A Book of Ghosts
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"You can't, parson! the door is shut, and you have not got your key."
Mr. Hexworthy stood bewildered and irresolute. He rubbed his chin.
"What the dickens am I to do?" he asked.
Then the crowd closed about him, and thrust him back towards the gate. "You must go whither we send you," they said.
I stood up to follow. It was curious to see a flock drive its shepherd, who, indeed, had never attempted to lead. I walked in the rear, and it seemed as though we were all swept forward as by a mighty wind. I did not gain my breath, or realise whither I was going, till I found myself in the slums of a large manufacturing town before a mean house such as those occupied by artisans, with the conventional one window on one side of the door and two windows above. Out of one of these latter shone a scarlet glow.
The crowd hustled Mr. Hexworthy in at the door, which was opened by a hospital nurse.
I stood hesitating what to do, and not understanding what had taken place. On the opposite side of the street was a mission church, and the windows were lighted. I entered, and saw that there were at least a score of people, shabbily dressed, and belonging to the lowest class, on their knees in prayer. There was a sort of door-opener or verger at the entrance, and I said to him: "What is the meaning of all this?"
"Oh, sir!" said he, "he is ill, he has been attacked by smallpox. It has been raging in the place, and he has been with all the sick, and now he has taken it himself, and we are terribly afraid that he is dying. So we are praying God to spare him to us."
Then one of those who was kneeling turned to me and said: "I was an hungred, and he gave me meat."
And another rose up and said: "I was a stranger, and he took me in."
Then a third said: "I was naked, and he clothed me."
And a fourth: "I was sick, and he visited me."
Then said a fifth, with bowed head, sobbing: "I was in prison, and he came to me."
Thereupon I went out and looked up at the red window, and I felt as if I must see the man for whom so many prayed. I tapped at the door, and a woman opened.
"I should so much like to see him, if I may," said I.
"Well, sir," spoke the woman, a plain, middle-aged, rough creature, but her eyes were full of tears: "Oh, sir, I think you may, if you will go up softly. There has come over him a great change. It is as though a new life had entered into him."
I mounted the narrow staircase of very steep steps and entered the sick-room. There was an all-pervading glow of red. The fire was low – no flame, and a screen was before it. The lamp had a scarlet shade over it. I stepped to the side of the bed, where stood a nurse. I looked on the patient. He was an awful object. His face had been smeared over with some dark solution, with the purpose of keeping all light from the skin, with the object of saving it from permanent disfigurement.
The sick priest lay with eyes raised, and I thought I saw in them those of Mr. Hexworthy, but with a new light, a new faith, a new fervour, a new love in them. The lips were moving in prayer, and the hands were folded over the breast. The nurse whispered to me: "We thought he was passing away, but the prayers of those he loved have prevailed. A great change has come over him. The last words he spoke were: 'God's will be done. If I live, I will live only – only for my dear sheep, and die among them'; and now he is in an ecstasy, and says nothing. But he is praying still – for his people."
As I stood looking I saw what might have been tears, but seemed to be molten Black Ram, roll over the painted cheeks. The spirit of Mr. Hexworthy was in this body.
Then, without a word, I turned to the door, went through, groped my way down the steps, passed out into the street, and found myself back in the porch of Fifewell Church.
"Upon my word," said I, "I have been here long enough." I wrapped my fur coat about me, and prepared to go, when I saw a well-known figure, that of Mr. Fothergill, advancing up the path.
I knew the old gentleman well. His age must have been seventy. He was a spare man, he was rather bald, and had sunken cheeks. He was a bachelor, living in a pretty little villa of his own. He had a good fortune, and was a harmless, but self-centred, old fellow. He prided himself on his cellar and his cook. He always dressed well, and was scrupulously neat. I had often played a game of chess with him.
I would have run towards him to remonstrate with him for exposing himself to the night air, but I was forestalled. Slipping past me, his old manservant, David, went to meet him. David had died three years before. Mr. Fothergill had then been dangerously ill with typhoid fever, and the man had attended to him night and day. The old gentleman, as I heard, had been most irritable and exacting in his illness. When his malady took a turn, and he was on the way to convalescence, David had succumbed in his turn, and in three days was dead.
This man now met his master, touched his cap, and said: "Beg pardon, sir, you will not be admitted."
"Not admitted? Why not, Davie?"
"I really am very sorry, sir. If my key would have availed, you would have been welcome to it; but, sir, there's such a terrible lot of Black Ram in you, sir. That must be got out first."
"I don't understand, Davie."
"I'm sorry, sir, to have to say it; but you've never done anyone any good."
"I paid you your wages regularly."
"Yes, sir, to be sure, sir, for my services to yourself."
"And I've always subscribed when asked for money."
"Yes, that is very true, sir, but that was because you thought it was expected of you, not because you had any sympathy with those in need, and sickness, and suffering."
"I'm sure I never did anyone any harm."
"No, sir, and never anyone any good. You'll excuse me for mentioning it."
"But, Davie, what do you mean? I can't get in?"
"No, sir, not till you have the key."
"But, bless my soul! what is to become of me? Am I to stick out here?"
"Yes, sir, unless – "
"In this damp, and cold, and darkness?"
"There is no help for it, Mr. Fothergill, unless – "
"Unless what, Davie?"
"Unless you become a mother, sir!"
"What?"
"Of twins, sir."
"Fiddlesticks!"
"Indeed, it is so, sir, and you will have to nurse them."
"I can't do it. I'm physically incapable."
"It must be done, sir. Very sorry to mention it, but there is no alternative. There's Sally Bowker is approaching her confinement, and it's going terribly hard with her. The doctor thinks she'll never pull through. But if you'd consent to pass into her and become a mother – "
"And nurse the twins? Oh, Davie, I shall need a great amount of stout."
"I grieve to say it, Mr. Fothergill, but you'll be too poor to afford it."
"Is there no alternative?"
"None in the world, sir."
"I don't know my way to the place."
"If you'd do me the honour, sir, to take my arm, I would lead you to the house."
"It's hard – cruel hard on an old bachelor. Must it be twins? It's a rather large order."
"It really must, sir."
Then I saw David lend his arm to his former master and conduct him out of the churchyard, across the street, into the house of Seth Bowker, the shoemaker.
I was so interested in the fate of my old friend, and so curious as to the result, that I followed, and went into the cobbler's house. I found myself in the little room on the ground floor. Seth Bowker was sitting over the fire with his face in his hands, swaying himself, and moaning: "Oh dear! dear life! whatever shall I do without her? and she the best woman as breathed, and knew all my little ways."
Overhead was a trampling. The doctor and the midwife were with the woman. Seth looked up, and listened. Then he flung himself on his knees at the deal table, and prayed: "Oh, good God in heaven! have pity on me, and spare me my wife. I shall be a lost man without her – and no one to sew on my shirt-buttons!"
At the moment I heard a feeble twitter aloft, then it grew in volume, and presently became cries. Seth looked up; his face was bathed in tears. Still that strange sound like the chirping of sparrows. He rose to his feet and made for the stairs, and held on to the banister.
Forth from the chamber above came the doctor, and leisurely descended the stairs.
"Well, Bowker," said he, "I congratulate you; you have two fine boys."
"And my Sally – my wife?"
"She has pulled through. But really, upon my soul, I did fear for her at one time. But she rallied marvellously."
"Can I go up to her?"
"In a minute or two, not just now, the babes are being washed."
"And my wife will get over it?"
"I trust so, Bowker; a new life came into her as she gave birth to twins."
"God be praised!" Seth's mouth quivered, all his face worked, and he clasped his hands.
Presently the door of the chamber upstairs was opened, the nurse looked down, and said: "Mr. Bowker, you may come up. Your wife wants you. Lawk! you will see the beautifullest twins that ever was."
I followed Seth upstairs, and entered the sick-room. It was humble enough, with whitewashed walls, all scrupulously clean. The happy mother lay in the bed, her pale face on the pillow, but the eyes were lighted up with ineffable love and pride.
"Kiss them, Bowker," said she, exhibiting at her side two little pink heads, with down on them. But her husband just stooped and pressed his lips to her brow, and after that kissed the tiny morsels at her side.
"Ain't they loves!" exclaimed the midwife.
But oh! what a rapture of triumph, pity, fervour, love, was in that mother's face, and – the eyes looking on those children were the eyes of Mr. Fothergill. Never had I seen such an expression in them, not even when he had exclaimed "Checkmate" over a game of chess.
Then I knew what would follow. How night and day that mother would live only for her twins, how she would cheerfully sacrifice her night's rest to them; how she would go downstairs, even before it was judicious, to see to her husband's meals. Verily, with the mother's milk that fed those babes, the Black Ram would run out of the Fothergill soul. There was no need for me to tarry. I went forth, and as I issued into the street heard the clock strike one.
"Bless me!" I exclaimed, "I have spent an hour in the porch. What will my wife say?"
I walked home as fast as I could in my fur coat. When I arrived I found Bessie up.
"Oh, Bessie!" said I, "with your cold you ought to have been in bed."
"My dear Edward," she replied, "how could I? I had lain down, but when I heard of the accident I could not rest. Have you been hurt?"
"My head is somewhat contused," I replied.
"Let me feel. Indeed, it is burning. I will put on some cold compresses."
"But, Bessie, I have a story to tell you."
"Oh! never mind the story, we'll have that another day. I'll send for some ice from the fishmonger to-morrow for your head."
I did eventually tell my wife the story of my experience in the porch of Fifewell on St. Mark's eve.
I have since regretted that I did so; for whenever I cross her will, or express my determination to do something of which she does not approve, she says: "Edward, Edward! I very much fear there is still in you too much Black Ram."
A HAPPY RELEASE
Mr. Benjamin Woolfield was a widower. For twelve months he put on mourning. The mourning was external, and by no means represented the condition of his feelings; for his married life had not been happy. He and Kesiah had been unequally yoked together. The Mosaic law forbade the union of the ox and the ass to draw one plough; and two more uncongenial creatures than Benjamin and Kesiah could hardly have been coupled to draw the matrimonial furrow.
She was a Plymouth Sister, and he, as she repeatedly informed him whenever he indulged in light reading, laughed, smoked, went out shooting, or drank a glass of wine, was of the earth, earthy, and a miserable worldling.
For some years Mr. Woolfield had been made to feel as though he were a moral and religious pariah. Kesiah had invited to the house and to meals, those of her own way of thinking, and on such occasions had spared no pains to have the table well served, for the elect are particular about their feeding, if indifferent as to their drinks. On such occasions, moreover, when Benjamin had sat at the bottom of his own table, he had been made to feel that he was a worm to be trodden on. The topics of conversation were such as were far beyond his horizon, and concerned matters of which he was ignorant. He attempted at intervals to enter into the circle of talk. He knew that such themes as football matches, horse races, and cricket were taboo, but he did suppose that home or foreign politics might interest the guests of Kesiah. But he soon learned that this was not the case, unless such matters tended to the fulfilment of prophecy.
When, however, in his turn, Benjamin invited home to dinner some of his old friends, he found that all provided for them was hashed mutton, cottage pie, and tapioca pudding. But even these could have been stomached, had not Mrs. Woolfield sat stern and silent at the head of the table, not uttering a word, but giving vent to occasional, very audible sighs.
When the year of mourning was well over, Mr. Woolfield put on a light suit, and contented himself, as an indication of bereavement, with a slight black band round the left arm. He also began to look about him for someone who might make up for the years during which he had felt like a crushed strawberry.
And in casting his inquiring eye about, it lighted upon Philippa Weston, a bright, vigorous young lady, well educated and intelligent. She was aged twenty-four and he was but eighteen years older, a difference on the right side.
It took Mr. Woolfield but a short courtship to reach an understanding, and he became engaged.
On the same evening upon which he had received a satisfactory answer to the question put to her, and had pressed for an early marriage, to which also consent had been accorded, he sat by his study fire, with his hands on his knees, looking into the embers and building love-castles there. Then he smiled and patted his knees.
He was startled from his honey reveries by a sniff. He looked round. There was a familiar ring in that sniff which was unpleasant to him.
What he then saw dissipated his rosy dreams, and sent his blood to his heart.
At the table sat his Kesiah, looking at him with her beady black eyes, and with stern lines in her face. He was so startled and shocked that he could not speak.
"Benjamin," said the apparition, "I know your purpose. It shall never be carried to accomplishment. I will prevent it."
"Prevent what, my love, my treasure?" he gathered up his faculties to reply.
"It is in vain that you assume that infantile look of innocence," said his deceased wife. "You shall never – never – lead her to the hymeneal altar."
"Lead whom, my idol? You astound me."
"I know all. I can read your heart. A lost being though you be, you have still me to watch over you. When you quit this earthly tabernacle, if you have given up taking in the Field, and have come to realise your fallen condition, there is a chance – a distant chance – but yet one of our union becoming eternal."
"You don't mean to say so," said Mr. Woolfield, his jaw falling.
"There is – there is that to look to. That to lead you to turn over a new leaf. But it can never be if you become united to that Flibbertigibbet."
Mentally, Benjamin said: "I must hurry up with my marriage!" Vocally he said: "Dear me! Dear me!"
"My care for you is still so great," continued the apparition, "that I intend to haunt you by night and by day, till that engagement be broken off."
"I would not put you to so much trouble," said he.
"It is my duty," replied the late Mrs. Woolfield sternly.
"You are oppressively kind," sighed the widower.
At dinner that evening Mr. Woolfield had a friend to keep him company, a friend to whom he had poured out his heart. To his dismay, he saw seated opposite him the form of his deceased wife.
He tried to be lively; he cracked jokes, but the sight of the grim face and the stony eyes riveted on him damped his spirits, and all his mirth died away.
"You seem to be out of sorts to-night," said his friend.
"I am sorry that I act so bad a host," apologised Mr. Woolfield. "Two is company, three is none."
"But we are only two here to-night."
"My wife is with me in spirit."
"Which, she that was, or she that is to be?"
Mr. Woolfield looked with timid eyes towards her who sat at the end of the table. She was raising her hands in holy horror, and her face was black with frowns.
His friend said to himself when he left: "Oh, these lovers! They are never themselves so long as the fit lasts."
Mr. Woolfield retired early to bed. When a man has screwed himself up to proposing to a lady, it has taken a great deal out of him, and nature demands rest. It was so with Benjamin; he was sleepy. A nice little fire burned in his grate. He undressed and slipped between the sheets.
Before he put out the light he became aware that the late Mrs. Woolfield was standing by his bedside with a nightcap on her head.
"I am cold," said she, "bitterly cold."
"I am sorry to hear it, my dear," said Benjamin.
"The grave is cold as ice," she said. "I am going to step into bed."
"No – never!" exclaimed the widower, sitting up. "It won't do. It really won't. You will draw all the vital heat out of me, and I shall be laid up with rheumatic fever. It will be ten times worse than damp sheets."
"I am coming to bed," repeated the deceased lady, inflexible as ever in carrying out her will.
As she stepped in Mr. Woolfield crept out on the side of the fire and seated himself by the grate.
He sat there some considerable time, and then, feeling cold, he fetched his dressing-gown and enveloped himself in that.
He looked at the bed. In it lay the deceased lady with her long slit of a mouth shut like a rat-trap, and her hard eyes fixed on him.
"It is of no use your thinking of marrying, Benjamin," she said. "I shall haunt you till you give it up."
Mr. Woolfield sat by his fire all night, and only dozed off towards morning.
During the day he called at the house of Miss Weston, and was shown into the drawing-room. But there, standing behind her chair, was his deceased wife with her arms folded on the back of the seat, glowering at him.
It was impossible for the usual tender passages to ensue between the lovers with a witness present, expressing by gesture her disapproval of such matters and her inflexible determination to force on a rupture.
The dear departed did not attend Mr. Woolfield continuously during the day, but appeared at intervals. He could never say when he would be free, when she would not turn up.
In the evening he rang for the housemaid. "Jemima," he said, "put two hot bottles into my bed to-night. It is somewhat chilly."
"Yes, sir."
"And let the water be boiling – not with the chill off."
"Yes, sir."
When somewhat late Mr. Woolfield retired to his room he found, as he had feared, that his late wife was there before him. She lay in the bed with her mouth snapped, her eyes like black balls, staring at him.
"My dear," said Benjamin, "I hope you are more comfortable."
"I'm cold, deadly cold."
"But I trust you are enjoying the hot bottles."
"I lack animal heat," replied the late Mrs. Woolfield.
Benjamin fled the room and returned to his study, where he unlocked his spirit case and filled his pipe. The fire was burning. He made it up. He would sit there all night During the passing hours, however, he was not left quite alone. At intervals the door was gently opened, and the night-capped head of the late Mrs. Woolfield was thrust in.
"Don't think, Benjamin, that your engagement will lead to anything," she would say, "because it will not. I shall stop it."
So time passed. Mr. Woolfield found it impossible to escape this persecution. He lost spirits; he lost flesh.
At last, after sad thought, he saw but one way of relief, and that was to submit. And in order to break off the engagement he must have a prolonged interview with Philippa. He went to the theatre and bought two stall tickets, and sent one to her with the earnest request that she would accept it and meet him that evening at the theatre. He had something to communicate of the utmost importance.
At the theatre he knew that he would be safe; the principles of Kesiah would not suffer her to enter there.
At the proper time Mr. Woolfield drove round to Miss Weston's, picked her up, and together they went to the theatre and took their places in the stalls. Their seats were side by side.
"I am so glad you have been able to come," said Benjamin. "I have a most shocking disclosure to make to you. I am afraid that – but I hardly know how to say it – that – I really must break it off."
"Break what off?"
"Our engagement."
"Nonsense. I have been fitted for my trousseau."
"Your what?"
"My wedding-dresses."
"Oh, I beg pardon. I did not understand your French pronunciation. I thought – but it does not matter what I thought."
"Pray what is the sense of this?"
"Philippa, my affection for you is unabated. Do not suppose that I love you one whit the less. But I am oppressed by a horrible nightmare – daymare as well. I am haunted."
"Haunted, indeed!"
"Yes; by my late wife. She allows me no peace. She has made up her mind that I shall not marry you."
"Oh! Is that all? I am haunted also."
"Surely not?"
"It is a fact."
"Hush, hush!" from persons in front and at the side. Neither Ben nor Philippa had noticed that the curtain had risen and that the play had begun.
"We are disturbing the audience," whispered Mr. Woolfield. "Let us go out into the passage and promenade there, and then we can talk freely."
So both rose, left their stalls, and went into the couloir.
"Look here, Philippa," said he, offering the girl his arm, which she took, "the case is serious. I am badgered out of my reason, out of my health, by the late Mrs. Woolfield. She always had an iron will, and she has intimated to me that she will force me to give you up."
"Defy her."
"I cannot."
"Tut! these ghosts are exacting. Give them an inch and they take an ell. They are like old servants; if you yield to them they tyrannise over you."
"But how do you know, Philippa, dearest?"
"Because, as I said, I also am haunted."
"That only makes the matter more hopeless."
"On the contrary, it only shows how well suited we are to each other. We are in one box."
"Philippa, it is a dreadful thing. When my wife was dying she told me she was going to a better world, and that we should never meet again. And she has not kept her word."
The girl laughed. "Rag her with it."
"How can I?"
"You can do it perfectly. Ask her why she is left out in the cold. Give her a piece of your mind. Make it unpleasant for her. I give Jehu no good time."
"Who is Jehu?"
"Jehu Post is the ghost who haunts me. When in the flesh he was a great admirer of mine, and in his cumbrous way tried to court me; but I never liked him, and gave him no encouragement. I snubbed him unmercifully, but he was one of those self-satisfied, self-assured creatures incapable of taking a snubbing. He was a Plymouth Brother."
"My wife was a Plymouth Sister."
"I know she was, and I always felt for you. It was so sad. Well, to go on with my story. In a frivolous mood Jehu took to a bicycle, and the very first time he scorched he was thrown, and so injured his back that he died in a week. Before he departed he entreated that I would see him; so I could not be nasty, and I went. And he told me then that he was about to be wrapped in glory. I asked him if this were so certain. 'Cocksure' was his reply; and they were his last words. And he has not kept his word."
"And he haunts you now?"
"Yes. He dangles about with his great ox-eyes fixed on me. But as to his envelope of glory I have not seen a fag end of it, and I have told him so."
"Do you really mean this, Philippa?"
"I do. He wrings his hands and sighs. He gets no change out of me, I promise you."