The Second Ghost Story Megapack

by Various Writers

  “What noise?” the prosecution interposed.

  “My husband’s voice calling out my name and cursing me.”

  “What did you hear after that?”

  “A terrible scream and a fall.”

  “Where was Hervé de Lanrivain at this time?”

  “He was standing outside in the court. I just made him out in the darkness. I told him for God’s sake to go, and then I pushed the door shut.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “I heard dogs snarling and panting.” (Visible discouragement of the bench, boredom of the public, and exasperation of the lawyer for the defense. Dogs again—! But the inquisitive Judge insisted.)

  “What dogs?”

  She bent her head and spoke so low that she had to be told to repeat her answer: “I don’t know.”

  “How do you mean—you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know what dogs.…”

  The Judge again intervened: “Try to tell us exactly what happened. How long did you remain at the foot of the stairs?”

  “Only a few minutes.”

  “And what was going on meanwhile overhead?”

  “The dogs kept on snarling and panting. Once or twice he cried out. I think he moaned once. Then he was quiet.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then I heard a sound like the noise of a pack when the wolf is thrown to them—gulping and lapping.”

  (There was a groan of disgust and repulsion through the court, and another attempted intervention by the distracted lawyer. But the inquisitive Judge was still inquisitive.)

  “And all the while you did not go up?”

  “Yes—I went up then—to drive them off.”

  “The dogs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well—?”

  “When I got there it was quite dark. I found my husband’s flint and steel and struck a spark. I saw him lying there. He was dead.”

  “And the dogs?”

  “The dogs were gone.”

  “Gone—whereto?”

  “I don’t know. There was no way out—and there were no dogs at Kerfol.”

  She straightened herself to her full height, threw her arms above her head, and fell down on the stone floor with a long scream. There was a moment of confusion in the court-room. Some one on the bench was heard to say: “This is clearly a case for the ecclesiastical authorities”—and the prisoner’s lawyer doubtless jumped at the suggestion.

  After this, the trial loses itself in a maze of cross-questioning and squabbling. Every witness who was called corroborated Anne de Cornault’s statement that there were no dogs at Kerfol: had been none for several months. The master of the house had taken a dislike to dogs, there was no denying it But, on the other hand, at the inquest, there had been long and bitter discussions as to the nature of the dead man’s wounds. One of the surgeons called in had spoken of marks that looked like bites. The suggestion of witchcraft was revived, and the opposing lawyers hurled tomes of necromancy at each other.

  At last Anne de Cornault was brought back into court—at the instance of the same Judge—and asked if she knew where the dogs she spoke of could have come from. On the body of her Redeemer she swore that she did not. Then the Judge put his final question: “If the dogs you think you heard had been known to you, do you think you would have recognized them by their barking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you recognize them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What dogs do you take them to have been?”

  “My dead dogs,” she said in a whisper.… She was taken out of court, not to reappear there again. There was some kind of ecclesiastical investigation, and the end of the business was that the Judges disagreed with each other, and with the ecclesiastical committee, and that Anne de Cornault was finally handed over to the keeping of her husband’s family, who shut her up in the keep of Kerfol, where she is said to have died many years later, a harmless mad-woman.

  So ends her story. As for that of Hervé de Lanrivain, I had only to apply to his collateral descendant for its subsequent details. The evidence against the young man being insufficient, and his family influence in the duchy considerable, he was set free, and left soon afterward for Paris. He was probably in no mood for a worldly life, and he appears to have come almost immediately under the influence of the famous M. Arnauld d’Andilly and the gentlemen of Port Royal. A year or two later he was received into their Order, and without achieving any particular distinction he followed its good and evil fortunes till his death some twenty years later. Lanrivain showed me a portrait of him by a pupil of Philippe de Champaigne: sad eyes, an impulsive mouth and a narrow brow. Poor Hervé de Lanrivain: it was a grey ending. Yet as I looked at his stiff and sallow effigy, in the dark dress of the Jansénistes, I almost found myself envying his fate. After all, in the course of his life two great things had happened to him: he had loved romantically, and he must have talked with Pascal.…

  THE WIND IN THE ROSE-BUSH, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

  Ford village has no railroad station, being on the other side of the river from Porter’s Falls, and accessible only by the ford which gives it its name, and a ferry line.

  The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train with her bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry-boat as it shot swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing, with as dully reflective an expression as a cow. Beside Rebecca sat a woman of about her own age, who kept looking at her with furtive curiosity; her husband, short and stout and saturnine, stood near her. Rebecca paid no attention to either of them. She was tall and spare and pale, the type of a spinster, yet with rudimentary lines and expressions of matronhood. She all unconsciously held her shawl, rolled up in a canvas bag, on her left hip, as if it had been a child. She wore a settled frown of dissent at life, but it was the frown of a mother who regarded life as a froward child, rather than as an overwhelming fate.

  The other woman continued staring at her; she was mildly stupid, except for an overdeveloped curiosity which made her at times sharp beyond belief. Her eyes glittered, red spots came on her flaccid cheeks; she kept opening her mouth to speak, making little abortive motions. Finally she could endure it no longer; she nudged Rebecca boldly.

  “A pleasant day,” said she.

  Rebecca looked at her and nodded coldly.

  “Yes, very,” she assented.

  “Have you come far?”

  “I have come from Michigan.”

  “Oh!” said the woman, with awe. “It’s a long way,” she remarked, presently.

  “Yes, it is,” replied Rebecca, conclusively.

  Still the other woman was not daunted; there was something which she determined to know, possibly roused thereto by a vague sense of incongruity in the other’s appearance. “It’s a long ways to come and leave a family,” she remarked with painful slyness.

  “I ain’t got any family to leave,” returned Rebecca, shortly.

  “Then you ain’t—”

  “No, I ain’t.”

  “Oh!” said the woman.

  Rebecca looked straight ahead at the race of the river.

  It was a long ferry. Finally Rebecca herself waxed unexpectedly loquacious. She turned to the older woman and inquired if she knew Jolin Dent’s widow who lived in Ford Village. “Her husband died about three years ago,” said she, by way of detail.

  The woman started violently. She turned pale, then she flushed; she cast a strange glance at her husband, who was regarding both women with a sort of stolid keenness.

  “Yes, I guess I do,” faltered the woman, finally.

  “Well, his first wife was my sister,” said Rebecca with the ai
r of one imparting important intelligence.

  “Was she?” responded the other woman, feebly. She glanced at her husband with an expression of doubt and terror, and he shook his head forbiddingly.

  “I’m going to see her and take my niece Agnes home with me,” said Rebecca.

  Then the woman gave such a violent start that she noticed it.

  “What is the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothin’, I guess,” replied the woman, with eyes on her husband, who was slowly shaking his head, like a Chinese toy.

  “Is my niece sick?” asked Rebecca with quick suspicion.

  “No, she ain’t sick,” replied the woman with alacrity, then she caught her breath with a gasp.

  “When did you see her?”

  “Let me see; I ain’t seen her for some little time,” replied the woman. Then she caught her breath again.

  “She ought to have grown up real pretty, if she takes after my sister. She was a real pretty woman,” Rebecca said, wistfully.

  “Yes, I guess she did grow up pretty,” replied the woman in a trembling voice.

  “What kind of a woman is the second wife?”

  The woman glanced at her husband’s warning face. She continued to gaze at him while she replied in a choking voice to Rebecca:

  “I—guess she’s a nice woman,” she replied. “I—don’t know, I guess so. I—don’t see much of her.”

  “I felt kind of hurt that John married again so quick,” said Rebecca; “but I suppose he wanted his house kept, and Agnes wanted care. I wasn’t so situated that I could take her when her mother died. I had my own mother to care for, and I was school-teaching. Now mother has gone, and my uncle died six months ago and left me quite a little property, and I’ve given up my school and I’ve come for Agnes. I guess she’ll be glad to go with me, though I suppose her stepmother is a good woman and has always done for her.”

  The man’s warning shake at his wife was fairly portentous.

  “I guess so,” said she.

  “John always wrote that she was a beautiful woman,” said Rebecca.

  Then the ferry-boat grated on the shore.

  John Dent’s widow had sent a horse and wagon to meet her sister-in-law. When the woman and her husband went down the road, on which Rebecca in the wagon with her trunk soon passed them, she said, reproachfully:

  “Seems as if I’d ought to have told her, Thomas.”

  “Let her find it out herself,” replied the man. “Don’t you go to burnin’ your fingers in other folks’ puddin’, Maria.”

  “Do you s’pose she’ll see anything?” asked the woman with a spasmodic shudder and a terrified roll of her eyes.

  “See!” returned her husband with stolid scorn. “Better be sure there’s anything to see.”

  “Oh, Thomas, they say—”

  “Lord, ain’t you found out that what they say is mostly lies?”

  “But if it should be true, and she’s a nervous woman, she might be scared enough to lose her wits,” said his wife, staring uneasily after Rebecca’s erect figure in the wagon disappearing over the crest of the hilly road.

  “Wits that’s so easy upset ain’t worth much,” declared the man. “You keep out of it, Maria.”

  Rebecca in the meantime rode on in the wagon, beside a flaxen-headed boy, who looked, to her understanding, not very bright. She asked him a question, and he paid no attention. She repeated it, and he responded with a bewildered and incoherent grunt. Then she let him alone, after making sure that he knew how to drive straight.

  They had traveled about half a mile, passed the village square, and gone a short distance beyond, when the boy drew up with a sudden Whoa! before a very prosperous-looking house. It had been one of the aboriginal cottages of the vicinity, small and white, with a roof extending on one side over a piazza, and a tiny “L” jutting out in the rear, on the right hand. Now the cottage was transformed by dormer windows, a bay window on the piazzaless side, a carved railing down the front steps, and a modern hardwood door.

  “Is this John Dent’s house?” asked Rebecca.

  The boy was as sparing of speech as a philosopher. His only response was in flinging the reins over the horse’s back, stretching out one foot to the shaft, and leaping out of the wagon, then going around to the rear for the trunk. Rebecca got out and went toward the house. Its white paint had a new gloss; its blinds were an immaculate apple green; the lawn was trimmed as smooth as velvet, and it was dotted with scrupulous groups of hydrangeas and cannas.

  “I always understood that John Dent was well-to-do,” Rebecca reflected, comfortably. “I guess Agnes will have considerable. I’ve got enough, but it will come in handy for her schooling. She can have advantages.”

  The boy dragged the trunk up the fine gravel walk, but before he reached the steps leading up to the piazza, for the house stood on a terrace, the front door opened and a fair, frizzled head of a very large and handsome woman appeared. She held up her black silk skirt, disclosing voluminous ruffles of starched embroidery, and waited for Rebecca. She smiled placidly, her pink, double-chinned face widened and dimpled, but her blue eyes were wary and calculating. She extended her hand as Rebecca climbed the steps.

  “This is Miss Flint, I suppose,” said she.

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied Rebecca, noticing with bewilderment a curious expression compounded of fear and defiance on the other’s face.

  “Your letter only arrived this morning,” said Mrs. Dent, in a steady voice. Her great face was a uniform pink, and her china-blue eyes were at once aggressive and veiled with secrecy.

  “Yes, I hardly thought you’d get my letter,” replied Rebecca. “I felt as if I could not wait to hear from you before I came. I supposed you would be so situated that you could have me a little while without putting you out too much, from what John used to write me about his circumstances, and when I had that money so unexpected I felt as if I must come for Agnes. I suppose you will be willing to give her up. You know she’s my own blood, and of course she’s no relation to you, though you must have got attached to her. I know from her picture what a sweet girl she must be, and John always said she looked like her own mother, and Grace was a beautiful woman, if she was my sister.”

  Rebecca stopped and stared at the other woman in amazement and alarm. The great handsome blonde creature stood speechless, livid, gasping, with her hand to her heart, her lips parted in a horrible caricature of a smile.

  “Are you sick!” cried Rebecca, drawing near. “Don’t you want me to get you some water!”

  Then Mrs. Dent recovered herself with a great effort. “It is nothing,” she said. “I am subject to—spells. I am over it now. Won’t you come in, Miss Flint?”

  As she spoke, the beautiful deep-rose color suffused her face, her blue eyes met her visitor’s with the opaqueness of turquoise—with a revelation of blue, but a concealment of all behind.

  Rebecca followed her hostess in, and the boy, who had waited quiescently, climbed the steps with the trunk. But before they entered the door a strange thing happened. On the upper terrace, close to the piazza post, grew a great rose-bush, and on it, late in the season though it was, one small red, perfect rose.

  Rebecca looked at it, and the other woman extended her hand with a quick gesture. “Don’t you pick that rose!” she brusquely cried.

  Rebecca drew herself up with stiff dignity.

  “I ain’t in the habit of picking other folks’ roses without leave,” said she.

  As Rebecca spoke she started violently and lost sight of her resentment, for something singular happened. Suddenly the rosebush was agitated violently as if by a gust of wind, yet it was a remarkably still day. Not a leaf of the hydrangea standing on the terrace close to the rose trembled.

  “What on earth—” began Rebecca; then she stopped with a gasp at the sight of the other woman’s face. Although a face, it gave somehow the impression of a desperately clutched hand of secrecy.

  “Come in!” said she in a harsh voice, whi
ch seemed to come forth from her chest with no intervention of the organs of speech. “Come into the house. I’m getting cold out here.”

  “What makes that rose-bush blow so when there isn’t any wind?” asked Rebecca, trembling with vague horror, yet resolute.

  “I don’t see as it is blowing,” returned the woman, calmly. And as she spoke, indeed, the bush was quiet.

  “It was blowing,” declared Rebecca.

  “It isn’t now,” said Mrs. Dent. “I can’t try to account for everything that blows out-of-doors. I have too much to do.”

  She spoke scornfully and confidently, with defiant, unflinching eyes, first on the bush, then on Rebecca, and led the way into the house.

  “It looked queer,” persisted Rebecca, but she followed, and also the boy with the trunk.

  Rebecca entered an interior, prosperous, even elegant, according to her simple ideas. There were Brussels carpets, lace curtains, and plenty of brilliant upholstery and polished wood.

  “You’re real nicely situated,” remarked Rebecca after she had become a little accustomed to her new surroundings and the two women were seated at the tea-table.

  Mrs. Dent stared with a hard complacency from behind her silver-plated service. “Yes, I be,” said she.

  “You got all the things new?” said Rebecca, hesitatingly, with a jealous memory of her dead sister’s bridal furnishings.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Dent. “I was never one to want dead folks’ things, and I had money enough of my own, so I wasn’t beholden to John. I had the old duds put up at auction. They didn’t bring much.”

  “I suppose you saved some for Agnes. She’ll want some of her poor mother’s things when she is grown up,” said Rebecca with some indignation.

  The defiant stare of Mrs. Dent’s blue eyes waxed more intense. “There’s a few things up garret,” said she.

  “She’ll be likely to value them,” remarked Rebecca. As she spoke she glanced at the window. “Isn’t it ’most time for her to be coming home?” she asked.

  “’Most time,” answered Mrs. Dent, carelessly; “but when she gets over to Addie Slocum’s she never knows when to come home.”