by Paul Merton
“Good heavens! child, where have you been?” said Mr. Otis, rather angrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them. “Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, and your mother has been frightened to death. You must never play these practical jokes any more.”
“Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!” shrieked the twins, as they capered about.
“My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side again,” murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and smoothed the tangled gold of her hair.
“Papa,” said Virginia, quietly, “I have been with the Ghost. He is dead, and you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he was really sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of beautiful jewels before he died.”
The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave and serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the wainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following with a lighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, they came to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginia touched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated window. Imbedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone floor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers an old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its reach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was covered inside with green mould. There was nothing on the trencher but a pile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding her little hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the party looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was now disclosed to them.
“Hallo!” suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out of the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was situated. “Hallo! the old withered almond-tree has blossomed. I can see the flowers quite plainly in the moonlight.”
“God has forgiven him,” said Virginia, gravely, as she rose to her feet, and a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face.
“What an angel you are!” cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round her neck, and kissed her.
VII
Four days after these curious incidents, a funeral started from Canterville Chase at about eleven o’clock at night. The hearse was drawn by eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of nodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Canterville coat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the servants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully impressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come up specially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first carriage along with little Virginia. Then came the United States Minister and his wife, then Washington and the three boys, and in the last carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she had been frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she had a right to see the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the corner of the churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service was read in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier. When the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom observed in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward, and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. As she did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its silent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a nightingale began to sing. She thought of the ghost’s description of the Garden of Death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a word during the drive home.
The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had an interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given to Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain ruby necklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen of sixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otis felt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.
“My lord,” he said, “I know that in this country mortmain is held to apply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must beg you, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard them simply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you under certain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a child, and has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in such appurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, I may say, is no mean authority upon Art,—having had the privilege of spending several winters in Boston when she was a girl,—that these gems are of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall price. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you will recognize how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain in the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such vain gauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the British aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those who have been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principles of Republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very anxious that you should allow her to retain the box, as a memento of your unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, and consequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to comply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good deal surprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with mediaevalism in any form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was born in one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned from a trip to Athens.”
Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister’s speech, pulling his grey moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile, and when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and said: “My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky ancestor, Sir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family are much indebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels are clearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough to take them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave in a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being heirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legal document, and the existence of these jewels has been quite unknown. I assure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and when Miss Virginia grows up, I dare say she will be pleased to have pretty things to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the furniture and the ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to the ghost passed at once into your possession, as, whatever activity Sir Simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in point of law he was really dead, and you acquired his property by purchase.”
Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville’s refusal, and begged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was quite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to retain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of 1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen’s first drawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the universal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which is the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to her boy-lover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and they loved each other so much, that every one was delighted at the match, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Duke for one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than three expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his own words, “was not
without apprehension lest, amid the enervating influences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of Republican simplicity should be forgotten.” His objections, however, were completely overruled, and I believe that when he walked up the aisle of St. George’s, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his arm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of England.
The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to Canterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods. There had been a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir Simon’s tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it simply the initials of the old gentleman’s name, and the verse from the library window. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for some time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There the Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly he threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her, “Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband.”
“Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you.”
“Yes, you have,” he answered, smiling, “you have never told me what happened to you when you were locked up with the ghost.”
“I have never told any one, Cecil,” said Virginia, gravely.
“I know that, but you might tell me.”
“Please don’t ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe him a great deal. Yes, don’t laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both.”
The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.
You can have your secret as long as I have your heart,” he murmured.
“You have always had that, Cecil.”
“And you will tell our children some day, won’t you?”
Virginia blushed.
THE BEST OF BETTY
Jincy Willett
Jincy Willett (1946–) is the author of Jenny and the Jaws of Life, winner of the National Book Award, and The Writing Class, both of which have been translated and sold internationally. Her stories have been published in Cosmopolitan, McSweeney’s Quarterly and other magazines. She frequently reviews for The New York Times Book Review.
DEAR BETTY:
I’m only forty-two years old and already going through the Change. I tried for twenty years to get pregnant and now I never will. Also, I get horrible cluster migraines now. The worst ones feel like a huge tarantula is clamped to my head with his legs sticking into my eyes and ears, and I have to scream with the pain. Next Tuesday I’m going to have all my teeth pulled, because the hormones have rotted my gums. I’m forty-two years old and for the rest of my life I’m going to sleep with my teeth in a glass by the bed. I hate being a woman. I hate my life. I hate Iowa. If I didn’t believe in hell I’d kill myself.
Hopeless in the Heartland
DEAR HOPELESS:
What’s the question?
Sorry, Readers. It’s broken record time again. (1) Seek the aid of a competent therapist or clergyman, (2) Keep busy, (3) Above all, don’t think about yourself so much, because (4) WHINING DOESNT ADVANCE THE BALL
For starters, Hopeless, why don’t you rewrite this letter, only instead of cataloguing your complaints, include everything you have to be grateful for. You’ll be amazed at how well this works.
DEAR BETTY:
Calling all Tooth Fairies! Don’t throw away your kids’ teeth! Save them up until you have a good third cupful, then scatter them around your tulip beds come spring, and you won’t lose one bulb to marauding squirrels. Scares the dickens out of them, I guess!
Petunia
DEAR PETUNIA:
I guess it would! Thanks for another of your timely and original gardening tips.
DEAR BETTY:
Lately, at parties, my husband has started calling me “Lard-bottom.” I know he loves me, and he says he doesn’t mean anything by it, but he hurts me terribly. Last night, at the bowling alley with some of his trucker buddies, he kept referring to me as “Wide Load.” Betty, I cried all night.
We’re both big fans of yours. Would you comment on his cruel behavior? He’d pay attention to you. Tell him that I may have put on weight, but I’m still a
Human Being
DEAR HUMAN:
Yes, a human being with an enormous behind. Sorry, Toots. If I read correctly between the lines, hubby’s worried sick about your health. Try a little self-control. Quit stuffing your face.
DEAR BETTY:
Last winter my sister and I moved out here to Drygulch, Arizona, for her health. She’s doing well, but I’ve developed tic douloureux, of all things, and the spasms are unpredictable and agonizing. Our nearest doctor is fifty miles away, as is, for that matter, our nearest neighbor. I can’t help feeling I’d be better off in Tucson or Phoenix, near a large medical center, but my sister, who’s quite reclusive, says that if we moved her emphysema would just kick up again. Should we split up? Do I have the right to leave her, on account of a disease which, though painful, is not life-threatening?
Dolorous in Drygulch
DEAR DOLOROUS:
Why not join a tic douloureux support group? If there isn’t already one in the area, why not start one? (The company might bring Sis out of her shell!)
DEAR BETTY:
Isn’t it about time for a rerun of “Betty Believes”? I’d love to get a new copy laminated for my niece.
Happiness Is
DEAR HAPPINESS:
Of course. Here goes:
BETTY BELIEVES
1. That everything has a funny side to it.
2. That whining doesn’t advance the ball.
3. That there’s always somebody worse off than you.
4. That there’s such a thing as being too smart for your own good.
5. That there are worse things in the world than ignorance and mediocrity.
6. That it takes all kinds.
7. That nobody’s opinion is worth more than anybody else’s.
8. That the more things stay the same, the better.
9. That everything happens for a good reason.
10. That no one ever died from an insult to the intelligence.
DEAR BETTY:
My Grandma Claire used to read your column every morning with her first cup of coffee and cigarette of the day. She called “Ask Betty” the real news. She said that following the progress of your career over the years was her only truly wicked pleasure, and that it was like watching a massacre through a telescope. What did she mean by that? She got throat cancer and died, and the last thing she said to me was, “There are too atheists in foxholes.” My mom says she was out of her mind. What do you think?
Fourteen and Wondering
DEAR WONDERING:
That your Grandma Claire will not have died in vain if you will heed the lesson of her life: Don’t smoke.
CONFIDENTIAL to First Person Singular.
Is it worth it, kid? Is it really?
Sure, on the one side you have money—obscene amounts of money—not to mention job security, reputation, celebrity. But… what about the numbing boredom? What about self-respect? What about, you should pardon the expression, honor? Huh, Toots?
I mean, who’s really contemptible here? Them, or you?
Hint: Who’s got the ulcer?
Who’s got the whim-whams?
Who’s got the blues in the night?
DEAR BETTY:
This is going to sound ridiculous, but hear me out. My husband smacks his lips in his sleep and it’s driving me batty. If he were only snoring or gnashing his teeth, but this is a licking sound, a lapping, sipping, slurping sound, like a huge baby gumming pureed peas in the dark, and it makes my flesh crawl. I’ve tried nudging him awake, but he just looks at me so pitifully, and then I feel guilty. Imagine how he
’d feel if I told him what I really want, which is my own bed in my own separate bedroom! Help!
