s place, I would say nothing to the little girl of
what we have discovered."
And I have never done so.
This is all I have to tell. I offer no suggestions, no theories in
explanation of the facts. Those who, like Sir Robert Masters, are able
and desirous to treat such subjects scientifically or philosophically
will doubtless form their own. I cannot say that I find _his_ theory a
perfectly satisfactory one, perhaps I do not sufficiently understand it,
but I have tried to give it in his own words. Should this matter-of-fact
relation of a curious experience meet his eyes, I am sure he will forgive
my having brought him into it. Besides, it is not likely that he
would be recognised; men, and women too, of "peculiar ideas," sincere
investigators and honest searchers after truth, as well as their
superficial plagiarists, being by no means rare in these days.