by Graeme Davis
The sacristan laughed softly to himself.
Kate’s fingers gripped my arm.
“What was his name?” she asked.
I would not have asked: I did not wish to hear it.
“Benoliel,” said the sacristan. “Curious name and curious tale. Every one’s talking of it.”
Every one had something else to talk of when it was found that Benoliel’s pride, which had permitted him to buy a wife, had shrunk from reclaiming the purchase money when the purchase was lost to him. And to the man who had been willing to sell his daughter, the retention of her price seemed perfectly natural.
From the moment when she heard Benoliel’s name on the sacristan’s lips, all Kate’s gaiety and happiness returned. She loved me, and she hated Benoliel. She was married to me, and he was dead; and his death was far more of a shock to me than to her. Women are curiously kind and curiously cruel. And she never could see why her father should not have kept the money. It is noteworthy that women, even the cleverest and the best of them, have no perception of what men mean by honour.
How do I account for the music? My good critic, my business is to tell my story—not to account for it.
And do I not pity Benoliel? Yes. I can afford, now, to pity most men, alive or dead.
THE TYBURN GHOST
by The Countess of Munster
1896
Wilhelmina FitzClarence’s mother was an illegitimate daughter of King William IV of the United Kingdom (Queen Victoria’s uncle and immediate predecessor), and Mina herself was born on the day of his accession to the throne. She traveled throughout Europe as a child, visiting the court of the “July monarchy” in France and that of the German Kingdom of Hanover, which had belonged to the British monarchs since the Elector of Hanover became King George I of Great Britain and Ireland after the death of his second cousin, Queen Anne.
Mina married her first cousin, the second Earl of Munster, and they had nine children together. William FitzClarence was another grandchild of William IV, his father being the king’s illegitimate son by the same mistress as Mina’s mother.
The couple lived quietly in the then-fashionable seaside town of Brighton. Mina took to writing late in life, publishing her first novel, Dorinda, when she was close to sixty and drawing praise from no less a critic than Oscar Wilde. Her second novel, A Scotch Earl, was published two years later and was widely condemned for its unflattering portrait of a nobleman—which some critics regarded as dangerously close to Socialism—and for lacking “any merits of construction or style.” She published two more books before her death, neither of them novels: Ghostly Tales (1896), a well-received collection of stories “written in a manner similar to accounts of true hauntings;” and her autobiography, My Memories and Miscellanies (1904).
“The Tyburn Ghost” comes from Ghostly Tales. This compact little ghost story lives up to the author’s intention to mimic contemporary reports of alleged hauntings, both in the nature of the ghostly manifestation and the tone of the writing—so much so that the magazine Lady’s Realm considered it, and the rest of her stories, to be based on fact.
Tyburn is an evocative name to the British, and especially to Londoners. Close to the present-day site of Marble Arch, Tyburn was the site of a notorious gallows, the main execution site for London-area prisoners from the sixteenth through to the eighteenth centuries. It is the perfect spot for a haunted house built over an unmarked grave.
Some years ago a lady and her three daughters, who generally resided in the country, had reason to visit the metropolis. After some trouble in the way of house-hunting, they settled in a lodging located in a small street in close proximity to the Marble Arch, Hyde Park.
It was summer-time, about the middle of July, and the heat being intense, the atmosphere (or the want of it!) in a small lodginghouse was very oppressive. Mrs. Dale, however, was not very sensitive to ‘stuffiness’; besides which, had she been so, she was not well enough off to afford a more spacious dwelling. Indeed, had it not been for the landlady’s obliging disposition, and readiness to accede to some alterations suggested by Mrs. Dale, in the arrangement of the apartment, the latter lady would have been forced to seek a pied-a-terre in a still less fashionable locality than even Dash-street.
But to make our story clear, we must describe the relative positions of the rooms in Dash-street, as well as what were the slight alterations suggested by Mrs. Dale, and carried out by the obliging Mrs. Parsons; who, knowing that the season was more than half over, felt it was better to put herself out a little, than not to let her rooms at all.
No. 5 Dash-street was a tenement of the most conventional furnished-apartment type; and the rooms hired by Mrs. Dale consisted of two small sitting-rooms on the drawing-room floor, with folding doors between them, and one tolerably good sized bed-room, on the upper storey, situated exactly above the front sitting-room. There was a large ‘four-poster’ in this upper bed-room, in which the two elder young ladies agreed to repose-together; and Mrs. Dale persuaded the landlady to allow another ‘four-poster’ to be placed in the back-sitting room for her convenience and that of her youngest daughter—they also electing to sleep therein together.
This was an economical arrangement, necessitating the use of only two beds instead of four (or at least of three), and, as lodging-house keepers charge according to the number of the beds used, the arrangement was a satisfactory one for Mrs. Dale.
Upon the appointed day, rather late in the evening, the Dale family arrived in Dash-street. Mrs. Dale had had some business to transact in the City; so, after a frugal supper, they began to think of retiring for the night. Mrs. Parsons, being a busy, hard-working woman, was nothing loth, and soon brought in the extra bed, toilet table, etc., and after bidding her lodgers a hearty good-night, left them to themselves.
Mrs. Dale had already thrown herself into the expectant arms of an inviting fauteuil, intent upon enjoying a free-and-easy yawn, when she suddenly noticed for the first time that there was a balcony outside the window which ran along the whole row of the Dash-street houses. Not being of an imaginative temperament, however, the only nocturnal danger which presented itself to the lady’s innocently conventional mind, was—cats! Thereupon the following colloquy took place between her and her daughter Minny, who was to be her bed-fellow:
“Minny, mind you shut that window!” “By all means, mother!”
“And mind you lock it, too; for I am terrified at cats!”
Minny was a very dutiful daughter; but all the same she could not but think, in her ‘inner consciousness’, that if the window were shut, it would take a very uncommon cat to open it, even if it were not locked! She, however, silently and humbly obeyed orders, and, after much straining and struggling, managed to shut and lock the window, thus imprisoning within the stuffy little room the pleasing odour of the evening meal (which had consisted of pickled salmon and Welsh rare-bit!) and also effectually preventing the entrance of the least breath of fresh air!
“And now that we are comfortable,” said Mrs. Dale, whose complexion was shining from a ‘combination of heat and eat,’ “we may as well go to bed!”
Accordingly, having kissed and dismissed her two daughters, who were to sleep upstairs, she and Minny commenced disrobing themselves in the back sitting-room.
“I think,” said Mrs. Dale, after pondering a little, “that if we lock both the doors which open into the drawing-rooms from the staircase, we might safely sleep with the folding-doors open between the two rooms and so be cooler; and we shall get more air,”—(i.e., the atmosphere of the pickled salmon, etc.,)—“don’t you think?”
“We will do so,” said the obedient Minny, flinging open the folding-doors; she then kissed her mother affectionately, and got into bed.
Now the room was small, and the ‘four-poster’ was large; so it had been found necessary to place the latter almost in the centre of the former. There was just room for one chair between the bed and the wall on Minny’s side, and only a little larger space,
occupied by an ottoman and a small table, upon Mrs. Dale’s side.
By this time Minny, who was the most active and efficient sister of the three, and upon whom the principal responsibilities of the family were laid, was very tired, and soon, very soon (after she had felt her mother lie down by her side) she fell fast asleep.
The ladies were lying back to back;—Minny’s face being turned to the wall, and her mother’s towards the ottoman, on the other side of the room.
Suddenly Minny was awakened by a sharp exclamation of seeming terror from her mother, and turning round she beheld the old lady sitting bolt upright in the bed; her teeth were chattering, her night-cap was awry, and she was shaking in every limb.
“What’s the matter, mother?”
“I’ve—I’ve seen something!” she gasped.
“But, what? What?”
“An old hag!—with a villainous face, and hanging lips!”
“Oh! mother, don’t you think it’s fancy? You know you never sleep well in a strange bed!”
“It wasn’t fancy!” answered the terrified woman; “she passed along there,” pointing with a shaking hand along the wall, “and when she turned and saw me looking at her, she came close to me in a threatening way, and put her horrid putrid-looking face closer to mine. Faugh! I smelt Death! She also nodded viciously, and laughed at my fright, shewing black, slimy teeth! Then she pointed jeeringly with her brown skeleton finger close to my face, and curtsied very low;” and the perspiration poured off the poor old lady’s face at the recollection.
“Dearest mother,” said Minny tenderly, “you are over-tired and nervous! Come and sleep this side of the bed,—for no one can get at you here, between the bed and the wall!”
And the good daughter helped her mother over into her place, while she lay down in her mother’s, feeling convinced that the old lady was suffering from the effects of—picked salmon!
Minny slept peacefully for some time, when suddenly she awoke, feeling curiously uneasy, and for some reason she dreaded to open her eyes! Then, after a second or two, she began to realise that something—someone—was very close to her; that in fact a face was almost touching hers; for she smelt a foetid breath, like to what (she fancied) must be the odour of the grave!
With an effort, she opened her eyes and beheld the figure of an old woman, who, as the terrified girl started into a sitting posture, retreated to the foot of the bed, seemingly prepared, however, to spring upon its occupant; for she clung to both the bed-posts with her brown, claw-like hands, both arms distended, and her head bent slightly forward; her small, lithe body meanwhile swaying to and fro, as though to give it the necessary impetus.
The hag’s face was the wickedest Minny had ever seen, and was mottled and brown in colour, as though in a state of decomposition. She wore an old-fashioned mob-cap, trimmed with a wreath of roses (an incongruous head-dress for so ghastly a head!) and a malicious grin parted the charred and blackened lips. She was dressed in a brown silk sacque, embroidered all over with pink roses, and Minny fancied she heard the tapping of high-heeled shoes, as the detestable apparition seemingly changing its intention, relinquished the bed-posts and once more began to approach her,—curtseying ironically, as though enjoying the girl’s terror!
But Minny, being religiously courageous, pulled herself together, and the sacred words seemed to spring solemnly to her lips: “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I bid-thee be gone!”
A mingled expression of fear and malignant hatred appeared in the evil hag’s face, as Minny slowly uttered these words; then the figure shrank, crouched against the wall, and finally disappeared.
Minny knew now that she had seen an evil spirit, and was also convinced that her adjuration had had effect, and that she should never be troubled again in the same way! Those sacred words would always (she felt) have power—complete power—over the devil and his angels! So, in peace she lay down and slept till morning.
She deemed it best to say nothing to her mother of what she had seen, and when the old lady, while dressing the next morning, reiterated her assertion that what she had seen was “not a dream, nor had it been nightmare,”—all that Minny answered was, “She hoped her mother would not relate her experiences to the two sisters who slept upstairs, as it was no use to frighten them.” To this Mrs. Dale agreed.
The old lady felt nervous all the same for a night or two after the strange occurrence; but being troubled no more by the unpleasant nocturnal visitor, she became quite bold, and began to think that, after all, it might have been the fault of the pickled salmon, and that the Welsh rare-bit might also have had something to do with it! Having also a great deal of business to transact in the City, and the rooms being convenient, she decided to stay a fortnight longer in Dash-street.
One day, the second sister (Janet) asked for a private word with Minny, and told her that she (Janet) felt “very ill,” and that both she and the other sister (Mary by name) fancied there must be “something unwholesome” in the bedroom in which they slept, as they had neither of them “felt well” since their séjour in Dash-street.
Minny looked anxiously at her sisters, and could not but acknowledge to herself that they both looked ill; and reproached herself for not having noticed it before. The fortnight was, however, nearly over, so she spoke to her mother, and it was settled that they should leave the very next day; but that they must send for the landlady and tell her so, as she was expecting them to stay a day or two longer.
Mrs. Parsons was much put out at the news, and asked the reason of so sudden a departure? Was there anything she could do? Or had she left anything undone? As she spoke she looked in a strangely suspicious manner at Mrs. Dale, and murmured, “she hoped if there was any reason of complaint that the ladies would tell her.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Parsons,” answered Mrs. Dale, “we have been most comfortable, but my daughters fancy there is a smell in their bedroom upstairs, and that consequently it is not quite wholesome. Can you account for this?”
“I hope the young ladies will tell me exactly from what they suffer? Is there anything else besides the smell?”
Minnie turned to Janet, who looked as though she could barely stand and gasped out: “Yes, I will tell the truth, and—Mary, come here and corroborate what I say! for I can bear it no longer! Mrs. Parsons, every night for the last week or more, between the hours of one and three, I and my sister are visited by a villainous old hag,” and at the remembrance of what she had gone through, of distress and terror, Janet so nearly swooned that after a few minutes Mary was compelled to become spokeswoman.
“Yes!” she said, “what Janet says is true! but we kept silence, knowing it was an object to mother to remain here! The old hag,” Mary continued, shuddering, “looks like—a Devil! and as though she had mouldered for years in her grave! Her lips look as though they were falling off—horrible!—horrible!”
“Enough!” said Mrs. Parsons, holding up her hand, “I know it all!—and this cursed house has been my ruin. I ought never to have stayed here; but what can a poor widow do! I got it cheap, as it had a bad name—and now, see!”
She then related that the house had been sold to her cheap by a relative,—who had warned her it was haunted by the old woman whom the Dale family had seen. She had never seen the ghost herself, and would not believe in it, but upon making anxious researches she had discovered that the house was built on the very site of Tyburn, and once when, for sanitary purposes, excavations had been made, a lot of charred bones had been unearthed,—thereby attesting to the truth of what she had been told.
After hearing her story Mrs. Dale felt sorry for the woman, and before leaving made her a small present in money—at the same time impressing upon her that it was scarcely fair or honourable for her, under the circumstances, to receive lodgers. She also offered to help her always in any small way she could;—and she felt glad afterwards to think she had done so; for not many months later, she read in the papers that No. 5, Dash-street, had been bu
rnt to the ground, and that the poor landlady’s body had been found among the ruins, bearing incontestable signs of the unfortunate woman having (mercifully) been suffocated.
Years later, as some workmen were digging on the same spot for fresh foundations, an old coffin was unearthed, and upon its being opened, it was found to contain fragments of a female skeleton,—a brown silk gown, in wonderful preservation, some human teeth, and a wreath of artificial roses!
THE DUCHESS AT PRAYER
by Edith Wharton
1900
Edith Newbold Jones was born into New York’s upper crust. Her family was related to the Van Rensselaers, who helped found New Netherland, and their wealth is said by some to have inspired the common saying, “keeping up with the Joneses.” Her privileged upbringing did not satisfy her, however. She had no interest in fashion, etiquette, and the other necessities of marrying well and making a good show in society. Instead, she supplemented the genteel education she received from tutors and governesses with extensive reading in her father’s library.
To save the family from the embarrassment of having her name appear in print, her first published work—a translation of a German poem which she completed at age fifteen—was published under the name of A. E. Washburn, a friend of her father’s and a supporter of women’s education.
At twenty-three, she married Edward (Teddy) Robbins Wharton, a Boston sportsman and gentleman twelve years her senior. He shared her love of travel until struck down with acute depression in 1902, after which the couple was largely confined to their Massachusetts estate, which Edith designed herself. The marriage ended in divorce after twenty-eight years.
Edith moved to Paris after the divorce, remaining there throughout World War I and contributing to the French war effort and the support of Belgian refugees. Her articles on the war for Scribner’s Magazine were collected as Fighting France: From Dunkerque to Belfort, which became a best-seller in the United States. The French government awarded her the Legion of Honor for her wartime work. She returned to the United States only once, to receive an honorary doctorate from Yale University in 1923.