by Ellen Wood
He was coming down again, the open box of dominoes and Charley Palliser’s book in one hand, the candlestick in the other, when the same sort of thing seemed to occur which had occurred on Sunday night. Hearing, as he thought, some one close behind him, almost treading, as it were, upon his heels, and thinking it was Flore, he turned his head round, intending to tell her to keep her distance.
Then, with a frightful yell, down dashed Captain Fennel the few remaining stairs, the book, the candlestick, and the box of dominoes all falling in the passage from his nerveless hands. The dominoes were hard and strong, and made a great crash. But it was the yell which had frightened the company in the salon.
They flocked out in doubt and wonder. The candle had gone out; and Charley Palliser was bringing forth the lamp to light up the darkness, when he was nearly knocked down by Captain Fennel. Flore, returning from the pump with her own candle, much damaged by the air of the yard, held it up to survey the scene.
Captain Fennel swept past Charley into the salon, and threw himself into a chair behind the door, after trying to dash it to; but they were trooping in behind him. His breath was short, his terrified face looked livid as one meet for the grave.
“Why, what has happened to you, sir?” asked Charles, intensely surprised.
“Oh! he must have seen the thief again!” shrieked Nancy.
“Shut the door; bolt it!” called out the stricken man.
They did as they were bid. This order, as it struck them all, could only have reference to keeping out some nefarious intruder, such as a thief. Flore had followed them in, after picking up the débris. She put the book and the dominoes on the table, and stood staring over her mistress’s shoulder.
“Has the thief got in again, Edwin?” repeated Mrs. Fennel, who was beginning to tremble. “Did you see him? — or hear him?”
“My foot slipped; it sent me headforemost down the stairs,” spoke the captain at last, conscious, perhaps, that something must be said to satisfy the inquisitive faces around him. “I heard Flore behind me, and — —”
“Not me, sir,” put in Flore in her best English. “I was not upstairs at all; I was out at the pump. There is nobody upstairs, sir; there can’t be.” But Captain Fennel only glared at her in answer.
“What did you cry out at?” asked Charles Palliser, speaking soothingly, for he saw that the man was pitiably unstrung. “Have you had a thief in the house? Did you think you saw one?”
“I saw no thief; there has been no thief in the house that I know of; I tell you I slipped — and it startled me,” retorted the captain, his tones becoming savage.
“Then — why did you have the door bolted, captain?” struck in Miss Stella Featherston, who was extremely practical and matter-of-fact, and who could not understand the scene at all.
This time the captain glared at her. Only for a moment; a sickly smile then stole over his countenance.
“Somebody here talked about a thief: I said bolt him out,” answered he.
With this general explanation they had to be contented; but to none of them did it sound natural or straightforward.
Order was restored. The ladies took a glass of wine each and some of the gâteau, which Flore handed round. Charles Palliser said good-night and departed with his book. Captain Fennel went out at the same time. He turned into the café on the Place Ronde, and drank three small glasses of cognac in succession.
“Nancy, what did you mean by talking about a thief?” began Madame Carimon, the whole thing much exercising her mind.
Upon which, Mrs. Fennel treated them all, including Flore, to an elaborate account of her husband’s fright on the Sunday night.
“It was on the stairs; just as it was again now,” she said. “He thought he heard some one following behind him as he came up to bed. He fancied it was Flore; but Flore had left hours before. I never saw any one show such terror in all my life. He said it was Flore behind him to-night, and you saw how terrified he was.”
“But if he took it to be Flore, why should he be frightened?” returned Mary Carimon.
“Pardon, mesdames, but it is the same argument I made bold to use to madame,” interposed Flore from the background, where she stood. “There is not anything in me to give people fright.”
“I — think — it must have been,” said Mrs. Fennel, speaking slowly, “that he grew alarmed when he found it was not Flore he saw. Both times.”
“Then who was it that he did see — to startle him like that?” asked Mary Carimon.
“Why, he must have thought it was a thief,” replied Nancy. “There’s nothing else for it.”
At this juncture the argument was brought to a close by the entrance of Monsieur Jules Carimon, who had come to escort his wife and Stella Featherston home.
These curious attacks of terror were repeated; not often, but at a few days’ interval; so that at length Captain Fennel took care not to go about the house alone in the dark. He went up to bed when his wife did; he would not go to the door, if a ring came after Flore’s departure, without a light in his hand. By-and-by he improvised a lamp, which he kept on the slab.
What was it that he was scared at? An impression arose in the minds of the two or three people who were privy to this, that he saw, or fancied he saw, in the house the spectre of one who had just been carried out of it, Lavinia Preen. Nancy had no such suspicion as yet; she only thought her husband could not be well. She was much occupied about that time, having at length nerved herself to the task of looking over her poor sister’s effects.
One afternoon, when sitting in Lavinia’s room (Flore — who stayed with her for company — had run down to the kitchen to see that the dinner did not burn), Nancy came upon a small, thin green case. Between its leaves she found three one-hundred-franc notes — twelve pounds in English value. She rightly judged that it was all that remained of her sister’s nest-egg, and that she had intended to take it with her to Boulogne.
“Poor Lavinia!” she aspirated, the tears dropping from her eyes. “Every farthing remaining of the quarter’s money she left with me for housekeeping.”
But now a thought came to Nancy. Placing the case on the floor near her, intending to show it to her husband — she was sitting on a stool before one of Lavinia’s boxes — it suddenly occurred to her that it might be as well to say nothing to him about it. He would be sure to appropriate the money to his own private uses: and Nancy knew that she should need some for hers. There would be her mourning to pay for; and ——
The room-door was wide open, and at this point in her reflections Nancy heard the captain enter the house with his latch-key, and march straight upstairs. In hasty confusion, she thrust the little case into the nearest hiding-place, which happened to be the front of her black dress bodice.
“Nancy, I have to go to England,” cried the captain. “How hot you look! Can’t you manage to do that without stooping?”
“To go to England!” repeated Nancy, lifting her flushed face.
“Here’s a letter from my brother; the postman gave it me as I was crossing the Place Ronde. It’s only a line or two,” he added, tossing it to her. “I must take this evening’s boat.”
Nancy read the letter. Only a line or two, as he said, just telling the captain to go over with all speed upon a pressing matter of business, and that he could return before the week was ended.
“Oh, but, Edwin, you can’t go,” began Nancy, in alarm. “I cannot stay here by myself.”
“Not go! Why, I must go,” he said very decisively. “How do I know what it is that I am wanted for? Perhaps that property which we are always expecting to fall in.”
“But I should be so lonely. I could not stay here alone.”
“Nonsense!” he sharply answered. “I shall not be away above one clear day; two days at the furthest. This is Thursday, and I shall return by Sunday’s boat. You will only be alone to-morrow and Saturday.”
He turned away, thus putting an end to the discussion, and entered their own room. As Nancy looked after him
in despair, it suddenly struck her how very thin and ill he had become; his face worn and grey.
“He wants a change,” she said to herself; “our trouble here has upset him as much as it did me. I’ll say no more; I must not be selfish. Poor Lavinia used to warn me against selfishness.”
So Captain Fennel went off without further opposition, his wife enjoining him to be sure to return on Sunday. The steamer was starting that night at eight o’clock; it was a fine evening, and Nancy walked down to the port with her husband and saw him on board. Nancy met an acquaintance down there; no other than Charley Palliser. They strolled a little in the wake of the departing steamer; Charley then saw her as far as the Place Ronde, and there wished her good-night.
And now an extraordinary thing happened. As Mrs. Fennel opened the door with her latch-key, Flore having left, and was about to enter the dark passage, the same curious and unaccountable terror seized her which had been wont to attack Lavinia. Leaving the door wide open, she dashed up the passage, felt for the match-box, and struck a light. Then, candle in hand, she returned to shut the door; but her whole frame trembled with fear.
“Why, it’s just what poor Lavinia felt!” she gasped. “What on earth can it be? Why should it come to me? I will take care not to go out to-morrow night or Saturday.”
And she held to her decision. Mrs. Hardy sent Charley Palliser to invite her for either day, or both days; Mary Carimon sent Pauline with a note to the same effect; but Nancy returned a refusal in both cases, with her best thanks.
The boat came in on Sunday night, but it did not bring Captain Fennel. On the Sunday morning the post had brought Nancy a few lines from him, saying he found the business on which he had been called to London was of great importance, and he was obliged to remain another day or two.
Nancy was frightfully put out: not only vexed, but angry. Edwin had no business to leave her alone like that so soon after Lavinia’s death. She bemoaned her hard fate to several friends on coming out of church, and Mrs. Smith carried her off to dinner. The major was not out that morning — a twinge of gout in the right foot had kept him indoors.
This involved Nancy’s going home alone in the evening, for the major could not walk with her. She did not like it. The same horror came over her before opening the door. She entered somehow, and dashed into the kitchen, hoping the stove was alight: a very silly hope, for Flore had been gone since the afternoon.
Nancy lighted the candle in the kitchen, and then fancied she saw some one looking at her from the open kitchen-door. It looked like Lavinia. It certainly was Lavinia. Nancy stood spell-bound; then she gave a cry of desperate horror and dropped the candlestick.
How she picked it up she never knew; the light had not gone out. Nothing was to be seen then. The apparition, if it had been one, had vanished. She got up to bed somehow, and lay shivering under the bedclothes until morning.
Quite early, when Nancy was at breakfast, Madame Carimon came in. She had already been to the fish-market, and came on to invite Nancy to her house for the day, having heard that Mr. Fennel was still absent. With a scared face and trembling lips, Nancy told her about the previous night — the strange horror of entering which had begun to attack her, the figure of Lavinia at the kitchen-door.
Madame Carimon, listening gravely, took, or appeared to take, a sensible view of it. “You have caught up this fear of entering the house, Nancy, through remembering that it attacked poor Lavinia,” she said. “Impressionable minds — and yours is one of them — take fright just as children catch measles. As to thinking you saw Lavinia — —”
“She had on the gown she wore the Sunday she was taken ill: her silver-grey silk, you know,” interrupted Nancy. “She looked at me with a mournful, appealing gaze, just as if she wanted something.”
“Ay, you were just in the mood to fancy something of the kind,” lightly spoke Madame Carimon. “The fright of coming in had done that for you. I dare say you had been talking of Lavinia at Major Smith’s.”
“Well, so we had,” confessed Nancy.
“Just so; she was already on your mind, and therefore that and the fright you were in caused you to fancy you saw her. Nancy, my dear, you cannot imagine the foolish illusions our fancies play us.”
Easily persuaded, Mrs. Fennel agreed that it might have been so. She strove to forget the matter, and went out there and then with Mary Carimon.
But this state of things was to continue. Captain Fennel did not return, and Nancy grew frightened to death at being alone in the house after dark. Flore was unable to stay longer than the time originally agreed for, her old mother being dangerously ill. As dusk approached, Nancy began to hate her destiny. Apart from nervousness, she was sociably inclined, and yearned for company. Now and again the inclination to accept an invitation was too strong to be resisted, or she went out after dinner, uninvited, to this friend or that. But the pleasure was counterbalanced by having to go in again at night; the horror clung to her.
If a servant attended her home, or any gentleman from the house where she had been, she made them go indoors with her whilst she lighted her candle; once she got Monsieur Gustave’s errand-boy to do so. But it was almost as bad with the lighted candle — the first feeling of being in the lonely house after they had gone. She wrote letter after letter, imploring her husband to return. Captain Fennel’s replies were rich in promises: he would be back the very instant business permitted; probably “to-morrow, or the next day.” But he did not come.
One Sunday, when he had been gone about three weeks, and Nancy had been spending the day in the Rue Pomme Cuite, Mary Carimon walked home with her in the evening. Monsieur Jules had gone to see his cousin off by the nine-o’clock train — Mademoiselle Priscille Carimon, who had come in to spend the day with them. She lived at Drecques.
“You will come in with me, Mary?” said Ann Fennel, as they gained the door.
“To be sure I will,” replied Madame Carimon, laughing lightly, for none knew about the fears better than she.
Nancy took her hand as they went up the passage. She lighted the candle at the slab, and they went into the salon. Madame Carimon sat down for a few minutes, by way of reassuring her. Nancy took off her bonnet and mantle. On the table was a small tray with the tea-things upon it. Flore had left it there in readiness, not quite certain whether her mistress would come in to tea or not.
“I had such a curious dream last night,” began Nancy; “those tea-things put me in mind of it. Lavinia — —”
“For goodness’ sake don’t begin upon dreams to-night!” interposed Madame Carimon. “You know they always frighten you.”
“Oh, but this was a pleasant dream, Mary. I thought that I and Lavinia were seated at a little table, with two teacups between us full of tea. The cups were very pretty; pale amber with gilt scrolls, and the china so thin as to be transparent. I can see them now. And Lavinia said something which made me smile; but I don’t remember what it was. Ah, Mary! if she were only back again with us!”
“She is better off, you know,” said Mary Carimon in tender tones.
“All the same, it was a cruel fate that took her; I shall never think otherwise. I wish I knew what it was she died of! Flore told me one day that Monsieur Podevin quite laughed at the idea of its being a chill.”
“Well, Nancy, it was you who stopped it, you know.”
“Stopped what?” asked Nancy.
“The investigation the doctors would have made after death. Both of them were much put out at your forbidding it: for their own satisfaction they wished to ascertain particulars. I may tell you now that I thought you were wrong to interfere.”
“It was Captain Fennel,” said Nancy calmly.
“Captain Fennel!” echoed Mary Carimon. “Monsieur Dupuis told me that Captain Fennel wished for it as much as he and Monsieur Podevin.”
Captain Fennel’s wife shook her head. “They asked him about it before they left, after she died. He came to me, and I said, Oh, let them do what they would; it could not hur
t her now she was dead. I was in such terrible distress, Mary, that I hardly knew or cared what I said. Then Edwin drew so dreadful a picture of what post-mortems are, and how barbarously her poor neck and arms would be cut and slashed, that I grew sick and frightened.”
“And so you stopped it — by reason of the picture he drew?”
“Yes. I came running down here to Monsieur Dupuis — Monsieur Podevin had gone — for Edwin said it must be my decision, not his, and his name had better not be mentioned; and I begged and prayed Monsieur Dupuis not to hold it. I think I startled him, good old man. I was almost out of my mind; quite wild with agitation; and he promised me it should be as I wished. That’s how it all was, Mary.”
Mary Carimon’s face wore a curious look. Then she rallied, speaking even lightly.
“Well, well; it could not have brought her back to life; and I repeat that we must remember she is better off. And now, Nancy, I want you to show me the pretty purse that Miss Perry has knitted for you, if you have it at hand.”
Nancy rose, opened her workbox, which stood on the side-table, and brought forth the purse. Of course Madame Carimon’s motive had been to change her thoughts. After admiring the purse, and talking of other pleasant matters, Mary took her departure.
And the moment the outer door had closed upon her that feeling of terror seized upon Nancy. Catching up her mantle with one hand and the candle with the other, she made for the staircase, leaving her bonnet and gloves in the salon. The staircase struck cold to her, and she could hear the wind whistling, for it was a windy night. As to the candle, it seemed to burn with a pale flame and not to give half its usual light.
In her nervous agitation, just as she gained the uppermost stair, she dropped her mantle. Raising her head from stooping to pick it up, she suddenly saw some figure before her at the end of the passage. It stood beyond the door of her own room, close to that which had been her sister’s.
It was Lavinia. She appeared to be habited in the silver-grey silk already spoken of. Her gaze was fixed upon Nancy, with the same imploring aspect of appeal, as if she wanted something; her pale face was inexpressibly mournful. With a terrible cry, Nancy tore into her own room, the mantle trailing after her. She shut the door and bolted it, and buried her face in the counterpane in wild agony.
