“Then,” said Philip, “is it something about your family. Have you found out that there’s a strain of insanity in the Lingards perhaps? People exaggerate that kind of thing now-a-days. There’s a touch of it in us all, I take it.”
“No,” said Arthur, again “my family’s all right. I’ve no very near relations except my sister, but you know her, and you know all about us. We’re not adventurers in any sense of the word.”
“Far from it,” agreed Philip warmly. Then for a moment or two he relapsed into silence. “Does your sister—does Lady West know about—about this mysterious affair?” he asked abruptly, after some pondering.
“Nothing whatever. I, of course, was bound by every consideration not to tell her—to tell no one anything till it was understood by—the Trevannions. And I had no reason for consulting her or—any friend,” Arthur replied.
He spoke jerkily and with effort, as if he were putting force on himself to endure what yet he was convinced was absolutely useless torture.
But his words gave Keir a new opening, which he was quick to seize.
“That’s just it,” he exclaimed eagerly. “That’s just where it strikes me you’ve gone wrong. You should have consulted some one—not myself, not your sister even; I don’t say whom, but someone sensible and trustworthy. I believe your mind has got warped. You’ve been thinking over this trouble, whatever it is, till you can’t see it rightly. You’ve exaggerated it out of all proportion, and you shouldn’t trust your own morbid judgment.”
Lingard did not answer. He stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon the ground. For an instant a wild hope dashed through Philip that at last he had made some impression. But as Arthur slowly raised his dim, worn eyes, and looked him in the face, it faded again, even before the young man spoke.
“To satisfy you, I will tell you this much. I have consulted one person—a man whom you would allow was trustworthy and wise and good. From him I have hidden nothing whatever, and he agrees with me that I have no choice—that duty points unmistakably to the course I am pursuing.”
Again a flash of suggestion struck his hearer.
“One person—a man,” he repeated. “Arthur, is it some priest? Have they been converting or perverting you, my boy? Are you going over to Rome, fancying yourself called to be a Trappist, or a—those fellows at the Grande Chartreuse, you remember?”
For the second time during the interview, Arthur smiled, and his smile was a trifle less ghastly this time.
“No, again,” he said. “You’re quite on a wrong tack. I have not the slightest inclination that way. I—I wish I had. No, my adviser is no priest. But he’s one of the best of men, all the same, and one of the wisest.”
“You won’t tell me who he is?”
“I cannot.”
“And”—Philip was reluctant to try his last hope, and felt conscious that he would do it clumsily—“Arthur,” he burst out, “you will see her—Daisy—once more? She has a right to it. You are putting enough upon her without refusing this one request of hers.”
He stood up as he spoke. He himself had grown strangely pale, and seeing this, as he glanced at him, Lingard’s own face became ashen.
He shook his head.
“Good God!” he said, “I think this might have been spared me. No, I will not see her again. The only thing I can do for her is to refuse this last request. Tell her so, Philip—tell her what I say. And now leave me. Don’t shake hands with me. I don’t wish it, and I daresay you don’t. If—if we never meet again, you and I—and who knows?—if this is our goodbye, thank you, old fellow, thank you for all you have tried to do. Perhaps I know the cost of it to you better than you imagine. Good-bye, Phil!”
Keir turned towards the door. But he looked back ere he reached it. Arthur was standing as he had been—motionless.
“You’re not thinking of killing yourself, are you?” he said quietly.
Arthur looked at him. His eyes had a different expression now—or was it that something was gleaming softly in them that had not been there before?
“No, no—I am not going to be false to my colours. I—I don’t care to talk much about it, but—I am a Christian, Phil.”
“At least I can put that horrid idea out of the poor child’s head, then,” thought Keir to himself. Though to Arthur he did not reply, save by a bend of his head.
******
Time passed. And in his wings there was healing.
At twenty-four, Daisy Trevannion, though her face bore traces of suffering of no common order, was yet a sweet and serene woman. To some extent she had outlived the strange tragedy of her earlier girlhood.
It had never been explained. The one person who might naturally have been looked to, to throw some light on the mystery, Lingard’s sister, Lady West, was, as her brother had stated, completely in the dark. At first she had been disposed to blame Daisy, or her family; and though afterwards convinced that in so doing she was entirely mistaken, she never became in any sense confidential with them on the matter. And after a few months they met no more. For her husband was sent abroad, and detained there on an important diplomatic mission.
Now and then, in the earlier days of her broken engagement, Daisy would ask Philip to “try to find out if Mary West knows where he is”. And to please her he did so. But all he learnt was—what indeed was all the sister had to tell—that Arthur was off again on his old travels—to the Capricorn Islands or to the moon, it was not clear which.
“He has promised that I shall hear from him once a year—as near my birthday as he can manage. That is all I can tell you,” she said, trying to make light of it.
And whether this promise was kept or no, one thing was certain—Arthur Lingard had entirely disappeared from London society.
At twenty-five, Daisy married Philip. He had always loved her, though he had never allowed her to suspect it; and knowing herself and her history as he did, he was satisfied with the true affection she could give him—satisfied, that is to say, in the hope and belief that his own devotion would kindle ever-increasing response on her side. And his hopes were not disappointed. They were very happy.
Now for the sequel to the story—such sequel, that is to say, as there is to give—a suggestion of explanation rather than any positive dénoument of the mystery.
They—Philip and Daisy—had been married for two or three years when one evening it chanced to them to dine at the house of a rather well-known literary man with whom they were but slightly acquainted. They had been invited for a special reason; their hosts were pleasant and genial people who liked to get those about them with interests in common. And Keir, though his wings were now so happily clipt, still held his position as a traveller who had seen and noted much in his former wanderings. “We think your husband may enjoy a talk with Sir Abel Maynard, who is with us for a few days,” Mrs. Thorncroft had said in her note.
And Sir Abel, not being of the surly order of lions who refuse to roar when they know that their audience is eager to hear them, made himself most agreeable. He appreciated Mr. Keir’s intelligence and sympathy, and was by no means indifferent to Mrs. Keir’s beauty, though “evidently,” he thought to himself, “she is not over fond of reminiscences of her husband’s travels. Perhaps she is afraid of his taking flight again.”
During dinner the conversation turned, not unnaturally, on a subject just at that moment much to the fore. For it was about the time of the heroic Damien’s death.
“No,” said Sir Abel, in answer to some inquiry, “I never visited his place. But I have seen lepers—to perfection. By-the-by,” he went on suddenly, “I came across a queer, a very queer, story a while ago. I wonder, Keir, if you can throw any light upon it?”
But at that moment Mrs. Thorncroft gave the magic signal and the women left the room.
By degrees the men came straggling upstairs after them, then a little music followed, but it was not till much later in the evening than was usual with him that Philip made his appearance in the drawing-room, preceded b
y Sir Abel Maynard. Philip looked tired and rather “distrait,” thought Daisy, whose eyes were keen with the quick discernment of perfect affection, and she was not sorry when, before very long, he whispered to her that it was getting late, might they not leave soon? Nor was she sorry that during the interval before her husband made this suggestion, Sir Abel, who had been devoting himself to her, had avoided all mention of his travels, and had been amusing her with his criticism of a popular novel instead. She could never succeed altogether in banishing the painful association of Arthur Lingard from allusion to her husband’s old wanderings.
Poor Arthur! Where was he now?
“Philip, dear,” she said, slipping her hand into his when they found themselves alone, and with a longish drive before them, in their own little brougham, “there is something the matter. You have heard something? Tell me what it is.”
Keir hesitated.
“Yes,” he said, “I suppose it is best to tell you. It is the strange story Sir Abel alluded to before you left the room.”
“About—about Arthur? Is it about Arthur?” whispered she, shivering a little.
Philip put his arm round her.
“I can’t say. We shall perhaps never know certainly,” he replied. “But it looks very like it. Listen, dear. Some little time ago—two or three years ago—Maynard spent some days at one of those awful leper settlements—never mind where. I would just as soon you did not know. There, to his amazement, among the most devoted of the attendants upon the poor creatures he found an Englishman, young still, at least by his own account, though to judge by his appearance it would have been impossible to say. For he was himself far gone, very far gone in some ways, in the disease. But he was, or had been, a man of strong constitution and enormous determination. Ill as he was, he yet managed to tend others with indescribable devotion. They looked upon him as a saint.
“Maynard did not like to inquire what had brought him to such a pass—he, the poor fellow, was a perfect gentleman. But the day Sir Abel was leaving, the Englishman took him to some extent into his confidence, and asked him to do him a service. This was his story. Some years before, in quite a different part of the world, the young man had nursed a leper—a dying leper—for some hours. He believed for long that he had escaped all danger, in fact he never thought of it; but it was not so. There must have been an unhealed wound of some kind—a slight scratch would do it—on his hand. No need to go into the details of his first misgivings, of the horror of the awful certainty at last. It came upon him in the midst of the greatest happiness; he was going to be married to a girl he adored.”
“Oh, Philip, Philip, why did he not tell?” Daisy wailed.
“He consulted the best and greatest physician, who—as a friend, he said—approved of the course he had mapped out for himself. He decided to tell no one, to break off his engagement, and die out of her—the girl’s—life; not once, after he was sure, did he see her again. He would not even risk touching her hand. And he believed that telling would only have brought worse agony upon her in the end than the agony he was forced to inflict. For he was a doomed man, though they gave him a few years to live. And he did the only thing he could do with those years. He set off to the settlement in question. Maynard was to call there some months later on his way home, and the young man knew he would be dead then, and so he was.
“But he showed Maynard a letter explaining all, that he had got ready—all but the address—that, he would not add till he was in the act of dying. There must be no risk of her knowing till he was dead. And this letter Maynard was to fetch on his return. He did so, but—there had been no time to add the address—death had come suddenly. All sorts of precautions had been ordered by the poor fellow as to disinfecting the letter and so on. But it did not seem to Maynard that these had been taken. So he contented himself by spreading out the paper on the seashore and learning it by heart, and then leaving it. The sum total of it was what I have told you, but not one name was named.”
Daisy was sobbing quietly. “Was it he?” she said.
“Yes, I feel sure of it,” Philip replied. “For I can supply the missing link. The one time I really quarrelled with Arthur was when we were in Siberia. He would spend a night in a dying leper’s hut. I would have done it myself, I believe and hope, had it been necessary. But by riding on a few miles we could have got help for the poor creature—which indeed I did—and more efficient help than ours. But Lingard was determined, and no ill seemed to come of it. I had almost forgotten the circumstance. I never associated it with the mystery that caused you such anguish, my poor darling.”
“It was he,” whispered Daisy. “Philip, he was a hero after all.”
“Not even you can feel that, as I do,” Keir replied.
Then they were silent.
******
A few weeks afterwards came a letter from Lady West, in her far-off South American home. Daisy had not heard from her for years.
“By circuitous ways, I need not explain the details,” she wrote, “I have learnt that my darling brother is dead. I thought I had better tell you. I am sure his most earnest wish was that you should live to be happy, dear Daisy, as I trust you are. And I know you have long forgiven him the sorrow he caused you—it was worse still for him.”
“I wonder,” said Daisy, “if she knows more?”
But the letter seemed to add certainty to their own conviction.
“Not Exactly A Ghost Story”
(A tale from Summer Stories)
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call,
C. Lamb.
We talked a good deal about the story Leonard had read aloud to us. He wouldn’t let us call it a story—“a sketch” he said it was. We all agreed that it was very prettily told, though some of the boys said it was meant for much younger children than any of us. “But there were rather long words in it,” said Frances. “I peeped over Leonard’s shoulder once or twice when he was reading it. I assure you there were a good many words I couldn’t have read easily.”
“Really,” said Leslie, “that decides it. Any literary production which Frances cannot read easily must be learned indeed.”
“Leslie!” said Frances, growing very red, poor little thing. It was truly a shame of Leslie to tease the little ones so.
“Supposing,” said Honor—it was the next morning at breakfast now, you understand—“supposing, instead of wasting your time by disputing, you were to begin to consider about the next story. Who is to take Leonard’s place this afternoon?”
Several faces grew rather long.
“I can’t,” said one, and “I’m quite sure I can’t,” said another. Then a brilliant idea struck a third, and it was echoed by several others. “You, Honor,” was the cry. “It’s your turn now, and you can’t get out of it.”
“I haven’t the very least wish to get out of it, I assure you,” said Honor good-naturedly. “But I would much rather someone else would take the place of honour,” she laughed at the pun—“I really didn’t mean it—you must forgive me,” she said. “If someone else would follow Leonard before me I’ll try to be ready by Monday; but I am not clever at telling stories right off, as Di calls it, and I am not ready yet.”
“Well, then, we’ll have to skip today, for nobody’s ready,” said Leslie. Everybody looked disappointed. “It’s such a pity to miss at the very beginning,” we said. And so it seemed. Certainly the idea of the stories had given us something to talk about which was better than idling about and quarrelling.
“Never you mind,” said Honor cheerfully. “Try to get on with your stories for next week, and I’ll see if I can’t find something for this evening.”
“I believe she has got something, do you know?” Di said to me confidentially. “I know she wrote to mamma last night, and I shouldn’t wonder if it was to ask her for something, for you know she and papa are coming this afternoon to stay till Monday or Tuesday. Mamma has got some nice stories, I know, and I think she has some of them writ
ten out. It will be rather a shame, won’t it, if Honor gets one from her, for you know Honor could far better make one up than we could?” But she said it quite good-naturedly.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think you and I together can manage something—what we thought of, you know; and if your mother stays a day or two longer I daresay she’ll help us with it.”
“That would be a good idea,” she said; “but we’d better get on with it as much as we can before she comes.”
Di’s mother did come that afternoon, and in good time. She was quite ready to make one of the Dingle tea-party, and congratulated us all on the good idea we had had! But it was not till tea was over that anything was said about the entertainment in store for us, and I think we all felt very curious, for Honor looked quite cool and comfortable. Di’s suspicion proved correct. When the tea-things had been cleared away and we were all settled in our places, Honor drew out a paper from her pocket. “I am happy to say I have got something to read to you,” she said, “but it is no thanks to any exertions of my own. It is thanks to Aunt Anna.”
Di glanced at me. “I told you so,” she whispered.
“But,” continued Honor, “I daresay that won’t make it any the less interesting. The title is—
NOT EXACTLY A GHOST STORY.
Shall I go on?”
And as we all nodded eager assent, for the title sounded very fascinating, she went on.
******
I cannot explain it in the least. If I could I do not suppose I should care to write it out for other people to read. If any of them can explain it I shall be delighted, but somehow I do not expect ever to have it cleared up in a sensible, matter-of-fact way. And after all, there is not much to tell. I daresay many people could tell of much more “thrilling” experiences, but I suppose I am doubly interested in my little adventure, or whatever you like to call it—perhaps, indeed, in my secret heart a little proud of it, like a hen with one chicken, because it is the only experience of the kind that has fallen to my share.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Mrs Molesworth Page 27