I gave a little exclamation of annoyance.
“Frau von Walden has forgotten it,” I said; for my friend, returning straight to Kronberg, had offered to take it home for me in her bag for fear of accidents. “It does not matter,” I added, “I will pack it among our soft things. It is a very pretty cup and saucer, but I will show it to you at Kronberg, for it is so nicely wrapped up. Now I am going downstairs to order the Einspänner, and we can walk about for an hour or two.”
The children came with me. I had some trouble in disinterring the landlord, but at last I found him, of course with a pipe in his mouth, hanging about the premises. He listened to me civilly enough, but when I waited for his reply as to whether the Einspänner would be ready about twelve o’clock, he calmly regarded me without speaking. I repeated my inquiry.
“At twelve?” he said calmly. “Yes, no doubt the gracious lady might as well fix twelve as any other hour, for there was no such thing as a horse, much less an Einspänner, to be had at Silberbach.”
I stared at him in my turn.
“No horse, no carriage to be had! How do people ever get away from here then?” I said.
“They don’t get away—that is to say, if they come at all, they go as they came, in the carriage that brought them; otherwise they neither come nor go. The lady came on foot: she can go on foot; otherwise she can stay.”
There seemed something sinister in his words. A horrible, ridiculous feeling came over me that we were caught in a net, as it were, and doomed to stay at Silberbach for the rest of our lives. But I looked at the man. He was simply stolid and indifferent. I did not believe then, nor do I now, that he was anything worse than sulky and uncivilised. He did not even care to have us as his visitors: he had no wish to retain us nor to speed us on our way. Had we remained at the “Katze” from that day to this, I don’t believe he would have ever inquired what we stayed for! “I cannot walk back to Seeberg,” I said half indignantly, “we are too tired; nor would it be safe through the forest alone with two children.”
The landlord knocked some ashes off his pipe.
“There may be an ox-cart going that way next week,” he observed.
“Next week!” I repeated. Then a sudden idea struck me. “Is there a post-office here?” I said.
Of course there was a post-office; where can one go in Germany where there is not a post and telegraph office?
“The telegraph officials must be sadly overworked here,” I said to myself. But as far as mine host was concerned, I satisfied myself with obtaining the locality of the post-office, and with something like a ray of hope I turned to look for the children. They had been amusing themselves with the piano in the now empty room, but as I called to them, Reggie ran out with a very red face.
“I wish I were a man, mamma. Fancy! a peasant—one of those men who were drinking beer—came and put his arm around Nora as she was playing. ‘Du spielst schön, ’ he said, and I do believe he meant to kiss her, if I hadn’t shaken my fist at him.”
“Yes, indeed, mamma,” said Nora, equally but more calmly indignant. “I certainly think the sooner we get away the better.”
I had to tell them of my discomfiture, but ended with my new idea.
“If there is a post-office,” I said, “the mail must stop there, and the mail takes passengers.”
But, arrived at the neat little post-house—to reach which without a most tremendous round we had to climb up a really precipitous path, so called, over the stones and rocks in front of the inn—new dismay awaited us. The postmaster was a very old man, but of a very different type from our host. He was sorry to disappoint us, but the mail only stopped here for letters—all passengers must begin their journey at—I forget where—leagues off on the other side from Silberbach. We wanted to get away? He was not surprised. What had we come for? No one ever came here. Were we Americans! Staying at the “Katze”! Good heavens! “A rough place.” “I should rather think so.”
And this last piece of information fairly overcame him. He evidently felt he must come to the rescue of these poor Babes in the wood.
“Come up when the mail passes from Seeberg this evening at seven, and I will see what I can do with the conductor. If he happens to have no passengers tomorrow, he may stretch a point and take you in. No one will be the wiser.”
“Oh, thanks, thanks,” I cried. “Of course I will pay anything he likes to ask.”
“No need for that. He is a braver Mann, and will not cheat you.”
“We shall be here at seven, then. I would rather have started to walk than stayed here indefinitely.”
“Not today anyway. We shall have a storm,” he said, looking up to the sky. “Adieu. Auf Wiedersehen!”
“I wish we had not to stay another night here,” I said. “Still, tomorrow morning will soon come.”
We spent the day as best we could. There was literally nothing to see, nowhere to go, except back into the forest whence we had come. Nor dared we go far, for the day grew more and more sultry; the strange, ominous silence that precedes a storm came on, adding to our feelings of restlessness and depression. And by about two o’clock, having ventured out again after “dinner,” we were driven in by the first great drops. Huddled together in our cheerless little room we watched the breaking loose of the storm demons. I am not affected by thunder and lightning, nor do I dread them. But what a storm that was! Thunder, lightning, howling wind, and rain like no rain I had ever seen before, all mingled together.
An hour after it began, a cart, standing high and dry in the steep village street, was hidden by water to above the top of the wheels—a little more and it would have floated like a boat. But by about five, things calmed down; the few stupid-looking peasants came out of their houses, and gazed about them as if to see what damage had been done. Perhaps it was not much after all—they seemed to take it quietly enough; and by six all special signs of disturbance had disappeared—the torrents melted away as if by magic. Only a strange, heavy mist began to rise, enveloping everything, so that we could hardly believe the evening was yet so early. I looked at my watch.
“Half-past six. We must, mist or no mist, go up to the post-house. But I don’t mind going alone, dears.”
“No, no, mamma; I must go with you, to take care of you,” said Reggie; “but Nora needn’t.”
“Perhaps it would be as well,” said the little girl. “I have one or two buttons to sew on, and I am still rather tired.”
And, knowing she was never timid about being left alone, thinking we should be absent half an hour at most, I agreed.
But the half hour lengthened into an hour, then into an hour and a half, before the weary mail made its appearance. The road through the forest must be all but impassable, our old friend told us. But oh, how tired Reggie and I were of waiting! though all the time never a thought of uneasiness with regard to Nora crossed my mind. And when the mail did come, delayed, as the postmaster had suspected, the good result of his negotiations made us forget all our troubles; for the conductor all but promised to take us the next morning, in consideration of a very reasonable extra payment. It was most unlikely he would have any, certainly not many passengers. We must be there, at the post-house, by nine o’clock, baggage and all, for he dared not wait a moment, and he would do his best.
Through the evening dusk, now fast replacing the scattered mist, Reggie and I, light of heart, stumbled down the rocky path.
“How pleased Nora will be! She will be wondering what has come over us,” I said as the Katze came in view. “But what is that, Reggie, running up and down in front of the house? Is it a sheep, or a big white dog? or—or a child? Can it be Nora, and no cloak or hat? and so damp and chilly as it is? How can she be so foolish?”
And with a vague uneasiness I hurried on.
Yes, it was Nora. There was light enough to see her face. What had happened to my little girl? She was white—no, not white, ghastly. Her eyes looked glassy, and yet as if drawn into her head; her whole bright, fearless bearing was
gone. She clutched me convulsively as if she would never again let me go. Her voice was so hoarse that I could scarcely distinguish what she said.
“Send Reggie in—he must not hear,” were her first words—of rare unselfishness and presence of mind.
“Reggie,” I said, “tell the maid to take candles up to our room, and take off your wet boots at once.”
My children are obedient; he was off instantly.
Then Nora went on, still in a strained, painful whisper—“Mamma, there has been a man in our room, and——”
“Did that peasant frighten you again, dear? Oh, I am so sorry I left you;” for my mind at once reverted to the man whom Reggie had shaken his fist at that morning.
“No, no; not that. I would not have minded. But, mamma, Reggie must never know it—he is so little, he could not bear it—mamma, it was not a man. It was—oh, mamma, I have seen a ghost!”
PART 2
“A ghost,” I repeated, holding the poor trembling little thing more closely. I think my first sensation was a sort of rage at whomever or whatever—ghost or living being—had frightened her so terribly. “Oh, Nora darling, it couldn’t be a ghost. Tell me about it, and I will try to find out what it was. Or would you rather try to forget about it just now, and tell me afterwards? You are shivering so dreadfully. I must get you warm first of all.”
“But let me tell you, mamma—I must tell you,” she entreated piteously. “If you could explain it, I should be so glad, but I am afraid you can’t,” and again a shudder passed through her.
I saw it was better to let her tell it. I had by this time drawn her inside; a door in front stood open, and a bright fire caught my eyes. It was the kitchen, and the most inviting-looking room in the house. I peeped in—there was no one there, but from an inner room we heard the voice of the landlady hushing her baby to sleep.
“Come to the fire, Nora,” I said. Just then Reggie came clattering downstairs, followed by Lieschen, the taciturn “maid of the inn.”
“She has taken a candle upstairs, mamma, but I’ve not taken off my boots, for there’s a little calf, she says, in the stable, and she’s going to show it me. May I go?”
“Yes, but don’t stay long,” I said, my opinion of the sombre Lieschen improving considerably; and when they were out of hearing, “Now, Nora dear, tell me what frightened you so.”
“Mamma,” she said, a little less white and shivering by now, but still with the strange strained look in her eyes that I could not bear to see, “it couldn’t have been a real man. Listen, mamma. When you and Reggie went, I got out a needle and thread—out of your little bag—and first I mended a hole in my glove, and then I took off one of my boots—the buttoning-up-the-side ones, you know—to sew a button on. I soon finished it, and then, without putting my boot on, I sat there, looking out of the window and wondering if you and Reggie would soon be back. Then I thought perhaps I could see if you were coming, better from the window of the place outside our room, where the hay and bags of flour are.” (I think I forgot to say that to get to our room we had to cross at the top of the stair a sort of landing, along one side of which, as Nora said, great bags of flour or grain and trusses of hay were ranged; this place had a window with a somewhat more extended view than that of our room. )
“I went there, still without my boot, and I knelt in front of the window some time, looking up the rough path, and wishing you would come. But I was not the least dull or lonely. I was only a little tired. At last I got tired of watching there, and I thought I would come back to our room and look for something to do. The door was not closed, but I think I had half drawn it to as I came out. I pushed it open and went in, and then—I seemed to feel there was something that had not been there before, and I looked up; and just beside the stove—the door opens against the stove, you know, and so it had hidden it for a moment as it were—there, mamma, stood a man! I saw him as plainly as I see you. He was staring at the stove, afterwards I saw it must have been at your little blue paper parcel. He was a gentleman, mamma—quite young. I saw his coat, it was cut like George Norman’s.
“I think he must have been an Englishman. His coat was dark, and bound with a little very narrow ribbon binding. I have seen coats like that. He had a dark blue neck-tie, his dress all looked neat and careful—like what all gentlemen are; I saw all that, mamma, before I clearly saw his face. He was tall and had fair hair—I saw that at once. But I was not frightened; just at first I did not even wonder how he could have got into the room—now I see he couldn’t without my knowing. My first thought, it seems so silly,” and Nora here smiled a little, “my first thought was, ‘Oh, he will see I have no boot on,’”—which was very characteristic of the child, for Nora was a very “proper” little girl,—”and just as I thought that, he seemed to know I was there, for he slowly turned his head from the stove and looked at me, and then I saw his face. Oh, mamma!”
“Was there anything frightening about it?” I said.
“I don’t know,” the child went on. “It was not like any face I ever saw, and yet it does not sound strange. He had nice, rather wavy fair hair, and I think he must have been nice-looking. His eyes were blue, and he had a little fair moustache. But he was so fearfully pale, and a look over all that I can’t describe. And his eyes when he looked at me seemed not to see me, and yet they turned on me. They looked dreadfully sad, and though they were so close to me, as if they were miles and miles away. Then his lips parted slightly, very slightly, as if he were going to speak. Mamma,” Nora went on impressively, “they would have spoken if I had said the least word—I felt they would. But just then—and remember, mamma, it couldn’t have been yet two seconds since I came in, I hadn’t yet had time to get frightened—just then there came over me the most awful feeling. I knew it was not a real man, and I seemed to hear myself saying inside my mind, ‘It is a ghost,’ and while I seemed to be saying it—I had not moved my eyes—while I looked at him——”
“He disappeared?”
“No, mamma, he did not even disappear. He was just no longer there. I was staring at nothing! Then came a sort of wild fear. I turned and rushed downstairs, even without my boot, and all the way the horrible feeling was that even though he was no longer there he might still be coming after me. I should not have cared if there had been twenty tipsy peasants downstairs! But I found Lieschen. Of course I said nothing to her; I only asked her to come up with a light to help me to find my boot, and as soon as I had put it on I came outside, and ran up and down—it was a long time, I think—till you and Reggie came at last. Mamma, can you explain it?”
How I longed to be able to do so! But I would not deceive the child. Besides, it would have been useless.
“No, dear. As yet I cannot. But I will try to understand it. There are several ways it may be explained. Have you ever heard of optical delusions, Nora?”
“I am not sure. You must tell me;” and she looked at me so appealingly, and with such readiness to believe whatever I told her, that I felt I would give anything to restore her to her former happy fearlessness.
But just then Reggie came in from the stable.
“We must go upstairs,” I said; “and Lieschen,” turning to her, “bring up our supper at once. We are leaving very early tomorrow morning, and we will go early to bed.”
“Oh, mamma,” whispered Nora, “if only we had not to stay all night in that room!”
But there was no help for it, and she was thankful to hear of the success of our expedition to the post-office. During supper we, of course, on Reggie’s account, said nothing of Nora’s fright, but as soon as it was over, Reggie declaring himself very sleepy, we got him undressed and put to bed on the settee originally intended for Nora. He was asleep in five minutes, and then Nora and I did our utmost to arrive at the explanation we so longed for. We thoroughly examined the room; there was no other entrance, no cupboard of any kind even. I tried to imagine that some of our travelling cloaks or shawls hanging on the back of a chair might, in the uncertain
light, have taken imaginary proportions; that the stove itself might have cast a shadow we had not before observed; I suggested everything, but in vain. Nothing shook Nora’s conviction that she had seen something not to be explained.
“For the light was not uncertain just then,” she maintained; “the mist had gone and it had not begun to get dark. And then I saw him so plainly! If it had been a fancy ghost it wouldn’t have looked like that—it would have had a long white thing floating over it, and a face like a skeleton perhaps. But to see somebody just like a regular gentleman—I could never have fancied that!”
There was a good deal in what she said. I had to give up my suggestions, and I tried to give Nora some idea of what are called “optical delusions,” though my own comprehension of the theory was of the vaguest. She listened, but I don’t think my words had much weight. And at last I told her I thought she had better go to bed and try to sleep. I saw she shrank from the idea, but it had to be.
“We can’t sit up all night, I suppose,” she said, “but I wish we could. I am so dreadfully afraid of waking in the night, and— and—seeing him there again.”
“Would you like to sleep in my bed? though it is so tiny, I could make room and put you inside,” I said.
Nora looked wistfully at the haven of refuge, but her good sense and considerateness for me came to the front.
“No,” she said, “neither of us would sleep, and you would be so tired tomorrow. I will get into my own bed, and I will try to sleep, mamma.”
“And listen, Nora; if you are the least frightened in the night, or if you can’t sleep, call out to me without hesitation. I am sure to wake often, and I will speak to you from time to time.” That was the longest night of my life! The first part was not the worst. By what I really thought a fortunate chance it was a club night of some kind at Silberbach—a musical club, of course; and all the musically-gifted peasants of the countryside assembled in the sanded parlour of the Katze. The noise was something indescribable, for though there may have been some good voices among them, they were drowned in the din. But though it prevented us from sleeping, it also fairly drove away all ghostly alarms.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Mrs Molesworth Page 7