The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Elia W. Peattie

by Elia W. Peattie

  Tim looked about him with a sickly smile. He looked behind him and there was nothing there; stared at the blank window, where the smoky dawn showed its offensive face, and there was nothing there. He pushed away the moist hair from his haggard face—that face which would look like the blessed St. John, and leaned heavily back in his chair.

  “‘Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I,’” he murmured drowsily, “‘it is some meteor which the sun exhales, to be to thee this night—’”

  The words floated off in languid nothingness, and he slept. Dodson arose preparatory to stretching himself on his couch. But first he bent over his friend with a sense of tragic appreciation.

  “Damned by the skin of his teeth!” he muttered. “A little more, and he would have gone right, and the Devil would have lost a good fellow. As it is”—he smiled with his usual conceited delight in his own sayings, even when they were uttered in soliloquy—“he is merely one of those splendid gentlemen one will meet with in hell.” Then Dodson had a momentary nostalgia for goodness himself, but he soon overcame it, and stretching himself on his sofa, he, too, slept.

  That night he and O’Connor went together to hear “Faust” sung, and returning to the office, Dodson prepared to write his criticism. Except for the distant clatter of telegraph instruments, or the peremptory cries of “copy” from an upper room, the office was still. Dodson wrote and smoked his interminable cigarettes; O’ Connor rested his head in his hands on the desk, and sat in perfect silence. He did not know when Dodson finished, or when, arising, and absent-mindedly extinguishing the lights, he moved to the door with his copy in his hands. Dodson gathered up the hats and coats as he passed them where they lay on a chair, and called:

  “It is done, Tim. Come, let’s get out of this.” There was no answer, and he thought Tim was following, but after he had handed his criticism to the city editor, he saw he was still alone, and returned to the room for his friend. He advanced no further than the doorway, for, as he stood in the dusky corridor and looked within the darkened room, he saw before his friend a Shape, white, of perfect loveliness, divinely delicate and pure and ethereal, which seemed as the embodiment of all goodness. From it came a soft radiance and a perfume softer than the wind when “it breathes upon a bank of violets stealing and giving odour.” Staring at it, with eyes immovable, sat his friend.

  It was strange that at sight of a thing so unspeakably fair, a coldness like that which comes from the jewel-blue lips of a Muir crevasse should have fallen upon Dodson, or that it was only by summoning all the manhood that was left in him, that he was able to restore light to the room, and to rush to his friend. When he reached poor Tim he was stone-still with paralysis. They took him home to the woman, who nursed him out of that attack—and later on worried him into another.

  When he was able to sit up and jeer at things a little again, and help himself to the quail the woman broiled for him, Dodson, sitting beside him, said:

  “Did you call that little exhibition of yours legerdemain, Tim, you sweep? Or are you really the Devil’s bairn?”

  “It was the Shape of Fear,” said Tim, quite seriously.

  “But it seemed mild as mother’s milk.”

  “It was compounded of the good I might have done. It is that which I fear.”

  He would explain no more. Later—many months later—he died patiently and sweetly in the madhouse, praying for rest. The little beast with the yellow eyes had high mass celebrated for him, which, all things considered, was almost as pathetic as it was amusing.

  Dodson was in Vienna when he heard of it.

  “Sa, sa!” cried he.“I wish it wasn’t so dark in the tomb! What do you suppose Tim is looking at?”

  As for Jim O’Malley, he was with difficulty kept from illuminating the grave with electricity.

  Their Dear Little Ghost

  The first time one looked at Elsbeth, one was not prepossessed. She was thin and brown, her nose turned slightly upward, her toes went in just a perceptible degree, and her hair was perfectly straight. But when one looked longer, one perceived that she was a charming little creature. The straight hair was as fine as silk, and hung in funny little braids down her back; there was not a flaw in her soft brown skin, and her mouth was tender and shapely. But her particular charm lay in a look which she habitually had, of seeming to know curious things—such as it is not allotted to ordinary persons to know. One felt tempted to say to her:

  “What are these beautiful things which you know, and of which others are ignorant? What is it you see with those wise and pellucid eyes? Why is it that everybody loves you?”

  Elsbeth was my little godchild, and I knew her better than I knew any other child in the world. But still I could not truthfully say that I was familiar with her, for to me her spirit was like a fair and fragrant road in the midst of which I might walk in peace and joy, but where I was continually to discover something new. The last time I saw her quite well and strong was over in the woods where she had gone with her two little brothers and her nurse to pass the hottest weeks of summer. I followed her, foolish old creature that I was, just to be near her, for I needed to dwell where the sweet aroma of her life could reach me.

  One morning when I came from my room, limping a little, because I am not so young as I used to be, and the lake wind works havoc with me, my little godchild came dancing to me singing:

  “Come with me and I’ll show you my places, my places, my places!”

  Miriam, when she chanted by the Red Sea might have been more exultant, but she could not have been more bewitching. Of course I knew what “places” were, because I had once been a little girl myself, but unless you are acquainted with the real meaning of “places,” it would be useless to try to explain. Either you know “places” or you do not—just as you understand the meaning of poetry or you do not. There are things in the world which cannot be taught.

  Elsbeth’s two tiny brothers were present, and I took one by each hand and followed her. No sooner had we got out of doors in the woods than a sort of mystery fell upon the world and upon us. We were cautioned to move silently, and we did so, avoiding the crunching of dry twigs.

  “The fairies hate noise,” whispered my little godchild, her eyes narrowing like a cat’s.

  “I must get my wand first thing I do,” she said in an awed undertone.“It is useless to try to do anything without a wand.”

  The tiny boys were profoundly impressed, and, indeed, so was I. I felt that at last, I should, if I behaved properly, see the fairies, which had hitherto avoided my materialistic gaze. It was an enchanting moment, for there appeared, just then, to be nothing commonplace about life.

  There was a swale near by, and into this the little girl plunged. I could see her red straw hat bobbing about among the tall rushes, and I wondered if there were snakes.

  “Do you think there are snakes?” I asked one of the tiny boys.

  “If there are,” he said with conviction, “they won’t dare hurt her.”

  He convinced me. I feared no more. Presently Elsbeth came out of the swale. In her hand was a brown “cattail,” perfectly full and round. She carried it as queens carry their sceptres—the beautiful queens we dream of in our youth.

  “Come,” she commanded, and waved the sceptre in a fine manner. So we followed, each tiny boy gripping my hand tight. We were all three a trifle awed. Elsbeth led us into a dark underbrush. The branches, as they flew back in our faces, left them wet with dew. A wee path, made by the girl’s dear feet, guided our footsteps. Perfumes of elderberry and wild cucumber scented the air. A bird, frightened from its nest, made frantic cries above our heads. The underbrush thickened. Presently the gloom of the hemlocks was over us, and in the midst of the shadowy green a tulip tree flaunted its leaves. Waves boomed and broke upon the shore below. There was a growing dampness as we went on, treading very lightly. A little green snake ran coquettishly from us. A fat and glossy squirrel chattered at us from a safe height, stroking his whiskers with a complaisant air.<
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  At length we reached the “place.” It was a circle of velvet grass, bright as the first blades of spring, delicate as fine sea-ferns. The sunlight, falling down the shaft between the hemlocks, flooded it with a softened light and made the forest round about look like deep purple velvet. My little godchild stood in the midst and raised her wand impressively.

  “This is my place,” she said, with a sort of wonderful gladness in her tone.“This is where I come to the fairy balls. Do you see them?”

  “See what?” whispered one tiny boy.

  “The fairies.”

  There was a silence. The older boy pulled at my skirt.

  “Do you see them?” he asked, his voice trembling with expectancy.

  “Indeed,” I said, “I fear I am too old and wicked to see fairies, and yet—are their hats red?”

  “They are,” laughed my little girl. “Their hats are red, and as small—as small!” She held up the pearly nail of her wee finger to give us the correct idea.

  “And their shoes are very pointed at the toes?”

  “Oh, very pointed!”

  “And their garments are green?”

  “As green as grass.”

  “And they blow little horns?”

  “The sweetest little horns!”

  “I think I see them,” I cried.

  “We think we see them too,” said the tiny boys, laughing in perfect glee.

  “And you hear their horns, don’t you?” my little godchild asked somewhat anxiously.

  “Don’t we hear their horns?” I asked the tiny boys.

  “We think we hear their horns,” they cried.“Don’t you think we do?”

  “It must be we do,” I said. “Aren’t we very, very happy?”

  We all laughed softly. Then we kissed each other and Elsbeth led us out, her wand high in the air.

  And so my feet found the lost path to Arcady.

  The next day I was called to the Pacific coast, and duty kept me there till well into December. A few days before the date set for my return to my home, a letter came from Elsbeth’s mother.

  “Our little girl is gone into the Unknown, that Unknown in which she seemed to be forever trying to pry. We knew she was going, and we told her. She was quite brave, but she begged us to try some way to keep her till after Christmas. ‘My presents are not finished yet,’ she made moan. ‘And I did so want to see what I was going to have. You can’t have a very happy Christmas without me, I should think. Can you arrange to keep me somehow till after then?’ We could not ‘arrange’ either with God in heaven or science upon earth, and she is gone.”

  She was only my little godchild, and I am an old maid, with no business fretting over children, but it seemed as if the medium of light and beauty had been taken from me. Through this crystal soul I had perceived whatever was loveliest. However, what was, was! I returned to my home and took up a course of Egyptian history, and determined to concern myself with nothing this side the Ptolemies. Her mother has told me how, on Christmas eve, as usual, she and Elsbeth’s father filled the stockings of the little ones, and hung them, where they had always hung, by the fireplace. They had little heart for the task, but they had been prodigal that year in their expenditures, and had heaped upon the two tiny boys all the treasures they thought would appeal to them. They asked themselves how they could have been so insane previously as to exercise economy at Christmas time, and what they meant by not getting Elsbeth the autoharp she had asked for the year before.

  “And now—” began her father, thinking of harps. But he could not complete this sentence, of course, and the two went on passionately and almost angrily with their task. There were two stockings and two piles of toys. Two stockings only, and only two piles of toys! Two is very little!

  They went away and left the darkened room, and after a time they slept—after a long time. Perhaps that was about the time the tiny boys awoke, and, putting on their little dressing gowns and bed slippers, made a dash for the room where the Christmas things were always placed. The older one carried a candle which gave out a feeble light. The other followed behind through the silent house. They were very impatient and eager, but when they reached the door of the sitting-room they stopped, for they saw that another child was before them.

  It was a delicate little creature, sitting in her white nightgown, with two rumpled funny braids falling down her back, and she seemed to be weeping. As they watched, she arose, and putting out one slender finger as a child does when she counts, she made sure over and over again—three sad times—that there were only two stockings and two piles of toys! Only those and no more.

  The little figure looked so familiar that the boys started toward it, but just then, putting up her arm and bowing her face in it, as Elsbeth had been used to do when she wept or was offended, the little thing glided away and went out. That’s what the boys said. It went out as a candle goes out. They ran and woke their parents with the tale, and all the house was searched in a wonderment, and disbelief, and hope, and tumult! But nothing was found. For nights they watched. But there was only the silent house. Only the empty rooms. They told the boys they must have been mistaken. But the boys shook their heads.

  “We know our Elsbeth,” said they.“It was our Elsbeth, cryin’ ’cause she hadn’t no stockin’ an’ no toys, and we would have given her all ours, only she went out—jus’ went out!”

  Alack!

  The next Christmas I helped with the little festival. It was none of my affair, but I asked to help, and they let me, and when we were all through there were three stockings and three piles of toys, and in the largest one was all the things that I could think of that my dear child would love. I locked the boys’ chamber that night, and I slept on the divan in the parlour off the sitting-room. I slept but little, and the night was very still—so windless and white and still that I think I must have heard the slightest noise. Yet I heard none. Had I been in my grave I think my ears would not have remained more unsaluted.

  Yet when daylight came and I went to unlock the boys’ bedchamber door, I saw that the stocking and all the treasures which I had bought for my little godchild were gone. There was not a vestige of them remaining!

  Of course we told the boys nothing. As for me, after dinner I went home and buried myself once more in my history, and so interested was I that midnight came without my knowing it. I should not have looked up at all, I suppose, to become aware of the time, had it not been for a faint, sweet sound as of a child striking a stringed instrument. It was so delicate and remote that I hardly heard it, but so joyous and tender that I could not but listen, and when I heard it a second time it seemed as if I caught the echo of a child’s laugh.At first I was puzzled. Then I remembered the little autoharp I had placed among the other things in that pile of vanished toys. I said aloud:

  “Farewell, dear little ghost. Go rest. Rest in joy, dear little ghost. Farewell, farewell.”

  That was years ago, but there has been silence since. Elsbeth was always an obedient little thing.

  Shehens’ Houn’ Dogs

  Edward Berenson, the Washington correspondent for the New York News, descended from the sleeping-car at Hardin, Kentucky, and inquired for the stage to Ballington’s Gap. But there was, it appeared, no stage. Neither was a conveyance to be hired. The community looked at Berenson and went by on the other side. He had, indeed, as he recollected, with a too confiding candour, registered himself from Washington, and there were reasons in plenty why strangers should not be taken over to Ballington’s Gap promiscuously, so to speak, by the neighbours at Hardin. Berenson had come down from Washington with a purpose, however, and he was not to be frustrated. He wished to inquire—politely—why, for four generations, the Shehens and the Babbs had been killing each other. He meant to put the question calmly and in the interest of scientific journalism, but he was quite determined to have it answered. To this end he bought a lank mare for seventy-five dollars—“an th’ fixin’s thrown in, sah”—and set out upon a red road, bound fo
r the Arcadian distance.

  The mountains did not look like the retreat of revengeful clans. They wore, on the contrary, a benevolent aspect. All that was visible was beautiful; and what lay beyond appeared enchanted. The hillsides flowered with laurel and azalea; the winds met on the heights like elate spirits, united after a too long separation; the sky was so near and so kind that it seemed after all as if the translation of the weary body into something immortal and impregnable to pain were not so mad a dream. Pleasant streams whispered through the pine woods, and the thrush sang from solitary places.

  Berenson had ridden far, and the soft twilight was coming upon him, when he met the first human being since leaving Hardin. It was a slight, sallow, graceful mountaineer with a long rifle flung in the easy hollow of his arm. He emerged suddenly upon Berenson—so suddenly as to disturb the none too sensitive nerves of the mare, who shied incautiously over the edge of the roadway. The two saluted, and Berenson pulled in his nag.

  “How far am I from Ballington’s Gap, sir?”

  “’Bout two mile, sah, if you don’t go wrong at th’ fawk. Bin to Hardin?”

  “Yes—I left the train there.”

  “Did the folks there send yo’ on heah?”

  “Well, they let me come,” said Berenson with swift divination.

  “That theah ole Pap Waddell’s hoss yo’ all ridin’?”

  “Why, I believe it is—or was. It’s mine now.”

  “How much—if it’s fair askin’?”

  “Seventy-five dollars and the saddle thrown in.”

  A slow smile illuminated the sallow face—the sort of a smile that dawns when one perceives a joke. The mountaineer drew a long dark plug of tobacco from his pocket.

  “D’ye chaw?” he inquired with pensive sweetness.

  “I smoke,” said Berenson, and offered his pocket case of Havanas. The two lighted up, and the man walked beside the mare as they proceeded.