Ghost Stories

by Leslie S. Klinger

  I meant to come back and see you, dear, once more. I saw the lights in the room where I had lain sick, overhead; and your shadow on the curtain; and I blessed it, with all the love of life and death, as I bounded by.

  The air was thick with sweetness from the dying flowers. The birds woke, and the zenith lighted, and the leap of health was in my limbs. The old arbor held out its soft arms to me—but I was restless, and I ran.

  The field opened before me, and meadows with broad bosoms, and a river flashed before me like a scimitar, and woods interlocked their hands to stay me—but being restless, on I ran.

  The house dwindled behind me; and the light in my sick-room, and your shadow on the curtain. But yet I was restless, and I ran.

  In the twinkling of an eye I fell into a solitary place. Sand and rocks were in it, and a falling wind. I paused, and knelt upon the sand, and mused a little in this place. I mused of you, and life and death, and love and agony;—but these had departed from me, as dim and distant as the fainting wind. A sense of solemn expectation filled the air. A tremor and a trouble wrapped my soul.

  “I must be dead!” I said aloud. I had no sooner spoken than I learned that I was not alone.

  The sun had risen, and on a ledge of ancient rock, weather-stained and red, there had fallen over against me the outline of a Presence lifted up against the sky, and turning suddenly, I saw.…

  Lawful to utter, but utterance has fled! Lawful to utter, but a greater than Law restrains me! Am I blotted from your desolate fixed eyes? Lips that my mortal lips have pressed, can you not quiver when I cry? Soul that my eternal soul has loved, can you stand enveloped in my presence, and not spring like a fountain to me? Would you not know how it has been with me since your perishable eyes beheld my perished face? What my eyes have seen or my ears have heard, or my heart conceived without you? If I have missed or mourned for you? If I have watched or longed for you? Marked your solitary days and sleepless nights, and tearless eyes, and monotonous slow echo of my unanswered name? Would you not know?

  Alas! would she? Would she not? My soul misgives me with a matchless, solitary fear. I am called, and I slip from her. I am beckoned, and lose her.

  Her face dims, and her folded, lonely hands fade from my sight.

  Time to tell her a guarded thing! Time to whisper a treasured word! A moment to tell her that Death is dumb, for Life is deaf! A moment to tell her.—

  1 Held.

  2 The Jura are a European mountain range that separates the Rhine and Rhone river basins.

  Mrs. Zant and the Ghost

  by WILKIE COLLINS

  Wilkie Collins (1824–1889) was a very successful mid-Victorian English novelist, short-story writer, and playwright. Author of more than a dozen novels, his work, called “sensational fiction” in its day, was an important precursor of modern detective and suspense fiction. The Moonstone (1868) in particular was an important stepping-stone to the success of the Sherlock Holmes stories and the rise of the mystery genre. Both The Moonstone and his earlier great success, The Woman in White (1859) had mysterious figures initially explained as supernatural. Collins was a lifelong friend of Charles Dickens and may well have absorbed Dickens’s interest in ghosts. The following was originally published as “The Ghost’s Touch” in The Irish Fireside (Sep. 30–Oct. 14, 1885).

  I

  The course of this narrative describes the return of a disembodied spirit to earth, and leads the reader on new and strange ground.

  Not in the obscurity of midnight, but in the searching light of day, did the supernatural influence assert itself. Neither revealed by a vision, nor announced by a voice, it reached mortal knowledge through the sense which is least easily self-deceived: the sense that feels.

  The record of this event will of necessity produce conflicting impressions. It will raise, in some minds, the doubt which reason asserts; it will invigorate, in other minds, the hope which faith justifies; and it will leave the terrible question of the destinies of man, where centuries of vain investigation have left it–in the dark.

  Having only undertaken in the present narrative to lead the way along a succession of events, the writer declines to follow modern examples by thrusting himself and his opinions on the public view. He returns to the shadow from which he has emerged, and leaves the opposing forces of incredulity and belief to fight the old battle over again, on the old ground.

  II

  The events happened soon after the first thirty years of the present century had come to an end.

  On a fine morning, early in the month of April, a gentleman of middle age (named Rayburn) took his little daughter Lucy out for a walk in the woodland pleasure-ground of Western London, called Kensington Gardens.

  The few friends whom he possessed reported of Mr. Rayburn (not unkindly) that he was a reserved and solitary man. He might have been more accurately described as a widower devoted to his only surviving child. Although he was not more than forty years of age, the one pleasure which made life enjoyable to Lucy’s father was offered by Lucy herself.

  Playing with her ball, the child ran on to the southern limit of the Gardens, at that part of it which still remains nearest to the old Palace of Kensington. Observing close at hand one of those spacious covered seats, called in England “alcoves,” Mr. Rayburn was reminded that he had the morning’s newspaper in his pocket, and that he might do well to rest and read. At that early hour the place was a solitude.

  “Go on playing, my dear,” he said; “but take care to keep where I can see you.”

  Lucy tossed up her ball; and Lucy’s father opened his newspaper. He had not been reading for more than ten minutes, when he felt a familiar little hand laid on his knee.

  “Tired of playing?” he inquired—with his eyes still on the newspaper.

  “I’m frightened, papa.”

  He looked up directly. The child’s pale face startled him. He took her on his knee and kissed her.

  “You oughtn’t to be frightened, Lucy, when I am with you,” he said, gently. “What is it?” He looked out of the alcove as he spoke, and saw a little dog among the trees. “Is it the dog?” he asked.

  Lucy answered:

  “It’s not the dog—it’s the lady.”

  The lady was not visible from the alcove.

  “Has she said anything to you?” Mr. Rayburn inquired.

  “No.”

  “What has she done to frighten you?”

  The child put her arms round her father’s neck.

  “Whisper, papa,” she said; “I’m afraid of her hearing us. I think she’s mad.”

  “Why do you think so, Lucy?”

  “She came near to me. I thought she was going to say something. She seemed to be ill.”

  “Well? And what then?”

  “She looked at me.”

  There, Lucy found herself at a loss how to express what she had to say next—and took refuge in silence.

  “Nothing very wonderful, so far,” her father suggested.

  “Yes, papa—but she didn’t seem to see me when she looked.”

  “Well, and what happened then?”

  “The lady was frightened—and that frightened me. I think,” the child repeated positively, “she’s mad.”

  It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the lady might be blind. He rose at once to set the doubt at rest.

  “Wait here,” he said, “and I’ll come back to you.”

  But Lucy clung to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was afraid to be by herself. They left the alcove together.

  The new point of view at once revealed the stranger, leaning against the trunk of a tree. She was dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. The pallor of her face, the glassy stare in her eyes, more than accounted for the child’s terror—it excused the alarming conclusion at which she had arrived.

  “Go nearer to her,” Lucy whispered.

  They advanced a few steps. It was now easy to see that the lady was young, and wasted by illness—but (arriving at a doubtful concl
usion perhaps under the present circumstances) apparently possessed of rare personal attractions in happier days. As the father and daughter advanced a little, she discovered them. After some hesitation, she left the tree; approached with an evident intention of speaking; and suddenly paused. A change to astonishment and fear animated her vacant eyes. If it had not been plain before, it was now beyond all doubt that she was not a poor blind creature, deserted and helpless. At the same time, the expression of her face was not easy to understand. She could hardly have looked more amazed and bewildered, if the two strangers who were observing her had suddenly vanished from the place in which they stood.

  Mr. Rayburn spoke to her with the utmost kindness of voice and manner.

  “I am afraid you are not well,” he said. “Is there anything that I can do—”

  The next words were suspended on his lips. It was impossible to realize such a state of things; but the strange impression that she had already produced on him was now confirmed. If he could believe his senses, her face did certainly tell him that he was invisible and inaudible to the woman whom he had just addressed! She moved slowly away with a heavy sigh, like a person disappointed and distressed. Following her with his eyes, he saw the dog once more—a little smooth-coated terrier of the ordinary English breed. The dog showed none of the restless activity of his race. With his head down and his tail depressed, he crouched like a creature paralyzed by fear. His mistress roused him by a call. He followed her listlessly as she turned away.

  After walking a few paces only, she suddenly stood still.

  Mr. Rayburn heard her talking to herself.

  “Did I feel it again?” she said, as if perplexed by some doubt that awed or grieved her. After a while her arms rose slowly, and opened with a gentle caressing action—an embrace strangely offered to the empty air! “No,” she said to herself, sadly, after waiting a moment. “More perhaps when to-morrow comes—no more to-day.” She looked up at the clear blue sky. “The beautiful sunlight! the merciful sunlight!” she murmured. “I should have died if it had happened in the dark.”

  Once more she called to the dog; and once more she walked slowly away.

  “Is she going home, papa?’ the child asked.

  “We will try and find out,” the father answered.

  He was by this time convinced that the poor creature was in no condition to be permitted to go out without some one to take care of her. From motives of humanity, he was resolved on making the attempt to communicate with her friends.

  III

  The lady left the Gardens by the nearest gate; stopping to lower her veil before she turned into the busy thoroughfare which leads to Kensington. Advancing a little way along the High Street, she entered a house of respectable appearance, with a card in one of the windows which announced that apartments were to let.

  Mr. Rayburn waited a minute—then knocked at the door, and asked if he could see the mistress of the house. The servant showed him into a room on the ground floor, neatly but scantily furnished. One little white object varied the grim brown monotony of the empty table. It was a visiting-card.

  With a child’s unceremonious curiosity Lucy pounced on the card, and spelled the name, letter by letter: “Z, A, N, T,” she repeated. “What does that mean?”

  Her father looked at the card, as he took it away from her, and put it back on the table. The name was printed, and the address was added in pencil: “Mr. John Zant, Purley’s Hotel.”

  The mistress made her appearance. Mr. Rayburn heartily wished himself out of the house again, the moment he saw her. The ways in which it is possible to cultivate the social virtues are more numerous and more varied than is generally supposed. This lady’s way had apparently accustomed her to meet her fellow-creatures on the hard ground of justice without mercy. Something in her eyes, when she looked at Lucy, said: “I wonder whether that child gets punished when she deserves it?”

  “Do you wish to see the rooms which I have to let?” she began.

  Mr. Rayburn at once stated the object of his visit—as clearly, as civilly, and as concisely as a man could do it. He was conscious (he added) that he had been guilty perhaps of an act of intrusion.

  The manner of the mistress of the house showed that she entirely agreed with him. He suggested, however, that his motive might excuse him. The mistress’s manner changed, and asserted a difference of opinion.

  “I only know the lady whom you mention,” she said, “as a person of the highest respectability, in delicate health. She has taken my first-floor apartments, with excellent references; and she gives remarkably little trouble. I have no claim to interfere with her proceedings, and no reason to doubt that she is capable of taking care of herself.”

  Mr. Rayburn unwisely attempted to say a word in his own defense.

  “Allow me to remind you—” he began.

  “Of what, sir?”

  “Of what I observed, when I happened to see the lady in Kensington Gardens.”

  “I am not responsible for what you observed in Kensington Gardens. If your time is of any value, pray don’t let me detain you.”

  Dismissed in those terms, Mr. Rayburn took Lucy’s hand and withdrew. He had just reached the door, when it was opened from the outer side. The Lady of Kensington Gardens stood before him. In the position which he and his daughter now occupied, their backs were toward the window. Would she remember having seen them for a moment in the Gardens?

  “Excuse me for intruding on you,” she said to the landlady. “Your servant tells me my brother-in-law called while I was out. He sometimes leaves a message on his card.”

  She looked for the message, and appeared to be disappointed: there was no writing on the card.

  Mr. Rayburn lingered a little in the doorway on the chance of hearing something more. The landlady’s vigilant eyes discovered him.

  “Do you know this gentleman?” she said maliciously to her lodger.

  “Not that I remember.”

  Replying in those words, the lady looked at Mr. Rayburn for the first time; and suddenly drew back from him.

  “Yes,” she said, correcting herself; “I think we met—”

  Her embarrassment overpowered her; she could say no more.

  Mr. Rayburn compassionately finished the sentence for her.

  “We met accidentally in Kensington Gardens,” he said.

  She seemed to be incapable of appreciating the kindness of his motive. After hesitating a little she addressed a proposal to him, which seemed to show distrust of the landlady.

  “Will you let me speak to you upstairs in my own rooms?” she asked.

  Without waiting for a reply, she led the way to the stairs. Mr. Rayburn and Lucy followed. They were just beginning the ascent to the first floor, when the spiteful landlady left the lower room, and called to her lodger over their heads: “Take care what you say to this man, Mrs. Zant! He thinks you’re mad.”

  Mrs. Zant turned round on the landing, and looked at him. Not a word fell from her lips. She suffered, she feared, in silence. Something in the sad submission of her face touched the springs of innocent pity in Lucy’s heart. The child burst out crying.

  That artless expression of sympathy drew Mrs. Zant down the few stairs which separated her from Lucy.

  “May I kiss your dear little girl?” she said to Mr. Rayburn. The landlady, standing on the mat below, expressed her opinion of the value of caresses, as compared with a sounder method of treating young persons in tears: “If that child was mine,” she remarked, “I would give her something to cry for.”

  In the meantime, Mrs. Zant led the way to her rooms.

  The first words she spoke showed that the landlady had succeeded but too well in prejudicing her against Mr. Rayburn.

  “Will you let me ask your child,” she said to him, “why you think me mad?”

  He met this strange request with a firm answer.

  “You don’t know yet what I really do think. Will you give me a minute’s attention?”

  �
�No,” she said positively. “The child pities me, I want to speak to the child. What did you see me do in the Gardens, my dear, that surprised you?” Lucy turned uneasily to her father; Mrs. Zant persisted. “I first saw you by yourself, and then I saw you with your father,” she went on. “When I came nearer to you, did I look very oddly—as if I didn’t see you at all?”

  Lucy hesitated again; and Mr. Rayburn interfered.

  “You are confusing my little girl,” he said. “Allow me to answer your questions—or excuse me if I leave you.”

  There was something in his look, or in his tone, that mastered her. She put her hand to her head.

  “I don’t think I’m fit for it,” she answered vacantly. “My courage has been sorely tried already. If I can get a little rest and sleep, you may find me a different person. I am left a great deal by myself; and I have reasons for trying to compose my mind. Can I see you tomorrow? Or write to you? Where do you live?”

  Mr. Rayburn laid his card on the table in silence. She had strongly excited his interest. He honestly desired to be of some service to this forlorn creature—abandoned so cruelly, as it seemed, to her own guidance. But he had no authority to exercise, no sort of claim to direct her actions, even if she consented to accept his advice. As a last resource he ventured on an allusion to the relative of whom she had spoken downstairs.

  “When do you expect to see your brother-in-law again?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “I should like to see him—he is so kind to me.”

  She turned aside to take leave of Lucy.

  “Good-by, my little friend. If you live to grow up, I hope you will never be such a miserable woman as I am.” She suddenly looked round at Mr. Rayburn. “Have you got a wife at home?” she asked.

  “My wife is dead.”

  “And you have a child to comfort you! Please leave me; you harden my heart. Oh, sir, don’t you understand? You make me envy you!”

  Mr. Rayburn was silent when he and his daughter were out in the street again. Lucy, as became a dutiful child, was silent, too. But there are limits to human endurance—and Lucy’s capacity for self-control gave way at last.