The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Mrs Molesworth Page 3

  “He does not care for me—not as I do for him,” she was saying to herself as she sat by the fire. “There would have been no necessity for his leaving England again had he done so. It cannot be because I am rich and he poor, surely? He is not the sort of man to let such a mere accident as that stand in the way if he really cared for me. No, it is that he does not care for me except as a sort of sister. But still—he said he had kept his last evening for me—at least he cares for no one else more, and that is something. Who knows—perhaps tomorrow—when it comes to really saying goodbye——?” and a faint flush of renewed hope rose to her cheeks and a brighter gleam to her eyes. The door opened, and a gray-haired man-servant came in gently.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said apologetically; “I was not sure if Major Graham had gone. Will he be here to dinner, if you please?”

  “Not tonight, Ambrose. I shall be quite alone. But Major Graham will dine here tomorrow; he does not leave till Thursday morning.”

  “Very well, ma’am,” said Ambrose, as he discreetly retired.

  He had been many years in the Medway household. He had respected his late master, but for his young mistress he had actual affection, and being of a somewhat sentimental turn, he had constructed for her benefit a very pretty little romance of which Major Graham was the hero. It had been a real blow to poor Ambrose to learn that the gentleman in question was on the eve of his departure without any sign of a satisfactory third volume, and he was rather surprised to see that Mrs. Medway seemed this evening in better spirits than for some time past.

  “It’s maybe understood between themselves,” he reflected, as he made his way back to his own quarters. “I’m sure I hope so, for he’s a real gentleman and she’s as sweet a lady as ever stepped, which I should know if anyone should, having seen her patience with poor master as was really called for through his long illness. She deserves a happy ending, and I’m sure I hope she may have it, poor lady.”

  “Tomorrow at the usual time,” meaning five o’clock or thereabouts, brought Kenneth for his last visit. Anne had been expecting him with an anxiety she was almost ashamed to own to herself, yet her manner was so calm and collected that no one could have guessed the tumult of hope and fear, of wild grief at his leaving, of intense longing for any word—were it but a word—to prove that all was not on her side only.

  “I could bear his being away—for years even, if he thought it must be—if I could but look forward—if I had the right to look forward to his return,” she said to herself.

  But the evening passed on tranquilly, and to all appearance pleasantly, without a word or look more than might have been between real brother and sister. Kenneth talked kindly—tenderly even—of the past; repeated more than once the pleasure it had been to him to find again his old friend so little changed, so completely his old friend still. The boys came in to say goodnight, and “goodbye, alas! my lads,” added their tall friend with a sigh. “Don’t forget me quite, Hal and Charlie, and don’t let your mother forget me either, eh?” To which the little fellows replied solemnly, though hardly understanding why he patted their curly heads with a lingering hand this evening, or why mamma looked grave at his words.

  And Anne bore it all without flinching, and smiled and talked a little more than usual perhaps, though all the time her heart was bursting, and Kenneth wondered more than ever if, after all, she had “much heart or feeling to speak of.”

  “You will be bringing back a wife with you perhaps,” she said once. “Shall you tell her about your sister Anne, Kenneth?”

  Major Graham looked at her earnestly for half an instant before he replied, but Anne’s eyes were not turned towards him, and she did not see the look. And his words almost belied it.

  “Certainly I shall tell her of you,” he said, “that is to say, if she ever comes to exist. At present few things are less probable. Still I am old enough now never to say, ‘Fontaine, je ne boirai jamais de ton eau. ’ But,” he went on, “I may return to find you married again, Anne. You are still so young and you are rather lonely.”

  “No,” said Anne with a sudden fierceness which he had never seen in her before, “I shall never marry again—never,” and she looked him full in the face with a strange sparkle in her eyes which almost frightened him.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said meekly. And though the momentary excitement faded as quickly as it had come, and Anne, murmuring some half-intelligible excuse, was again her quiet self, this momentary glimpse of a fierier nature beneath gave him food for reflection.

  “Can Medway have not been what he seemed on the surface, after all?” he thought to himself. “What can make her so vindictive against matrimony?”

  But it was growing late, and Kenneth had still some last preparations to make. He rose slowly and reluctantly from his chair.

  “I must be going, I fear,” he said.

  Anne too had risen. They stood together on the hearthrug. A slight, very slight shiver passed through her. Kenneth perceived it.

  “You have caught cold, I fear,” he said kindly; for the room was warm and the fire was burning brightly.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said indifferently.

  “You will write to me now and then?” he said next.

  “Oh, certainly—not very often perhaps,” she replied lightly, “but now and then. Stay,” and she turned away towards her writing-table, “tell me exactly how to address you. Your name—is your surname enough?—there is no other Graham in your regiment?”

  “No,” he said absently, “I suppose not. Yes, just my name and the regiment and Allagherry, which will be our headquarters. You might, if you were very amiable—you might write to Galles—a letter overland would wait for me there,” for it was the days of “long sea” for all troops to India.

  Anne returned to her former position on the hearthrug—the moment at the table had restored her courage. “We shall see,” she said, smiling again.

  Then Kenneth said once more, “I must go;” but he lingered still a moment.

  “You must have caught cold, Anne, or else you are very tired. You are so white,” and from his height above her, though Anne herself was tall, he laid his hand on her shoulder gently and as a brother might have done, and looked down at her pale face half inquiringly. A flush of colour rose for an instant to her cheeks. The temptation was strong upon her to throw off that calmly caressing hand, but she resisted it, and looked up bravely with a light almost of defiance in her eyes.

  “I am perfectly well, I assure you. But perhaps I am a little tired. I suppose it is getting late.”

  And Kenneth stifled a sigh of scarcely realised disappointment, and quickly drew back his hand.

  “Yes, it is late. I am very thoughtless. Goodbye then, Anne. God bless you.”

  And before she had time to answer he was gone.

  Ambrose met him in the hall, with well-meaning officiousness bringing forward his coat and hat. His presence helped to dissipate an impulse which seized Major Graham to rush upstairs again for one other word of farewell. Had he done so what would he have found? Anne sobbing—sobbing with the terrible intensity of a self-contained nature once the strain is withdrawn—sobbing in the bitterness of her grief and the cruelty of her mortification, with but one consolation.

  “At least he does not despise me. I hid it well,” she whispered to herself.

  And Kenneth Graham, as he drove away in his cab, repeated to himself, “She is so cold, this evening particularly. And yet, can it be that it was to hide any other feeling? If I thought so—good God!” and he half started up as if to call to the driver, but sat down again. “No, no, I must not be a fool. I could not stand a repulse from her—I could never see her again. Better not risk it. And then I am so poor!”

  And in the bustle and hurry of his departure he tried to forget the wild fancy which for a moment had disturbed him. He sailed the next day.

  But the few weeks which followed passed heavily for Anne. It was a dead time of year—there was
no special necessity for her exerting herself to throw off the overwhelming depression, and strong and brave as she was, she allowed herself, to some extent, to yield to it.

  “If only he had not come back—if I had never seen him again!” she repeated to herself incessantly. “I had in a sense forgotten him—the thought of him never troubled me all the years of my marriage. I suppose I had never before understood how I could care. How I wish I had never learnt it! How I wish he had never come back!” It was above all in the afternoons—the dull, early dark, autumn afternoons—which for some weeks had been enlivened by the expectation, sure two or three times a week to be fulfilled, of Major Graham’s “dropping in”—that the aching pain, the weary longing, grew so bad as to be well-nigh intolerable.

  “How shall I bear it?” said poor Anne to herself sometimes; “it is so wrong, so unwomanly! So selfish, too, when I think of my children. How much I have to be thankful for—why should I ruin my life by crying for the one thing that is not for me? It is worse, far worse than if he had died; had I known that he had loved me, I could have borne his death, it seems to me.”

  She was sitting alone one afternoon about five weeks after Kenneth had left, thinking sadly over and over the same thoughts, when a tap at the door made her look up.

  “Come in,” she said, though the tap hardly sounded like that of her maid, and no one else was likely to come to the door of her own room where she happened to be. “Come in,” and somewhat to her surprise the door half opened and old Ambrose’s voice replied—

  “If you please, ma’am——” then stopped and hesitated.

  “Come in,” she repeated with a touch of impatience. “What is it, Ambrose? Where is Seton?”

  “If you please, ma’am, I couldn’t find her—that is to say,” Ambrose went on nervously, “I didn’t look for her. I thought, ma’am, I would rather tell you myself. You mustn’t be startled, ma’am,” and Anne at this looking up at the old man saw that he was pale and startled-looking himself, “but it’s—it’s Major Graham.”

  “Major Graham?” repeated Anne, and to herself her voice sounded almost like a scream. “What about him? Have you heard anything?”

  “It’s him, ma’am—him himself!” said Ambrose. “He’s in the library. I’m a little afraid, ma’am, there may be something wrong—he looked so strange and he did not answer when I spoke to him. But he’s in the library, ma’am.”

  Anne did not wait to hear more. She rushed past Ambrose, across the landing, and down the two flights of steps which led to the library—a half-way house room, between the ground-floor and the drawing-room—almost before his voice had stopped. At the door she hesitated a moment, and in that moment all sorts of wild suppositions flashed across her brain. What was it? What was she going to hear? Had Kenneth turned back halfway out to India for her sake? Had some trouble befallen him, in which he had come to seek her sympathy? What could it be? and her heart beating so as almost to suffocate her, she opened the door.

  Yes—there he stood—on the hearthrug as she had last seen him in that room. But he did not seem to hear her come in, for he made no movement towards her; he did not even turn his head in her direction.

  More and more startled and perturbed, Anne hastily went up to him.

  “Kenneth,” she cried, “what is it? What is the matter?”

  She had held out her hand as she hurried towards him, but he did not seem to see it. He stood there still, without moving—his face slightly turned away, till she was close beside him.

  “Kenneth,” she repeated, this time with a thrill of something very like anguish in her tone, “what is the matter? Are you angry with me? Kenneth—speak.”

  Then at last he slowly turned his head and looked at her with a strange, half-wistful anxiety in his eyes—he gazed at her as if his very soul were in that gaze, and lifting his right hand, gently laid it on her shoulder as he had done the evening he had bidden her farewell. She did not shrink from his touch, but strange to say, she did not feel it, and some indefinable instinct made her turn her eyes away from his and glance at her shoulder. But even as she did so she saw that his hand was no longer there, and with a thrill of fear she exclaimed again, “Speak, Kenneth, speak to me!”

  The words fell on empty air. There was no Kenneth beside her. She was standing on the hearthrug alone.

  Then, for the first time, there came over her that awful chill of terror so often described, yet so indescribable to all but the few who have felt it for themselves. With a terrible though half-stifled cry, Anne turned towards the door. It opened before she reached it, and she half fell into old Ambrose’s arms. Fortunately for her—for her reason, perhaps—his vague misgiving had made him follow her, though of what he was afraid he could scarcely have told.

  “Oh, ma’am—oh, my poor lady!” he exclaimed, as he half led, half carried her back to her own room, “what is it? Has he gone? But how could he have gone? I was close by—I never saw him pass.”

  “He is not there—he has not been there,” said poor Anne, trembling and clinging to her old servant. “Oh, Ambrose, what you and I have seen was no living Kenneth Graham—no living man at all. Ambrose—he came thus to say goodbye to me. He is dead,” and the tears burst forth as she spoke, and Anne sobbed convulsively.

  Ambrose looked at her in distress and consternation past words. Then at last he found courage to speak.

  “My poor lady,” he repeated. “It must be so. I misdoubted me and I did not know why. He did not ring, but I was passing by the door and something—a sort of feeling that there was someone waiting outside—made me open it. To my astonishment it was he,” and Ambrose himself could not repress a sort of tremor. “He did not speak, but seemed to pass me and be up the stairs and in the library in an instant. And then, not knowing what to do, I went to your room, ma’am. Forgive me if I did wrong.”

  “No, no,” said Anne, “you could not have done otherwise. Ring the bell, Ambrose; tell Seton I have had bad news, and that you think it has upset me. But wait at the door till she comes. I—I am afraid to be left alone.”

  And Mrs. Medway looked so deadly pale and faint, that when Seton came hurrying in answer to the sharply-rung bell, it needed no explanation for her to see that Mrs. Medway was really ill. Seton was a practical, matter-of-fact person, and the bustle of attending to her mistress, trying to make her warm again—for Anne was shivering with cold—and persuading her to take some restoratives, effectually drove any inquiry as to the cause of the sudden seizure out of the maid’s head. And by the time Mrs. Medway was better, Seton had invented a satisfactory explanation of it all, for herself.

  “You need a change, ma’am. It’s too dull for anybody staying in town at this season; and it’s beginning to tell on your nerves, ma’am,” was the maid’s idea.

  And some little time after the strange occurrence Mrs. Medway was persuaded to leave town for the country.

  But not till she had seen in the newspapers the fatal paragraph she knew would sooner or later be there—the announcement of the death, on board Her Majesty’s troopship Ariadne a few days before reaching the Cape, of “Major R. R. Graham,” of the 113th regiment.

  She “had known it,” she said to herself; yet when she saw it there, staring her in the face, she realised that she had been living in a hope which she had not allowed to herself that the apparition might in the end prove capable of other explanation. She would gladly have taken refuge in the thought that it was a dream, an optical delusion fed of her fancy incessantly brooding on her friend and on his last visit—that her brain was in some way disarranged or disturbed—anything, anything would have been welcome to her. But against all such was opposed the fact that it was not herself alone who had seen Kenneth Graham that fatal afternoon.

  And now, when the worst was certain, she recognised this still more clearly as the strongest testimony to the apparition not having been the product of her own imagination. And old Ambrose, her sole confidant, in his simple way agreed with her. “If I had not se
en him too, ma’am, or if I alone had seen him,” he said, furtively wiping his eyes. “But the two of us. No, it could have but the one meaning,” and he looked sadly at the open newspaper. “There’s a slight discrimpancy, ma’am,” he said as he pointed to the paragraph. “Our Major Graham’s name was ‘K. R. ’ not ‘R. R. ’”

  “It is only a misprint. I noticed that,” said Anne wearily. “No, Ambrose, there can be no mistake. But I do not want anyone—not anyone—ever to hear the story. You will promise me that, Ambrose?” and the old man repeated the promise he had already given.

  There was another “discrimpancy” which had struck Anne more forcibly, but which she refrained from mentioning to Ambrose.

  “It can mean nothing; it is no use putting it into his head,” she said to herself. “Still, it is strange.”

  The facts were these. The newspaper gave the date of Major Graham’s death as the 25th November—the afternoon on which he had appeared to Mrs. Medway and her servant was that of the 26th. This left no possibility of calculating that the vision had occurred at or even shortly after the moment of the death.

  “It must be a mistake in the announcement,” Anne decided. And then she gave herself up to the acceptance of the fact. Kenneth was dead. Life held no individual future for her any more—nothing to look forward to, no hopes, however tremblingly admitted, that “someday” he might return, and return to discover—to own, perhaps, to himself and to her that he did love her, and that only mistaken pride, or her own coldness, or one of the hundred “mistakes” or “perhapses” by which men, so much more than women, allow to drift away from them the happiness they might grasp, had misled and withheld him! No; all was over. Henceforth she must live in her children alone—in the interests of others she must find her happiness.

  “And in one blessed thought,” said the poor girl—for she was little more—even at the first to herself; “that after all he did love me, that I may, without shame, say so in my heart, for I was his last thought. It was—it must have been—to tell me so that he came that day. My Kenneth—yes, he was mine after all.”