The Sixth Ghost Story Megapack

by Shawn M Garrett (ed)

  If those fair flowers, like their German sisters, ever at nightfall, assumed mortal form, who was there to tell of such vagaries? Even when the moon is at her full there are few who care to cross Chertsey Mead, or face the lonely Stabbery.

  Hard would it be, indeed, so near life, railways, civilization, and London, to find a more lonely stretch of country, when twilight visits the landscape and darkness comes brooding down over the Surrey and Middlesex shores, than the path which winds along the river from Shepperton Lock to Chertsey Bridge. At high noon for months together it is desolate beyond description—silent, save for the rippling and sobbing of the currents, the wash of the stream, the swaying of the osiers, the trembling of an aspen, the rustle of the withies, or the noise made by a bird, or rat, or stoat, startled by the sound of unwonted footsteps. In the warm summer nights also, when tired holiday-makers are sleeping soundly, when men stretched on the green sward outside their white tents are smoking, and talking, and planning excursions for the morrow; When in country houses young people are playing and singing, dancing or walking up and down terraces over-looking well-kept lawns, where the evening air is laden with delicious perfumes—there falls on that almost uninhabited mile or two of riverside a stillness which may be felt, which the belated traveller is loth to disturb even by the dip of his oars as he drifts down with the current past objects that seem to him unreal as fragments of a dream.

  It had been a wet summer—a bad summer for the hotels. There had been some fine days, but not many together. The weather could not be depended upon. It was not a season in which young ladies were to be met about the reaches of the Upper Thames, disporting themselves in marvellous dresses, and more marvellous headgear, unfurling brilliant parasols, canoeing in appropriate attire, giving life and colour to the streets of old-world villages, and causing many of their inhabitants to consider what a very strange sort of town it must be in which such extraordinarily-robed persons habitually reside.

  Nothing of the sort was to be seen that summer, even as high as Hampton. Excursions were limited to one day; there were few tents, few people camping-out, not many staying at the hotels; yet it was, perhaps for that reason, an enjoyable summer to those who were not afraid of a little, or rather a great deal, of rain, who liked a village inn all the better for not being crowded, and who were not heartbroken because their women-folk for once found it impossible to accompany them.

  Unless a man boldly decides to outrage the proprieties and decencies of life, and go off by himself to take his pleasure selfishly alone, there is in a fine summer no door of escape open to him. There was a time—a happy time—when a husband was not expected to sign away his holidays in the marriage articles. But what boots it to talk of that remote past now? Everything is against the father of a family at present. Unless the weather help him, what friend has he? And the weather does not often in these latter days prove a friend.

  In that summer, however, with which this story deals, the stars in their courses fought for many an oppressed paterfamilias. Any curious inquirer might then have walked ankle-deep in mud from Penton Hook to East Molesey, and not met a man, harnessed like a beast of burden, towing all his belongings up stream, or beheld him rowing against wind and tide as though he were a galley-slave chained to the oar, striving ail the while to look as though enjoying the fun.

  Materfamilias found it too wet to patronize the Thames. Her dear little children also were conspicuous by their absence. Charming young ladies were rarely to be seen—indeed, the skies were so treacherous that it would have been a mere tempting of Providence to risk a pretty dress on the water; for which sufficient reasons furnished houses remained unlet, and lodgings were left empty; taverns and hotels welcomed visitors instead of treating them scurvily; and the river, with its green banks and its leafy aits, its white swans, its water-lilies, its purple loosestrife, its reeds, its rushes, its weeping willows, its quiet backwaters, was delightful.

  One evening two men stood just outside the door of the Ship, Lower Halliford, looking idly at the water, as it flowed by more rapidly than is usually the case in August. Both were dressed in suits of serviceable dark grey tweed; both wore round hats; both evidently belonged to that class which resembles flowers of the field but in the one respect that it toils not, neither does it spin; both looked intensely bored; both were of rather a good appearance.

  The elder, who was about thirty, had dark hair, sleepy brown eyes, and a straight capable nose; a heavy moustache almost concealed his mouth, but his chin was firm and well cut. About him there was an indescribable something calculated to excite attention, but nothing in his expression to attract or repel. No one looking at him could have said offhand, “I think that is a pleasant fellow,” or “I am sure that man could make himself confoundedly disagreeable.”

  His face revealed as little as the covers of a book. It might contain interesting matter, or there might be nothing underneath save the merest commonplace. So far as it conveyed an idea at all, it was that of indolence. Every movement of his body suggested laziness; but it would have been extremely hard to say how far that laziness went. Mental energy and physical inactivity walk oftener hand in hand than the world suspects, and mental energy can on occasion make an indolent man active, while more brute strength can never confer intellect on one who lacks brains.

  In every respect the younger stranger was the opposite of his companion. Fair, blue-eyed, light-haired, with soft moustache and tenderly cared-for whiskers, he looked exactly what he was—a very shallow, kindly, good fellow, who did not trouble himself with searching into the depths of things, who took the world as it was, who did not go out to meet trouble, who loved his species, women included, in an honest way; who liked amusement, athletic sports of all sorts—dancing, riding, rowing, shooting; who had not one regret, save that hours in a Government office were so confoundedly long, “eating the best part out of a day, by Jove;” no cause for discontent save that he had very little money, and into whose mind it had on the afternoon in question been forcibly borne that his friend was a trifle heavy—“carries too many guns,” he considered—and not exactly the man to enjoy a modest dinner at Lower Halliford.

  For which cause, perhaps, he felt rather relieved when his friend refused to partake of any meal.

  “I wish you could have stayed,” said the younger, with the earnest and not quite insincere hospitality people always assume when they feel a departing guest is not to be overpersuaded to stay.

  “So do I,” replied the other. “I should have liked to stop with you, and I should have liked to stay here. There is a sleepy dullness about the place which exactly suits my present mood, but I must get back to town. I promised Travers to look in at his chambers this evening, and tomorrow as I told you, I am due in Norfolk.”

  “What will you do, then, till train-time? There is nothing up from here till nearly seven. Come on the river for an hour with me.”

  “Thank you, no. I think I will walk over to Staines.”

  “Staines! Why Staines in heaven’s name?”

  “Because I am in the humour for a walk—a long, lonely walk; because a demon has taken possession of me I wish to exorcise; because there are plenty of trains from Staines; because l am weary of the Thames Valley line, and any other reason you like. I can give you none better than I have done.”

  “At least let me row you part of the way.”

  “Again thank you, no. The eccentricities of the Thames are not new to me. With the best intentions, you would land me at Laleham when I should be on my (rail) way to London. My dear Dick, step into that boat your soul has been hankering after for the past half-hour, and leave me to return to town according to my own fancy.”

  “I don’t half like this,” said genial Dick. “Ah! Here comes a pretty girl—look.”

  Thus entreated, the elder man turned his head and saw a young girl, accompanied by a young man, coming along the road, whic
h leads from Walton Lane to Shepperton.

  She was very pretty, of the sparkling order of beauty, with dark eyes, rather heavy eye-brows, dark thick hair, a ravishing fringe, a delicious hat, a coquettish dress, and shoes which by pretty gestures she seemed to be explaining to her companion were many—very many—sizes too large for her. Spite of her beauty, spite of her dress, spite of her shoes so much too large for her, it needed but a glance from one conversant with subtle social distinctions to tell that she was not quite her “young man’s” equal.

  For, in the parlance of Betsy Jane, as her “young man” she evidently regarded him, and as her young man he regarded himself. There could be no doubt about the matter. He was over head and ears in love with her; he was ready to quarrel—indeed, had quarrelled with father, mother, sister, brother on her account. He loved her unreasonably—he loved her miserably, distractedly; except at odd intervals, he was not in the least happy with her. She flouted, she tormented, she maddened him; but then, after having nearly driven him to the verge of distraction, she would repent sweetly, and make up for all previous shortcomings by a few brief minutes of tender affection. If quarrelling be really the renewal of love, theirs had been renewed once a day at all events, and frequently much oftener.

  Yes, she was a pretty girl, a bewitching girl, and arrant flirt, a scarcely well-behaved coquette; for as she passed the two friends she threw a glance at them, one arch, piquant, inviting glance, of which many would instantly have availed themselves, venturing the consequences certain to be dealt out by her companion, who, catching the look, drew closer to her side, not too well pleased, apparently. Spite of a little opposition, he drew her hand through his arm, and walked on with an air of possession infinitely amusing to onlookers, and plainly distasteful to his lady-love.

  “A clear case of spoons,” remarked the younger of the two visitors, looking after the pair.

  “Poor devil!” said the other compassionately.

  His friend laughed, and observed mockingly paraphrasing a very different speech,—

  “But for the grace of God, there goes Paul Murray.”

  “You may strike out the ‘but,’” replied the person so addressed, “for that is the very road Paul Murray is going, and soon.”

  “You are not serious!” asked the other doubtfully.

  “Am I not? I am though, though not with such a vixen as I dare swear that little baggage is. I told you I was due tomorrow in Norfolk. But see, they are turning back; let us go inside.”

  “All right,” agreed the other, following his companion into the hall. “This is a great surprise to me, Murray: I never imagined you were engaged.”

  “I am not engaged yet, though no doubt I shall soon be,” answered the reluctant lover. “My grandmother and the lady’s father have arranged the match. The lady does not object, I believe, and who am I, Savill, that I should refuse good looks, a good fortune, and a good temper?”

  “You do not speak as though you liked the proposed bride, nevertheless,” said Savill dubiously.

  “I do not dislike her, I only hate having to marry her. Can’t you understand that a man wants to pick a wife for himself—that the one girl he fancies seems worth ten thousand of a girl anybody else fancies? But I am so situated—Hang it, Dick! What are you staring at that dark-eyed witch for?”

  “Because it is so funny. She is making him take a boat at the steps, and he does not want to do it. Kindly observe his face.”

  “What is his face to me?” retorted Mr. Murray savagely.

  “Not much, I daresay, but it is a good deal to him. It is black as thunder, and hers is not much lighter. What a neat ankle, and how you like to show it, my dear. Well, there is no harm in a pretty ankle or a pretty foot either, and you have both. One would not wish one’s wife to have a hoof like an elephant. What sort of feet has your destined maiden, Paul?”

  “I never noticed.”

  “That looks deucedly bad,” said the younger man, shaking his head. “I know, however, she has a pure, sweet face,” observed Mr. Murray gloomily.

  “No one could truthfully make the same statement about our young friend’s little lady,” remarked Mr. Savill, still gazing at the girl, who was seating herself in the stern. “A termagant, I’ll be bound, if ever there was one. Wishes to go up stream, no doubt because he wishes to go down. Any caprice about the Norfolk ‘fair’?”

  “Not much, I think. She is good, Dick—too good for me,” replied the other, sauntering out again.

  “That is what we always say about the things we do not know. And so your grandmother has made up the match?”

  “Yes: there is money, and the old lady loves money. She says she wants to see me settled—talks of buying me an estate. She will have to do something, because I am sure the stern parent on the other side would not allow his daughter to marry on expectations. The one drop of comfort in the arrangement is that my aged relative will have to come down, and pretty smartly too. I would wed Hecate, to end this state of bondage, which I have not courage to flee from myself. Dick, how I envy you who have no dead person’s shoes to wait for!”

  “You need not envy me,” returned Dick, with conviction, “a poor unlucky devil chained to a desk. There is scarce a day of my life I fail to curse the service, the office, and Fate—”

  “Curse no more, then,” said the other; “rather go down on your knees and thank Heaven you have, without any merit of your own, a provision for life. I wish Fate or anybody had coached me into the Civil Service—apprenticed me to a trade—sent me to sea—made me enlist, instead of leaving me at the mercy of an old lady who knows neither justice nor reason—who won’t let me do anything for myself, and won’t do anything for me—who ought to have been dead long ago, but who never means to die—”

  “And who often gives you in one cheque as much as the whole of my annual salary,” added the other quietly.

  “But you know you will have your yearly salary as long as you live. I never know whether I shall have another cheque.”

  “It won’t do, my friend,” answered Dick Savill; “you feel quite certain you can get money when you want it.”

  “I feel certain of no such thing,” was the reply. “If I once offended her—” he stopped, and then went on: “And perhaps when I have spent twenty years in trying to humour such caprices as surely woman never had before, I shall wake one morning to find she has left every penny to the Asylum for Idiots.”

  “Why do you not pluck up courage, and strike out some line for yourself?”

  “Too late, Dick, too late. Ten years ago I might have tried to make a fortune for myself, but I can’t do that now. As I have waited so long, I must wait a little longer. At thirty a man can’t take pick in hand and try to clear a road to fortune.”

  “Then you had better marry the Norfolk young lady.”

  “I am steadily determined to do so. I am going down with the firm intention of asking her.”

  “And do you think she will have you?”

  “I think so. I feel sure she will. And she is a nice girl—the sort I would like for a wife, if she had not been thrust upon me.”

  Mr. Savill stood silent for a moment, with his hands plunged deep in his pockets.

  “Then when I see you next?” he said tentatively.

  “I shall be engaged, most likely—possibly even married,” finished the other, with as much hurry as his manner was capable of. “And now jump into your boat, and I will go on my way to—Staines—”

  “I wish you would change your mind, and have some dinner.”

  “I can’t; it is impossible. You see I have so many things to do and to think of. Good-bye, Dick. Don’t upset yourself—go down stream, and don’t get into mischief with those dark eyes you admired so much just now.”

  “Make your mind easy about that,” returned the other, colouring, howe
ver, a little as he spoke. “Good-bye, Murray. I wish you well through the campaign.” And so, after a hearty hand-shake, they parted, one to walk away from Halliford, past Shepperton Church, and across Shepperton Range, and the other, of course, to row up stream, through Shepperton Lock, and on past Dockett Point.

  In the grey of the summer’s dawn, Mr. Murray awoke next morning from a terrible dream. He had kept his appointment with Mr. Travers and a select party, played heavily, drank deeply, and reached home between one and two, not much the better for his trip to Lower Halliford, his walk, and his carouse.

  Champagne, followed by neat brandy, is not perhaps the best thing to insure a quiet night’s rest; but Mr. Murray had often enjoyed sound repose after similar libations; and it was, therefore, all the more unpleasant that in the grey dawn he should wake suddenly from a dream, in which he thought some one was trying to crush his head with a heavy weight.

  Even when he had struggled from sleep, it seemed to him that a wet dead hand lay across his eyes, and pressed them so hard he could not move the lids. Under the weight he lay powerless, while a damp, ice-cold hand felt burning into his brain, if such a contradictory expression may be permitted.

  The perspiration was pouring from him; he felt the drops falling on his throat, and trickling down his neck; he might have been lying in a bath, instead of on his own bed, and it was with a cry of horror he at last flung the hand aside, and, sitting up, looked around the room, into which the twilight of morning was mysteriously stealing.

  Then, trembling in every limb, he lay down again, and fell into another sleep, from which he did not awake till aroused by broad daylight and his valet.

  “You told me to call you in good time, sir,” said the man.