Tom Ossington's Ghost

by Richard Marsh

  CHAPTER XI

  UNDER THE SPELL

  "Mr. Graham!" she exclaimed. "Really, I do believe that if I had beenasked what thing I most desired at this particular moment, I shouldhave answered--you!"

  Graham's sombre features were chastened by a smile.

  "That's very good of you."

  "Look here!" Laying one hand against his arm, with the other shepointed at the sitting-room window. His glance followed herfinger-tips.

  "Who's that?"

  "That's what I should very much like to ascertain."

  "I don't quite follow you. Do you mean that you don't know who sheis?"

  "I only know that I've been away all day, and that on my return I findher there. How she got there I can't say--but she seems determined tokeep me out."

  "You don't mean that! And have you no notion who the woman is? Shelooks half mad."

  "I should think she must be quite mad. It's the woman who forcedherself into the house the day before yesterday after you hadgone--that's all I know of her. This time she is not alone; she has aman in there with her."

  "A man! Not--Ballingall?"

  "No, not Ballingall. At least, I only caught a glimpse of him--butit's not the man who was watching you. From her behaviour the womanmust be perfectly insane."

  "We'll soon make an end of her, insane or not."

  Graham went to the window. The woman, completely unabashed, hadremained right in front of it, an observant spectator of theirproceedings. He spoke to her.

  "Open the door at once!"

  She repeated the gesture she had used to Madge--raising her voice, atthe same time, to a shrill scream.

  "Go away! go away! This house is mine--mine! I don't want anytrespassers here."

  Graham turned to Madge.

  "Do you authorise me to gain an entry?"

  "Certainly. I don't want to spend the night out here."

  Permission was no sooner given than the thing was done. Grasping theupper sash of the window with both his hands, Graham brought it downwith a run, tearing away the hasp from its fastening as if it had beenso much thread. It was a capital object-lesson of the utility of sucha safeguard against the wiles of a muscular burglar. The upper sashbeing lowered, in another moment the lower one was raised. Mr. Grahamwas in the room. The woman was possibly too astonished by theunceremonious nature of his proceedings to attempt any resistance,even had she felt disposed.

  Graham addressed Miss Brodie through the window.

  "Will you come this way? or shall I open the door?"

  "If you wouldn't mind, I'd rather you opened the door."

  He opened the door. Presently they were in the sitting-room, face toface with the intruders. Graham took them to task--the woman evincingno sign of discomposure.

  "Who are you, and what is the meaning of your presence on thesepremises?"

  "This house is mine--mine! It's all of it mine! And who are you, thatyou ask such a question--of a lady?"

  She crossed her hands on her breast with an assumption of dignitywhich, in a woman of her figure and scarecrow-like appearance, wassufficiently ludicrous. Graham eyed her as if subjecting her to amental appraisement. Then he turned to the man.

  "And pray, sir, what explanation have you to offer of the felony youare committing?"

  This man was a little, undergrown fellow, with sharp hatchet-shapedfeatures, and bent and shrunken figure. He had on an old grey suit ofclothes, which was three or four sizes too large for him, the trousersbeing turned up in a thick roll over the top of an oft-patched pair ofside-spring boots. There was about him none of the assurance whichmarked the woman--the air of bravado which he attempted to wear fittedhim as ill as his garments.

  "I ain't committed no felony, not likely. She asked me to come to herhouse--so I come. She says to me, 'You come along o' me to my house,and I'll give you a bit of something to eat.' Now didn't you?"

  "Certainly. I suppose a gentleman is allowed to visit a lady if sheasks him."

  The dreadful-looking woman, as she stood with her head thrown back,and her nose in the air, presented a picture of something which wasmeant for condescension, which was not without its pathos.

  "Of course!--ain't that what I'm saying? She come here, and she took akey out of her pocket, and she put it in the keyhole, and she openedthe door, all quite regular, and she says, 'This here's my house,' andshe asked me to come in, so of course I come in."

  "Do you mean to say that she gained entrance to this house by means ofa key which she took from her pocket?"

  "Course! How do you suppose we came in?--through the window? Nothardly, that's not my line, and so I tell you."

  Graham returned to the woman.

  "Be so good as to give me the key with which you obtained admission tothese premises."

  The woman put her hand up to her neck, for the first time showingsigns of discomposure.

  "The key?"

  Starting back, she looked about her wildly, and broke into a series ofshrill exclamations.

  "The key!--my key!--no!--no!--no!--It is all I have left--the onlything I've got. I've kept it through everything--I've never partedfrom it once. I won't give it you--no!"

  She came closer to him; glaring at him with terrible eyes.

  "It's my key--mine! I took it with me when I went that night. He wassitting in here, and I came downstairs with the key in my pocket, andI went--and he never knew. And I've kept it ever since, because I'vealways said that one day when I went back I should want my key to letme in: I hate to have to stand on the step while they are letting mein."

  Mr. Graham was regarding her intently, as if he was endeavouring toread what stood with her in the place of a soul.

  "Is your name Ossington?"

  "Ossington? Ossington?" She touched the sides of her foreheadwith the tips of her fingers, glancing about her affrightedly,as if making an effort to recall her surroundings. Her voice droppedto a whisper. "Who said Ossington? Who said it? Who asked if my namewas--Ossington?"

  Mr. Graham addressed Miss Brodie.

  "With your permission I should like to speak to this woman--after theman has gone."

  In his last words there was meaning.

  "By all means, if you wish it. Get rid of him at once. At the best thefellow is an impudent intruder, and the story he tells is aridiculously lame one. He must have been perfectly well aware that awoman of this sort was not likely to possess a house of her own, andthat accepting what he calls her invitation he was committing felony."

  The fellow in question shook his head as if he felt himself ill-used.

  "I call that hard--cruel hard. If the young lady was to think of itfor half a moment she'd see as it was cruel hard."

  "The young lady declines to think of it. Have the goodness to takeyourself away, and consider yourself lucky that you are allowed toescape scot free."

  The man moved towards the door, endeavouring to bear himself as if hewere doing so of his own free will. He spoke to the woman.

  "Ain't you coming with me?"

  "Yes, I'm coming."

  She hastened towards him. Graham interposed.

  "Let him go. There are one or two things about which we should like tospeak to you, this young lady and I, after he has gone."

  But she would have none of him. Shrinking back, she stared at him, insilence, for a second or two; then began to shriek at him like somewild creature.

  "I won't stay!--I won't!--I shall go!--I shall! You tried to get mykey--my key! You touch it--you dare! You asked me if my name"--shestopped, stared about as if in terror, gave a great sigh, "You askedme if my name----"

  She stopped again--and sighed again, the pupils of her eyes dilatingas she watched and listened for what was invisible and inaudible toall but her. Graham moved forward, intending to soothe her. Mistaking,apparently, his intention, she rushed at him with outstretched arms,giving utterance to yell after yell. In a moment she was past him andflying from the house.

 
Her male companion, who stood still in the doorway, pointed his thumbover his shoulder with a grin.

  "There you are, you see--drove her out of her seven senses! So youhave."

  Much more leisurely, the man went after the woman.

  For some reason, when Mr. Bruce Graham and Miss Brodie were leftalone, nothing was said about the recent visitors.

  "If you'll sit down and wait," remarked Miss Brodie, "I'll go and takemy things off."

  Having returned from performing those sacred offices, the topic stillremained untouched. Possibly that was because there were so manythings which needed doing. When one has been out all day, and keeps nomaid, when one returns there are things which must be done. Forinstance, there was a fire to make. Miss Brodie observed thatthere ought to have been two, one in the kitchen, and one in thesitting-room; but declared that folks would have to be content withone.

  And that one Bruce Graham made.

  She brought in the wood, and the coal, and the paper; and then shewent to fetch the matches. When she returned she caught him in theact.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded.

  He was on his knees on the hearthrug, with some sticks in his hand.

  "Making a fire--on scientific principles. I'm a scientific expert atthis kind of thing. Women's methods are unscientific as a rule."

  "Indeed." Her air was scornful. "Men always think they can make fires.It's most surprising."

  She commented on his methods--particularly when he took the pieces ofcoal from the scuttle, and placed them in their places with hisfingers.

  "That's right! Men always use their fingers to put coal on thefire--if they can. It's an agreeable habit."

  He continued calm.

  "It's scientific, strictly scientific; and may be logically defended,especially when a fire is being lighted. Heaping on coal with a shovelis unscientific--in the highest degree."

  He struck a match; presently the paper was in flames.

  "Now you had better go and wash your hands. You'll have to do it inthe scullery; and by the time you're done, the fire will be out."

  But the fire was not out. It was a complete success. The kettle wasput on, preparations were made for tea, and the table was laid, Grahamshowing a talent for rendering assistance which was not accorded thethanks it might have been. Madge was chilly.

  "I should imagine you were rather a handy person to have about thehouse."

  "There are diversities of gifts; let us hope that each of us has atleast one."

  "Exactly. But, unfortunately, I do not care to see a man, what iscalled, 'making himself useful about the house'--if your gift lies inthat direction. I suppose it is because I am not enough of a NewWoman. Perhaps now you've given me your assistance in laying thecloth, you will give me some music."

  He was smoothing a corner of the cloth in question--and looked down.

  "It is you who are the teacher."

  She flashed up at him.

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "It is true--is it not?"

  "If you wish me to understand that you would rather not play, have thegoodness to say so plainly."

  Whereupon he sat down--and played. And Madge listened.

  When he stopped, she was looking away from him, toward the fire. Tearswere in her eyes.

  "I suppose you are a genius?"

  Her voice seemed a little strained. He shook his head.

  "No--the music comes out of the ends of my fingers."

  He went on playing. When he ceased, again she turned to him--withpassionate eyes.

  "I never heard any one play like you before."

  "It's because I'm in the mood."

  He played on. It seemed to her that he spoke to her out of the soul ofmusic. She sat still and listened. Her heart-strings tightened, herpulses throbbed, her cheeks burned; every nerve in her frame was onthe alert. Never had such things been said to her before. She couldhave cried--and would have cried, if she had dared. The messagebreathed to her by Bruce Graham's playing told of a world of whichshe, unconsciously, had dreamed.

  He played; and she sat and listened, in the firelight, till Ella camehome to tea.

  And with Ella came Jack Martyn.