"Let's tell ghost stories, then," said Gladys.
"Aren't you tired of them? One hears nothing else nowadays. And they're
all 'authentic,' really vouched for, only you never see the person
who saw or heard or felt the ghost. It is always somebody's sister or
cousin, or friend's friend," objected young Mrs. Snowdon, another of the
guests at the Quarries.
"I don't know that that is quite a reasonable ground for discrediting
them _en masse_," said her husband. "It is natural enough, indeed
inevitable, that the principal or principals in such cases should be
much more rarely come across than the stories themselves. A hundred
people can repeat the story, but the author, or rather hero, of it,
can't be in a hundred places at once. You don't disbelieve in any other
statement or narrative merely because you have never seen the prime
mover in it?"
"But I didn't say I discredited them on that account," said Mrs.
Snowdon. "You take one up so, Archie. I'm not logical and reasonable;
I don't pretend to be. If I meant anything, it was that a ghost story
would have a great pull over other ghost stories if one could see the
person it happened to. One does get rather provoked at _never_ coming
across him or her," she added a little petulantly.
She was tired; they were all rather tired, for it was the first evening
since the party had assembled at the large country house known as "the
Quarries" on which there was not to be dancing, with the additional
fatigue of "ten miles there and ten back again"; and three or four
evenings of such doings without intermission tell even on the young and
vigorous.
To-night various less energetic ways of passing the evening had been
proposed,--music, games, reading aloud, recitation,--none had found
favour in everybody's sight, and now Gladys Lloyd's proposal that they
should "tell ghost stories" seemed likely to fall flat also.
For a moment or two no one answered Mrs. Snowdon's last remarks. Then,
somewhat to everybody's surprise, the young daughter of the house
turned to her mother.
"Mamma," she said, "don't be vexed with me--I know you warned me once to
be careful how I spoke of it; but _wouldn't_ it be nice if Uncle Paul
would tell us his ghost story? And then, Mrs. Snowdon," she went on,
"you could always say you had heard _one_ ghost story at or from--which
should I say?--headquarters."
Lady Denholme glanced round half nervously before she replied.
"Locally speaking, it would not be _at_ headquarters, Nina," she said.
"The Quarries was not the scene of your uncle's ghost story. But I
almost think it is better not to speak about it--I am not sure that he
would like it mentioned, and he will be coming in a moment. He had only
a note to write."
"I do wish he would tell it to us," said Nina regretfully. "Don't you
think, mamma, I might just run to the study and ask him, and if he did
not like the idea he might say so to me, and no one would seem to know
anything about it? Uncle Paul is so kind--I'm never afraid of asking him
any favour."
"Thank you, Nina, for your good opinion of me; you see there is no rule
without exceptions; listeners do sometimes hear pleasant things of
themselves," said Mr. Marischal, as he at that moment came round the
screen which half concealed the doorway. "What is the special favour you
were thinking of asking me?"
Nina looked rather taken aback.
"How softly you opened the door, Uncle Paul," she said. "I would not
have spoken of you if I had known you were there."
"But after all you were saying no harm," observed her brother Michael.
"And for my part I don't believe Uncle Paul would mind our asking him
what we were speaking of."
"What was it?" asked Mr. Marischal. "I think, as I have heard so much,
you may as well tell me the whole."
"It was only----" began Nina, but her mother interrupted her.
"I have told Nina not to speak of it, Paul," she said anxiously;
"but--it was only that all these young people are talking about ghost
stories, and they want you to tell them your own strange experience.
You must not be vexed with them."
"Vexed!" said Mr. Marischal, "not in the least." But for a moment or two
he said no more, and even pretty, spoilt Mrs. Snowdon looked a little
uneasy.
"You shouldn't have persisted, Nina," she whispered.
Mr. Marischal must have had unusually quick ears. He looked up and
smiled.
"I really don't mind telling you all there is to hear," he said. "At one
time I had a sort of dislike to mentioning the story, for the sake of
others. The details would have led to its being recognised--and it might
have been painful. But there is no one now living to whom it would
matter--you know," he added, turning to his sister; "her husband is
dead too."
Lady Denholme shook her head.
"No," she said, "I did not hear."
"Yes," said her brother, "I saw his death in the papers last year. He
had married again, I believe. There is not now, therefore, any reason
why I should not tell the story, if it will interest you," he went on,
turning to the others. "And there is not very much to tell. Not worth
making such a preamble about. It was--let me see--yes, it must be nearly
fifteen years ago."
"Wait a moment, Uncle Paul," said Nina. "Yes, that's all right, Gladys.
You and I will hold each other's hands, and pinch hard if we get very
frightened."
"Thank you," Miss Lloyd replied. "On the whole I should prefer for you
not to hold my hand."
"But I won't pinch you so as to hurt," said Nina reassuringly; "and it
isn't as if we were in the dark."
"Shall I turn down the lamps?" asked Mr. Snowdon.
"No, no," exclaimed his wife.
"There really is nothing frightening--scarcely even 'creepy,' in my
story at all," said Mr. Marischal, half apologetically. "You make me
feel like an impostor."
"Oh no, Uncle Paul, don't say that. It is all my fault for interrupting,"
said Nina. "Now go on, please. I have Gladys's hand all the same," she
added _sotto voce_, "it's just as well to be prepared."
"Well, then," began Mr. Marischal once more, "it must be nearly fifteen
years ago; and I had not seen her for fully ten years before that
again! I was not thinking of her in the least; in a sense I had really
forgotten her: she had quite gone out of my life; that has always struck
me as a very curious point in the story," he added parenthetically.
"Won't you tell us who 'she' was, Uncle Paul?" asked Nina half shyly.
"Oh yes, I was going to do so. I am not skilled in story-telling, you
see. She was, at the time I first knew her--at the only time, indeed,
that I knew her--a very sweet and attractive girl, named Maud Bertram.
She was very pretty--more than pretty, for she had remarkably regular
features--her profile was always admired, and a tall and graceful
figure. And she was a bright and happy creature too; that, perhaps, was
almost her greatest charm. You will wonder--I see the question hovering
on your lips, Miss Lloyd, and on yours too, Mrs. Snowdon--why, if I
admired her and liked her so much, I did not go further. And I will tell
you frankly that I did not because I dared not. I had then no prospect
of being able to marry for years to come, and I was not very young. I
was already nearly thirty, and Maud was quite ten years younger. I was
wise enough and old enough to realise the situation thoroughly, and to
be on my guard."
"And Maud?" asked Mrs. Snowdon.
"She was surrounded by admirers; it seemed to me then that it would have
been insufferable conceit to have even asked myself if it could matter
to her. It was only in the light of after events that the possibility of
my having been mistaken occurred to me. And I don't even now see that I
could have acted otherwise----" Here Uncle Paul sighed a little. "We
were the best of friends. She knew that I admired her, and she seemed
to take a frank pleasure in its being so. I had always hoped that she
really liked and trusted me as a friend, but no more. The last time I
saw her was just before I started for Portugal, where I remained three
years. When I returned to London Maud had been married for two years,
and had gone straight out to India on her marriage, and except by
some few friends who had known us both intimately, I seldom heard her
mentioned. And time passed. I cannot say I had exactly forgotten
her, but she was not much or often in my thoughts. I was a busy and
much-absorbed man, and life had proved a serious matter to me. Now
and then some passing resemblance would recall her to my mind--once
especially when I had been asked to look in to see the young wife of one
of my cousins in her court-dress; something in her figure and bearing
brought back Maud to my memory, for it was thus, in full dress, that
I had last seen her, and thus perhaps, unconsciously, her image had
remained photographed on my brain. But as far as I can recollect at the
time when the occurrence I am going to relate to you happened, I had not
been thinking of Maud Bertram for months. I was in London just then,
staying with my brother, my eldest brother, who had been married for
several years, and lived in our own old town-house in ---- Square. It
was in April, a clear spring day, with no fog or half-lights about,
and it was not yet four o'clock in the afternoon--not very ghost-like
circumstances, you will admit. I had come home early from my club--it
was a sort of holiday-time with me just then for a few weeks--intending
to get some letters written which had been on my mind for some days,
and I had sauntered into the library, a pleasant, fair-sized room lined
with books, on the first-floor. Before setting to work I sat down for a
moment or two in an easy-chair by the fire, for it was still cool enough
weather to make a fire desirable, and began thinking over my letters.
No thought, no shadow of a thought of my old friend Miss Bertram was
present with me; of that I am perfectly certain. The door was on the
same side of the room as the fireplace; as I sat there, half facing the
fire, I also half faced the door. I had not shut it properly on coming
in--I had only closed it without turning the handle--and I did not feel
surprised when it slowly and noiselessly swung open, till it stood right
out into the room, concealing the actual doorway from my view. You will
perhaps understand the position better if you think of the door as just
then acting like a screen to the doorway. From where I sat I could not
have seen any one entering the room till he or she had got beyond the
door itself. I glanced up, half expecting to see some one come in, but
there was no one; the door had swung open of itself. For the moment I
sat on, with only the vague thought passing through my mind, 'I must
shut it before I begin to write.'
"But suddenly I found my eyes fixing themselves on the carpet; something
had come within their range of vision, compelling their attention in a
mechanical sort of way. What was it?
"'Smoke,' was my first idea. 'Can there be anything on fire?' But
I dismissed the notion almost as soon as it suggested itself. The
something, faint and shadowy, that came slowly rippling itself in as it
were beyond the dark wood of the open door, was yet too material for
'smoke.' My next idea was a curious one. 'It looks like soapy water,'
I said to myself; 'can one of the housemaids have been scrubbing, and
upset a pail on the stairs?' For the stair to the next floor almost
faced the library door. But--no; I rubbed my eyes and looked again;
the soapy water theory gave way. The wavy something that kept gliding,
rippling in, gradually assumed a more substantial appearance. It
was--yes, I suddenly became convinced of it--it was ripples of soft
silken stuff, creeping in as if in some mysterious way unfolded or
unrolled, not jerkily or irregularly, but glidingly and smoothly, like
little wavelets on the sea-shore.
"And I sat there and gazed. 'Why did you not jump up and look behind the
door to see what it was?' you may reasonably ask. That question I cannot
answer. Why I sat still, as if bewitched, or under some irresistible
influence, I cannot tell, but so it was.
"And it--came always rippling in, till at last it began to rise as
it still came on, and I saw that a figure--a tall, graceful woman's
figure--was slowly advancing, backwards of course, into the room, and
that the waves of pale silk--a very delicate shade of pearly gray I
think it must have been--were in fact the lower portion of a long
court-train, the upper part of which hung in deep folds from the lady's
waist. She moved in--I cannot describe the motion, it was not like
ordinary walking or stepping backwards--till the whole of her figure
and the clear profile of her face and head were distinctly visible, and
when at last she stopped and stood there full in my view just, but only
just beyond the door, I saw--it came upon me like a flash--that she was
no stranger to me, this mysterious visitant! I recognised, unchanged it
seemed to me since the day, ten years ago, when I had last seen her, the
beautiful features of Maud Bertram."
Mr. Marischal stopped a moment. Nobody spoke. Then he went on again.
"I should not have said 'unchanged.' There was one great change in the
sweet face. You remember my telling you that one of my girl-friend's
greatest charms was her bright sunny happiness--she never seemed gloomy
or depressed or dissatisfied, seldom even pensive. But in this respect
the face I sat there gazing at was utterly unlike Maud Bertram's. Its
expression, as she--or 'it'--stood there looking, not towards me, but
out beyond, as if at some one or something outside the doorway, was of
the profoundest sadness. Anything _so_ sad I had never seen in a human
face, and I trust I never may. But I sat on, as motionless almost as
she, gazing at her fixedly, with no desire, no power perhaps, to move or
approach more nearly to the phantom. I was not in the least frightened.
I knew it _was_ a phantom, but I felt paralysed, and as if I myself had
somehow got outside of ordinary conditions. And there I sat--staring
at Maud, and there she stood, gazing before her with that terrible,
unspeakable sadness in her face, which, even though I felt no _fear_,
seemed to freeze me with a kind of unutterable pity.
"I don't know how long I had sat thus, or how long I might have
continued to sit there, almost as if in a trance, when suddenly I heard
the front-door bell ring. It seemed to awaken me. I started up and
glanced round, half-expecting that I should find the vision dispelled.
But no; she was still there, and I sank back into my seat just as I
heard my brother coming quickly upstairs. He came towards the library,
and seeing the door wide open walked in, and I, still gazing, saw his
figure _pass through that of the woman in the doorway_ as you may walk
through a wreath of mist or smoke--only, don't misunderstand me, the
figure of Maud till that moment had had nothing unsubstantial about it.
She had looked to me, as she stood there, literally and exactly like a
living woman--the shade of her dress, the colour of her hair, the few
ornaments she wore, all were as defined and clear as yours, Nina, at the
present moment, and remained so, or perhaps became so again as soon as
my brother was well within the room. He came forward addressing me by
name, but I answered him in a whisper, begging him to be silent and to
sit down on the seat opposite me for a moment or two. He did so, though
he was taken aback by my strange manner, for I still kept my eyes fixed
on the door. I had a queer consciousness that if I looked away _it_
would fade, and I wanted to keep cool and see what would happen. I asked
Herbert in a low voice if _he_ saw nothing, but though he mechanically
followed the direction of my eyes, he shook his head in bewilderment.
And for a moment or two he remained thus. Then I began to notice that
the figure was growing less clear, as if it were receding, yet without
growing smaller to the sight; it grew fainter and vaguer, the colours
grew hazy. I rubbed my eyes once or twice with a half idea that my long
watching was making them misty, but it was not so. My eyes were not at
fault--slowly but surely Maud Bertram, or her ghost, melted away, till
all trace of her had gone. I saw again the familiar pattern of the
carpet where she had stood and the objects of the room that had been
hidden by her draperies--all again in the most commonplace way, but she
was gone, quite gone.
"Then Herbert, seeing me relax my intense gaze, began to question
me. I told him exactly what I have told you. He answered, as every
"common-sensible" person of course would, that it was strange, but that
such things did happen sometimes and were classed by the wise under the
head of 'optical delusions.' I was not well, perhaps, he suggested. Been
over-working? Had I not better see a doctor? But I shook my head. I was
quite well, and I said so. And perhaps he was right, it might be an
optical delusion only. I had never had any experience of such things.
"'All the same,' I said, 'I shall mark down the date.'
"Herbert laughed and said that was what people always did in such cases.
If he knew where Mrs. ---- then was he would write to her, just for the
fun of the thing, and ask her to be so good as to look up her diary, if
she kept one, and let us know what she had been doing on that particular
day--'the 6th of April, isn't it?' he said--when I would have it her
wraith had paid me a visit. I let him talk. It seemed to remove the
strange painful impression--painful because of that terrible sadness in
the sweet face. But we neither of us knew where she was, we scarcely
remembered her married name! And so there was nothing to be done--except,
what I did at once in spite of Herbert's rallying, to mark down the day
and hour with scrupulous exactness in _my_ diary.
"Time passed. I had not forgotten my strange experience, but of course
the impression of it lessened by degrees till it seemed more like a
curious dream than anything more real, when one day I _did_ hear of
poor Maud again. 'Poor' Maud I cannot help calling her. I heard of her
indirectly, and probably, but for the sadness of her story, I should
never have heard it at all. It was a friend of her husband's family who
had mentioned the circumstances in the hearing of a friend of mine, and
one day something brought round the conversation to old times, and he
startled me by suddenly inquiring if I remembered Maud Bertram. I said,
of course I did. Did he know anything of her? And then he told me.
"She was dead--she had died some months ago after a long and trying
illness, the result of a terrible accident. She had caught fire one
evening when dressed for some grand entertainment or other, and though
her injuries did not seem likely to be fatal at the time, she had never
recovered the shock.
"'She was so pretty,' my friend said, 'and one of the saddest parts of
it was that I hear she was terrifically disfigured, and she took this
most sadly to heart. The right side of her face was utterly ruined, and
the sight of the right eye lost, though, strange to say, the left side
entirely escaped, and seeing her in profile one would have had no notion
of what had happened. Was it not sad? She was such a sweet, bright
creature.'
"I did not tell him _my_ story, for I did not want it chattered about,
but a strange sort of shiver ran through me at his words. _It was the
left side of her face only_ that the wraith of my poor friend had
allowed me to see."
"Oh, Uncle Paul!" exclaimed Nina.
"And--as to the dates?" inquired Mr. Snowdon.
"I never knew the exact date of the accident," said Mr. Marischal, "but
that of her death was fully six months after I had seen her. And in my
own mind, I have never made any doubt that it was at or about, probably
a short time after, the accident, that she came to me. It seemed a kind
of appeal for sympathy--and--a farewell also, poor child."
They all sat silent for some little time, and then Mr. Marischal got up
and went off to his own quarters, saying something vaguely about seeing
if his letters had gone.
"What a touching story!" said Gladys Lloyd. "I am afraid, after all, it
has been more painful than he realised for Mr. Marischal to tell it. Did
you know anything of Maud's husband, dear Lady Denholme? Was he kind to
her? Was she happy?"
"We never heard much about her married life," her hostess replied. "But
I have no reason to think she was unhappy. Her husband married again
two or three years after her death, but that says nothing."
"N--no," said Nina. "All the same, mamma, I am sure she really did love
Uncle Paul very much,--much more than he had any idea of. Poor Maud!"
"And he has never married," added Gladys.
"No," said Lady Denholme, "but there have been many practical
difficulties in the way of his doing so. He has had a most absorbingly
busy life, and now that he is more at leisure he feels himself too old
to form new ties."
"But," persisted Nina, "if he had had any idea at the time that Maud
cared for him so?"
"Ah well," Lady Denholme allowed, "in that case, in spite of the
practical difficulties, things would probably have been different."