by The Penguin Book of Ghost Stories- From Elizabeth Gaskell to Ambrose Bierce (retail) (epub)
Parvis broke off to fumble in an inner pocket. ‘Here,’ he continued, ‘here’s an account of the whole thing from the Sentinel – a little sensational, of course. But I guess you’d better look it over.’
He held out a newspaper to Mary, who unfolded it slowly, remembering, as she did so, the evening when, in that same room, the perusal of a clipping from the Sentinel had first shaken the depths of her security.
As she opened the paper, her eyes, shrinking from the glaring headlines, ‘Widow of Boyne’s Victim Forced to Appeal for Aid,’ ran down the column of text to two portraits inserted in it. The first was her husband’s taken from a photograph made the year they had come to England. It was the picture of him that she liked best, the one that stood on the writing-table up-stairs in her bedroom. As the eyes in the photograph met hers, she felt it would be impossible to read what was said of him, and closed her lids with the sharpness of the pain.
‘I thought if you felt disposed to put your name down – ’ she heard Parvis continue.
She opened her eyes with an effort, and they fell on the other portrait. It was that of a youngish man, slightly built, with features somewhat blurred by the shadow of a projecting hat-brim. Where had she seen that outline before? She stared at it confusedly, her heart hammering in her ears. Then she gave a cry.
‘This is the man – the man who came for my husband!’
She heard Parvis start to his feet, and was dimly aware that she had slipped backward into the corner of the sofa, and that he was bending above her in alarm. She straightened herself, and reached out for the paper, which she had dropped.
‘It’s the man! I should know him anywhere!’ she persisted in a voice that sounded to her own ears like a scream.
Parvis’s answer seemed to come to her from far off, down endless fog-muffled windings.
‘Mrs Boyne, you’re not very well. Shall I call somebody? Shall I get a glass of water?’
‘No, no, no!’ She threw herself toward him, her hand frantically clutching the newspaper. ‘I tell you, it’s the man! I know him! He spoke to me in the garden!’
Parvis took the journal from her, directing his glasses to the portrait. ‘It can’t be, Mrs Boyne. It’s Robert Elwell.’
‘Robert Elwell?’ Her white stare seemed to travel into space. ‘Then it was Robert Elwell who came for him.’
‘Came for Boyne? The day he went away from here?’ Parvis’s voice dropped as hers rose. He bent over, laying a fraternal hand on her, as if to coax her gently back into her seat. ‘Why, Elwell was dead! Don’t you remember?’
Mary sat with her eyes fixed on the picture, unconscious of what he was saying.
‘Don’t you remember Boyne’s unfinished letter to me – the one you found on his desk that day? It was written just after he’d heard of Elwell’s death.’ She noticed an odd shake in Parvis’s unemotional voice. ‘Surely you remember!’ he urged her.
Yes, she remembered: that was the profoundest horror of it. Elwell had died the day before her husband’s disappearance; and this was Elwell’s portrait; and it was the portrait of the man who had spoken to her in the garden. She lifted her head and looked slowly about the library. The library could have borne witness that it was also the portrait of the man who had come in that day to call Boyne from his unfinished letter. Through the misty surgings of her brain she heard the faint boom of half-forgotten words – words spoken by Alida Stair on the lawn at Pangbourne before Boyne and his wife had ever seen the house at Lyng, or had imagined that they might one day live there.
‘This was the man who spoke to me,’ she repeated.
She looked again at Parvis. He was trying to conceal his disturbance under what he probably imagined to be an expression of indulgent commiseration; but the edges of his lips were blue. ‘He thinks me mad; but I’m not mad,’ she reflected; and suddenly there flashed upon her a way of justifying her strange affirmation.
She sat quiet, controlling the quiver of her lips, and waiting till she could trust her voice; then she said, looking straight at Parvis: ‘Will you answer me one question, please? When was it that Robert Elwell tried to kill himself?’
‘When – when?’ Parvis stammered.
‘Yes; the date. Please try to remember.’
She saw that he was growing still more afraid of her. ‘I have a reason,’ she insisted.
‘Yes, yes. Only I can’t remember. About two months before, I should say.’
‘I want the date,’ she repeated.
Parvis picked up the newspaper. ‘We might see here,’ he said, still humouring her. He ran his eyes down the page. ‘Here it is. Last October – the – ’
She caught the words from him. ‘The 20th, wasn’t it?’ With a sharp look at her, he verified. ‘Yes, the 20th. Then you did know?’
‘I know now.’ Her gaze continued to travel past him. ‘Sunday, the 20th – that was the day he came first.’
Parvis’s voice was almost inaudible. ‘Came here first?’
‘Yes.’
‘You saw him twice, then?’
‘Yes, twice.’ She just breathed it at him. ‘He came first on the 20th of October. I remember the date because it was the day we went up Meldon Steep for the first time.’ She felt a faint gasp of inward laughter at the thought that but for that she might have forgotten.
Parvis continued to scrutinize her, as if trying to intercept her gaze.
‘We saw him from the roof,’ she went on. ‘He came down the lime-avenue toward the house. He was dressed just as he is in that picture. My husband saw him first. He was frightened, and ran down ahead of me; but there was no one there. He had vanished.’
‘Elwell had vanished?’ Parvis faltered.
‘Yes.’ Their two whispers seemed to grope for each other. ‘I couldn’t think what had happened. I see now. He tried to come then; but he wasn’t dead enough – he couldn’t reach us. He had to wait for two months to die; and then he came back again – and Ned went with him.’
She nodded at Parvis with the look of triumph of a child who has worked out a difficult puzzle. But suddenly she lifted her hands with a desperate gesture, pressing them to her temples.
‘Oh, my God! I sent him to Ned – I told him where to go! I sent him to this room!’ she screamed.
She felt the walls of books rush toward her, like inward falling ruins; and she heard Parvis, a long way off, through the ruins, crying to her, and struggling to get at her. But she was numb to his touch, she did not know what he was saying. Through the tumult she heard but one clear note, the voice of Alida Stair, speaking on the lawn at Pangbourne.
‘You won’t know till afterward,’ it said. ‘You won’t know till long, long afterward.’
Glossary of Scots Words
Rather than clogging the text with too many notes, a glossary now follows of the Scots words used in Elizabeth Gaskell’s ‘The Old Nurse’s Story’, Amelia B. Edwards’s ‘The North Mail’, Robert Louis Stevenson’s ‘Thrawn Janet’ and Margaret Oliphant’s ‘The Open Door’. Stevenson uses dialect stringently, while Oliphant tends merely to render accent phonetically. The few words glossed here from ‘The Old Nurse’s Story’ and ‘The North Mail’ reflect the border country location of these tales. The glossary derives from reference to four sources: Jamieson’s Dictionary of the Scottish Language (London and Edinburgh: William P. Nimmo, 1877); Charles MacKay’s A Dictionary of Lowland Scotch (Edinburgh: Ballantyne Press, 1888); the glossary to Barry Menikoff (ed.), The Complete Stories of Robert Louis Stevenson (New York: Modern Library, 2002); and the glossary to ‘Thrawn Janet’ in Michael Hayes (ed.), The Supernatural Stories of Robert Louis Stevenson (London: John Calder, 1976).
a’ all
aboot about
abune above
ae one
aff off
ahint behind
aik oak
ain own
aince/ance once
alang along
amang among
ane one
arena
aren’t
askit asked
atween between
auld old
awfu’ awful
aye always, still
bairn child
baith both
banes bones
bauldly boldly
begude began
ben inside
bield shelter
bieldy sheltered
birks birches
blythe happy
body a human being, person, oneself
bogle hobgoblin, ghost; as a verb, to terrify, enchant, bewitch
braes sides of a hill
braw fine
brunstane brimstone
brunt burnt
bure bore
burn stream
ca’d called
callant a youth, boy
caller fresh and cool
cam’ came
can’le candle
cantrip spell
carline old woman
cauld cold
chafts cheeks
chalmer/cha’mer chamber, room
chappin’ striking (the hour on a clock)
chittered chattered
clachan a small village with a parish church (from the Gaelic, clach, a stone, and clachan, stones or houses)
cla’es clothes
clang clung
clatter noisy and idle chatter
claught snatched at, laid hold of eagerly
claverin’ talking idly, chattering (from clavers, idle stories, silly calumnies)
collieshangie noisy row, brawl
contrar contrary
corbie craws hooded or carrion crows; ravens (from the French, corbeau)
cornel colonel
corp corpse
craig throat
cuist cast
cummers female gossips
dae do
daffin’ merrily
daur dare
deave deafen
deevil devil
deid dead
deil devil
denners dinners
didna did not
diedly deadly
dirl vibrate; teeth play dirl: teeth chatter; as a noun, a slight tremulous stroke, a vibration; applied to the mind, a twinge of conscience, or what causes a feeling of remorse
dinna did not
doon/doun down
door dour
drap drop
dreepin’ dripping
droun drown
duds clothes
dunt pound; played dunt: pounded
durst dare
dwalled dwelled
dwining wasting away, declining, waning (also applied to the moon)
een/e’en eyes
e’en/een evening
eicht eight
eldritch fearful, terrible
fashed bothered
feck plenty, a lot, the greatest part; power, activity, vigour; vigorous, stout (hence feckless)
fit foot
fleyed scared
focht fought
forbye besides
forjaskit jaded, fatigued
forrit forward
fower four
fra’/frae from
frichten frighten; frichtit: frightened
fu’ full
fuff noise of a cat spitting
gab talk
gang go, walk; gaed: went; gaun: going; gane: gone
gangrel outcast
gart cause to
gate way
gey very, amply
gie give; gied: gave; gien: given
girn grin
glen narrow valley
glisk sidelong glance, glimpse
gloaming/gloamin’ twilight
goun gown
gousty stormy, tempestuous; unearthly
gowk fool, half-wit
greet weep, cry, whimper
grue a shudder, curdling of the blood, feeling of horror (hence gruesome )
grund ground
gude good; God
guid/guide good
hail/haill whole
hairmed harmed
hame home
hap hop
haud hold
Heeven heaven
heid head
het hot
hinder extreme
hingin’ hanging
hirsle to move or creep forward while sitting or reclining, supporting oneself on one’s hands and feet; to move, while still in a sitting position, to a nearby seat without absolutely rising; to move with effort, to shuffle, move awkwardly
hoose house
hoots expression of contempt or disbelief
howff haunt, favourite place
hunard/hun’er’ hundred
ilka each, every
inower inside, within
ither other
jaloosed suspected
keeked/keekit peeped
keepit kept
ken know; kens: knows; kenned: knew; ken’t: known
kilted tucked in
kirk church
kirkyaird churchyard
kye cattle
laigh low
laird lord
lane lone; your lane: on your own
lang long
leddy lady; leddies: ladies
leed lead
leevin’ living
licht light
likit love, delight in
limmer strumpet
lockit locked
lookit looked
lowed flamed, glowed
lown calm, quiet, sheltered from the wind
lowp jump, leap
lug ear
mair more
maister master
maned moaned
manse house lived in by a minister of the Scottish Presbyterian Church
maud plaid worn by shepherds in the border country of England/Scotland
maun must
meenute minute
micht might
mirk dark
mistrysted disagreed
mony many
moo mouth
muckle great, large, big, a great deal of
muir moor
mutch hat, coif (close-fitting cap worn under a veil or hood)
mysel myself
na no
nae no, not any, not one
nane none
neist next
neuk nook
nicht night
ony any
onyway anyway
oot out
o’t of it
ower over
owercome fragment, scrap
oxter armpit
pairt part
pechin’ gasping
pickle bit
pit-mirk pitch-dark
powney pony
projectit/projekit projected
pu’d pulled
puir poor
quo’ quoth, said
rairing roaring
reishling rustling
rin run; rinnin: running
rumm’led to make a noise or a confused sound; to stir about
sabbin’ sobbing
sae so
saftly softly
sair sore
sang song
sark linen, woollen, silken or cotton garment worn next to the skin by men and women; a shirt or shift
saughs willows (from the French, saule, and Gaelic, seileag)
saul soul
scrieghin’ shrieking, screeching (a misspelling of screighing or skreighing)
scunner take an aversion to, show disgust; as a noun, a shudder, strong dislike
seelent silent
shaw show
shoon shoes
shoother shoulder
shouers showers
shouldna should not
sib related, of kin by blood or marriage (as in sibling); bound by ties of affection
sic such
siccan such, such kind of
sicht sight
side-lang sidelong
simmer summer
sinsyne since then
sip small spring of water
skelloch scream
skelpt beat
skirled shrieked
skriegh misspelling of skreigh or screigh – see scrieghin’
slockened quenched
sma’ small
smoored smothered, choked
sodger soldier
soughing sighing
soum swim
spak spoke
spate flood
speerit a spirit
speered asked
spunk a match, spark; spirit (hence spunkie, fiery, high-spirited)
spunkies spirits, will-o’-the-wisps
steedy steady
steeked shut
steer stir
stramp tramp, walk
straucht straight
stravaguin’ wandering aimlessly (from stravaiging, strolling about, generally with bad intent)
suld should
suspeckit suspect, suspected
swat sweat
syne since, ago, then
tap top, height
tauld told
tellt told
thae those
thegether together
thir these
thirled bound; pierced, penetrated; caused to vibrate; enslaved, subject to, enthralled, thrilled
thocht thought
thrapples throats
thrawn as a noun, a thraw is a twist, one turn of the hand in twisting something, a fit of ill-humour, a pang, an agony; as a verb, thraw means to wreathe, twist, wrench, as well as to oppose, resist; hence thrawn, twisted, contorted, pained, and thrawn-gabbit, with a twisted or contorted mouth; applied metaphorically, thrawn means a cantankerous, morose person who is always grumbling; some one who is peevish, perverse, cross-grained
threep persistently affirm, reiterate (more usually spelled threap)
thretty thirty
toun town
tummled tumbled
twa two
twal’ twelve
tyke small child
unco strange, unknown; a wonder, a strange thing or person
unhalesome unwholesome
unhaly unholy
unstreakit/unstreekit not laid out for burial
upsitten indifferent, lacking in zeal
wa’/wa’s wall/s
wad would
wark work, a to-do
wars’lin’ wrestling
wast west
waukened awoke
waur worst
wean child
weary sorrowful; weary fa’: damn!; the devil take!