by Graeme Davis
It was a still, sultry night; the moon very bright. I was lying in my narrow, white bed, with my hair disordered all over the pillow; not just falling asleep, by any means, but most persistently and obstinately broad awake, and with every sense so sharpened, that I could distinctly hear the flow of the fountain without, and the ticking of the clock in the hall far down below. I had left the door of my chamber open, on account of the heat. Suddenly, at midnight, when the house was profoundly silent, a draught of cold air seemed to blow right into the room; and almost immediately after, I heard the sound of a footfall upon the stairs. Sleep seemed many thousand miles farther off than ever, or I should have thought I was dreaming; for I could have declared the step was Miss Winter’s; and yet I knew that she was not expected back for at least a fortnight. What could it mean? While I listened and wondered, the footsteps drew nearer and nearer, and then suddenly halted. I looked around, and beheld at the foot of the bed the form of my friend! She was attired in the plain dark dress which she usually wore; and I could see on the third finger of her left hand the sparkle of a ring, which was also familiar to me. Her face was very pale, and had, I thought, a strange, wistful expression. I noticed, too, that the bands of hair which shaded her forehead looked dark and dank, as if they had been immersed in water. I started up in bed, extending my arms, and exclaiming, “You here! When did you come? What has brought you back so soon?” But there was no answer, and she was gone the next moment. I was startled, almost terrified, by what I have described. I felt an indefinite fear that something was wrong with my friend. I arose, and passing through her chamber, which was unoccupied, went above and below, looking for her, and softly calling her by name: but every room I entered was empty and silent; and I presently returned to bed, bewildered and disappointed.
Towards morning I grew drowsy, and a little before my usual hour for rising I fell asleep. When I awoke the bright sunlight was shining in through the window. I heard the servants at their work below, and I was sure that it was very late. I was dressing hurriedly, when the door was softly opened. It was Mrs. Sparkes.
“I would not have you disturbed,” she said; “for I heard you walking about last night. I thought, as it was holiday-time, you should sleep when you could.”
“Oh, thank you,” I replied, scarcely able to restrain my impatience. “Where is Miss Winter, Mrs. Sparkes?” She looked surprised at the question, but answered, without hesitation, “With her friends, no doubt! We need not expect her for this fortnight yet, you know.”
“You are jesting,” said I, half offended. “I know that she is returned. I saw her last night.’’
“You saw Miss Winter last night!”
“Yes,” I answered; “she came into my bedroom.’’
“Impossible!” and Mrs. Sparkes burst out laughing—“unless she have the power of being in two places at once. You have been dreaming, Ruth.”
“I could not dream,” I said; “for I was broad awake. I am sure I saw Miss Winter. She stood at the foot of my bed, and looked at me; but she would not tell me when she came, or what had brought her back so soon.”
Mrs. Sparkes still laughed. I said no more on the subject, for I thought there was some mystery, and she was trying to deceive me.
That day passed. I was little inclined to sleep, though I was very tired when night came. I kept thinking about Miss Winter, and wondering if she would come again. After I had been in bed a few hours I became terribly nervous—the slightest sound made my heart leap. Then the thought came into my head that I would get up, and go down-stairs. I slipped on a few things, and softly left my room. The house was so silent, and everything looked so dusky, that I felt frightened, and went on trembling more than before. There was a long passage in a line with the school-room, and there was a glass-door at one end of it, which opened upon the garden. I stood at this door several minutes, dreamily watching the silvery light which the moon threw upon the dark trees and the sleeping flowers without. While thus engaged I grew contented and serene. I had turned, to creep back to bed, when I heard, as I thought, some person trying the handle of the door behind me. The sound soon ceased; yet I almost believed the door was opened, for a rift of wind blew through the passage, which made me shudder. I stopped, and looked hurriedly back. The door was closely shut, and the bolt still fast; but standing in the moonlight, where I had lately stood, was the slight figure of Miss Winter! She was as white, and still, and speechless, as she had been on the preceding night; it almost seemed as if some dreadful misfortune had struck her dumb. I wished to speak to her, but there was something in her face which daunted me; and besides, the fever of anxiety I was in began to dry up my lips, as if they would never be able to shape any words again. But I moved quickly towards her, and bent forward to kiss her. To my surprise and terror her form vanished. A cry escaped me, which must have alarmed Mrs. Sparkes, for she came running down-stairs in her night-dress, looking pale and frightened. I told her what had happened, and very much in the same way that I have just been telling it now. There was an expression of uneasiness on her face as she listened. She said kindly, “Ruth, you are not well to-night—you are very feverish and excited. Go back to bed, and before to-morrow morning you will forget all about it.”
I returned to bed; but I did not next morning forget what I had seen on the previous night; on the contrary, I was more positive than before. Mrs. Sparkes was disposed to think that I had seen Miss Winter in a dream on the first night, and that on the second, when broad awake, I had been unable to divest myself of the idea previously entertained. However, at my earnest and often repeated request, she promised she would pass the coming night with me in the girls’ sleeping-room. All that day she was most kind and attentive. She could not have been more so if I had been seriously unwell. She put all exciting books out of my way, and asked me from time to time if my head ached. In the evening, after supper, she showed me some engravings which had belonged to her husband. I was very fond of pictures. We remained looking at them till a late hour, and then we went to bed. Tired as I was, I could not sleep. Mrs. Sparkes said she should stay awake also; but she soon became silent, and I knew by her breathing that she was sound asleep. She did not rest long. At midnight the room, which had been oppressively warm, grew suddenly cold and draughty; and again I heard Miss Winter’s known step on the stairs. I laid hold of Mrs. Sparkes’ arm, and shook her gently. She was sleeping heavily, and awoke slowly, as it seemed to me; but she sat up in bed, and listened to the approaching steps. I shall never forget her face at that moment. She seemed to be beside herself with terror, which she tried to hide, and uncertain what it would be the best for her to do; she caught my hand at last, and held it so tightly that she quite hurt me. The steps drew nigh, and halted, as they had done before. Mrs. Sparkes’ gaze followed mine to the foot of the bed. The form of my friend was there. I can scarcely expect to be credited. I can state on my honour, what followed.
A night-lamp was burning in the room, for Mrs. Sparkes never slept in the dark. Its light showed me the pale still face of Miss Winter more clearly than I had seen it on the previous nights. The features were like those of a corse.* The eyes fixed direct on me, the long-familiar, grave, shining eyes. I see them now—I shall see them till I die! O how sad and earnest they looked! A full minute, or it seemed so, did he gaze in silence; then she said, in a low, urgent tone, still looking through me with her eyes, “Ruth, the oak wardrobe in the room which was mine, contains papers of importance—papers which will be wanted. Will you remember this!”
“I promise that I will,” I replied. My voice was steady, though the cold drops stood on my brow. The restless, wistful look in her eyes changed, as I spoke, to a peaceful and happy expression. So, with a smile upon her face, she passed away. No sooner had Miss Winter’s form disappeared than Mrs. Sparkes, who had been silent only because she was paralyzed with terror, began to scream aloud. She did more: she sprang out of bed, and rushed round the foot of it, out on the landing. When she could make the servants attend her
, she told them that somebody was in the house; and all the women—a cook and two housemaids—went armed with poker, and shovels, and examined every room from cellar to attic. They found nothing, neither in the chimneys nor under the beds, nor in any closet or cupboard. And as the servants went back to bed, I heard them agree what a tiresome and wearying thing it was when ladies took fancies. Mrs. Sparkes wanted to leave the house the next day; but the thought of the ridicule to which she should expose herself, if the matter oozed out, induced her to summon up her courage, and remain where she was.
The morning after, Mrs. Wheeler returned. She and Mrs. Sparkes were talking together in the study for a long while. I could not help wondering what they were talking about, and so anxious did I feel that I could not settle to anything. At last the door opened, and Mrs. Sparkes came out. I heard her say, distinctly, “It is the most shocking thing I have ever heard. She was a pains-taking young person, and you will miss her sadly.” At the sound of the opening of the door, with a sudden determination, I had rushed down-stairs, and was within a few steps of the study as Mrs. Sparkes came out.
Mrs. Wheeler was sitting at the table, with an open newspaper before her. She looked grave and shocked. After making some inquiries about my health, she said, “You will be sorry to hear Miss Winter will not return—an able teacher, and I believe you were much attached to her.” She was going on; but I interrupted her with a wild cry—“Miss Winter is dead!” said I, and I swooned away.
It was noon when I woke, and saw Mrs. Sparkes bending over me, as I lay on my bed, and trying to restore me. I begged her to tell me everything, and she did so. My dear friend was indeed no more. The story of her death was, like all the sad stories I have ever heard told in real life very—very short. She had left the house where her sisters were lodging, late one evening; that was the last time they saw her alive. She had been found dead, lying along the rocks under the cliff. This was all that there really was to tell. There was nobody near her when she was found, and no evidence to show how she came there.
I cannot remember what happened for some days afterwards, for I was seriously ill, and kept my bed; and often in the long nights I would lie awake, thinking about my poor friend, and fancying that she would appear to me again. But she came no more.
Time passed on, and brought the last day of the vacation. I was sitting by myself in the study, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Sparkes having both gone out, when a servant ushered in a strange gentleman, who, when I told him that Mrs. Wheeler was from home, immediately asked for Miss Irvine. On hearing that I was the person inquired for, he requested five minutes’ conversation with me. I showed him into the back-parlour, and waited, rather surprised and nervous, to hear what he had to say. He was a young man, not more than twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, and had a very grave manner; and though I was certain that he was a stranger, yet there was something in his face which seemed not altogether unfamiliar to me. He began by saying, “You were very fond of a teacher who was here, of the name of Winter. In her name, and for her sake, I thank you for the love and kindness you showed her.”
“You knew Miss Winter, sir?” I asked, as calmly as I could.
“I am her brother,” he replied.
There was silence between us, for the tears had sprung to my eyes at the mention of my dear lost friend’s name; and, I believe, at heart he was crying too. At last he mastered his feelings, and by an effort resumed his former calm manner. “I have been for this last week seeking for some papers which my poor sister must have left behind her, and always seeking them in vain,” he said. “If you could give me any clue as to where they may be, you would do a great kindness to my remaining sisters and myself.”
He still spoke calmly; but there was a look in his eyes which showed me that he was suffering terrible anxiety. I hastened to relieve it, by saying, “I have reason to think that you will find the papers you are in want of in a small oak wardrobe which belonged to dear Miss Winter. If you please, I will show you where it stands.” How his face lightened as he rose to follow me! his lips moving evidently with voiceless but thankful words on them.
We went up-stairs to the room that had been his sister’s, where I pointed out the piece of furniture to which she had referred me on that dreadful night. And after using some considerable force, the lock yielded to his determined hand; and there, concealed under a false bottom, in one of the drawers, were the papers he sought for, with all the other things Miss Winter had most cherished—the letters which had passed between her father and mother before they were married; her mother’s wedding-ring; her brother’s picture; the first copy-books of her sisters’ when they were learning to write; the little keepsakes which I at different times had given her. When my companion had taken all the letters and papers from the secret ledge, he turned to me, and said, “How much do you think these papers are worth to me, Miss Irvine?”
“Indeed, I can’t tell,” I replied; “but thank God you came hither to seek them, for I am so glad they are found.”
“I thank you,” he said. “I thank you, with all my heart.”
We went down-stairs again, into the parlour; and then he told me how a kinsman of theirs, who was very rich, but nevertheless a great miser, had borrowed a large sum of money from their dead father, which he now refused to repay, and was even wicked enough to deny he had ever received; how they had gone to law about the matter; and how if the papers he had just found could not have been produced, he and his sisters would have been penniless; but as it was, they would recover the sum to which they were justly entitled, with interest for five years.
After this he begged my acceptance of a locket containing some of my dear Miss Winter’s hair, and with her Christian name and the date of her death inscribed upon it; and bade me remember, if I should ever be friendless or in distress (which he prayed God I might never be), that he felt towards me as a brother.
I was quite overcome, and hid my face on the table. When I looked up again, he was gone.
A fresh surprise awaited me. The next day I met Mrs. Wheeler as she was going up-stairs. She said she was coming to bid me go into the parlour; and her manner was so gracious that I obeyed her without fear. My dear father was there. He was so shocked at my ill-looks that he resolved to remove me to the sea-side without loss of time. I begged to be taken to Dover. Yon will guess why. I sought out my poor friend’s grave and made it as beautiful as I could with grass and flowers. There was no tombstone there then, but there is one now.
The tale I have told may seem very extraordinary; but it is, nevertheless, true in every particular. Most persons, who have visited Taunton for any length of time, will no doubt have had it narrated to them by Mrs. Sparkes or one of her friends.
*An archaic form of “corpse.”
AN ENGINEER’S STORY
by Amelia B. Edwards
1866
Amelia Ann Blandford Edwards was born in London in 1831. The daughter of a banker and former army officer, she was educated at home by her mother, and showed promise as a writer from an early age: she published her first poem at the age of seven, and her first short story at twelve. In her twenties, she became a popular novelist, known for the time and effort she spent on the settings and backgrounds of her stories. She once estimated that each one took her two years of research and writing.
The winter of 1873–4 was a turning point in her life: along with several friends, she visited Egypt, recording her travels in her 1877 best seller, A Thousand Miles Up the Nile. She devoted much of her time thereafter to promoting the discovery and preservation of ancient monuments, co-founding the Egypt Exploration Fund and contributing to the Encyclopedia Britannica and the Standard Dictionary. In 1889–90, she embarked on a lecture tour of the United States, publishing her lectures in 1891 as Pharaohs, Fellahs, and Explorers. Such was her passion for Egypt that she stopped writing fiction entirely.
Edwards never married. She died in April 1892, three months after her companion, Ellen Drew Braysher. The two were buried side by
side—along with Braysher’s daughter Sarah, who had died in 1864—and in 2016, Historic England (officially the Historic Buildings and Monuments Commission for England) listed the grave as a historic monument, celebrating it as a landmark in English LGBT history.
Edwards wrote a number of ghost stories, many of which, like “The Phantom Coach” and “The Four-Fifteen Express,” appear regularly in anthologies. Like the latter, “An Engineer’s Tale” is a railway story: two young Englishmen go to Italy in search of work and excitement, and find themselves embroiled in love, murder, and—years later—a supernatural redemption.
His name, sir, was Matthew Price; mine is Benjamin Hardy. We were born within a few days of each other; bred up in the same village; taught at the same school. I cannot remember the time when we were not close friends. Even as boys, we never knew what it was to quarrel. We had not a thought, we had not a possession, that was not in common. We would have stood by each other, fearlessly, to the death. It was such a friendship as one reads about sometimes in books: fast and firm as the great Tors upon our native moorlands, true as the sun in the heavens.
The name of our village was Chadleigh. Lifted high above the pasture flats which stretched away at our feet like a measureless green lake and melted into mist on the furthest horizon, it nestled, a tiny stone-built hamlet, in a sheltered hollow about midway between the plain and the plateau. Above us, rising ridge beyond ridge, slope beyond slope, spread the mountainous moor-country, bare and bleak for the most part, with here and there a patch of cultivated field or hardy plantation, and crowned highest of all with masses of huge grey crag, abrupt, isolated, hoary, and older than the deluge. These were the Tors—Druids’ Tor, King’s Tor, Castle Tor, and the like; sacred places, as I have heard, in the ancient time, where crownings, burnings, human sacrifices, and all kinds of bloody heathen rites were performed. Bones, too, had been found there, and arrow-heads, and ornaments of gold and glass. I had a vague awe of the Tors in those boyish days, and would not have gone near them after dark for the heaviest bribe.
