The Ghost by Arnold Bennett (7 ebook reader .TXT) 📕

was almost imperious, and I had a curious fear of offending her. Nevertheless I reminded myself that I was a doctor, and my concern for her urged me to be persistent.

"But surely you have been ill?" I said.

She tapped her foot. It was the first symptom of nervous impatience that I had observed in her.

"Not in body," she replied curtly. "Tell me all about the funeral."

And I gave her an account of the impressive incidents of the interment--the stately procession, the grandiose ritual, the symbols of public grief. She displayed a strange, morbid curiosity as to it all.

And then suddenly she rose up from her chair, and I rose also, and she demanded, as it were pushed by some secret force to the limit of her endurance:

"You loved him, didn't you, Mr. Foster?"

It was not an English phrase; no Englishwoman would have used it.

"I was tremendously fond of him," I answered. "I should never have thought that I could have grown so fond of any one in such a short time. He wasn't merely fine as an artist; he was so fine as a man."

She nodded.

"You understood him? You knew all about him? He talked to you openly, didn't he?"

"Yes," I said. "He used to tell me all kinds of things."

"Then explain to me," she cried out, and I saw that tears brimmed in her eyes, "why did he die when I came?"

"It was a coincidence," I said lamely.

Seizing my hands, she actually fell on her knees before me, flashing into my eyes all the loveliness of her pallid, upturned face.

"It was not a coincidence!" she passionately sobbed. "Why can't you be frank with me, and tell me how it is that I have killed him? He said long ago--do you not remember?--that I was fatal to him. He was getting better--you yourself said so--till I came, and then he died."

What could I reply? The girl was uttering the thoughts which had haunted me for days.

I tried to smile a reassurance, and raising her as gently as I could, I led her back to her chair. It was on my part a feeble performance.

"You are suffering from a nervous crisis," I said, "and I must prescribe for you. My first prescription is that we do not talk about Alresca's death."

I endeavored to be perfectly matter-of-fact in tone, and gradually she grew calmer.

"I have not slept since that night," she murmured wearily. "Then you will not tell me?"

"What have I to tell you, except that you are ill? Stop a moment. I have an item of news, after all. Poor Alresca has made me his heir."

"That was like his kind heart."

"Yes, indeed. But I can't imagine why he did it!"

"It was just gratitude," said she.

"A rare kind of gratitude," I replied.

"Is no reason given in the will?"

"Not a word."

I remembered the packet which I had just received from the lawyer, and I mentioned it to her.

"Open it now," she said. "I am interested--if you do not think me too inquisitive."

I tore the envelope. It contained another envelope, sealed, and a letter. I scanned the letter.

"It is nothing," I said with false casualness, and was returning it to my pocket. The worst of me is that I have no histrionic instinct; I cannot act a part.

"Wait!" she cried sharply, and I hesitated before the appeal in her tragic voice. "You cannot deceive me, Mr. Foster. It is something. I entreat you to read to me that letter. Does it not occur to you that I have the right to demand this from you? Why should he beat about the bush? You know, and I know that you know, that there is a mystery in this dreadful death. Be frank with me, my friend. I have suffered much these last days."

We looked at each other silently, I with the letter in my hand. Why, indeed, should I treat her as a child, this woman with the compelling eyes, the firm, commanding forehead? Why should I pursue the silly game of pretence?

"I will read it," I said. "There is, certainly, a mystery in connection with Alresca's death, and we may be on the eve of solving it."

The letter was dated concurrently with Alresca's will--that is to say, a few days before our arrival in Bruges--and it ran thus:

"My dear Friend:--It seems to me that I am to die, and from
a strange cause--for I believe I have guessed the cause. The
nature of my guess and all the circumstances I have written
out at length, and the document is in the sealed packet
which accompanies this. My reason for making such a record
is a peculiar one. I should desire that no eye might ever
read that document. But I have an idea that some time or
other the record may be of use to you--possibly soon. You,
Carl, may be the heir of more than my goods. If matters
should so fall out, then break the seal, and read what I
have written. If not, I beg of you, after five years have
elapsed, to destroy the packet unread. I do not care to be
more precise.

Always yours,
"Alresca."

"That is all?" asked Rosa, when I had finished reading it.

I passed her the letter to read for herself. Her hand shook as she returned it to me.

And we both blushed. We were both confused, and each avoided the glance of the other. The silence between us was difficult to bear. I broke it.

"The question is, What am I to do? Alresca is dead. Shall I respect his wish, or shall I open the packet now? If he could have foreseen your anxiety, he probably would not have made these conditions. Besides, who can say that the circumstances he hints at have not already arisen? Who can say"--I uttered the words with an emphasis the daring of which astounded even myself--"that I am not already the heir of more than Alresca's goods?"

I imagined, after achieving this piece of audacity, that I was perfectly calm, but within me there must have raged such a tumult of love and dark foreboding that in reality I could scarcely have known what I was about.

Rosa's eyes fixed themselves upon me, but I sustained that gaze. She stretched forth a hand as if to take the packet.

"You shall decide," I said. "Am I to open it, or am I not to open it?"

"Open it," she whispered. "He will forgive us."

I began to break the seal.

"No, no!" she screamed, standing up again with clenched hands. "I was wrong. Leave it, for God's sake! I could not bear to know the truth."

I, too, sprang up, electrified by that terrible outburst. Grasping tight the envelope, I walked to and fro in the room, stamping on the carpet, and wondering all the time (in one part of my brain) why I should be making such a noise with my feet. At length I faced her. She had not moved. She stood like a statue, her black tea-gown falling about her, and her two hands under her white drawn face.

"It shall be as you wish," I said. "I won't open it."

And I put the envelope back into my pocket.

We both sat down.

"Let us have some tea, eh?" said Rosa. She had resumed her self-control more quickly than I could. I was unable to answer her matter-of-fact remark. She rang the bell, and the maid entered with tea. The girl's features struck me; they showed both wit and cunning.

"What splendid tea!" I said, when the refection was in progress. We had both found it convenient to shelter our feelings behind small talk. "I'd no idea you could get tea like this in Bruges."

"You can't," Rosa smiled. "I never travel without my own brand. It is one of Yvette's special cares not to forget it."

"Your maid?"

"Yes."

"She seems not quite the ordinary maid," I ventured.

"Yvette? No! I should think not. She has served half the sopranos in Europe--she won't go to contraltos. I possess her because I outbid all rivals for her services. As a hairdresser she is unequalled. And it's so much nicer not being forced to call in a coiffeur in every town! It was she who invented my 'Elsa' coiffure. Perhaps you remember it?"

"Perfectly. By the way, when do you recommence your engagements?"

She smiled nervously. "I--I haven't decided."

Nothing with any particle of significance passed during the remainder of our interview. Telling her that I was leaving for England the next day, I bade good-by to Rosa. She did not express the hope of seeing me again, and for some obscure reason, buried in the mysteries of love's psychology, I dared not express the hope to her. And so we parted, with a thousand things unsaid, on a note of ineffectuality, of suspense, of vague indefiniteness.

And the next morning I received from her this brief missive, which threw me into a wild condition of joyous expectancy: "If you could meet me in the Church of St. Gilles at eleven o'clock this morning, I should like to have your advice upon a certain matter.--Rosa."

Seventy-seven years elapsed before eleven o'clock.

St. Gilles is a large church in a small deserted square at the back of the town. I waited for Rosa in the western porch, and at five minutes past the hour she arrived, looking better in health, at once more composed and vivacious. We sat down in a corner at the far end of one of the aisles. Except ourselves and a couple of cleaners, there seemed to be no one in the church.

"You asked me yesterday about my engagements," she began.

"Yes," I said, "and I had a reason. As a doctor, I will take leave to tell you that it is advisable for you to throw yourself into your work as soon as possible, and as completely as possible." And I remembered the similar advice which, out of the plenitude of my youthful wisdom, I had offered to Alresca only a few days before.

"The fact is that I have signed a contract to sing 'Carmen' at the Paris Opera Comique in a fortnight's time. I have never sung the role there before, and I am, or rather I was, very anxious to do so. This morning I had a telegram from the manager urging me to go to Paris without delay for the rehearsals."

"And are you going?"

"That is the question. I may tell you that one of my objects in calling on poor Alresca was to consult him about the point. The truth is, I am threatened with trouble if I appear at the Opera Comique, particularly in 'Carmen.' The whole matter is paltry beyond words, but really I am a little afraid."

"May I hear the story?"

"You know Carlotta Deschamps, who always takes Carmen at the Comique?"

"I've heard her sing."

"By the way, that is her half-sister, Marie Deschamps, who sings in your cousin's operas at the London Diana."

"I have made the acquaintance of Marie--a harmless little thing!"