The Big Book of Ghost Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “I like him very much, John,” she answered. “He is well-mannered and handsome and, as you say, his uncle’s heir.”

  “But not only that, my dear. He is a good boy with character and prospects before him. Most suitable, I should think.”

  “Yes, I would face losing my dear child, if I thought he were the right young man to make her happy. But there is plenty of time yet.”

  “Your mother said that, my dear, but we did not agree with her.”

  Then Mrs. Merryweather sighed and crept into the big bed, dragging the loose, wide hem of her nightdress in after her. John Merryweather followed her, sitting up to suck a lozenge, before he leaned over, snuffed the candle, and lay back to sleep.

  “If he made her as happy as you have made me, John, I would be contented,” Mrs. Merryweather whispered.

  John Merryweather leaned over and kissed her cheek. “God bless you, my dear,” he said.

  “God bless you,” she answered. Then they went to sleep.

  VI

  On Sunday morning, Mr. and Mrs. Merryweather, Felicity, and Michael drove to the little stone church at Penn. Here Michael seemed to find the first quiet hour in which he could weave some shape out of his confusion of ideas. For he had paced up and down his room the night before, until the candle had burned down and left him to creep into bed in the dark. Sitting in the pew, Michael half listened to the voice of the preacher,

  Give ear to my words, O Lord, consider my meditation.

  Hearken unto the voice of my cry, my King, and my God: for unto thee will I pray.

  My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee and will look up.

  For thou art not a God that hath pleasure in wickedness: neither shall evil dwell with thee.…

  Michael half understood the words which came to him. But he knew that evil was dwelling with him, in his memory of the unhappy night of his arrival in London. He tried to shake off the weight of his melancholy and he straightened his back, as if to strengthen himself. He looked towards Felicity. He had never seen anybody so beautiful. As if in answer to his wish, the memory of the first time that he saw her face vanished from his mind. Felicity had never lived in London, beyond a month or so every year, so her cheeks were rosy as apples from the country air. Her eyes were blue and the hair beneath her grey and lavender hat was golden. Michael watched her shyly, glancing now and then towards Mrs. Merryweather, anxious lest his look should be detected. Sometimes Felicity sat back in the pew, watching the preacher. Her gloved hands rested upon her prayer book, which was white, with a golden cross upon it. Her lips would part as if she wished to speak: the movement of her mouth excited Michael, so that he looked down again to the pattern of his trousers or to the pattern of the carpet. It was not until they were leaving the church, when her eyes closed, as the light from the window dazzled her, that he again felt the shudder of fear which came every time he recalled the house in Half Moon Street. Her eyes, closed like this, awakened the picture and then his terror. Once as she walked, the light through the stained glass window coloured her hair and her cheek and she seemed like a saint to him. When they came to the stretch of grass and the path before the church, Felicity paused to greet her friends.

  Michael did not speak as they drove back to Springfields. But he turned many times to watch Felicity’s face, her eyes showing with their brightness how much she enjoyed the air and the scene which spread about them. As the carriage rolled on, her face moved too, against the background of trees, the white cottages in the fields and the deep hollows, gay with the flowers of spring.

  When Michael went to his room to wash his hands before luncheon, he stood before his looking glass. He stretched his arms above his head, then out and then down to his sides. He swelled his chest as if to assure himself of his own strength. He said, almost aloud, “If any man hurts her, I shall kill him. I may have been mad on that Christmas night. I do not know. It may have been no more than an evil dream. But if any man dares to hurt her, I shall be the death of him.”

  Confident of his own strength, he went down to the dining room and found himself able to talk with more ease to Felicity. After luncheon, they sat upon a sofa, looking at stereoscopic views of Venice and of the Taj Mahal. They said how pleasant it would be to travel. Michael asked, “And tell me, Miss Merryweather, which country do you wish most to see?”

  Felicity told him that she had always dreamed of Italy. From that moment, Michael dreamed of Italy too.

  In May of 1845, Mrs. Merryweather had closed the house at Penn and had come up to their London house which was in North Street, Westminster. With the coming of the Merryweathers to London, Michael’s life changed in many ways. He forsook his club of an evening, he forsook the coffee shops and his own chambers, to ring the Merryweather’s bell in North Street, upon any pretext his love-sick imagination could invent. The way from Jermyn Street to North Street became a path of air for him to tread. He would set out in the late afternoon, when his hands were washed free of the smudges from his work in the office: a slim, quick-walking figure of a man, fashionable now, dressed in a suit of Garter blue which was the mode at this time. It fitted him so that his young body gave its own lines to the cloth which covered him. His waistcoat was of ivory silk, speckled with minute blue flowers. He was gallant to look upon as he walked along St. James’s to buy a nosegay. They were so fashionable now, since the Queen carried one every night when she went to the opera. Thus armed with his excuse for intruding upon the Merryweathers, he would walk down past St. James’s Palace, across the green stretches of the park and past the high, noble towers of Westminster. Once he walked into the Abbey as he passed this way, drawn into the shadows and the holy quiet by the faint notes of the organ. The Abbey seemed to him to smell of death and the organ played a song of the glory that was to come. He was too impatient to stay. He turned again into the sunshine, walking in the full glory of what was with him now: he was in love with the world.

  Michael came to know the way to North Street so well that he foresaw the number of steps he must take from one point to another: three hundred and sixteen anxious strides from the end of Jermyn Street to the end of St. James’s. The number of steps across the park varied, much to his chagrin, because of the carriages which impeded his way, or lines of guardsmen marching to Buckingham Palace, or market wagons trundling home from Covent Garden on their way to the cool countryside. But the number of paces between the corner of North Street and the door of Merryweather’s house was assured. Thirty-four, with one mighty stride as he placed his right foot upon the step and raised his hand to ring the bell. The nosegay was for Mrs. Merryweather, but the shy glances, almost as he pressed the flowers into her hands, were for the younger figure near to the window. One day John Merryweather was in the drawing-room when Michael called with his flowers.

  “Michael, Michael,” he said, with his jovial voice, which seemed to be so full of port, “what is this? Flowers for my wife upon three days in one week! I shall begin to suspect you of being a cuckoo in my happy nest, my son. Wife, you must not encourage him.”

  “You must not tease Michael, John. It is very kind of him to bring me flowers. Take no heed of the naughty man, Michael,” she said.

  While they spoke, Felicity clutched the fold of the window curtain in her hand, trembling under the waves of faintness and ecstasy which disturbed her.

  VII

  It seems that we have not brought Felicity Merryweather close enough for us to see her clearly in this record. One has hesitated, in consideration of her own shyness, to talk of the diary which she kept at this time: the diary which ended so sadly before another year was to pass. Eight little books remain, with Michael Stranger’s letters, in a morocco box which is still owned by the descendants of the Merryweather family. The eight volumes of Felicity’s diary begin with the spring of 1838. I have dipped into their pages many times, during Sundays when it was raining, almost afraid of stirring the shy secrets which she wrote in them. O
ne opens the first volume with the record of Felicity’s first visit to London. She was sixteen then. She had been allowed to see Mrs. Graham’s famous balloon descend at Hampton and she had been allowed to drink tea once at the Flora Tea Gardens in Bayswater. Here she had seen the wonderful Ducrow perform upon his horses and she had seen the sable sky above Bayswater radiant with the light of fireworks and rockets. She had seen Madame Saqui walking upon a tight rope at Vauxhall and she had heard Madame Vestris sing Cherry Ripe. It is difficult to read on through these fragrant pages when one is aware of the end. I know no diaries so sweet with childhood as these. Felicity had been reared upon beauty and kindliness. There is no mean judgment or carping note in any day’s story. It is not until the summer of 1844 that Michael Stranger is mentioned. Then we read uncompromising records of his calls.

  “Michael Stranger came to-day and drank tea with Mother,” she wrote.

  “Michael arrived upon the doorstep with Father, just as I was leaving the house with Thorpe to accompany me, to pay my call upon Mrs. Duff in Cowley Street, which is near by. He seemed embarrassed as we encountered. Why, I dare not tell.”

  Two months pass before we come upon an entry which pleases us, in our search through Felicity’s sad story.

  “June 14th. This has been a happy day for me, but with much pain. It was the pain which is sweet for a young woman to bear, for I know now what M. feels for me, as I have known for so long what feelings I have entertained for him. This morning I awakened in a trice, feeling suddenly refreshed and happy as I saw the sunshine burst into the room when Thorpe drew the curtains. I even suspected a new note of kindness in her voice when she said, ‘Good morning, Miss Felicity, I hope you have slept well.’ But this must have been my imagination, for she was cross as ever as she combed my hair. I do believe she would rap me with the brush, if she dared. And yet I love her. Father says that her early morning tempers come from her stomach and when I spoke of her crossness at breakfast this morning, he shocked Mother and made her quite angry by saying that Thorpe required some rhubarb, in a strong dose, to set her to rights. I would take Thorpe with me, if I married, for all her scoldings. I do believe she has teased and scolded me more than Mother has ever done. Dear Father has never been cross with me once. Sometimes I think that if Mother were not married to Father, I would wish to marry him myself. He is such a kind man and so full of comical sayings. But I suppose that would be impossible. We would be so happy together. And yet I do not know if this is true any longer, for to-day has shown me my error and my joy. In the afternoon, Mother said to me, ‘Are you going out, Felicity? Thorpe must accompany you—but I want you to stay because Michael is coming to call upon us about five o’clock.’

  “I answered with much confusion which I could not hide, that I wished to go to the Abbey for the evening service. And then, to my shame and confusion, I said, ‘He comes to see you, Mother, there is no need that I should be here.’

  “The words stumbled out, one upon the heels of the other. I blushed and turned towards the door. Mother was too dear and tender. She came up to me and placed her hands upon my shoulders, without turning me about to search my blushes. ‘Dear Felicity,’ she said, ‘I do not know the feminine word for knave, unless it is witch. And I am sure you are not a little witch. But you are either a female knave or a little goose. Which is it?’

  “I said that I did not know.

  “And then Father came into the drawing room and I wished to escape. To my eternal confusion he argued Mother into repeating her question to him. ‘Knave or goose?’ he said. ‘I should think my Felicity was a goose once, but now she is a mixture of both.’

  “With this I ran out of the room and up the stairs as if this were a mad-house. I sat here in my bedroom for ten minutes to compose myself for the ordeal of walking through the busy streets with Thorpe at my side.

  “I proceeded to the shops in St. James’s to order a fine new hat for riding at Penn, my old one being a shabby sight since the day when I rode to Stoke Poges and it blew into the coppice. Father consoled me for my loss and pressed a sovereign into my hand for a new one. There were many fine people in the shop, and I saw Lord Melbourne walking in the park as I crossed the lawns on my way home. He was talking to a dark gentleman who seemed to be a foreigner from his antics and his dress. Father says that Lord Melbourne is a very wicked man, but I saw no signs of his worldliness upon his smiling face. As we came to the open square before the Abbey, Thorpe said to me, ‘We are ten minutes late for the beginning of the service, Miss Felicity.’ This I knew, I confess, for I had tarried in the hatter’s shop trying on this hat, its shape being monstrously new and fashionable.

  “Since we were so late, we proceeded immediately here, which was my plan.

  “My feet were like leaden weights as I came down to the drawing-room door. Dear Michael was standing there. I dare to write of him thus, and not as Mr. S. or Michael S., as of yore, for my heart has told me its secret and I can no longer deny it. Michael was sitting beside Mother upon the sofa, and they were talking of politics which do not interest me very much, try as I may. M. stood up from the sofa and came across the room to me. Father came into the room and said, ‘Ah, let me see,’ by which I always know that a plot is afoot. I only wished to die and I could not look into Michael’s eyes as he took my hand and wished me ‘good afternoon.’ He seemed so strong and so brave and so beautiful with his fashionable clothes and his hair shining. I almost snatched my hand from his, which was gauche of me, so terrified was I at the realisation of how the touch of him burned me and distressed me. All other secrets I have shared with Mother, who has always been sweet and dear to me. But this I cannot share with any living being. Unless it be Michael himself. I walked across the room and sat upon a chair, so that the light was not upon my face. I was wearing my violet silk dress which is truly paler than violet. A pretty colour which I chose myself. I trembled again and when I looked up, I saw Father leave the room and then Mother followed him. I thought I must forget all manners and propriety and run to Father’s arms for protection from myself. But I did not. I stayed. Mother closed the door behind her and I realised that I was alone with Michael. I looked up a little, still keeping my head lowered so that he would not suspect my intention. But he detected me and our eyes met. Mother has always said that it is as immodest to blush as it is to give cause for blushing. But I felt the flame stealing over my cheek. He came over to me, and standing near to my chair, he said, ‘Felicity, I have been speaking upon a serious matter with your mother and your father.’

  “I had no answer, but I knew what the matter was. He said, ‘I have always loved you, Felicity, from the first day when I met you at Penn. I remember every hour with you, for everything which has happened to me since then has been more beautiful for me. I cannot tell you of my love in beautiful words, Felicity, but I do love you. I suppose my declaration will be a surprise to you for I have tried to hide my feelings lest they should disturb you.’ (At this place in the conversation, I could well have thrown caution aside and have told him the truth, for I was not surprised, but merely embarrassed.) He continued and, coming nearer to my chair, he said, ‘Felicity, look up at me, and let me know a little of what you are thinking from your eyes, before I say any more.’ I looked up at him and I beheld heaven in his eyes for they were tender and smiling and noble as they looked down at me. Then he said, ‘Will you marry me, Felicity? I have spoken to your mother and to your father and they agree. Will you marry me?’

  “Oh, that I had somebody to cry upon now as I write. Perhaps modesty should have bidden me to look down towards the floor at his question. I only looked at his eyes and answered, with calm which surprised me, ‘Yes, Michael, I love you too.’ Then he fell upon his knees beside me and he held both my hands in his and kissed them … I looked down upon his dear head. I am afraid that two foolish tears welled up in my eyes and sped down my cheeks. My hands were imprisoned in his and I could do naught to hide my foolishness. Then he looked up and I knew, as I looked into h
is eyes, something of the happiness angels must feel when they look into the eyes of God.

  “I cannot sleep this night. I write on and on. I stood for ten minutes before the window and watched the high towers of Westminster Abbey piercing the low clouds. There is a moon, but it must struggle with many clouds to-night. I thought of this afternoon, when I was so deceitful about going to the service at the Abbey. And I wondered if God would be angry or whether he would hurt me for my treachery against Him. But as I wondered, the clouds moved away from the moon so that it shone down on the world and made everything beautiful. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, the face on the moon was smiling, as if it were an answer to my fear. God is not angry with me. I shall go to church always now, even when I do not want to, to thank Him for Michael’s love.

  “June 15th. Michael came again this afternoon. He brought two bunches of flowers, one for Mother and one for me. I cannot write any more to-day. My words tumble out … Oh, I am very happy. That is all.

  “June 16th. This morning I was so ill with fever that Thorpe placed her hand on my cheek when she called me, and she felt my pulse. ‘You stay in bed to-day,’ she said. I was angry and I proceeded to rise from my bed in defiance. She took my slippers and my robe and went out of the room. Presently Mother came and there was much fuss at my state. They have elected to drive me down to Penn this very day and I am not to see Michael for five days. Thus is my happiness snatched from me. I heard Father pleading for me and he came to my room in his anxiety, but partially dressed, which was unusual and surprising. Men wear strange clothes beneath their suits. He said, ‘Leave the poor child alone.’ But Mother won, as she always does when some dull virtuous good to me is involved. I leave for Penn in one hour. I tried to vent my temper upon Thorpe when she brought my breakfast. I called her some vile names, such as beast and martinet. She did not answer me and as she went from my room I saw a smile upon her face which I considered most impertinent to my dignity as a betrothed woman.”