The Happy-Unhappy Bridegroom: a ghost story
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little dwindled silhouette showed on the threshold, and paused a moment; but not venturing out, shut the door again and withdrew. Off went the hall and landing lights in succession, and finally the bedroom light too, to leave the house in blackness once more. It seems the occupant was a little mad old widow, who, living alone, was discovered soon afterwards by her home-help to have died in her bed.
We both sat rapt with attention as this little episode passed, which idleness told on our fatigue, and after it had finished we both stood up, as though by a mutual decision, and returned to our rooms. I am glad to say I did not dream again that night.
The next morning there was a knock at the front door that Lucille answered. When I came down I discovered her in the dining room with a police constable stood by, and a policewoman sat beside her. Lucille was dumb and blank-faced.
The constable asked for my name, and when I explained that I was a friend of the family, led me back out to the hall and told me the news. The police had received notice from abroad that yesterday Mr. Brandon Stewart was killed. There was a tragic accident, and it followed that he drowned.
At first I was shocked into silence, and only stared, without real comprehension; then a wealth of questions hurried to my lips, which, however, I did not wait to hear answered before darting in to Lucille again. She was sat as before, saying nothing, still held by that numb suspension of the senses that had taken me.
She did not recover herself, or even speak, until the police officers had left her to my care. I followed them to the door to thank them for coming out, and when I returned found her calmly dialling numbers into the telephone, to inform the family. I could not catch her eye, nor elicit any response from her: all was apparent serenity. In this state she spoke to her relatives, fielding their grief and anxieties about herself, without a flicker in her eyes.
But the calm was not real— it was blankness, and her patience, absence. It was all I could do to stop myself going crazy as I watched this smooth routine unfold. I supplied an endless caravan of cups of tea, for want of any fixed purpose, none of which she touched or noticed. I could hardly leave, and yet it seemed inappropriate to stay. However, I resolved to hold on until the arrival of the family. Brandon’s parents were in Canada, but Mrs. Harlowe promised to get the first train out of Conwy to arrive as soon as she might. So we awaited her advent, which is to say, I waited, and rattled about as though in solitary confinement, while Lucille sat still as a stone and seemed less to wait, than to remain.
Unfortunately, it transpired that Mrs. Harlowe was severely delayed by floods and stopped services; she seemed hampered in every effort to reach her daughter. The morning lengthened into afternoon, and that to evening, until I had found impatience sufficient to have cleared nearly half the stinging-nettles out of the garden, and some brambles besides.
Lucille sat still, her hands in her lap, unmoving. But her eyes, which had been blank and unfocussed before, were now intense and clear— not crying, not looking about, not really even looking at all, but seeing for certain. She had sat down so as to command a view of the road outside.
Evening drew on, night came, and still I stayed with her. At last, a long and apologetic call came from the harassed mother about connections and changing and flooding— in short, how she could not make it all the way that night. Lucille calmly absolved her and soothed the agitated parent altogether. Then, immediately on saying goodbye and replacing the receiver, she stood, and silently went about the house locking up. I watched her bolt and chain the front door— as if unheeded, I was locked in, and compelled to stay another night. So I went to bed as well, saying goodnight on the stairs.
She said absently: ‘Goodnight.’
I lay awake for many hours considering the excited agitation of the day, until eventually dropping to sleep without knowing it— which I discovered on suddenly waking up again in the middle of the night. I had not dreamt this time; rather, it must have been a dog barking in the neighbourhood nearby that disturbed me. But once awake, I could not immediately relax again, so I sat up, ruminating further.
It was very late, and dark, and still. The dog had ceased its noise, and all my senses became accustomed to the night-time.
I hear a tiny click somewhere. I notice the faintest glimmer from under the door-jamb. A door opens on the landing above and faint steps sound. The landing light snaps on and shines brightly under my door. The footsteps descend and pass my landing, very lightly and measured, and continue down the stairs. The hallway light comes on too.
I say to myself: ‘Poor Lucille, she can’t sleep either, and small wonder at it!’
Then the great bolt on the front door is shot back. The chain rattles and the lock is turned. The door swings open— a slight draft reaches me in a breath.
‘She’s going out,’ I think, sitting up. ‘What, has her mother arrived after all, then? The bell didn’t ring— should I go down?’
Then the front door swings shut again. The lock catches, the chain rattles, the great bolt is shot to. The footsteps sound across the hall and mount the staircase, lightly and measured as before. Now they reach my landing, and the hall light is extinguished. The steps pass my door and ascend again, up to the second landing. The landing light goes out; my room is struck into dimness. The master-bedroom door closes. There is a slight click. All is dark and still.
Dark and still, dark and still. Dark and still, and I lie back again, idly listening.
Then I freeze: there is a step. Down in the hall below, there is a step: a heavy step, very sure. Another proceeds in sequence, and another, heavy footsteps across the hall— heavy and sure steps— they pause at the foot of the staircase.
All is dark and still. I listen.
The footsteps mount the stairs. They reach the top.
I lie aching and tense. All is dark.
The steps sound on the landing, my landing, and pass my door heavily— I hear the boards give. All is dark. They pass immediately by my threshold, I hear them— they reach the next flight of stairs. Step one, heavily and sure on the first step— step two, heavily and sure and proceeding up the staircase to the master bedroom. I hear them reach the second landing. All is dark still. The handle of the door turns, the door to the master-bedroom opens— there is only darkness. The door to the master-bedroom closes quietly.
The end
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