GRIM TALES.

London:
A. D. INNES & CO.,
31 & 32, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1893.

My thanks go to the editors of Longman's Magazine, Temple Bar, the Argosy, Home Chimes, and the Illustrated London News, where these stories were first published.

E. Nesbit.

[Handwritten note from author]

To be wealthy is an incredible feeling—especially after experiencing the struggles of being broke as a journalist on Fleet Street, gathering random stories, being a reporter, and feeling unrecognized—all jobs that clash completely with your family background and lineage from the Dukes of Picardy.

When my Aunt Dorcas passed away and left me seven hundred a year and a furnished house in Chelsea, I felt like life had nothing else to offer except the immediate benefit of that inheritance. Even Mildred Mayhew, whom I had always seen as the light of my life, started to feel less bright. I wasn't engaged to Mildred, but I lived with her mother, sang duets with Mildred, and bought her gloves when I could afford it, which wasn't often. She was a sweet and kind girl, and I intended to marry her someday. It feels great to know that a good woman is thinking of you—it motivates you in your work—and it's nice to be certain she will say "Yes" when you ask her, "Will you?"

But, like I said, my inheritance nearly made me forget all about Mildred, especially since she was visiting friends in the countryside at that time.

Before the initial shine of my new mourning outfit wore off, I was sitting in my aunt's favorite armchair by the fire in the dining room of my house. My house! It was impressive, but kind of lonely. I really did think about Mildred at that moment.

The room was nicely decorated with oak and leather furniture. A few decent oil paintings hung on the walls, but the space above the mantelpiece was marred by a really terrible print, "The Trial of Lord William Russell," framed in a dark frame. I stood up to take a closer look. I had been visiting my aunt regularly, but I couldn’t recall seeing this frame before. It wasn’t meant for a print, but for an oil painting. It was made of fine ebony, beautifully and intricately carved.

I looked at it with increasing interest, and when my aunt's housekeeper—I had kept her simple team of staff—came in with the lamp, I asked her how long the print had been there.

"Madam only bought it two days before she got sick," she said; "but the frame—she didn't want to buy a new one—so she got this from the attic. There are a lot of interesting old things up there, sir."

"Has my aunt had this frame for a long time?"

"Oh yes, sir. It came long before I did, and I've been here for seven years by Christmas. There was a picture in it—that's upstairs as well—but it's so black and ugly it might as well be a chimney back."

I really wanted to see this painting. What if it turned out to be some priceless masterpiece that my aunt thought was just junk?

Directly after breakfast the next morning, I visited the lumber room.

It was packed with enough old furniture to fill a curiosity shop. The whole house was furnished in a sturdy early Victorian style, and in this room, everything that didn’t fit the "drawing-room suite" look was tucked away. There were tables made of papier-mâché and mother-of-pearl, straight-backed chairs with twisted legs and worn needlepoint cushions, firescreens with an old-world design, oak dressers with brass handles, and a small worktable with faded, moth-eaten silk trim hanging in miserable shreds: all these, along with the dust covering them, gleamed in the bright daylight as I pulled up the blinds. I promised myself a great time redecorating this space and moving the Victorian suite to the attic. But for now, my focus was on finding the picture that was "as black as the chimley-back;" and soon enough, behind a pile of ugly still-life paintings, I discovered it.

Jane, the housemaid, recognized it immediately. I took it downstairs carefully and examined it. There was no subject or color that stood out. There was a dark splotch in the center, but whether it was a figure, a tree, or a house was anyone’s guess. It looked like it was painted on a very thick panel covered in leather. I decided to send it to one of those people who apply some magic to aging family portraits—just soap and water, as Mr. Besant says; but even as I thought about that, I considered trying my own hand at restoring a corner of it.

My bath sponge, soap, and nail brush were vigorously used for a few seconds, and I realized there was nothing to clean! Just bare oak faced my persistent brushing. I tried the other side, with Jane watching me with a tolerant interest. The same result. Then the truth hit me. Why was the panel so thick? I ripped off the leather cover, and the panel split and fell to the ground in a cloud of dust. There were two pictures—they had been nailed back to back. I propped them against the wall, and the next moment, I found myself leaning against it too.

For one of the pictures was me—a perfect portrait—no shade of expression or turn of feature missing. Me—in a dashing outfit, "love-locks and all!" When had this been done? And how, without my knowledge? Was this some whim of my aunt's?

"Wow, sir!" Jane exclaimed in surprise next to me, "what a beautiful photo! Was it a costume party, sir?"

"Yeah," I stuttered. "I—I don’t think I want anything else right now. You can go."

She left, and I turned, my heart still pounding, to the other painting. This was a woman who had the kind of beauty admired by Burne-Jones and Rossetti—straight nose, low brows, full lips, delicate hands, and large, deep, glowing eyes. She wore a black velvet gown. It was a full-length portrait. Her arms rested on a table next to her, and her head was on her hands; but her face was turned straight ahead, and her eyes met those of the viewer in a captivating way. On the table beside her were compasses and tools I didn’t recognize, books, a goblet, and a random assortment of papers and pens. I noticed all this later. I think it took about fifteen minutes before I could look away from her eyes. I have never seen any other eyes like hers. They appealed to me, like a child’s or a dog’s; they commanded attention, like those of an empress.

"Should I clean up the dust, sir?" Curiosity had drawn Jane back. I agreed. I turned away from her my portrait. I positioned myself between her and the woman in the black velvet. When I was alone again, I took down "The Trial of Lord William Russell," and I placed the picture of the woman in its sturdy ebony frame.

Then I wrote to a frame-maker to get a frame for my portrait. It had spent so much time in the presence of this beautiful witch that I couldn’t bring myself to remove it from her sight; which shows that I'm naturally a bit sentimental.

The new frame arrived, and I hung it across from the fireplace. A thorough dig through my aunt's papers revealed no explanation for the portrait of me, nor any background on the portrait of the woman with the striking eyes. All I found out was that all the old furniture had come to my aunt after my great-uncle, the head of the family, passed away. I would have thought the resemblance was just a family trait if everyone who visited hadn't commented on the "amazing likeness." So, I decided to go with Jane's idea about it being a "fancy ball."

And there, one might think the discussion of the portraits was over. One might think that, unless there was clearly a lot more written about it. But to me, at that moment, it felt like the conversation had come to a close.

I went to see Mildred; I invited her and her mom to come and stay with me. I mostly avoided looking at the picture in the black frame. I couldn't forget, nor recall without a strange feeling, the expression in that woman's eyes when they first locked with mine. I hesitated to meet that gaze again.

I rearranged the house a bit, getting ready for Mildred's visit. I converted the dining room into a living room. I brought down a lot of the old furniture, and after a long day of organizing and reorganizing, I sat down in front of the fire. Leaning back in a cozy daze, I casually looked up at the picture. I locked eyes with her dark, deep hazel eyes, and once again, my gaze was held captive like by a strong spell—the kind of allure that makes you stare into your own eyes in the mirror for minutes. I looked into her eyes and felt my own widen, stinging like I was about to cry.

"I wish," I said, "oh, how I wish you were a woman, not just a picture! Come down! Ah, come down!"

I laughed at myself as I spoke, but even while I was laughing, I stretched out my arms.

I wasn't sleepy; I wasn't drunk. I was completely awake and as sober as any man could be in this world. And yet, as I stretched out my arms, I saw the picture's eyes widen, her lips quivering—if I had to be hanged for saying it, it's the truth. Her hands shifted a bit, and a kind of flicker of a smile crossed her face.

I jumped up. "This isn't good," I said, still speaking out loud. "Firelight really does create weird illusions. I'll get the lamp."

I got myself together and headed for the bell. My hand was on it when I heard a noise behind me and turned—the bell still untouched. The fire had dimmed, and the corners of the room were really shadowy; but, surely, there—behind the tall embroidered chair—was something darker than just a shadow.

"I have to confront this," I said, "or I won't be able to face myself again." I walked away from the bell, grabbed the poker, and smashed the dull coals into a blaze. Then I stepped back with determination and looked up at the picture. The black frame was empty! From the shadow of the ornate chair came a soft rustling, and out of the darkness, the woman from the picture was approaching me.

I hope I never have to experience such complete and mindless terror again. I couldn’t have moved or said a word to save my life. Either the laws of nature don’t apply, or I was losing my mind. I stood there shaking, but I’m grateful to remember that I stayed put while the black velvet gown glided across the rug toward me.

Next moment a hand touched me—a hand soft, warm, and human—and a quiet voice said, "You called me. I'm here."

At that touch and that voice, the world felt like it made a confusing half-turn. I can hardly explain it, but suddenly it didn’t seem scary—not even strange—for portraits to come to life—just completely natural, just right, and unbelievably lucky.

I placed my hand on hers. I looked from her to my portrait. I couldn't see it in the firelight.

"We're not strangers," I said.

"Oh no, not strangers." Those bright eyes were looking up at me—those red lips were close to mine. With a passionate cry—a feeling of having suddenly regained life's one true treasure, which had seemed completely lost—I held her in my arms. She was no ghost—she was a woman—the only woman in the world.

"How long," I said, "Oh love—how long has it been since I lost you?"

She leaned back, putting all her weight on the hands that were clasped behind my head.

"How can I know how long it is? There's no time in hell," she replied.

It wasn't a dream. Oh no—there are no dreams like that. I wish to God there were. When in dreams do I see her eyes, hear her voice, feel her lips against my cheek, hold her hands to my lips, like I did that night—the most important night of my life? At first, we barely talked. It felt like that was enough—

It’s really hard to share this story. There aren’t enough words to capture the joy of being together again, the total fulfillment of every hope and dream I had, that washed over me as I sat with my hand in hers and looked into her eyes.

How could it have been a dream when I left her sitting in the straight-backed chair and went down to the kitchen to tell the maids I wouldn’t need anything else—that I was busy and didn’t want to be disturbed? When I gathered wood for the fire myself and, bringing it in, found her still sitting there—saw her little brown head turn as I walked in, saw the love in her dear eyes; when I threw myself at her feet and thanked the day I was born, since life had given me this?

Not a thought of Mildred: everything else in my life was a dream—this was its one amazing reality.

"I’m curious," she said after a moment, when we had shared such joy with each other as true lovers do after a long separation—"I’m wondering how much you remember of our past."

"I remember nothing," I said. "Oh, my dear lady, my sweet love—I remember nothing except that I love you—that I have loved you my whole life."

"You don't remember anything—really?"

"All I know is that I belong to you; that we’ve both been through a lot; that——Please, my dear mistress, tell me everything you can remember. Explain it all to me. Help me understand. But still——No, I don’t want to understand. It’s enough that we are together."

If it was a dream, then why have I never dreamed it again?

She leaned down toward me, her arm resting on my neck, and pulled my head until it rested on her shoulder. "I guess I'm a ghost," she said, laughing softly; her laughter brought back memories that I just caught sight of but couldn’t quite hold on to. "But you and I know better, right? I'll tell you everything you've forgotten. We loved each other—oh! No, you haven't forgotten that—and when you came back from the war, we were supposed to get married. Our portraits were painted before you left. You know I was wiser than most women of that time. My darling, while you were gone, they called me a witch. They put me on trial. They said I should be burned. Just because I looked at the stars and knew more than they did, they thought they had to tie me to a stake and let the fire consume me. And you were so far away!"

Her whole body shook and shrank. Oh love, what dream could have told me that my kisses would calm even that memory?

"The night before," she continued, "the devil came to me. I was innocent then—you know that, right? And even then my sin was for you—for you—because of the deep love I had for you. The devil showed up, and I sold my soul to eternal flames. But I got a good deal. I got the chance to return, through my picture (if anyone looking at it wished for me), as long as my picture stayed in its ebony frame. That frame wasn’t made by human hands. I got the right to come back to you. Oh, my heart's heart, and there’s one more thing I gained, which you’ll hear about soon. They burned me for a witch; they made me endure hell on earth. All those faces, crowding around, the crackling wood and the smell of smoke——"

"O love! no more."

"When my mother sat that night in front of my picture, she cried and said, 'Come back, my poor lost child!' I rushed to her, feeling excited. But she recoiled from me, she ran away, screaming and moaning about ghosts. She had covered our pictures so we couldn't see them and put them back in the black frame. She had promised me that my picture would always stay there. Ah, all these years, your face has been close to mine."

She took a break.

"But the guy you loved?"

"You came home. My picture was missing. They deceived you, and you married someone else; but one day I knew you would roam the world again and that I would find you."

"What's the other gain?" I asked.

"The other gain," she said slowly, "I sacrificed my soul for. It's this: If you also give up your dreams of heaven, I can stay a woman, I can fit into your world—I can be your wife. Oh, my dear, after all these years, finally—finally."

"If I give up my soul," I said slowly, without considering how ridiculous that sounded in our so-called nineteenth century—"if I give up my soul, will I win you? Well, love, that's a contradiction in terms. You are my soul."

Her eyes locked onto mine. No matter what might happen, what had happened, or what could happen, our two souls met in that moment and became one.

"Then you choose—you consciously decide—to give up your hopes of heaven for me, just like I gave up mine for you?"

"I refuse," I said, "to give up my hope of heaven for any reason. Tell me what I need to do so that we can create our heaven here—just like now, my dear love."

"I'll tell you tomorrow," she said. "Be alone here tomorrow night—midnight is the witching hour, right?—and then I'll step out of the picture and never go back. I’ll live with you, die, and be buried, and that will be the end of me. But first, we'll live, my heart's heart."

I rested my head on her knee. A strange sleepiness washed over me. Holding her hand against my cheek, I lost consciousness. When I woke up, the gray November dawn was shining softly, almost like a ghost, through the bare window. My head was resting on my arm, which I quickly lifted—oh! not on my lady's knee, but on the embroidered cushion of the straight-backed chair. I jumped to my feet. I was cold and still dazed from my dreams, but I turned my gaze to the picture. There she was, my lady, my beloved. I reached out my arms, but the passionate cry I wanted to shout died on my lips. She had said twelve o'clock. Her slightest word was my command. So I just stood in front of the picture and looked into those gray-green eyes until tears of overwhelming happiness filled my own.

"Oh, my love, my love, how will I spend the hours until I can be with you again?"

No thought, then, of my entire life’s fulfillment and conclusion being just a dream.

I stumbled up to my room, collapsed onto my bed, and slept deeply and without dreams. When I woke up, it was past noon. Mildred and her mom were coming over for lunch.

I suddenly recalled Mildred's arrival and her presence.

Now, the dream began.

With a strong feeling that nothing mattered except for her, I instructed the staff to prepare for my guests' arrival. When Mildred and her mother showed up, I welcomed them warmly; however, my friendly words felt like they belonged to someone else. My voice felt like an echo, and my heart was elsewhere.

Still, the situation wasn’t unbearable until the time for afternoon tea in the drawing room. Mildred and her mom kept the conversation going with a lot of polite small talk, and I tolerated it, like someone can endure mild suffering when they can see a better outcome ahead. I glanced at my sweetheart in the ebony frame and felt that no matter what happened, no matter how ridiculous or boring it got, it wouldn’t matter if, after everything, she came back to me.

And yet, when Mildred looked at the portrait and said, "What a beautiful woman! One of your past loves, Mr. Devigne?" I felt a wave of helpless irritation that turned into pure torture when Mildred—how could I have ever admired that cliché barmaid look?—plopped herself into the high-backed chair, draping her silly frills over the needlework, and added, "Silence means you agree! Who is she, Mr. Devigne? Tell us everything about her: I'm sure she has an interesting story."

Poor little Mildred, sitting there smiling, confident that every word she said charmed me—sitting there with her somewhat small waist, her somewhat tight boots, her somewhat harsh voice—sitting in the chair where my dear lady had sat when she shared her story with me! I couldn't stand it.

"Don't just sit there," I said; "it's not comfy!"

But the girl wouldn't listen. With a laugh that made every nerve in my body twitch with irritation, she said, "Oh, come on! Can't I at least sit in the same chair as your black-velvet woman?"

I looked at the chair in the picture. It was the same, and Mildred was sitting in her chair. Then a horrible realization of Mildred’s reality hit me. Was all this really happening? By some lucky chance, could Mildred have taken not just her chair, but her place in my life? I got up.

"I hope you don't think I'm being rude," I said, "but I have to step out."

I can’t remember what appointment I claimed to have. The lie came easily enough.

I dealt with Mildred's sulking, hoping she and her mom wouldn’t wait for dinner for me. I got out of there. In a minute, I was safe, alone, under the cold, cloudy autumn sky—free to think, think, think about my dear lady.

I walked for hours through the streets and squares; I relived every glance, word, and touch—every kiss; I was completely and indescribably happy.

Mildred was completely forgotten: my lady with the dark frame filled my heart, soul, and spirit.

As I heard eleven echo through the fog, I turned and headed home.

When I reached my street, I saw a crowd pushing through it, a bright red light filling the air.

My house was on fire.

I pushed my way through the crowd.

The image of my lady—that much I could save!

As I jumped up the steps, I saw, almost like in a dream—yes, it was all truly dream-like—I saw Mildred leaning out of the first-floor window, twisting her hands.

"Come back, sir," shouted a firefighter; "we'll get the young lady out for sure."

But my lady? I went up the stairs, cracking, smoking, and as hot as fire, to the room where her picture was. Oddly enough, I felt that the picture was something we would want to look at throughout our long, happy married life ahead. I never thought of it as being the same as her.

As I got to the first floor, I felt arms around my neck. The smoke was too thick for me to make out any features.

"Save me!" a voice whispered. I held a figure in my arms and, feeling a strange unease, carried it down the shaking stairs and out to safety. It was Mildred. I knew that the moment I held her.

"Step back," shouted the crowd.

"Everyone's safe," yelled a firefighter.

The flames jumped from every window. The sky turned more and more red. I broke free from the hands that tried to hold me. I rushed up the steps. I climbed up the stairs. Suddenly, the full horror of the situation hit me. "As long as my picture stays in the ebony frame." What if both the picture and the frame were destroyed?

I struggled with the fire, and with my own suffocating inability to combat it. I pressed on. I have to save my picture. I got to the drawing-room.

As I rushed in, I saw my lady—I swear it—through the smoke and the flames, reaching out her arms to me—to me—who arrived too late to save her and to save my own happiness. I never saw her again.

Before I could get to her or call out to her, I felt the floor give way beneath my feet, and I fell into the fiery hell below.

How did they save me? What does it matter? They saved me somehow—damn them. Every piece of my aunt's furniture was wrecked. My friends noted that, since the furniture was well insured, the negligence of a night-owl housemaid hadn't actually harmed me.

No worries!

That’s how I experienced my one true love, both winning and losing it.

I wholeheartedly deny that it was a dream. Dreams like that don't exist. There are plenty of dreams filled with longing and pain, but dreams of complete and unspeakable happiness—oh no—that's just the rest of life that feels like a dream.

But if I think that, why did I marry Mildred and become heavyset, boring, and successful?

I’m telling you, it’s all this that’s the dream; my dear lady is the only reality. And what does it matter what someone does in a dream?

No one ever imagined that May Forster would marry John Charrington; but he saw things differently, and what John Charrington intended had a strange way of happening. He proposed to her before heading off to Oxford. She laughed and turned him down. The next time he came home, he asked her again. Once more, she laughed, tossed her pretty blonde hair, and refused him again. When he asked her for the third time, she said it was becoming a bad habit, laughing at him even more.

John wasn't the only guy who wanted to marry her; she was the sweetheart of our village social group, and we were all somewhat in love with her. It was kind of a trend, like wearing heliotrope ties or Inverness capes. So, we were just as annoyed as we were surprised when John Charrington walked into our little local club—we held it in a loft above the saddler's, I remember—and invited us all to his wedding.

"Your wedding day?"

"You can't be serious?"

"Who's the happy fairy? When is it happening?"

John Charrington packed his pipe and lit it before responding. Then he said—

"I'm sorry to take away your only joke, guys—but Miss Forster and I are getting married in September."

"Are you serious?"

"He's got the mitten again, and it's changed his mindset."

"No," I said, standing up, "I can see it’s true. Can someone lend me a gun—or a first-class ticket to the other side of nowhere? Charrington has enchanted the only pretty girl within a twenty-mile range. Was it hypnosis, or did he use a love potion, Jack?"

"Neither, sir, but a gift you’ll never have—perseverance—and the best luck a person ever had in this world."

There was something in his voice that shut me up, and all the chatter from the other guys didn't get him to say anything more.

The weird thing about it was that when we congratulated Miss Forster, she blushed, smiled, and had dimples, just like someone who was in love with him and had been the entire time. Honestly, I think she was. Women are strange beings.

We were all invited to the wedding. In Brixham, everyone who mattered knew everyone else who was important. My sisters were, I honestly believe, more interested in the trousseau than in the bride herself, and I was set to be the best man. The upcoming marriage was frequently discussed at afternoon tea gatherings and at our small Club above the saddler's, and the question was always: "Does she care for him?"

I used to ask that question myself in the early days of their engagement, but after a certain evening in August, I never asked it again. I was coming home from the Club through the churchyard. Our church is on a thyme-covered hill, and the grass around it is so thick and soft that you can walk without making a sound.

I didn't make a sound as I jumped over the low, moss-covered wall and made my way through the grave markers. It was at that exact moment that I heard John Charrington's voice and saw her. May was sitting on a flat gravestone, her face turned towards the brilliant sunset. The look on her face instantly and permanently answered any doubts about her feelings for him; it transformed into a beauty I would have never thought possible, even for that lovely little face.

John lay at her feet, and it was his voice that shattered the calm of the golden August evening.

"My dear, my dear, I think I would come back from the dead if that's what you wanted!"

I immediately coughed to show I was there and then moved into the shadow, completely aware.

The wedding was set for early September. Two days before, I had to dash up to town for work. The train was late, of course, since we're on the South-Eastern line, and as I stood there grumbling with my watch in hand, who should I see but John Charrington and May Forster. They were strolling up and down the quiet end of the platform, arm in arm, gazing into each other's eyes, completely oblivious to the sympathetic curiosity of the porters.

Of course, I knew better than to hesitate before diving into the ticket office, and it wasn’t until the train arrived at the platform that I casually walked past the couple with my bag and took a seat in a first-class smoking carriage. I did this with the best effort to act like I didn’t see them. I take pride in my discretion, but if John were traveling alone, I wanted his company. I got it.

"Hey there, buddy," his cheerful voice rang out as he tossed his bag into my carriage; "what a nice surprise; I thought it was going to be a boring trip!"

"Where are you going?" I asked, still feeling the urge to look away, although I noticed, without directly looking, that her eyes were red around the edges.

"To old Branbridge's," he replied, closing the door and leaning out for one last word with his sweetheart.

"Oh, I really wish you wouldn't go, John," she said in a soft, sincere voice. "I have a feeling something is going to happen."

"Do you think I should let anything happen that might affect me, especially with our wedding day the day after tomorrow?"

"Don't go," she replied, with a desperate intensity that could have made me rush after my bag on the platform. But she wasn't talking to me. John Charrington was different; he hardly ever changed his opinions and never his decisions.

He just gently touched the little bare hands that rested on the carriage door.

"I have to, May. The old man has been really good to me, and now he's dying. I need to go and see him, but I’ll be back in time for——" the rest of the farewell was drowned out by a whisper and the rattling jolt of the departing train.

"Are you definitely coming?" she asked as the train moved.

"Nothing will stop me," he replied; and we set off. After he had seen the last of the small figure on the platform, he leaned back in his seat and stayed quiet for a minute.

When he spoke, it was to tell me that his godfather, whose heir he was, was dying at Peasmarsh Place, about fifty miles away, and had called for John, and John felt obligated to go.

"I'll definitely be back tomorrow," he said, "or if not, the day after, with plenty of time to spare. Thank goodness you don't have to wake up in the middle of the night to get married these days!"

"And what if Mr. Branbridge dies?"

"Alive or dead, I'm getting married on Thursday!" John replied, lighting a cigar and unfolding the Times.

At Peasmarsh station, we said "goodbye," and he got out, and I watched him ride away; I continued on to London, where I stayed the night.

When I got home the next afternoon, which was pretty rainy, my sister welcomed me with—

"Where’s Mr. Charrington?"

"God knows," I replied irritably. Every man, since Cain, has hated that kind of question.

"I thought you might have heard from him," she continued, "since you're giving him away tomorrow."

"Isn't he back?" I asked, because I fully expected to find him at home.

"No, Geoffrey,"—my sister Fanny always had a knack for jumping to conclusions, especially those that were least favorable to others—"he hasn't come back, and, what’s more, you can count on it, he won't. Just remember what I say, there will be no wedding tomorrow."

My sister Fanny has a way of annoying me that no one else can.

"You listen to me," I shot back sharply, "you'd be wise to stop making such a complete fool of yourself. There will be more weddings tomorrow than you'll ever be involved in." A prediction that, by the way, turned out to be true.

But even though I could confidently tease my sister, I didn’t feel as at ease later that night when I stood on John’s doorstep and heard that he hadn’t come back. I walked home gloomily through the rain. The next morning arrived with a brilliant blue sky, golden sunlight, and all the gentle air and beautiful clouds that create a perfect day. I woke up with a vague sense of having gone to bed worried and feeling somewhat reluctant to confront that worry in the bright light of day.

But along with my shaving water, I received a note from John that eased my mind and made me head over to the Forsters' feeling cheerful.

May was in the garden. I saw her blue dress through the hollyhocks as the lodge gates closed behind me. So I didn't go up to the house, but took the grassy path instead.

"He's written to you too," she said, skipping the small talk, when I got to her.

"Yes, I’m supposed to meet him at the station at three and go directly to the church."

Her face looked pale, but there was a spark in her eyes and a gentle tremble in her mouth that showed she was genuinely happy again.

"Mr. Branbridge begged him to stay another night so much that he couldn't bring himself to say no," she continued. "He's really kind, but I wish he hadn't stayed."

I was at the station at 2:30. I felt pretty annoyed with John. It seemed like a bit of a disrespect to the beautiful girl who loved him that he showed up out of breath and dusty from traveling to take her hand, something that some of us would have given our best years to do.

But when the three o'clock train arrived and left again without bringing any passengers to our little station, I was more than annoyed. There wasn't another train for thirty-five minutes; I figured that, if we rushed, we might just make it to the church in time for the ceremony; but, oh, what a fool to miss that first train! What other guy could have done that?

That thirty-five minutes felt like a year as I walked around the station, reading the ads, the schedules, and the company rules, getting angrier at John Charrington. His belief that he could get whatever he wanted whenever he wanted was going too far. I hate waiting. Everyone does, but I think I hate it more than anyone else. The 3:35 was late, of course.

I clenched my pipe between my teeth and paced impatiently as I watched the signals. Click. The signal dropped. Five minutes later, I jumped into the carriage I had arranged for John.

"Drive to the church!" I said, as someone shut the door. "Mr. Charrington didn't come on this train."

Anxiety replaced anger. What happened to the guy? Could he have suddenly fallen ill? I had never seen him sick a day in his life. And even so, he could have sent a telegram. Something must have happened to him. The idea that he had betrayed her never—not for a second—crossed my mind. Yes, something awful had happened to him, and it was up to me to tell his fiancée. I almost wished the carriage would tip over and knock me out so someone else could break the news to her, not me—who—but that’s beside the point of his story.

It was five minutes to four as we arrived at the churchyard gate. A double row of eager spectators lined the path from the lychgate to the porch. I jumped out of the carriage and walked up between them. Our gardener had a good spot near the door. I paused.

"Are they still waiting, Byles?" I asked, just to buy some time, since I already knew they were from the way the crowd was focused.

"Waiting, sir? No, no, sir; it should be done by now."

"Over! Is Mr. Charrington coming?"

"Right on time, sir; I must have somehow missed you, and, I must say, sir," lowering his voice, "I've never seen Mr. John like that before, but I think he's been drinking quite a bit. His clothes were all dusty and his face was pale as a ghost. I tell you, I really didn't like how he looked at all, and the people inside are saying all sorts of things. You'll see, something's gone very wrong with Mr. John, and he's tried alcohol. He looked like a spirit, and he walked in with his eyes straight ahead, without a glance or a word for any of us; him who was always such a gentleman!"

I had never heard Byles give such a long speech. The crowd in the churchyard was whispering and prepping rice and slippers to toss at the bride and groom. The bell ringers were poised with their hands on the ropes to ring out the joyful chimes as the bride and groom came out.

A soft sound from the church signaled their arrival; they stepped outside. Byles was correct. John Charrington didn’t seem like himself. His coat was dusty, and his hair was messy. He looked like he’d been in a fight, with a dark mark above his eyebrow. He was extremely pale. But his paleness was nothing compared to that of the bride, who looked like she was made of ivory—dress, veil, orange blossoms, face, and all.

As they moved forward, the ringers bent down—there were six of them—and then, instead of the cheerful wedding chimes everyone expected, the somber tolling of the passing bell filled the air.

A wave of horror at such a ridiculous prank from the bell ringers swept over all of us. But the ringers themselves dropped the ropes and ran out into the sunlight like scared rabbits. The bride shuddered, and dark shadows formed around her mouth, but the bridegroom guided her down the path where people stood holding handfuls of rice; yet the rice was never thrown, and the wedding bells never rang. Despite the attempts to convince the ringers to fix their mistake, they muttered a bunch of complaints and insisted they wouldn’t be doing anything further.

In a silence like that in a death chamber, the couple entered their carriage and the door slammed shut behind them.

Then the voices were unleashed. A chaotic mix of anger, astonishment, and speculation from the guests and the onlookers.

"If I had known about his condition, sir," old Forster said to me as we drove away, "I would have laid him out on the church floor, I swear I would, rather than let him marry my daughter!"

Then he leaned his head out of the window.

"Drive as fast as you can," he shouted to the coachman; "don’t hold back the horses."

He was obeyed. We passed the bride's carriage. I held back from looking at it, and old Forster turned his head away and cursed. We got home before it did.

We stood in the doorway of the hall, in the scorching afternoon sun, and after about thirty seconds, we heard wheels crunching on the gravel. When the carriage stopped in front of the steps, old Forster and I ran down.

"Good heavens, the carriage is empty! And yet——"

I had the door open in a minute, and this is what I saw—

No sign of John Charrington; and of May, his wife, there was only a crumpled pile of white satin lying half on the floor of the carriage and half on the seat.

"I drove straight here, sir," the coachman said as the bride's father lifted her out. "I swear no one got out of the carriage."

We brought her into the house in her wedding dress and lifted her veil. I saw her face. Will I ever forget it? Pale, so pale and filled with pain and fear, showing a look of terror I’ve never seen since except in dreams. And her hair, her beautiful blonde hair, I swear it was as white as snow.

As her father and I stood there, both half-crazy with the fear and mystery of it all, a boy came walking up the street—a messenger boy. He handed me the orange envelope. I ripped it open.

Mr. Charrington was thrown from the dog cart on his way to the station at 1:30. He was killed instantly!

And he got married to May Forster in our parish church at three-thirty, with half the parish there to witness it.

"I will be married, dead or alive!"

What happened in that carriage on the way home? No one knows—no one will ever know. Oh, May! Oh, my dear!

Before a week passed, they placed her next to her husband in our small churchyard on the thyme-covered hill—the churchyard where they had shared their secret meetings.

Thus John Charrington's wedding was accomplished.

"No, my dear," my Uncle Abraham replied, "no—nothing romantic ever happened to me—unless—but no: that wasn’t romantic either——"

I was. At eighteen, romance felt like everything to me. My Uncle Abraham was old and could barely walk. I followed the direction of his faded eyes, and mine landed on a small painting that hung next to his armchair, a portrait of a woman whose beauty the artist’s skills couldn't hide—a woman with large, shiny eyes and a perfectly shaped oval face.

I got up to look at it. I had seen it a hundred times. Back when I was a little kid, I often asked, "Who's that, uncle?" and I always got the same reply: "A lady who died a long time ago, my dear."

As I glanced at the picture once more, I asked, "Was she like this?"

"Who?"

"Your romance!"

Uncle Abraham stared at me intently. "Yes," he finally said. "Very—very much so."

I sat down on the floor next to him. "Can you tell me about her?"

"There's nothing to say," he said. "I think it was mostly just fancy and foolishness; but it's the most real thing in my long life, my dear."

A long pause. I stayed quiet. "Don't rush anyone's business" is a good saying, especially with older folks.

"I remember," he said in the dreamy tone that always sounded so good to hear that a story is enjoyable—"I remember, when I was young, I was very lonely. I never had a girlfriend. I was always disabled, my dear, since I was a kid; and the girls used to make fun of me."

He sighed and kept going—

"And so I got into the habit of wandering alone in quiet places, and one of my favorite walks was through our churchyard, which was located high on a hill in the middle of the marshland. I liked that because I never encountered anyone there. It was all in the past, years ago. I was a foolish kid; but on a summer evening, I couldn't stand hearing a rustle and a whisper from the other side of the hedge, or maybe a kiss as I walked by."

"Well, I used to go and sit all by myself in the churchyard, which was always sweet with thyme and pretty bright (since it was so high) long after the marshes were dark. I would watch the bats flying around in the red light and wonder why God didn’t make everyone’s legs straight and strong, and other silly thoughts like that. But by the time the light had faded, I had usually worked it out, so to speak, and could go home quietly and say my prayers without any bitterness."

"Well, one warm night in August, after I had watched the sunset disappear and the crescent moon turn golden, I was just stepping over the low stone wall of the churchyard when I heard a rustle behind me. I turned around, expecting it to be a rabbit or a bird. It was a woman."

He stared at the portrait. I did too.

"Yeah," he said, "that was definitely her face. I was a little scared and said something—I’m not sure what—and she laughed and asked, 'Did I think she was a ghost?' I replied, and I kept talking to her over the churchyard wall until it got dark, and the glowworms lit up the wet grass all the way home."

"That night I saw her again; and the night after that, and the night after that. Always at twilight; and if I walked past any couples leaning on the fences in the marshes, it didn't matter to me anymore."

Again, my uncle paused. "It was such a long time ago," he said slowly, "and I'm an old man now; but I understand what youth means and what happiness is, even though I’ve always been lame, and the girls used to laugh at me. I can't say how long it lasted—you don’t keep track of time in dreams—but eventually, your grandfather said I looked like I had one foot in the grave, and he would send me to stay with our relatives in Bath to take the waters. I had to go. I couldn't tell my father that I would have rather died than go."

"What was her name, Uncle?" I asked.

"She never told me her name, and why should she? I had plenty of names in my heart to call her. Marriage? Honestly, even then I knew marriage wasn't for me. But I saw her night after night, always in our churchyard by the yew trees and the weathered gravestones. That's where we always met and always said goodbye. The last time was the night before I left. She was really sad, and more precious to me than anything. And she said—

"'If you come back before the new moon, I’ll meet you here like always. But if the new moon lights up this grave and you’re not here—you will never see me again.'"

"She placed her hand on the yellowed tomb covered in lichen that we had been leaning against. It was an old, weathered stone, and it had the inscription—

'Susannah Kingsnorth,
Died 1713.'

"I'll be here," I said.

"'I mean it,' she said, with intense and unexpected seriousness, 'it's not just a joke. Will you be here when the new moon rises?'"

I promised, and after a while we said our goodbyes.

"I had been with my family in Bath for almost a month. I was supposed to go home the next day when, while browsing through a case in the living room, I found that miniature. I was speechless for a moment. Finally, I said, with a dry mouth and my heart racing like it was in a battle between heaven and hell—"

"Who’s this?"

"'That?' said my aunt. 'Oh! she was engaged to one of our relatives many years ago, but she died before the wedding. They say she was a bit of a witch. She was quite beautiful, wasn't she?'"

"I looked again at the face, the lips, the eyes of my dear and lovely love, whom I was to meet tomorrow night when the new moon shone on that tomb in our churchyard."

"'Did you say she was dead?' I asked, barely recognizing my own voice."

"'Years and years ago! Her name's on the back and her date——'

"I took the portrait from its faded red-velvet frame and read on the back—'Susannah Kingsnorth, Ob. 1713.'

"That was in 1813." My uncle paused.

"What happened?" I asked, out of breath.

"I think I had a seizure," my uncle replied slowly; "either way, I was really sick."

"And you missed the new moon at the grave?"

"I missed the new moon on the grave."

"And you never saw her again?"

"I never saw her again—"

"But, uncle, do you really believe?—Can the dead?—was she—did you——"

My uncle pulled out his pipe and filled it up.

"It's been a long time," he said, "many, many years. Those are just old man's stories, my dear! Old man's stories! Don't pay any attention to them."

He lit the pipe, took a few quiet puffs, and then said, "But I understand what youth and happiness are, even though I was lame and the girls used to laugh at me."

He was waiting for her; he had been waiting for an hour and a half in a dusty suburban street, with a row of tall elm trees on one side and some vacant building lots on the other—and far off to the southwest, he could see the twinkling yellow lights of the Crystal Palace. It wasn’t exactly a country lane, since it had sidewalks and streetlights, but it was still a decent spot for a meeting; and further up, towards the cemetery, it felt quite rural and almost charming, especially at twilight. But twilight had long turned into night, and he was still waiting. He loved her, and they were engaged to be married, even though every reasonable person consulted disapproved of it completely. This semi-secret meeting was meant to replace the reluctantly approved weekly get-together—because a certain wealthy uncle was visiting her house, and her mother wasn’t the type to admit to a rich uncle, who could "leave any day," a partnership so incredibly unsuitable as hers with him.

So he waited for her, and the cold of an unusually harsh May evening seeped into his bones.

The cop walked past him with just a grumpy reply to his "Good night." The cyclists zipped by him like shadowy figures with loud horns; it was almost ten o'clock, and she still hadn't arrived.

He shrugged and headed toward his place. His path took him past her house—nice, spacious, semi-detached—and he walked slowly as he got closer. She might, even now, be coming out. But she wasn’t. There was no sign of movement around the house, no sign of life, not even any lights in the windows. And her family weren’t early risers.

He stopped by the gate, thinking.

Then he noticed that the front door was open—wide open—and the street lamp lit up a little of the dark hallway. There was something about all this that did not sit right with him—something that actually scared him a bit. The house had a dreary and abandoned vibe. It was clear that it couldn’t possibly be hiding a rich uncle. The old man must have left early. In which case——

He walked up the path of shiny tiles and listened. No sign of life. He stepped into the hall. There was no light anywhere. Where was everyone, and why was the front door open? The drawing-room was empty, and the dining room and study (nine feet by seven) were just as vacant. Everyone must be out, for sure. But the unsettling feeling that he might not be the first random visitor to walk through that open door pushed him to search the house before he left and closed it behind him. So, he went upstairs, and at the first bedroom door he reached, he struck a wax match, just like he had done in the sitting rooms. Even as he did that, he sensed he wasn’t alone. He expected to see something; but what he saw shocked him. Lying on the bed in a white loose gown was his sweetheart, and her throat was cut from ear to ear. He didn’t remember what happened next or how he got downstairs and out to the street; but somehow he made it out, and the policeman found him having a seizure under the lamp post at the corner of the street. He couldn’t speak when they lifted him, and he spent the night in the police cells because the policeman had seen plenty of drunk people before, but never anyone having a seizure.

The next morning he felt a bit better, though he still looked pale and unsteady. However, the story he gave to the magistrate was convincing, so they sent a couple of police officers with him to her house.

There wasn’t any crowd like he had imagined there would be, and the blinds were open.

As he stood there, confused, in front of the door, it opened, and she stepped out.

He grabbed the doorframe for support.

"She's fine, you see," said the officer, who had found him under the lamp. "I told you you were drunk, but you would know better——"

When he was alone with her, he told her—not everything—because that would be too much to share—but how he had entered the spacious semi-detached house, how he found the door open and the lights off, and that he had gone into the long back room facing the stairs, where he had seen something. Even when he tried to hint at it, he felt sick and broke down, needing someone to give him brandy.

"But, my dear," she said, "I’m sure the house was dark because we were all at the Crystal Palace with my uncle, and the door probably was open since the maids tend to run out if they’re left alone. But you couldn’t have been in that room because I locked it when I left, and I had the key in my pocket. I got ready in a rush and left all my things scattered around."

"I know," he said. "I saw a green scarf on a chair, some long brown gloves, a bunch of hairpins and ribbons, a prayer book, and a lace handkerchief on the dressing table. I even noticed the calendar on the mantelpiece—October 21. It couldn't be that date though, since it's May. And yet it was. Your calendar shows October 21, right?"

"No, of course it isn't," she said, smiling a bit nervously; "but everything else was exactly as you describe. You must have had a dream, or a vision, or something."

He was just an average city guy who didn’t believe in visions, but he never stopped working day and night until he moved his sweetheart and her mom out of that spacious semi-detached house and settled them in a much farther suburb. During the move, he ended up marrying her, and her mom continued to live with them.

His nerves must have been pretty shaken, because he was really unsettled for a long time, always asking if anyone had taken the desirable semi-detached place. And when an old stockbroker with a family moved in, he even went so far as to visit the old guy and pleaded with him by everything he cared about, not to live in that cursed house.

"Why?" asked the stockbroker, quite naturally.

And then he became so unclear and flustered, caught between explaining why and refraining from explaining, that the stockbroker ushered him out, grateful to his God that he wasn’t foolish enough to let a crazy person interfere with his opportunity to buy that truly remarkably cheap and desirable semi-detached house.

Now, the curious and totally baffling part of this story is that when she came down for breakfast on the morning of October 22nd, she found him looking like a ghost, holding the morning paper. He caught her gaze—he couldn't speak and just pointed to the paper. There, she read that on the night of the 21st, a young woman, the stockbroker's daughter, had been found with her throat slit from ear to ear, lying on the bed in the long back bedroom facing the stairs of that desirable semi-detached house.

"But whether it's true or not, your brother is a jerk. No man—no decent man—says things like that."

"He didn’t tell me. How could you even think that? I found the letter in his desk; and since she is my friend and you are her boyfriend, I never thought it would be a problem to read her letter to my brother. Give me back the letter. I was an idiot to tell you."

Ida Helmont reached out her hand for the letter.

"Not yet," I said, and I went to the window. The muted red of a London sunset glowed on the paper as I read in the charming, delicate handwriting I knew so well and had kissed so many times—

I had seen the handwriting many times before. But the emotion behind it was something I had never experienced.

I turned away from the window, feeling tired. My living room looked unfamiliar to me. There were my books, my reading lamp, and my untouched dinner still on the table, just as I had left it when I stood up to hide my surprise at Ida Helmont’s visit—Ida Helmont, who was now sitting in my comfy chair, watching me quietly.

"Well—aren't you going to thank me?"

"You stabbed me in the heart, and then you expect gratitude?"

"Pardon me," she said, lifting her chin. "I've done nothing but show you the truth. For that, one shouldn't expect any gratitude—can I ask, just out of curiosity, what you plan to do?"

"Your brother will let you know——"

She suddenly stood up, her lips pale.

"You won't tell my brother?" she started.

"That you've read his personal letters? Absolutely not!"

She walked toward me—her blonde hair shining in the sunset light.

"Why are you so upset with me?" she asked. "Come on, think about it. What else was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know."

"Would it have been right to not tell you?"

"I don’t know. All I know is that you’ve blocked the sun, and I’m not used to the dark yet."

"Believe me," she said, stepping closer to me and lightly placing her hands on my shoulders, "believe me, she never loved you."

There was a softness in her voice that both annoyed and excited me. I stepped back lightly, and her hands dropped to her sides.

"I’m sorry," I said. "I’ve acted really poorly. You were absolutely right to come, and I’m not ungrateful. Will you mail a letter for me?"

I sat down and wrote.

I handed the sheet to Miss Helmont, and after she took a quick look at it, I sealed, stamped, and addressed it.

"Goodbye," I said, and handed her the letter. As the door closed behind her, I sank into my chair, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried like a child or a fool over my lost treasure—the little dark-haired woman who loved someone else with "body, soul, and spirit."

I didn't hear the door open or any footsteps on the floor, so I jumped when a voice behind me said—

"Are you really that unhappy? Oh, Arthur, please know that I feel sorry for you!"

"I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me, Miss Helmont," I said.

She paused for a moment. Then, in a quick, gentle motion, she leaned down and kissed my forehead—and I heard the door softly click shut. In that moment, I realized that the lovely Miss Helmont loved me.

At first, that thought just passed through my mind—a wispy cloud in a gloomy sky—but the next day, reason kicked in and said—

"Was Miss Helmont telling the truth? Could it be that——?"

I decided to talk to Elvire to find out from her directly whether, by some lucky chance, this issue didn’t come from her, but from a woman whose love might have overshadowed her honesty.

I walked from Hampstead to Gower Street. As I made my way down the street, I saw a woman in pink come out of one of the houses. It was Elvire. She walked in front of me to the corner of Store Street, where she met Oscar Helmont. They turned and faced me, and I saw everything I needed to see. They loved each other. Ida Helmont had spoken the truth. I nodded and continued on. Within six months, they were married, and before a year was up, I had married Ida Helmont.

What did it? I don't know. Was it regret for having, even for half a day, imagined that she could be so low as to create a lie to win a lover, or was it her beauty, or the flattering attention from a woman who had half her acquaintances admiring her? I can't say; either way, my thoughts gravitated towards her naturally. My heart also followed that path, and before long, I loved her in a way I had never loved Elvire. Let no one question that I loved her—as I will never love again, God willing!

There was never anyone like her. She was brave and beautiful, smart and wise, and incredibly lovable. She was the only woman in the world. There was an openness—a big-heartedness—about her that made all other women seem petty and unworthy. She loved me, and I adored her. I married her, spent three amazing weeks with her, and then I left her. Why?

Because she told me the truth. It was one night—late—we had sat all evening on the verandah of our seaside place, watching the moonlight on the water and listening to the gentle sound of the sea on the sand. I have never been so happy; I don’t think I’ll ever be happy like that again, I hope.

"Heart's heart," she said, resting her golden head on my shoulder, "how much do you love me?"

"What's the price?"

"Yes—how much? I want to know what place I have in your heart. Am I more to you than anyone else?"

"My love!"

"More than just you?"

"More than my life!"

"I believe you," she said. Then she took a deep breath and held my hands in hers. "It doesn't matter. Nothing in heaven or on earth can come between us now."

"Nothing," I said. "But, dear, my wife, what's going on?"

For she was extremely pale.

"I have to tell you," she said; "I can't hide anything from you now, because I'm yours—body, soul, and spirit."

The phrase was a painful reminder that hit me hard.

The moonlight glimmered on her golden hair, her warm, soft, golden hair, and on her fair face.

"Arthur," she said, "do you remember when I came to you at Hampstead with that letter?"

"Yes, my sweet, and I remember how you——"

"Arthur!"—she spoke quickly and softly—"Arthur, that letter was fake. She never wrote it. I——"

She stopped, because I had gotten up and pushed her hands away from me, and stood there staring at her. God help me! I thought it was anger over the lie I sensed. Now I realize it was just my wounded pride that hurt. That I should have been fooled, that I should have been deceived, that I should have been led to make a fool of myself! That I should have married the woman who had tricked me! In that moment, she was no longer the wife I loved—she was just a woman who had faked a letter and tricked me into marrying her.

I spoke up; I called her out; I said I'd never talk to her again. I thought it was pretty commendable of me to be so mad. I said I wouldn't associate with a liar and a forger anymore.

I’m not sure if I was hoping she would crawl to my knees and beg for forgiveness. I guess I had some unclear thought that eventually I could graciously agree to forgive and forget. I didn't mean what I said. No, I truly didn’t mean any of it. While I was saying those words, I was actually wishing for her to cry and fall at my feet so I could lift her up and hold her in my arms again.

But she didn't fall at my feet; she quietly stood there looking at me.

"Arthur," she said, as I took a breath, "let me explain—she—I——"

"There’s nothing to explain," I said angrily, still feeling a bit proud of my outrage, like when someone calls themselves a miserable sinner. "You’re a liar and a fraud, and that’s all I need to know. I’ll never talk to you again. You’ve ruined my life——"

"Do you really mean that?" she asked, interrupting me and leaning in to look at me. Tears rested on her cheeks, but she wasn't crying now.

I hesitated. I wanted to hold her in my arms and say—"Lay your head here, my darling, and cry here, and know how much I love you."

But instead I stayed quiet.

"Do you really mean it?" she persisted.

Then she placed her hand on my arm. I wanted to hold it and pull her closer to me.

Instead, I brushed it off and said—

"Mean it? Yes—of course I mean it. Please, don’t touch me! You’ve ruined my life."

She turned away without saying anything, went into our room, and closed the door.

I wished to follow her, to tell her that if there was anything to forgive, I had already forgiven it.

Instead, I went out to the beach and walked along beneath the cliffs.

The moonlight and solitude, however, brought me to a clearer perspective. Whatever she had done was out of love for me—I knew that. I would go home and tell her so—tell her that no matter what, she was my whole world, my heart's one treasure. Sure, my ideal of her was shattered, but even so, what was the entire world of women compared to her? I hurried back, but in my anger and bad mood, I had walked far, and the way back was very long. By the time I opened the door to the little house where we stayed, I had been apart from her for three hours. The house was dark and completely quiet. I took off my shoes and tiptoed up the narrow stairs, then opened the door to our room quietly. Maybe she had cried herself to sleep, and I would lean over her, wake her with my kisses, and ask her to forgive me. Yes, it had come to that now.

I went into the room—I walked over to the bed. She wasn’t there. A quick look confirmed she wasn’t in the room. She wasn’t in the house, as I figured out in two minutes. After wasting a valuable hour looking for her around town, I found a note on the dressing table—

"Goodbye! Make the most of the time you have left. I won’t interfere any longer."

She was gone, completely gone. I hurried to town on the earliest morning train, only to discover that her family had no idea where she was. The ads didn't help. Only a vagrant mentioned seeing a white lady on the cliff, and a fisherman handed me a handkerchief with her name on it that he found on the beach.

I searched the country high and low, but I eventually had to return to London, and the months passed by. I won’t say much about those months, because just thinking about that pain makes me feel weak and sick at heart. The police, detectives, and the media completely let me down. Her friends couldn’t help me and were, in fact, extremely upset with me, especially her brother, who is now living very happily with my first love.

I have no idea how I got through those long weeks and months. I tried to write, I tried to read, I tried to live like a normal person. But it was impossible. I couldn't stand being around other people. Day and night, I could almost see her face—almost hear her voice. I took long walks in the countryside, and her figure was always just around the next bend in the road or in the next clearing of the woods. But I never quite saw her—never quite heard her. I think I wasn't completely sane during that time. Finally, one morning, as I was heading out for one of those long walks that had no purpose except for exhaustion, I met a telegraph boy and took the red envelope from his hand.

On the pink paper inside was written—

There was a train at twelve to Marple, the closest station. I took it. I can honestly say there are some things that just can't be put into words. My life for those long months was one of them, and that journey was another. What had her life been like during those months? That question haunted me, like how you feel every nerve in your body during a surgical operation or when someone you care about is hurt. But the overwhelming feeling was joy—intense, indescribable joy. She was alive! I would see her again. I pulled out the telegram and read it: "I am dying." I just couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t die until she had seen me. And if she had managed to survive all those months without me, she could survive now, now that I was with her again, now that she knew about the hell I had gone through without her and the bliss of our reunion. She had to live. I wouldn’t let her die.

There was a long drive over desolate hills. Dark, bumpy, and endlessly exhausting. Finally, we stopped in front of a long, low building, where a few dim lights flickered. I jumped out.

The door swung open. A burst of light made me squint and step back. A woman was standing in the doorway.

"Are you Arthur Marsh?" she said.

Yes.

"Then, you're too late. She's dead."

I walked into the house, moved over to the fire, and held my hands out to it automatically, because even though it was May, I felt freezing cold. There were a few people gathered around the fire, with lights flickering. Then an old woman stepped forward, embodying the northern hospitality instinct.

"You're tired," she said, "and a bit dazed. Have a sip of tea."

I burst out laughing. It was just too funny. I had traveled two hundred miles to see her, and she was dead, and they offered me tea. They shrank back from me as if I were a wild animal, but I couldn't stop laughing. Then someone put a hand on my shoulder and led me into a dark room, lit a lamp, set me in a chair, and sat down across from me. The room was a bare parlor, coldly furnished with rush chairs and highly polished tables and cabinets. I took a breath, suddenly became serious, and looked at the woman sitting across from me.

"I was Miss Ida's nurse," she said. "She told me to call you. Who are you?"

"Her partner——"

The woman stared at me with piercing eyes, where shock clashed with bitterness. "Then, may God forgive you!" she said. "I don't know what you've done, but it'll be tough to forgive you—even for Him!"

"Tell me," I said, "my wife——"

"Tell you?" The bitter contempt in the woman's voice didn't hurt me; what was it compared to the self-loathing that had eaten away at my heart for months? "Tell you? Sure, I'll tell you. Your wife was so ashamed of you that she never even mentioned she was married. She let me believe whatever I wanted instead of that. She just came here and said, 'Nurse, please take care of me, because I'm in serious trouble. And don't let them know where I am,' she said. And since I was happily married to a good man and doing well here, I was able to help her, thank goodness."

"Why didn't you call for me earlier?" It was a cry of pain that came from deep within me.

"I would never have sent for you—it was her doing. Oh, to think that God Almighty has made men capable of creating such a heavy load of trouble for us women! Young man, I don’t know what you did to her to make her leave you; but it must have been something harsh, because she loved you so much. She used to sit day after day, staring at your picture, talking to it, kissing it when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, and crying until she made me cry too. She used to cry almost all night. And one day, when I told her to pray to God to help her through her troubles, she held up your pretty face on a card and said, with her sad little smile, 'That's my god, Nursey,' she did."

"Don't!" I said weakly, holding out my hands to fend off the pain; "not anymore, not now."

"Don't?" she repeated. She had stood up and was pacing the room with her hands clasped—"don't, really! No, I won't; but I won't forget you! I’m telling you, I've had you in my prayers over and over again when I thought you were playing with my darling's heart. I won’t stop praying for you now that I know she was your own wife that you tossed aside when you got bored with her, leaving her to pine for you. Oh! I pray to God above us to make you pay for everything you’ve done to her! You killed my beautiful girl. The cost will be demanded from you, young man, down to the last penny! O God in heaven, make him suffer! Make him feel it!"

She slammed her foot down as she walked by me. I stayed completely still; I bit my lip until I tasted the hot, salty blood on my tongue.

"She meant nothing to you!" shouted the woman, pacing faster between the wicker chairs and the table. "Anyone can see that with the slightest glance. You didn't love her, so you don't feel anything now; but one day you'll care for someone, and then you'll understand what she felt—if there's any justice in heaven!"

I also stood up, walked across the room, and leaned against the wall. I heard her words but didn't understand them.

"Can't you feel anything? Are you made of stone? Come and look at her lying there so quiet. She isn't worried about someone like you anymore. She won't be sitting by the window saying nothing—just dropping her tears one by one, slowly, onto her lap. Come and see her; come and see what you've done to my beautiful one—and then you can leave. Nobody wants you here. She doesn’t want you now. But maybe you'd like to see her safely buried first? I'm sure you'll put a big stone on top of her—to make sure she never rises again."

I turned to her. Her thin face was pale with sorrow and helpless anger. Her claw-like hands were clenched.

"Lady," I said, "have mercy!"

She stopped and looked at me.

"Seriously?" she said.

"Have mercy!" I said again.

"Mercy? You should have thought of that earlier. You had no mercy on her. She loved you—she died loving you. And if I weren’t a Christian woman, I’d kill you for it—like the rat you are! I really would, even if I had to face the consequences afterward."

I grabbed the woman's hands and held them tightly, even though she tried to pull away.

"Don't you get it?" I said fiercely. "We loved each other. She died loving me. I have to live loving her. And it's her you feel sorry for. I'm telling you it was all a mistake—a dumb, dumb mistake. Take me to her, and for God's sake, let me be alone with her."

She hesitated; then said in a voice that was just slightly less harsh—

"Alright, let's go then."

We walked toward the door. When she opened it, a faint, weak cry reached my ears. My heart stopped.

"What's that?" I asked, pausing at the entrance.

"Your kid," she said shortly.

That too! Oh, my love! Oh, my sweet love! All these long months!

"She always said she'd call for you once she got through her troubles," the woman said as we climbed the stairs. "'I want him to see our little baby, nurse,' she says; 'our little baby. Everything will be fine when the baby's born,' she says. 'I know he'll come to me then. You'll see.' And I never said anything—didn’t think you’d show up if she was your past, and couldn’t imagine that you could be her husband and stay away from her for even an hour—considering how she was. Hush!"

She took a key out of her pocket and put it in the lock. She opened the door, and I went in after her. It was a big, dark room filled with antique furniture. There were wax candles in brass candlesticks, and it smelled like lavender.

The big four-poster bed was draped in white.

"My lamb—my poor sweet lamb!" the woman said, starting to cry for the first time as she pulled back the sheet. "Doesn't she look beautiful?"

I stood by the bedside, looking down at my wife's face. It was just like I’d seen it lying on the pillow next to me that early morning when the wind and dawn came in from beyond the sea. She didn’t look dead. Her lips were still red, and it seemed like there was still a hint of color on her cheek. I felt that if I kissed her, she would wake up, gently put her hand on my neck, and lay her cheek against mine—and that we would share everything, cry together, and find comfort in each other.

So I bent down and pressed my lips to hers as the old nurse quietly left the room.

But her red lips were like marble, and she didn’t wake up. She will never wake up again.

I’m telling you again, some things just can’t be written.

I lay that night in a large room filled with heavy, dark furniture, in a grand four-poster bed draped with thick, dark curtains—a bed just like the one they had finally pulled me from.

They fed me, I think, and the old nurse was nice to me. I believe she realized now that it’s not the dead who deserve the most pity.

I finally lay down in the big, spacious bed, and I heard the household sounds fade away, with the soft cry of my baby being the last to go. They had brought the baby to me, and I had held it in my arms, bowing my head over its tiny face and delicate fingers. I didn't love it then. I kept telling myself it had taken her life. But deep down, I knew it was me who was responsible for that. The tall clock at the top of the stairs chimed the hours—eleven, twelve, one—and still I couldn't sleep. The room was dark and eerily quiet.

I had not been able to reflect on my life peacefully. I had been overwhelmed by the ache of grief—a genuine drunkenness, more forgiving than the tranquility that follows.

Now I lay still like the dead woman in the next room and looked at what was left of my life. I lay still, and thought, and thought, and thought. And in those hours, I tasted the bitterness of death. It must have been around two when I first noticed a slight sound that wasn’t the ticking of the clock. I say I first noticed, yet I knew perfectly well that I had heard that sound more than once before, but had chosen not to hear it, because it came from the next room—the room where the corpse lay.

And I didn’t want to hear that sound because I knew it meant I was nervous—terribly nervous—a coward and a monster. It meant that I, having killed my wife just as surely as if I had stabbed her in the chest, had now sunk so low that I was scared of her dead body—the dead body that lay in the room next to mine. The heads of the beds were pushed against the same wall; and from that wall, I thought I heard faint, very faint, almost inaudible sounds. So when I say that I became aware of them, I mean that I finally heard a sound so clear that there was no doubt or question about it. It made me sit up in bed, and beads of sweat collected heavily on my forehead and fell onto my cold hands as I held my breath and listened.

I don't know how long I sat there—there was complete silence—and finally my tense muscles relaxed, and I fell back on the pillow.

"You fool!" I said to myself. "Dead or alive, isn’t she your darling, the very center of your heart? Wouldn't you nearly die of joy if she came to you? Pray to God to let her spirit return and tell you she forgives you!"

"I wish she would come," I said, while every part of me shrank and trembled in denial.

I struck a match, lit a candle, and felt a sense of relief as I looked at the polished furniture—the usual details of a regular room. Then I thought of her, lying alone, so close to me, so still under the white sheet. She was dead; she wouldn’t wake or move. But what if she did move? What if she pulled back the sheet and got up, walked across the floor, and turned the door handle?

As I thought about it, I clearly heard—the unmistakable sound of—the door to the room of death opening slowly. I heard slow, heavy footsteps in the hallway, and I heard hands touching my door from the outside, hesitant hands that were feeling for the latch.

Sick with fear, I lay there gripping the sheet in my hands.

I knew exactly what would happen when that door opened—the one my eyes were glued to. I was terrified to look, but I couldn't move my gaze away. The door opened slowly, slowly, slowly, and the figure of my deceased wife entered. She walked straight towards the bed and stood at the foot in her white burial clothes, with a white bandage under her chin. There was a scent of lavender. Her eyes were wide open and looked at me with indescribable love.

I could have screamed.

My wife spoke. It was the same sweet voice that I had always loved to hear, but now it was very weak and faint; and I trembled as I listened.

"You’re not afraid of me, are you, darling, even though I’m dead? I heard everything you said when you came, but I couldn’t respond. Now I’ve returned from the dead to tell you. I wasn’t as bad as you thought. Elvire told me she loved Oscar. I only wrote the letter to make things easier for you. I was too proud to tell you when you were angry, but I’m not proud anymore. You’ll love me again now, right? People always forgive the dead."

The ghost's voice was empty and weak. I was frozen in sheer terror. I couldn't say anything.

"Say you forgive me," the thin, flat voice continued; "say you love me again."

I had to speak. Even though I was a coward, I managed to stammer—

"Yes; I love you. I've always loved you, I swear!"

The sound of my own voice calmed me, and I ended with more confidence than I started. The figure by the bed swayed a bit unsteadily.

"I guess," she said tiredly, "you would be scared, now that I'm gone, if I came to you and kissed you?"

She moved as if she was going to come to me.

Then I screamed out loud, over and over, covered my face with the sheet, wrapped it around my head and body, and held it tightly with all my strength.

There was a brief moment of silence. Then I heard my door close, followed by footsteps and voices, and I heard something heavy drop. I pulled my head away from the sheet. My room was empty. Then clarity returned to me. I jumped out of bed.

"Ida, my love, come back! I’m not scared! I love you! Come back! Come back!"

I rushed to my door and threw it open. Someone was carrying a light down the hallway. On the floor, outside the door of the death room, was a curled-up mass—the body, in its burial clothes. Dead, dead, dead.

She is buried in Mellor churchyard, and there’s no headstone for her.

Now, whether it was catalepsy—as the doctors said—or whether my love returned even from the dead to me who loved her, I’ll never know; but this I do know—that if I had stretched out my arms to her as she stood at the foot of my bed—if I had said, "Yes, even from the grave, my darling—from the depths of hell itself, come back, come back to me!"—if I had found space in my cowardly heart for anything but the irrational fear that killed love in that moment, I wouldn’t be here alone now. I shrank away from her—I feared her—I wouldn't let her into my heart. And now she will never come to me again.

Why do I keep going?

You see, there’s a child. They are four years old now, and they have never spoken and never smiled.

Although every word of this story is as true as despair, I don't expect people to believe it. Nowadays, a "rational explanation" is needed before belief is possible. So let me quickly offer the "rational explanation" that is most popular among those who have heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It’s thought that Laura and I were "under a delusion" on that October 31st, and this idea makes the whole matter seem satisfactory and believable. The reader can decide, after hearing my story, how much this is an "explanation" and in what sense it is "rational." Three of us were involved: Laura, me, and another man. That other man is still alive and can confirm the least credible part of my story.

I never really knew what it was like to have enough money to cover even the most basic needs—like good paints, books, and taxi fares—and when we got married, we understood that we could only survive through "strict punctuality and attention to business." Back then, I used to paint, and Laura would write, and we were confident we could at least manage to make ends meet. Living in the city was out of the question, so we started looking for a cottage in the countryside that would be both healthy and charming. It’s pretty rare to find both qualities in one cottage, so our search was quite frustrating for a while. We tried looking at ads, but most of the rural homes we visited turned out to lack both necessities, and when a cottage did have proper drainage, it would also have ugly stucco and a shape like a tea caddy. And if we came across a porch covered in roses or vines, there’d usually be problems hidden inside. Our minds got so muddled by the smooth talk of real estate agents and the competing issues of the unsightly properties we had seen, that I seriously doubt either of us, on our wedding morning, could tell the difference between a house and a haystack. However, once we escaped from friends and real estate agents on our honeymoon, our thoughts became clear again, and we recognized a beautiful cottage when we finally saw one. It was in Brenzett—a small village on a hill overlooking the southern marshes. We had gone there from the seaside village we were staying in to visit the church, and just two fields away from it, we found this cottage. It stood alone, about two miles from the village. It was a long, low building with rooms jutting out unexpectedly. There was a bit of stonework—covered in ivy and moss—just two old rooms that were all that remained of a larger house that used to be there, and around this stonework, the house had been built. Without its roses and jasmine, it would’ve looked terrible. As it was, it was lovely, and after a quick check, we decided to take it. It was ridiculously cheap. The rest of our honeymoon was spent searching through second-hand shops in the county town, finding bits of old oak and Chippendale chairs to furnish it. We ended with a trip to the city and a stop at Liberty's, and soon the cozy, oak-beamed, lattice-windowed rooms started to feel like home. There was a delightful old-fashioned garden with grass paths, countless hollyhocks, sunflowers, and big lilies. From the window, you could see the marsh pastures, with the blue, distant line of the sea beyond them. We were as happy as the summer was beautiful and settled down to work sooner than we had expected. I never got tired of sketching the view and the amazing cloud formations from the open lattice, while Laura would sit at the table and write poems about them, where I mostly served as the subject in the foreground.

We hired a tall, older peasant woman to help us out. She had a good face and figure, even though her cooking was pretty basic; but she knew everything about gardening and shared all the old names of the woods and fields, along with stories about smugglers and highwaymen, and even better, tales of "things that walked" and the "sights" you’d see in secluded valleys on starry nights. She was a huge comfort to us because Laura hated housekeeping just as much as I loved folklore. We quickly started leaving all the household chores to Mrs. Dorman and using her legends in little magazine stories that earned us some nice cash.

We had three months of married bliss and didn't have a single argument. One October evening, I had gone to smoke a pipe with the doctor—our only neighbor—a nice young Irishman. Laura stayed home to finish a humorous sketch of a village incident for the Monthly Marplot. I left her laughing at her own jokes, and when I returned, I found her a crumpled mess of pale fabric, crying on the window seat.

"Good heavens, my darling, what's wrong?" I exclaimed, pulling her into my arms. She rested her little dark head on my shoulder and continued to cry. I had never seen her cry before—we had always been so happy, you know—and I was certain something terrible had happened.

"What's the matter? Please speak."

"It's Mrs. Dorman," she cried.

"What did she do?" I asked, feeling a huge sense of relief.

"She says she has to leave before the end of the month, and she says her niece is sick; she's gone to see her now, but I don't think that's the real reason, because her niece is always sick. I think someone has been turning her against us. Her behavior was so strange——"

"Don't worry about it, Pussy," I said; "whatever you do, don't cry, or I'll have to cry too, to support you, and then you’ll never respect your guy again!"

She wiped her tears on my handkerchief and even managed a faint smile.

"But you see," she continued, "it’s really serious because these village people are so passive. If one person refuses to do something, you can bet none of the others will either. I’ll have to cook the dinners and wash the disgusting greasy plates; you’ll have to carry water cans and clean the boots and knives—and we’ll never have any time to work or make any money or anything. We’ll have to work all day and only get to rest while we’re waiting for the kettle to boil!"

I told her that even if we had to take on these responsibilities, there would still be some time for other work and fun. But she would only look at the situation in the most negative way. My Laura was quite unreasonable, but I couldn't have loved her any more even if she had been as sensible as Whately.

"I'll talk to Mrs. Dorman when she gets back and see if I can sort things out with her," I said. "Maybe she wants a raise. It'll be fine. Let's walk up to the church."

The church was big and isolated, and we loved visiting it, especially on clear nights. The path went around a wooded area, cut through it once, and ran along the top of the hill through two meadows, wrapping around the churchyard wall, over which the old yew trees loomed in dark shadows. This partly paved path was called "the bier-balk," as it had long been the route for carrying corpses to burial. The churchyard was filled with trees and shaded by large elms that stood just outside, stretching their majestic branches in blessing over the peaceful dead. A wide, low porch led into the building through a Norman doorway and a heavy oak door studded with iron. Inside, the arches rose into darkness, and between them, the intricate windows stood out white in the moonlight. In the chancel, the windows were made of beautiful stained glass, subtly highlighting their rich colors and making the black oak of the choir pews seem almost as insubstantial as the shadows. On either side of the altar lay a gray marble figure of a knight in full plate armor on a low slab, with hands raised in eternal prayer, and oddly enough, these figures were always visible if there was any light in the church. Their names were forgotten, but the locals said they had been fierce and wicked men, marauders by land and sea, who had terrorized their times and committed such terrible deeds that the house they lived in—the big house, by the way, that once stood on the site of our cottage—had been struck by lightning and punished by Heaven. Still, the gold of their descendants had secured them a spot in the church. Looking at the harsh, unyielding faces represented in the marble, this story was easily believed.

The church looked its best and weirdest that night, as the shadows of the yew trees streamed through the windows onto the floor of the nave, casting tattered shadows on the pillars. We sat down together in silence, taking in the solemn beauty of the old church, feeling some of the awe that inspired its original builders. We walked to the chancel and admired the sleeping warriors. Then we rested for a while on the stone bench in the porch, gazing out over the stretch of quiet moonlit meadows, sensing the peace of the night and our happy love in every fiber of our being; and eventually left with the feeling that even scrubbing and blackleading were just minor troubles at their worst.

Mrs. Dorman had returned from the village, and I immediately invited her to a tête-à-tête.

"Now, Mrs. Dorman," I said, once I had her in my painting room, "what's this about you not staying with us?"

"I’d be happy to leave, sir, before the end of the month," she replied, maintaining her usual calm dignity.

"Do you have any complaints, Mrs. Dorman?"

"Not at all, sir; you and your lady have always been very kind, I'm sure——"

"Well, what’s going on? Are your paychecks not big enough?"

"No, sir, I'm good."

"Then why not just stay?"

"I'd rather not," she said hesitantly, "my niece is sick."

"But your niece has been sick ever since we arrived."

No answer. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. I interrupted it.

"Can’t you stay for another month?" I asked.

"No, sir. I'm set to leave by Thursday."

And this was Monday!

"Well, I have to say, I think you could have told us earlier. There's no time to find someone else now, and your boss isn’t able to do heavy housework. Can’t you stay until next week?"

"I might be able to come back next week."

I was now sure that all she wanted was a short vacation, which we would have been more than happy to give her, as soon as we could find a replacement.

"But why do you have to leave this week?" I pressed. "Come on, just tell me."

Mrs. Dorman pulled the little shawl she always wore tightly across her chest, as if she were cold. Then she said, with some effort—

"They say, sir, that this used to be a big house during Catholic times, and a lot of things happened here."

The nature of the "deeds" could be faintly guessed from the way Mrs. Dorman spoke—which was enough to send chills down my spine. I was relieved that Laura wasn't in the room. She was always on edge, as sensitive people tend to be, and I worried that these stories about our house, shared by this old peasant woman with her commanding presence and infectious belief, could make our home feel less special to my wife.

"Tell me everything about it, Mrs. Dorman," I said; "you don’t have to worry about sharing. I’m not like the young people who laugh at that kind of stuff."

Which was somewhat true.

"Well, sir," she lowered her voice, "you might have noticed in the church, next to the altar, two figures."

"You mean the statues of the knights in armor," I said cheerfully.

"I mean those two figures, carved to life-size in marble," she replied, and I had to acknowledge that her description was a thousand times more vivid than mine, not to mention a certain strange intensity and eeriness in the phrase "carved to life-size in marble."

"They say that on All Saints' Eve, those two bodies sit up on their slabs, get off of them, and then walk down the aisle, in their marble—(another great phrase, Mrs. Dorman)—"and as the church clock strikes eleven, they walk out of the church door, over the graves, and along the bier-balk. If it’s a rainy night, their footprints are visible in the morning."

"And where do they go?" I asked, feeling kind of intrigued.

"They come back here to their home, sir, and if anyone meets them——"

"Well, what now?" I asked.

But no—not another word could I get from her, except that her niece was sick and she had to leave. After what I had heard, I refused to talk about the niece and tried to get more details from Mrs. Dorman about the legend. All I received were warnings.

"Whatever you do, sir, lock the door early on All Saints' Eve, and make the sign of the cross over the doorstep and on the windows."

"But has anyone ever seen these things?" I kept asking.

"That's not my place to say. I know what I know, sir."

"Well, who was here last year?"

"No one, sir; the lady who owned the house only stayed here in the summer, and she always went to London a full month before the night. And I apologize for the inconvenience to you and your lady, but my niece is sick, and I have to leave on Thursday."

I could have shaken her for repeating that obvious lie after she had told me her real reasons.

She was set on going, and nothing we said could change her mind, not even when we all begged her to stay.

I didn’t tell Laura the story about the shapes that “walked in their marble,” partly because mentioning a story about our house might upset my wife, and partly, I think, for some deeper reason. This felt different from any other story, and I wanted to avoid talking about it until the day was done. However, I quickly stopped thinking about the legend. I was focused on painting a portrait of Laura in front of the lattice window, and that consumed my thoughts. I had created a beautiful background of a yellow and gray sunset, and I worked enthusiastically on her face. On Thursday, Mrs. Dorman left. She softened a bit at the end by saying—

"Please don’t overexert yourself, ma’am, and if there’s anything I can help with next week, I’m sure I won’t mind."

From that, I figured she wanted to return to us after Halloween. Right until the end, she stuck to the story of being the niece with impressive loyalty.

Thursday went pretty well. Laura really excelled in cooking steak and potatoes, and I have to admit that my knives and the plates, which I insisted on washing, turned out cleaner than I had hoped.

Friday arrived. This is about what happened on that Friday. I wonder if I would have believed it if someone had told me. I will tell the story as quickly and clearly as I can. Everything that happened that day is etched in my memory. I won't forget anything, nor will I leave anything out.

I got up early, I remember, and lit the kitchen fire, and had just managed to get it going with a bit of smoke when my little wife came running down, as bright and sweet as the clear October morning itself. We made breakfast together and found it really fun. The housework was finished quickly, and when the brushes, brooms, and buckets were quiet again, the house was truly still. It's amazing how much difference one person makes in a home. We really missed Mrs. Dorman, not just because of the pots and pans. We spent the day dusting our books and organizing them, and we happily dined on cold steak and coffee. Laura was even brighter, happier, and sweeter than usual, and I started to think that a little domestic work was really good for her. We had never been so cheerful since we got married, and the walk we had that afternoon was, I think, the happiest time of my life. After watching the deep scarlet clouds slowly fade to leaden grey against a pale-green sky, and seeing the white mists curl up along the hedgerows in the distant marsh, we returned to the house silently, hand in hand.

"You look sad, my love," I said, half-joking, as we settled down together in our cozy living room. I thought she would deny it, since I had been completely happy and quiet myself. To my surprise, she said—

"Yeah. I think I'm feeling sad, or maybe I'm just anxious. I don't think I'm doing very well. I've shivered a few times since we came in, and it’s not cold in here, right?"

"No," I said, hoping it wasn't a chill from the deceptive mists rolling in from the marshes in the fading light. No—she said she didn't think so. Then, after a pause, she suddenly spoke—

"Do you ever get a feeling that something bad is going to happen?"

"No," I said with a smile, "and I wouldn't believe in them even if I did."

"I do," she continued; "the night my father died, I knew it, even though he was all the way up in the north of Scotland." I didn’t reply with words.

She sat silently watching the fire for a while, softly stroking my hand. Finally, she jumped up, came behind me, and pulled my head back to kiss me.

"There, it's done now," she said. "What a baby I am! Come on, light the candles, and we'll play some of these new Rubinstein duets."

And we enjoyed a fun hour or two at the piano.

At around ten-thirty, I started to crave my good-night pipe, but Laura looked so pale that I felt it would be cruel to fill our living room with the smoke of strong cavendish.

"I'll take my pipe outside," I said.

"Let me join, too."

"No, sweetie, not tonight; you're way too tired. I won't be long. Get to bed, or I'll have someone to take care of tomorrow along with the boots to clean."

I kissed her and was turning to leave when she wrapped her arms around my neck, holding me as if she would never let me go. I ran my fingers through her hair.

"Come on, Pussy, you're really tired. The housework has been too much for you."

She relaxed her grip a bit and took a deep breath.

"No. We've had a really great day today, Jack, haven't we? Don't stay out too late."

"I won't, my dear."

I walked out the front door, leaving it unlocked. What a night it was! The jagged dark clouds were rolling across the sky from one side to the other, and thin white wisps covered the stars. Amidst all the rushing clouds, the moon peeked through, rising above the waves and disappearing again into the darkness. Occasionally, when her light reached the woods, they seemed to sway slowly and silently in rhythm with the clouds above. There was a strange gray light over everything; the fields had that shadowy glow that only comes from the combination of dew and moonlight, or frost and starlight.

I walked back and forth, soaking in the beauty of the still earth and the shifting sky. The night was completely silent. Nothing seemed to be out and about. There was no scurrying of rabbits or chirping of the half-asleep birds. And even though the clouds drifted across the sky, the wind that moved them didn’t come low enough to rustle the dead leaves on the woodland paths. Across the meadows, I could see the church tower standing out in black and gray against the sky. I walked there, reflecting on our three months of happiness—and thinking about my wife, her lovely eyes, her affectionate ways. Oh, my little girl! my own little girl; what a vision appeared then of a long, joyful life for you and me together!

I heard the church bells ringing. It was already eleven! I turned to go inside, but the night kept me there. I wasn’t ready to step back into our cozy little rooms just yet. I decided to head up to the church instead. I had a sense that it would be nice to bring my love and gratitude to the sanctuary where so many burdens of sorrow and joy had been brought by the people of the past.

I glanced in through the low window as I passed by. Laura was half lying in her chair in front of the fire. I couldn't see her face, just her little head silhouetted against the pale blue wall. She was completely still. Asleep, no doubt. My heart went out to her as I moved on. There must be a God, I thought, and a God who was good. How else could something so sweet and dear as her ever have been imagined?

I walked slowly along the edge of the woods. A sound broke the silence of the night; it was rustling in the trees. I stopped and listened. The noise stopped too. I moved on, and now I clearly heard another step in response to mine like an echo. It was probably a poacher or someone stealing wood, since they weren't uncommon in our rural neighborhood. Whoever it was, they were foolish not to tread more softly. I ventured into the woods, and now the footsteps seemed to come from the path I had just left. It must be an echo, I thought. The woods looked beautiful in the moonlight. The large dying ferns and underbrush showed where the pale light filtered through the thinning leaves. The tree trunks rose up like Gothic columns all around me. They reminded me of the church, so I turned toward the bier-balk and passed through the corpse-gate between the graves into the low porch. I paused for a moment on the stone seat where Laura and I had watched the fading landscape. Then I noticed that the church door was open, and I blamed myself for leaving it unlatched the other night. We were the only ones who cared to visit the church except on Sundays, and I was annoyed to think that our carelessness had let the damp autumn air in, risking damage to the old building. I went inside. It might seem strange that I walked halfway up the aisle before I suddenly remembered—with a chill and an immediate rush of self-disgust—that this was the very day and hour when, according to tradition, the "shapes drawn out man-size in marble" began to walk.

Having remembered the legend—feeling a chill that I was ashamed of—I couldn’t help but walk toward the altar, telling myself it was just to look at the figures; what I really wanted was to confirm, first, that I didn’t believe in the legend, and second, that it wasn’t true. I was actually glad I had come. I thought now I could tell Mrs. Dorman how empty her concerns were and how peacefully the marble figures rested through the eerie hour. With my hands in my pockets, I walked up the aisle. In the gray dim light, the eastern end of the church appeared bigger than usual, and the arches above the two tombs seemed larger too. When the moon came out, it revealed the reason. I stopped suddenly; my heart leaped in a way that almost choked me, then sank with a rush of sickness.

The "bodies drawn out man-size" were gone, and their marble slabs lay open and empty in the dim moonlight that streamed through the east window.

Were they really gone? Or was I losing my mind? Gathering my nerves, I bent down and ran my hand over the smooth stones, feeling their flat, unbroken surface. Had someone taken the things away? Was this some disgusting prank? I would find out, anyway. In an instant, I made a torch from a newspaper that happened to be in my pocket, and lighting it, I held it high above my head. Its yellow light lit up the dark arches and those stones. The figures were gone. And I was alone in the church; or was I alone?

And then I was overcome by an indescribable horror—an overwhelming certainty that something terrible had happened. I dropped the torch and sprinted down the aisle and out through the door, biting my lips to stop myself from screaming. Was I going crazy—or what was happening to me? I jumped over the churchyard wall and took the shortcut across the fields, guided by the light from our windows. Just as I cleared the first stile, a dark figure seemed to pop up from the ground. Still frantic with the certainty of disaster, I charged at the thing blocking my way, shouting, "Get out of the way, can't you!"

But my push encountered stronger resistance than I had anticipated. My arms were trapped just above the elbow and held tight, and the wiry Irish doctor actually shook me.

"Would you?" he shouted, in his unmistakable voice—"would you, then?"

"Let me go, you idiot," I gasped. "The marble statues are gone from the church; I’m telling you, they’re gone."

He burst into a loud laugh. "I guess I’ll have to give you a drink tomorrow. You’ve been smoking too much and listening to old wives’ tales."

"I swear, I've seen the bare slabs."

"Well, come back with me. I'm heading over to old Palmer's—his daughter's sick; we'll stop by the church and I want to see the bare slabs."

"You can go if you want," I said, feeling a bit calmer from his laughter; "I'm heading home to my wife."

"That's ridiculous, man," he said; "do you think I'll allow that? Are you really going to spend your whole life claiming you’ve seen solid marble come to life, while I spend my life saying you're a coward? No way—you're not going to do that."

The night air—a human voice—and I think also the physical contact with this six feet of solid common sense, brought me back a little to my ordinary self, and the word "coward" was a mental shower-bath.

"Alright then," I said gloomily; "maybe you're right."

He still had a tight grip on my arm. We climbed over the stile and made our way back to the church. It was as silent as the grave. The place smelled really damp and earthy. We walked down the aisle. I'm not ashamed to admit that I closed my eyes; I knew the figures wouldn't be there. I heard Kelly strike a match.

"Here they are, you see, definitely; you've been dreaming or drinking, excuse me for the accusation."

I opened my eyes. By Kelly's burning match, I saw two figures lying "in their marble" on their slabs. I took a deep breath and grabbed his hand.

"I'm really grateful to you," I said. "It must have been some trick of the light, or maybe I've just been working too hard, that's probably it. You know, I was completely convinced they were gone."

"I'm aware of that," he replied somewhat grimly. "You'll need to be careful with that brain of yours, my friend, I assure you."

He was leaning over and looking at the figure on the right, whose expression was the most villainous and deadly.

"Wow," he said, "something's been going on here—this hand is broken."

And that's how it was. I was sure that it had been perfect the last time Laura and I were there.

"Maybe someone has tried to get rid of them," said the young doctor.

"That won't explain how I feel," I protested.

"Too much painting and smoking will explain that, for sure."

"Come on," I said, "or my wife will start worrying. You’ll come in and have a glass of whisky and toast to confusion, ghosts, and my better judgment."

"I should head over to Palmer's, but it's really late now, so I’d better wait until the morning," he said. "I was held up at the Union, and I've had to meet with a lot of people since. Okay, I’ll come back with you."

I think he believed I needed him more than Palmer's girl did, so while we talked about how that idea could have come about and made some big conclusions about ghostly appearances, we walked up to our cottage. As we walked up the garden path, we noticed a bright light shining from the front door and soon saw that the parlor door was open as well. Had she gone out?

"Come in," I said, and Dr. Kelly followed me into the living room. It was all lit up with candles, not just the wax ones, but at least a dozen flickering, harsh tallow dips, stuck in vases and decorations in unexpected spots. I knew that light was Laura's solution for nervousness. Poor girl! Why had I left her? What a monster I was.

We looked around the room, and at first we didn’t see her. The window was open, and the draft made all the candles flicker in one direction. Her chair was empty, and her handkerchief and book were on the floor. I turned to the window. There, in the nook of the window, I saw her. Oh, my child, my love, had she gone to that window to wait for me? And what had come into the room behind her? What had she reacted to with that look of desperate fear and horror? Oh, my little one, did she think it was me whose footsteps she heard, and turned to face—what?

She had collapsed across a table by the window, her body resting partly on it and partly on the window seat, her head hanging down over the table, her brown hair loose and sprawled on the carpet. Her lips were pulled back, and her eyes were wide open. They weren’t seeing anything now. What had they seen last?

The doctor stepped towards her, but I pushed him aside and rushed to her; I caught her in my arms and cried—

"It's okay, Laura! I've got you safe, honey."

She collapsed into my arms. I held her close, kissed her, and called her all her nicknames, but I think I knew deep down that she was gone. Her hands were tightly clenched. In one of them, she was holding onto something. Once I was certain that she was dead and that nothing seemed to matter anymore, I let him open her hand to see what she was holding.

It was a grey marble finger.

I was awake—wide awake, painfully awake. I had been up all night; what sleep could I get when the woman I loved was getting married the next morning—married, and not to me?

I went to my room early; the family party in the living room drove me crazy. Gathered around the round table with the fancy cloth, everyone was absorbed in their work, book, or newspaper, but not so absorbed that they didn't manage to pierce my heart repeatedly with their conversation about the wedding.

Her people lived close to me, so why shouldn’t we talk about her marriage in my social circle?

They didn't mean to be unkind; they had no idea that I loved her; but she knew. I told her, but she already knew before that. She had known it from the moment I returned after three years of studying music in Germany—came back and saw her in the woods where we used to go nutting as kids.

I looked into her eyes, and my entire soul shook with gratitude that I was living in a world that had her in it too. I turned and walked by her side through the dense green forest, and we talked about the days long gone, asking, "Have you forgotten?" and "Do you remember?" until we reached her garden gate. Then I said—

"Goodbye; no, see you later, and I hope it's soon."

And she replied—

"Goodbye. By the way, you still haven't congratulated me."

"Did I congratulate you?"

"Yes, didn’t I tell you I’m marrying Mr. Benoliel next month?"

And she turned away and walked up the garden slowly.

I asked my friends, and they confirmed it was true. Kate, my dear playmate, was going to marry this Spaniard—wealthy, headstrong, used to getting his way, refined in behavior, but morally corrupt. Why was she going to marry him?

"No one knows," my dad said, "but her dad is a topic of conversation in the city, and Benoliel, the Spaniard, is wealthy. Maybe that's what it is."

That was it. She told me so when, after two weeks spent with her and close to her, I begged her to break such a terrible chain and come to me, the one who loved her—whom she loved.

"You’re absolutely right," she said calmly. We were sitting in the window seat of the oak parlor in her father's empty old house. "I do love you, and I'm going to marry Mr. Benoliel."

"Why?"

"Take a look around and ask me why, if you can."

I looked around the rundown, empty room, with its faded sage-green curtains, its worn-out carpet, and its patched, faded chair covers. I looked out through the square, grilled window at the messy, unkempt lawn, at her dress—made of cheap fabric, but she wore it like a queen would wear ermine—and I understood.

Kate is stubborn; that’s her only flaw. I knew how pointless my pleas would be, yet I made them anyway; how ineffective my arguments would be, yet I presented them; how futile my love and my sadness were, yet I laid them bare for her.

"No," she replied, but she wrapped her arms around my neck as she spoke, holding me like one would hold their most prized possession. "No, no; you’re poor, and he’s rich. You wouldn’t want me to break my father’s heart: he’s so proud, and if he doesn’t get some money next month, he’ll be ruined. I’m not lying to anyone. Mr. Benoliel knows I’m not interested in him; and if I marry him, he’s going to give my father a large sum of money. Oh, I swear, everything has been discussed and agreed upon. There’s no changing it."

"Kid! Kid!" I shouted, "how calmly you talk about it! Can't you see that you're trading your soul and throwing mine away?"

"Father Fabian says I'm doing the right thing," she said, letting go of her hands but keeping mine in hers, looking at me with her clear, gray eyes. "Are we supposed to be unselfish in every other aspect, but only think about our own happiness when it comes to love? I love you, and I'm going to marry him. Would you prefer if the roles were switched?"

"Yeah," I said, "because then I could make you love me."

"Maybe he will," she said bitterly. Even in that moment, her mouth trembled with the hint of a smile. She always loved to tease. She goes through more moods in a day than most other women do in a year. As the smile faded, tears threatened to come, but she held them back, and she said—

"Goodbye; you see I'm right, don’t you? Oh, Jasper, I wish I hadn't told you I loved you. It's just going to make you more unhappy."

"It brings me my only happiness," I replied; "nothing can take that away from me. And that happiness he will never have. Say it again: you love me!"

"I love you! I love you! I love you!"

With more foolish tears and crazy romantic words, we said our goodbyes, and I took my heartache with me, leaving her to carry hers into her new life.

And now she was getting married tomorrow, and I couldn’t sleep.

When the darkness became too much to handle, I lit a candle and then lay there staring blankly at the roses on the wallpaper, or tracing with my eyes the lines and curves of the heavy mahogany furniture.

The heaviness of my surroundings weighed me down. In the dim light, the wardrobe stood out like a hearse, and my violin case resembled a child's coffin.

I grabbed a book and read until my eyes hurt and the letters danced a pas fantastique up and down the page.

I got up and spent ten minutes with the dumbbells. I splashed my face and hands with cold water and tried to sleep again—unsuccessfully. I lay there, miserably wide awake.

I tried to recite poetry, those half-forgotten assignments from my school days, but throughout it all, the refrain flowed—

"Kate is getting married tomorrow, and not to me, not to me!"

I tried counting up to a thousand. I tried to picture sheep in a lane and count them as they hopped through a gap in an imaginary hedge—all those classic tricks to lure sleep—without success.

Then the Waits came, and on top of the heartache, my nerves were tortured too. After fifteen minutes of carols, every part of me felt like it was vibrating in a wave of physical pain.

To shake off the lingering vibes of "The Mistletoe Bough," I quietly hummed a tune by Palestrina and felt more awake than ever.

Then something happened that nothing will ever explain. As I lay there, I heard a harmony breaking through and gradually overpowering the air I was suggesting, a sound unlike anything I had ever heard before, beautiful beyond description, and as clear and distinct as any song that anyone has ever listened to.

My first half-formed thought was, "more Waits," but the music was choral music, beautiful and pure; an organ's notes blended with it, and with each note, the music got louder. It’s ridiculous to claim that I dreamed it, because, still hearing the music, I jumped out of bed and opened the window. The music faded. There was no one in sight in the snowy garden below. Shivering, I closed the window. The music became clearer, and I realized I was listening to a mass—a funeral mass, one I had never heard before. I lay in bed and followed the entire service.

The music stopped.

I was propped up in bed, my candle burning, and I was fully awake, more than ever consumed by thoughts of her.

But it felt different. Before, I had only grieved her loss; now, my thoughts of her were mixed with an indescribable fear. The feeling of death and decay that had washed over me with that strange, beautiful music colored all my thoughts. I was filled with images of silent homes, dark clothing, rooms where white flowers and linens lay in a lifeless stillness. I heard echoes of tears and the distant sound of bells tolling endlessly. I shivered, as if on the edge of unbearable sorrow, and while contemplating it, I watched the dull dawn slowly overpower the pale flame of my candle, which had now burned down into its holder.

I felt I needed to see Kate one more time before she revealed everything. Before ten o'clock, I was in the oak parlor. She walked in. As she entered the room, her pale face, swollen eyelids, and the pain in her eyes broke my heart even more than that night of suffering had. I literally couldn't say a word. I held out my hands.

Would she blame me for approaching her again, for bringing back the pain of saying goodbye a second time?

She didn’t. She placed her hands in mine and said—

"I’m glad you’re here; you know, I think I might be losing my mind? Please don’t let me go crazy, Jasper."

The expression in her eyes emphasized her words.

I stumbled over my words and kissed her hands. I was with her again, and joy battled with grief once more.

"I need to tell someone. If I'm losing my mind, please don’t lock me away. Just take care of me, okay?"

Would I not?

"Understand," she continued, "it wasn't a dream. I was wide awake, thinking about you. The Waits had just left, and I—I was looking at your face. I wasn't asleep."

I shivered as I held her tightly.

"As Heaven sees us, I didn't imagine it. I heard a mass being sung, and, Jasper, it was a mass for the dead. I followed the service. You're not a Catholic, but I thought—I feared—oh, I don’t know what I thought. I’m just glad there’s nothing wrong with you."

I suddenly felt a strong sense of certainty and power wash over me. Now, in this moment of her vulnerability, while she was fully under the grip of a strong emotion, I could and would rescue her from Benoliel, and myself from a lifetime of pain.

"Kate," I said, "I think this is a warning. You shouldn't marry this guy. You should marry me, and no one else."

She rested her head on my shoulder; it felt like she had forgotten all about her dad and the reasons she married Benoliel.

"You don't think I'm crazy? No? Then please look after me; take me away; I feel safe with you."

So, all obstacles disappeared in less time than it takes to share a kiss. I didn’t want to think about the strange coincidence or what it could mean. Face to face with my hopes, I’m proud to remember that common sense prevailed. The room we were in had a French window. I grabbed her garden hat and a shawl from the hallway, and we walked through the quiet, white garden. We didn’t see anyone. When we got to my dad's garden, I took her in through the back way to the summer house and left her there, even though I felt a bit nervous about leaving her while I went inside. I quickly took my violin and checkbook, grabbed all my extra money, scribbled a note to my dad, and went back to her.

Still, no one had seen us.

We walked to a station five miles away, and by the time Benoliel got to the church, I was leaving Doctors' Commons with a special license in my pocket. Two hours later, Kate was my wife, and we were having our wedding breakfast in the dining room of the Grand Hotel.

"And where are we going?" I said.

"I don't know," she replied, smiling. "You don't have much money, do you?"

"Oh dear, yes. I'm not wealthy, but I'm not completely broke either."

"Can we go to Devonshire?" she asked, spinning her new ring around and around.

"Devonshire! That's where——"

"Yeah, I know: Benoliel planned to go there. Jasper, I'm scared of Benoliel."

"Then why—"

"Foolish person," she replied. "Do you really think Benoliel is likely to go to Devonshire now?"

We went to Devonshire—I had received a small inheritance a few months before, and I didn't let financial worries disrupt my newfound happiness. My only concern was that she would be overwhelmed with thoughts of her father; but I'm grateful to remember that during those first days, she was also happy—so happy that it seemed like there was hardly any space in her mind for anything else but me. And every hour of every day, I said to myself—

"But for that ominous sign, whatever it meant, she might have been not my wife but his."

The first four or five days of our marriage are memories that stay fresh. Kate's face had regained its wild-rose glow, and she laughed and sang and joked, enjoying all our little daily adventures with the most genuine, carefree joy. Then I made the biggest mistake of my life—one of those foolish acts that I look back on for the rest of my life, wondering, "How on earth could I have been so foolish?"

We were sitting in a small living room, which looked terrible on purpose, but it was saved by the roaring fire and the fact that two of us were there, holding hands, staring into the flames, and talking about our future and our love. There was nothing to worry about; no one had figured out where we were, and my wife's fear of Benoliel's revenge seemed to have melted away in the warmth of our happiness.

And as we sat there, calm and unbothered, the Imp of the Perverse nudged my elbow, as he often does, and I felt compelled to tell my wife that I, too, had heard that eerie midnight music—that her experience wasn’t just a nightmare or a weird dream, but something stranger and more meaningful. I told her how I had heard the requiem for the dead and shared the whole story of that night. She listened quietly, and I found her oddly detached. When I finished, she pulled her hand away from mine and covered her face.

"I think it was a warning for us to avoid temptation. We should have never gotten married. Oh, my poor dad!"

Her tone was something I had never heard before. Its hopeless misery shocked me. And rightly so. Because no arguments, no pleas, no affectionate gestures could bring my wife back to the mood she had an hour earlier.

She tried to be cheerful, but her happiness felt fake, and her laughter hurt my heart.

She didn’t say anything more about the music, and when I tried to talk to her about it, she gave a sad little smile and said—

"I can't be happy. I won't be happy. It's not right. I've been really selfish and terrible. I know you think I'm being foolish, but I believe there's a curse on us. We'll never be happy again."

"Don't you love me anymore?" I asked like an idiot.

"Do you love me?" She just repeated my words, but I felt satisfied with that. Still, those were dark days. We were deeply in love, yet our time together felt like that of lovers on the brink of separation. Long silences replaced the silly jokes and playful conversations that happy couples share. More than once, I woke in the night to hear my wife crying and pretended to be asleep, painfully aware that I couldn’t comfort her. I knew her thoughts were constantly with her father, and that her worry about him increased each day. I exhausted myself trying to find ways to take her mind off him. I couldn’t pay his debts, but I could have him live with us, which felt like an even bigger sacrifice; and with my connections as a musician and composer, I was confident I could provide for both her and him comfortably.

But Kate had decided that the shame of bankruptcy would break her father's heart; and my Kate is not easily convinced or persuaded.

At Torquay, it struck me that it might be a good idea for her to talk to a priest. Sure, Father Fabian had advised her to marry Benoliel, but I couldn't imagine that most priests would tell a girl to marry a man she didn't love, especially a bad one, just for some material advantage.

She welcomed the suggestion, but without much excitement, and we looked for a Catholic church to ask some questions. As we opened the outer door of the church, we heard music, and while we stood at the entrance and I put my hand on the heavy inner door, Kate grabbed my other hand.

"Jasper," she whispered, "it's the same!"

Somebody opened the door behind us, pushing us to move forward. In a moment, we found ourselves in the dimly lit church—standing hand-in-hand in the faint daylight, listening to the same music we had both heard on the lonely night before our wedding.

I wrapped my arm around my wife and pulled her closer.

"Come on, my love," I whispered; "it's a funeral service."

She looked at me. "I have to know, I need to see who it is. I'll go crazy if you take me away now. I can't take it any longer."

We walked up the aisle and positioned ourselves as close as we could to the spot where the coffin was, covered in flowers with candles burning around it. We heard that music again, every note just like we had heard before. When the service ended, I whispered to the sacristan—

"Who played that music?"

"Our organist's," he replied; "it's the first time they've had it. Great, right?"

"Who is the—who was—who is being buried?"

"A foreign guy, sir; they say that his fiancée ditched him on their wedding day, and he had given her father thousands, if the truth is known."

"But what was he doing here?"

"Well, that's the interesting part, sir. To prove his independence, what does he do but take the same trip he'd planned for his honeymoon. Then there was a train accident, and he and everyone in his car were killed in an instant, so to speak. Lucky for the young lady she was with someone else."

The sacristan chuckled quietly to himself.

Kate's fingers held my arm.

"What was his name?" she asked.

I wouldn't have asked: I didn't want to hear it.

"Benoliel," said the sacristan. "Interesting name and strange story. Everyone's talking about it."

Everyone had something else to discuss when it was discovered that Benoliel's pride, which had allowed him to buy a wife, had prevented him from reclaiming the money spent when he lost her. And to the man who had been willing to sell his daughter, keeping the payment felt completely normal.

From the moment she heard Benoliel's name from the sacristan, all of Kate's joy and happiness came rushing back. She loved me, and she hated Benoliel. She was married to me, and he was dead; his death affected me much more than it did her. Women can be strangely kind and strangely cruel. She could never understand why her father shouldn’t have kept the money. It’s interesting that women, even the smartest and best among them, often don't understand what men mean by honor.

How should I explain the music? My good critic, my job is to share my story—not to explain it.

And don't I feel sorry for Benoliel? Yes. I can now afford to feel sorry for most people, whether they're alive or dead.

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

By ANTHONY HOPE,
AUTHOR OF "MR. WITT'S WIDOW."
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