by Ellen Wood
A feeling of despair ran through the whole words; and the tears were running down Ann Fennel’s hectic cheeks as the melody died away in a plaintive silence.
“It is what I shall never see again, Stella,” she murmured— “the green fields of our home; or hear the tongues of all the dear ones there. In my dreams, sometimes, I am at Selby Court, light-hearted and happy, as I was before I left it for this ‘stranger land.’ Woe’s me, also, Stella!”
And now I come into the story — I, Johnny Ludlow. For what I have told of it hitherto has not been from any personal knowledge of mine, but from diaries, and from what Mary Carimon related to me, and from Featherston. It may be regarded as singular that I should have been, so to say, present at its ending, but that I was there is as true as anything I ever wrote. The story itself is true in all its chief facts; I have already said that; and it is true that I saw the close of it.
XVIII.
To say that George Featherston, Doctor-in-ordinary at Buttermead, felt as if he were standing on his head instead of his heels, would not in the least express his mental condition as he stood in his surgery that September afternoon and read a letter, just delivered, from his sister, Madame Carimon.
“Wants me to go to Sainteville to see Ann Preen; thinks she will die if I refuse, for the French doctors can do nothing for her!” commented Featherston, staring at the letter in intense perplexity, and then looking off it to stare at me.
I wonder whether anything in this world happens by chance? In the days and years that have gone by since, I sometimes ask myself whether that did: that I should be at that particular moment in Featherston’s surgery. Squire Todhetley was staying with Sir John Whitney for partridge shooting. He had taken me with him, Tod being in Gloucestershire; and on this Friday afternoon I had run in to say “How-d’ye-do” to Featherston.
“Sainteville!” repeated he, quite unable to collect his senses. “Why, I must cross the water to get there!”
I laughed. “Did you think Sainteville would cross to you, sir?”
“Bless me! just listen to this,” he went on, reading parts of the letter aloud for my benefit. “‘It is a dreadful story, George; I dare not enter into details here. But I may tell you this much: that she is dying of fright as much as of fever — or whatever it may be that ails her physically. I am sure it is not consumption, though some of the people here think it is. It is fright and superstition. She lives in the belief that the house is haunted: that Lavinia’s ghost walks in it.’”
“Now what on earth can Mary mean by that?” demanded the doctor, looking off to ask me. “Ann Preen’s wits must have left her. And Mary’s too, to repeat so nonsensical a thing.”
Turning to the next page of the letter, Featherston read on.
“‘To see her dying by inches before my eyes, and not make any attempt to, save her is what I cannot reconcile myself to, George. I should have it on my conscience afterwards. I think there is this one chance for her: that you, who have attended her before and must know her constitution, would see her now. You might be able to suggest some remedy or mode of treatment which would restore her. It might even be that the sight of a home face, of her old home doctor, would do for her what the strange doctors here cannot do. No one knows better than you how marvellously in illness the mind influences the body.’
“True enough,” broke off Featherston. “But it seems to me there must be something mysterious about the sickness.” He read on again.
“‘Stella, who is here, was the first to suggest your seeing her, but it was already exercising my thoughts. Do come, George! the sooner the better. I and Jules will be delighted to have you with us.’”
Featherston slowly folded up the letter. “What do you think of all this, Johnny Ludlow? Curious, is it not?”
“Very. Especially that hint about the house being haunted by the dead-and-gone Miss Preen.”
“I have never heard clearly what it was Lavinia Preen died of,” observed Featherston, leaving, doctor-like, the supernatural for the practical. “Except that she was seized with some sort of illness one day and died the next.”
“But that’s no reason why her ghost should walk. Is it?”
“Nancy’s imagination,” spoke Featherston slightingly. “She was always foolish and fanciful.”
“Shall you go to Sainteville, Mr. Featherston?”
He gave his head a slow, dubious shake, but did not speak.
“Don’t I wish such a chance were offered to me!”
Featherston sat down on a high stool, which stood before the physic shelves, to revolve the momentous question. And by the time he took over it, he seemed to find it a difficult task.
“One hardly likes to refuse the request, put as Mary writes it,” remarked he presently. “Yet I don’t see how I can go all the way over there; or how I could leave my patients here. What a temper some of them would be in!”
“They wouldn’t die of it. It would be a rare holiday for you. Set you up in health for a year to come.”
“I’ve not had a holiday since that time at Pumpwater,” he rejoined dreamily; “when I went over for a day or two to see poor John Whitney. You remember it, Johnny; you were there.”
“Ay, I remember it.”
“Not that this is a question of a holiday for me or no holiday, and I wonder you should put it so, Johnny Ludlow; it turns upon Ann Preen. Ann Fennel, that’s to say. If I thought I could do her any good, and those French doctors can’t, why, I suppose I ought to make an effort to go.”
“To be sure. Make one also to take me with you!”
“I dare say!” laughed Featherston. “What would the Squire say to that?”
“Bluster a bit, and then see it was the very thing for me, and ask what the cost would be. Mr. Featherston, I shall be ready to start when you are. Please let me go!”
Of course I said this half in jest. But it turned out to be earnest. Whether Featherston feared he might get lost if he crossed the sea alone, I can’t say; but he said I might put the question to the Squire if I liked, and he would see him later and second it.
Featherston did another thing. He carried Mary Carimon’s letter that evening to Selby Court. Colonel Selby was staying with his brother for a week’s shooting. Mr. Selby, a nervous valetudinarian, would not have gone out with a gun if bribed to it, but he invited his friends to do so. They had just finished dinner when Featherston arrived; the two brothers, and a short, dark, younger man with a rather keen but good-natured face and kindly dark eyes. He was introduced as Mr. David Preen, and turned out to be a cousin, more or less removed, of all the Preens and all the Selbys you have ever heard of, dead or living.
Featherston imparted his news to them, and showed his sister’s letter. It was pronounced to be a very curious letter, and was read over more than once. Colonel Selby next told them what he knew and what he thought of Edwin Fennel: how he had persistently schemed to get the quarterly money of the two ladies into his own covetous hands, and what a shady sort of individual he was believed to be. Mr. Selby, nervous at the best of times, let alone the worst, became painfully impressed: he seemed to fear poor Nancy was altogether in a hornet’s nest, and gave an impulsive opinion that some one of the family ought to go over with Featherston to look into things.
“Lavinia can’t have been murdered, can she?” cried he, his thoughts altogether confused; “murdered by that man for her share of the money? Why else should her ghost come back?”
“Don’t make us laugh, Paul,” said the colonel to his brother. “Ghosts are all moonshine. There are no such things.”
“I can tell you that there are, William,” returned the elder. “Though mercifully the power to see them is accorded to very few mortals on earth. Can you go with Mr. Featherston to look into this strange business, William?”
“No,” replied the colonel, “I could not possibly spare the time. Neither should I care to do it. Any inquiry of that kind would be quite out of my line.”
“I will go,” quietly spoke
David Preen.
“Do so, David,” said Mr. Selby eagerly. “It shall cost you nothing, you know.” By which little speech, Featherston gathered that Mr. David Preen was not more overdone with riches than were many of the other Preens.
“Look into it well, David. See the doctor who attended Lavinia; see all and every one able to throw any light upon her death,” urged Mr. Selby. “As to Ann, she was lamentably, foolishly blamable to marry as she did, but she must not be left at the villain’s mercy now things have come to this pass.”
To which Mr. David Preen nodded an emphatic assent.
The Squire gave in at last. Not to my pleading — he accused me of having lost my head only to think of it — but to Featherston. And when the following week was wearing away, the exigencies of Featherston’s patients not releasing him sooner, we started for Sainteville; he, I, and David Preen. Getting in at ten at night after a boisterous passage, Featherston took up his quarters at Monsieur Carimon’s, we ours at the Hôtel des Princes.
She looked very ill. Ill and changed. I had seen Ann Preen at Buttermead when she lived there, but the Ann Preen (or Fennel) I saw now was not much like her. The once bright face was drawn and fallen in, and very nearly as long and grey as Featherston’s. Apart from that, a timid, shrinking look sat upon it, as though she feared some terror lay very near to her.
The sick have to be studied, especially when suffering from whims and fancies. So they invented a little fable to Mrs. Fennel — that Featherston and David Preen were taking an excursion together for their recreation, and the doctor had extended it as far as Sainteville to see his sister Mary; never allowing her to think that it was to see her. I was with them, but I went for nobody — and in truth that’s all I was in the matter.
It was the forenoon of the day after we arrived. David Preen had gone in first, her kinsman and distant cousin, to the Petite Maison Rouge, paving the way, as it were, for Featherston. We went in presently. Mrs. Fennel sat in a large armchair by the salon fire, wrapped in a grey shawl; she was always cold now, she told us; David Preen sat on the sofa opposite, talking pleasantly of home news. Featherston joined him on the sofa, and I sat down near the table.
Oh, she was glad to see us! Glad to see us all. Ours were home faces, you see. She held my hands in hers, and the tears ran down her face, betraying her state of weakness.
“You have not been very well of late, Mary tells me,” Featherston said to her in a break of the conversation. “What has been the matter?”
“I — it came on from a bad cold I caught,” she answered with some hesitation. “And there was all the trouble about Lavinia’s death. I could not get over the grief.”
“Well, I must say you don’t look very robust,” returned Featherston, in a half-joking tone. “I think I had better take you in hand whilst I am here, and set you up.”
“I do not think you can set me up; I do not suppose any one can,” she replied, shaking back her curls, which fell on each side of her face in ringlets, as of old.
Featherston smiled cheerily. “I’ll try,” said he. “Some of my patients say the same when I am first called in to them; but they change their tone after I have brought back their roses. So will you; never fear. I’ll come in this afternoon and have a professional chat with you.”
That settled, they went on with Buttermead again; David Preen giving scraps and revelations of the Preen and Selby families; Featherston telling choice items of the rural public in general. Mrs. Fennel’s spirits went up to animation.
“Shall you be able to do anything for her, sir?” I asked the doctor as we came away and went through the entry to the Place Ronde.
“I cannot tell,” he answered gravely. “She has a look on her face that I do not like to see there.”
Betrayed into confidence, I suppose, by the presence of the old friend of her girlhood, Ann Fennel related everything to Mr. Featherston that afternoon, as they sat on the sofa side by side, her hand occasionally held soothingly in his own. He assured her plainly that what she was chiefly suffering from was a disorder of the nerves, and that she must state to him explicitly the circumstances which brought it on before he could decide how to treat her for it.
Nancy obeyed him. She yearned to get well, though a latent impression lay within her that she should not do so. She told him the particulars of Lavinia’s unexpected death just when on the point of leaving Sainteville; and she went on to declare, glancing over her shoulders with frightened eyes, that she (Lavinia) had several times since then appeared in the house.
“What did Lavinia die of?” inquired the doctor at this juncture.
“We could not tell,” answered Mrs. Fennel. “It puzzled us. At first Monsieur Dupuis thought it must be inflammation brought on by a chill; but Monsieur Podevin quite put that opinion aside, saying it was nothing of the sort. He is a younger and more energetic practitioner than Monsieur Dupuis.”
“Was it never suggested that she might, in one way or another, have taken something which poisoned her?”
“Why, yes, it was; I believe Monsieur Dupuis did think so — I am sure Monsieur Podevin did. But it was impossible it could have been the case, you see, because Lavinia touched nothing either of the days that we did not also partake of.”
“There ought to have been an examination after death. You objected to that, I fancy,” continued Featherston, who had talked a little with Madame Carimon.
“True — I did; and I have been sorry for it since,” sighed Ann Fennel. “It was through what my husband said to me that I objected. Edwin thought it would be distasteful to me. He did not like the idea of it either. Being dead, he held that she should be left in reverence.”
Featherston coughed. She was evidently innocent as any lamb of suspicion against him.
“And now,” went on Mr. Featherston, “just tell me what you mean by saying you see your sister about the house.”
“We do see her,” said Nancy.
“Nonsense! You don’t. It is all fancy. When the nerves are unstrung, as yours are, they play us all sorts of tricks. Why, I knew a man once who took up a notion that he walked upon his head, and he came to me to be cured!”
“But it is seeing Lavinia’s apparition, and the constant fear of seeing it which lies upon me, that has brought on this nervousness,” pleaded Nancy. “It is to my husband, when he is here, that she chiefly appears; nothing but that is keeping him away. I have seen her only three or four times.”
She spoke quietly and simply, evidently grounded in the belief. Mr. Featherston wondered how he was to deal with this: and perhaps he was not himself so much of a sceptic in the supernatural as he thought fit to pretend. Nancy continued:
“It was to my husband she appeared first. Exactly a week after her death. No; a week after the evening she was first taken ill. He was coming upstairs to bed — I had gone on — when he suddenly fancied that some one was following him, though only he and I were in the house. Turning quickly round, he saw Lavinia. That was the first time; and I assure you I thought he would have died of it. Never before had I witnessed such mortal terror in man.”
“Did he tell you he had seen her?”
“No; never. I could not imagine what brought on these curious attacks of fright, for he had others. He put it upon his health. It was only when I saw Lavinia myself after he went to England that I knew. I knew then what it must have been.”
Mr. Featherston was silent.
“She always appears in the same dress,” continued Nancy; “a silver-grey silk that she wore at church that Sunday. It was the last gown she ever put on: we took it off her when she was first seized with the pain. And in her face there is always a sad, beseeching aspect, as if she wanted something and were imploring us to get it for her. Indeed we see her, Mr. Featherston.”
“Ah, well,” he said, perceiving it was not from this quarter that light could be thrown on the suspicious darkness of the past, “let us talk of yourself. You are to obey my orders in all respects, Mistress Nancy. We will soon have
you flourishing again.”
Brave words. Perhaps the doctor half believed in them himself. But he and they received a check all too soon.
That same evening, after David Preen had left — for he went in to spend an hour at the little red house to gossip about the folks at home — Nancy was taken with a fit of shivering. Flore hastily mixed her a glass of hot wine-and-water, and then went upstairs to light a fire in the bedroom, thinking her mistress would be the better for it. Nancy, who could hear Flore moving about overhead, suddenly remembered something that she wanted brought down. Rising from her chair, she went to the door of the salon, intending to call out. A sort of side light, dim and indistinct, fell upon her as she stood in the recess at the foot of the stairs from the lamp in the salon and from the stove in the kitchen, for both doors were open.
“Flore,” she was beginning, “will you bring down my — —”
And there Ann Fennel’s words ended. With a wild cry, which reached the ears of Flore and nearly startled her into fits, Mrs. Fennel collapsed. The servant came dashing downstairs, expecting to hear that the ghost had appeared again.
It was not that. Her mistress was looking wild and puzzled; and when she recovered herself sufficiently to speak, declared that she had been startled by some animal. Either a cat or a rabbit, she could not tell which, the glimpse she caught of it was so brief and slight; it had run against her legs as she was calling out.
Flore did not know what to make of this. She looked about, but neither cat nor rabbit was to be seen; and she told her mistress it could have been nothing but fancy. Mrs. Fennel thought she knew better.
“Why, I felt it and saw it,” she said. “It came right against me and ran over my feet. It seemed to be making for the passage, as if it wanted to get out by the front-door.”
