The Ghost Girl

by H. De Vere Stacpoole

  CHAPTER II

  Whilst he was lying in bed thinking things out, the folk at Vernons wereretiring to rest.

  Maria Pinckney knew nothing of what had occurred between Silas andRichard. Richard Pinckney, Phyl and Reggie Calhoun were the only threepersons in Charleston, leaving Silas aside, who knew of the business andin a hurried consultation just before leaving the Rhetts they had agreedto say nothing.

  Calhoun was for publishing the affair.

  "The man's dangerous," said he; "some day or another he'll do the samething again to some one and succeed and swing."

  "I think he's had his lesson," said Pinckney; "he went clean mad for themoment. Then there's the fact that I struck him. No, taking everythinginto consideration, we'll let it be. I don't feel any animosity againsthim, not half as much as if he'd stabbed me behind the back with a libel--He did tell a lie about me to-night but it was the stupid sort of lie achild might have told. The man has his good points as well as his bad andI don't want to push the thing against him."

  "I don't think he will do it again," said Phyl.

  She, like Richard, felt no anger against Silas; it was as though theyrecognised that Silas was the man really attacked that night, attacked bythe Devil.

  They both recognised instinctively his good qualities. Miss Pinckney, itwill be remembered, once said that it is the man with good in him thatcomes to the worst end unless the good manages to fight the bad and get itunder in time. She had a terrible instinct for the truth of things.

  "Well," said Calhoun, "it's not my affair; if you choose to take pity onhim, well and good; if it were my business I'd give him a cold bath, thatmight stop him from doing a thing like that again. I'll say nothing."

  Though Miss Pinckney was in ignorance of the affair she was strangelysilent during the drive home and when Phyl went to her room to bid hergood night, she found her in tears, a very rare occurrence with MissPinckney.

  She was seated in an armchair crying and Phyl knelt down beside her andtook her hand.

  Then it all came out.

  "I had hoped and hoped and hoped for him, goodness knows he has been myone thought, and now he has thrown himself away. Richard is engaged toFrances Rhett. He told me so to-night--well, there, it's all ended,there's no hope anywhere, she'll never let him go, and she'll have Vernonswhen I'm gone. She picked him out from all the other men--why?-- Why,because he's the best of the lot for money and position. Care about him!She cares no more for him than I do for old Darius. I'm sure I don't knowwhy this trouble should have fallen on me. I suppose I have committed somesin or another though I can't tell what. I've tried to live blameless andthere's others that haven't, yet they seem to prosper and get theirwishes--and there's no use telling me to be resigned," finished she with asnap and as if addressing some viewless mentor. "I can't--and what's moreI won't. Never will I resign myself to wickedness, and stupidity iswickedness, not even a decent, honest wickedness, but a crazy, sap-headedsort of wickedness, same as influenza isn't a disease but just an ailmentthat kills you all the same."

  Phyl, kneeling beside Miss Pinckney, had turned deathly white. Only halfan hour ago when the little conference with Calhoun had been concluded,Richard Pinckney had taken her hand. His words were still ringing in herears:

  "You saved my life. I can't say what I feel, at least not now."

  He had looked straight into her eyes, and now half an hour later--This.

  Engaged to Frances Rhett!

  She rose up and stood beside Miss Pinckney for a moment whilst that ladyfinished her complaints. Then she made her escape and returned to herroom--

  As she closed the door she caught a glimpse of herself in theold-fashioned cheval glass that had been brought up by Dinah and Seth tohelp her in dressing for the dance and which had not been removed. Everypicture in every mirror is the work of an artist--the man who makes amirror is an artist; according to the perfection of his work is theperfection of the picture. The old cheval glass was as truthful in its wayas Gainsborough, but Gainsborough had never such a lovely subject asPhyl.

  She started at her own reflection as though it had been that of astranger. Then she looked mournfully at herself as a man might look at hissplendid gifts which he has thrown away. All that was no use now.

  She sat down on the side of her bed with her hands clasped together justas a child clasps its hands in grief.

  Sitting like this with her eyes fixed before her she was looking directlyat Fate.

  It was not only Richard Pinckney that she was about to lose but Vernonsand the Past-- Just as Juliet Mascarene had lost everything so was it tohappen to her. Or rather so had it happened, for she felt that the gamewas lost--some vague, mysterious, extraordinary game played by unknownpowers had begun on that evening in Ireland when standing by the window ofthe library she had heard Pinckney's voice for the first time.

  The sense of Fatality came to her from the case of Juliet. Consciously andunconsciously she had linked herself to Juliet. The extravagant idea thatshe herself was Juliet returned and that Richard Pinckney was Rupert hadcome to her more than once since that dream or vision in which the gunshad sounded in her ears. The idea had frightened her at first, thenpleased her vaguely. Then she had dismissed it, her _ego_ refusing any oneelse a share in her love for Richard, any one--even herself masqueradingunder the guise of Juliet.

  The idea came back to her now leaving her utterly cold, and yet stirringher mind anew with the sense of Fate.

  * * * * *

  When she fell asleep that night she passed into the dreamless conditionwhich is the nearest thing we know to oblivion, yet her sub-conscious mindmust have carried on its work, for when she awoke just as dawn was showingat the window it was with the sense of having passed through a long seasonof trouble, of having fought with--without conquering--all sorts ofdifficulties.

  She rose and dressed herself, put on her hat and came down into thegarden.

  Vernons was just wakening for the day, and in the garden alive with birds,she could hear the early morning sounds of the city, and from theservants' quarters of the house, voices, the sound of a mat being beatenand now and then the angry screech of a parrot. General Grant slept in thekitchen and his cage was put out in the yard every morning at this hour.Later it would be brought round to the piazza. He resented the kitchenyard as beneath his dignity and he let people know it.

  Phyl tried the garden gate, it was locked and Seth appearing at thatmoment on the lower piazza, she called to him to fetch the key. He let herout and she stood for a moment undecided as to whether she would walktowards the Battery or in the opposite direction. Meeting Street neverlooked more charming than now in the very early morning sunlight; underthe haze-blue sky, almost deserted, it seemed for a moment to haverecaptured its youth. A negro crab vendor was wheeling his barrow along,crying his wares. His voice came lazily on the warm scented air.

  She turned in the direction of the station. The voice of the crab sellerhad completed in some uncanny way the charm of the deserted street and theearly sunlight. She was going to lose all this. Vernons and the city sheloved, Juliet, Miss Pinckney, the past and the present, she was going tolose them all, they were all in some miraculous way part of the man sheloved, her love of them was part of her love for him. She could no longerstay in Charleston; she must go--where? She could think of nowhere to gobut Ireland.

  To stay here would be absolutely impossible.

  As she walked without noticing whither she was going her mind cleared, shebegan to form plans.

  She would go that very day. Nothing would stop her. The thing had to bedone. Let it be done at once. She would explain everything to MissPinckney. She would escape without seeing Richard again. What she wasproposing to herself was death, the ruin of everything she cared for, thedestruction of all the ties that bound her to the world, the present andthe past. It was the recognition that these ties had been broken for herand all these things taken away by the woman who had taken away Richard.
r />   Presently she found herself in the suburbs, in a street where colouredchildren were playing in the gutter, and where the houses wereunsubstantial looking as rabbit-hutches, but there was a glimpse ofcountry beyond and she did not turn back. She did not want breakfast. Ifshe returned to Vernons by ten o'clock it would give her plenty of time topack her things, say good-bye to Miss Pinckney and take her departurebefore Richard returned to luncheon--if he did return.

  It did not take her long to pass through the negro quarter, and now, outin the open country, out amidst those great flat lands in the broad dayand under the lonely blue sky her mood changed.

  Phyl was no patient Grizel, the very last person to be trapped in the bogof love's despondency. Abstract melancholy produced by colours, memories,or sounds was an easy enough matter with her, but she was not the personto mourn long over the loss of a man snatched from her by another woman.

  As she walked, now, breathing the free fresh air, a feeling of anger andresentment began to fill her mind. Anger at first against Frances Rhettbut spreading almost at once towards Richard Pinckney. Soon it includedherself, Maria Pinckney, Charleston--the whole world. It was the angerwhich brings with it perfect recklessness, akin to that which had seizedher the day in Ireland when in her rage over Rafferty's dismissal she hadcalled Pinckney a Beast. Only this anger was less acute, more diffuse,more lasting.

  The sounds of wheels and horses' hoofs on the road behind her made herturn her head. A carriage was approaching, an English mail phaeton drawnby two high-stepping chestnuts and driven by a young man.

  It was Silas Grangerson. Returning to Grangerson's to make plans for thecapture of Phyl, here she was on the road before him and going in the samedirection.

  For a moment he could scarcely believe his eyes. Then reining in andleaving the horses with the groom he jumped down and ran towards her.

  After the affair of last night one might fancy that he would have shownsomething of it in his manner.

  Not a bit.

  "I didn't expect to come across _you_ on the road," said he. "Won't youspeak to me--are you angry with me?"

  "It's not a question of being angry," said Phyl, stiffly.

  She walked on and he walked beside her, silent for a moment.

  "If you mean about that affair last night," said he, "I'm sorry I lost mytemper--but he hit me--you don't understand what that means to me."

  "You tried to--"

  "Kill him, I did, and only for you I'd have done it. You can't understandit all. I can scarcely understand it myself. He _hit_ me."

  "I don't think you knew what you were doing," said Phyl.

  "I most surely did not. I was rousted out of myself. I reckon he didn'tknow what he was doing either when he struck. He ought to have known I wasnot the person to hit. I'll show you, just stand before me for a moment."

  Phyl faced him. He pretended to strike at her and she started back.

  "There you are," said he; "you know I wasn't going to touch you but youhad to dodge. Your mind had nothing to do with it, just your instinct.That was how I was. When he landed his blow I went for my knife byinstinct. If you tread on a snake he lets out at you just the same way. Hedoesn't think. He's wound up by nature to hit back."

  "But you are not a snake."

  "How do you know what's in a man? I reckon we've all been animals once,maybe I was a snake. There are worse things than snakes. Snakes are allright, they don't meddle with you if you don't meddle with them. They'vegot a bad name they don't deserve. I like them. They're a lot bettercitizens, the way they look after their wives and families, than someothers and they know how to hit back prompt--say, where are you goingto?"

  "I don't know," said Phyl. "I just came for a walk--I'm leavingCharleston."

  She spoke with a little catch in her voice. All Silas's misdoings wereforgotten for the moment, the fact that the man was dangerous as Death tohimself and others had been neutralised in her mind by the fact,intuitively recognised, that there was nothing small or mean in hischaracter. Despite his conduct in the cemetery, despite his lunaticoutburst of the night before, in her heart of hearts she liked him;besides that, he was part of Charleston, part of the place she loved.

  Ah, how she loved it! Had you dissected her love for Richard Pinckney youwould have found a thousand living wrappings before you reached the core.Vernons, the garden, the birds, the flowers, the blue sky, the sunlight,Meeting Street, the story of Juliet, Miss Pinckney, even old Prue.Memories, sounds, scents, and colours all formed part of the living thingthat Frances Rhett had killed.

  "Leaving Charleston!" said Silas, speaking in a dazed sort of way.

  "Yes. I cannot stay here any longer."

  "Going--say--it's not because of what I did last night."

  "You--oh, no. It has nothing to do with you." She spoke almostdisdainfully.

  "But where are you going?"

  "Back to Ireland."

  "When?"

  "To-day."

  Then, suddenly, in some curious manner, he knew. But he was clever enough,for once in his life, to restrain himself and say nothing.

  "I will go this afternoon," said she, as though she were talking of ajourney of a few miles.

  "Have you any friends to go to?"

  Phyl thought of Mr. Hennessy sitting in his gloomy office in gloomyDublin.

  "Yes, one."

  "In Ireland?"

  "Yes."

  "Can't you think of any other friends?"

  "No."

  "Not even me?"

  "I don't know," said poor Phyl, "I never could understand you quite, butnow that I am in trouble you seem a friend--I'm miserable--but there's nouse having friends here. It only makes it the worse having to go."

  "Do you remember the day I asked you to run off to Florida with me," saidSilas, "and leave this damned place? It's no good for any one here andyou've found it out--the place is all right, it's the people that arewrong."

  Phyl made no reply.

  "You're not going back," he finished.

  She glanced at him.

  "You're going to stay here--here with me."

  "I am going back to Ireland to-day," said Phyl.

  "You are not, you are going to stay here."

  "No. I am going back."

  She spoke as a person speaks who is half drowsy, and Silas spoke like aperson whose mind is half absent. It was the strangest conversation tolisten to, knowing their relationship and the point at issue.

  "You are going to stay here," he went on. "If I lost you now I'd neverfind you again. I've been wanting you ever since I saw you that day firstin the yard-- D'you remember how we sat on the log together?--you can'ttramp all the way back to Charleston-- Come with me and you'll be happyalways, all the time and all your life--"

  "No," said Phyl, "I mustn't--I can't." Her mind, half dazed by all she hadgone through, by the mesmerism of his voice, by the brilliant light of theday, was capable of no real decision on any point. The dark streets ofDublin lay before her, a vague and nightmare vision. To return to Vernonswould be only her first step on the return to Ireland, and yet if she didnot return to Vernons, where could she go?

  Silas's invitation to go with him neither raised her anger nor moved herto consent. Phyl was an absolute Innocent in the ways of the world. Nocareful mother had sullied her mind with warnings and suggestions, and hermind was by nature unspeculative as to the material side of life.

  Instinctively she knew a great deal. How much knowledge lies in thesub-conscious mind is an open question.

  They walked on for a bit without speaking and then Silas began again.

  "You can't go back all that way. It's absurd. You talk of going offto-day, why, good heavens, it takes time even to start on a journey likethat. You have to book your passage in a ship--and how are you to goalone?"

  "I don't know," said Phyl.

  His voice became soft. It was the first time in his life, perhaps, that hehad spoken with tenderness, and the effect was perfectly magical.

  "You are not
going," he said, "you are not; indeed, I want you far toomuch to let you go; there's nothing else I want at all in the world. Idon't count anything worth loving beside you."

  No reply.

  He turned.

  The coloured groom was walking the horses, they were only a few yardsaway. He went to the man and gave him some money with the order to returnto Charleston and go back to Grangersons by train, or at least to thestation that was ten miles from Grangerville.

  Then as the man went off along the road he stood holding the near horse bythe bridle and talking to Phyl.

  "You can't walk back all that way; put your foot on the step and get in,leave all your trouble right here. I'll see that you never have anytrouble again. Put your foot on the step."

  Phyl looked away down the road.

  She hesitated just as she had hesitated that morning long ago when she hadrun away from school. She had run away, not so much to get home as to getaway from homesickness.

  Still she hesitated, urged by the recklessness that prompted her to breakeverything at one blow, urged by the dismal and hopeless prospect towardswhich the road to Charleston led her mind, held back by all sorts of handsthat seemed reaching to her from the past.

  Confused, bewildered, tempted yet resisting, all might have been well hadnot a vision suddenly risen before her clear, definite, and destructive toher reason.

  The vision of Frances Rhett.

  Everything bad and wild in Phyl surged up before that vision. For a secondit seemed to her that she loathed the man she loved.

  She put her foot on the step and got into the phaeton. Silas, without aword, jumped up beside her, and the horses started.