All Men are Ghosts Part 22

"We'll go upstairs," said our Host.

"About ten years ago," the Professor began, "I was travelling one night in a third-cla.s.s carriage to a town on the North-east Coast. My two companions in the compartment were evidently mother and daughter. The mother had a singularly beautiful and intelligent face; and the daughter, who was about twelve years old, resembled her. They were dressed in good taste, without rings or finery, and, so far as I am able to judge such things, without expense.

"Prior to the departure of the train from the London terminus, I had noticed the two walking up and down the platform and looking into the carriages, apparently endeavouring to find a compartment to themselves.

They did not succeed, and finally entered the compartment where I was.

Whether I ought to have been flattered by this, or the reverse, I knew not.

"I could see they wanted to be alone, and I felt a brief impulse to leave them to themselves and go elsewhere. It would have been a chivalrous act; but whether from indolence, or curiosity, or some other feeling, I let the impulse die, and remained where I was.

"The girl began immediately to arrange cushions for her mother in the corner of the carriage; and from the solicitude she showed, I gathered that the mother, though to all appearance in health, was either ill or convalescent. By the time I had come to this conclusion the train was already in motion, or I verily believe I should have obeyed my first impulse and left the carriage. I am glad, however, that I did not.

"When all had been arranged I noticed that the two had settled themselves in the att.i.tude of lovers, their hands clasped, the girl resting her head on the mother's shoulder and gazing into her face from time to time with a look of infinite tenderness. And it was some relief to me to observe that, lover-like, they seemed indifferent to my presence.

"I was reading a book, though I confess that my eyes and mind would constantly wander to the other side of the carriage. I am not a sentimental person, and scenes of sentiment are particularly objectionable to my temper of mind; but for once in my life I was overawed by the consciousness that I was in the presence of deep and genuine emotion. Finally, I gave up the effort to read; a strange mental atmosphere seemed to surround me; I fell into a reverie, and I remember waking suddenly from a kind of dream, or incoherent meditation on the pathos and tragedy of human life.

"I looked at my companions and I saw that both were weeping. The girl was in the same position as before. The mother had turned her face away, and was looking out into the blackness of the night. Tear after tear rolled down her cheek.

"They must have become conscious that I was observing them, though G.o.d knows I had little will to do so. I took up my book and pretended to read; and I knew that an effort was being made, that tears were being checked, that some climbing sorrow was being held down. Presently the lady said, speaking in a steady voice--

"'Do you know the name of the station we have just pa.s.sed?'

"I told her the name of the station; asked if I should raise the window; spoke to the girl; offered an ill.u.s.trated paper, and so on through the usual preliminaries of a traveller's talk. The answers I received were such as one expects from people of charming manners. But nothing followed, for a time, and I again took up my book.

"The book I was reading, or pretending to read, was a volume of the Ingersoll Lectures, bearing on the back the t.i.tle _Human Immortality_.

Once or twice I noticed the eyes of the woman resting on this, but I was greatly surprised when, in one of the pauses when I laid down the book, she said--

"'Would you mind my asking you a question?'

"'Certainly not.'

"'Do you believe in the Immortality of the Soul?'

"As a teacher of philosophy I am accustomed to leading questions at all sorts of inopportune moments, but never in my life was I so completely taken aback. However, I collected my thoughts as best I could, and, though the subject is one on which I never like to speak without prolonged preparation, I briefly told her my opinions on that great problem, as you may find them expressed in my published works. Possibly I spoke with some fervour; the more likely, because I spoke without preparation. She listened with great attention; and as for the young girl, her face was lit up with a look of intelligent eagerness which, had I seen it for one moment in my own cla.s.s-room, would have rewarded me for the labour of a long course of lectures.

"I had still much to say when the train drew up at the platform of St Beeds.

"'I'm sorry not to hear more,' said the lady, 'but this is our destination.'

"'And there's Dad!' cried the girl.

"A man in working clothes stood at the carriage-door.

"'Good-bye,' said the woman, warmly shaking me by the hand; 'you have been most kind to me.'

"'Good-bye,' said the daughter; 'you're a dear old dear!'

"And with that she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me fervently three or four times. I was greatly surprised, but not altogether displeased.

"They were evidently a most affectionate family. As the train moved off the three stood arm in arm before the carriage-door.

"'Got two sweethearts to-night, sir,' said the man.

"'And without jealousy,' said I. 'I congratulate you on each of them.'

"'I hope you'll forgive my daughter,' he said; 'she's an impulsive little baggage.'

"'She may repeat the offence the next time we meet,' I replied; and we all laughed.

"It was a joyful ending to what had been, in some respects, a painful experience."

"I don't see the point of your story, Professor; and I am at a loss to imagine what it has to do with my introduction." This from the Pessimist.

"The story has only begun," said the Professor, who was sipping his tea.

"Those kisses at the end were jolly hard lines on a man who dislikes sentiment," said the Son of the House.

"I didn't find them so," answered the Professor. "But remember, they were only the kisses of a child."

"The best sort," growled the Pessimist.

"True," said our Hostess. "The judgments of children are the judgments of G.o.d. But let the Professor go on."

"It was seven or eight months later," the Professor resumed, "when on opening the _Times_ one morning my attention was caught by an item of news relating to the town at which my two companions had alighted from the train. The news itself was of no importance, but the name of the town printed at the head of the paragraph strangely arrested me, and served to recall with singular vividness the incident of my former journey. I found myself repeating, in order and minute detail, everything that had happened in the carriage, some of the particulars of which I had forgotten till that moment. The end of it was that I became possessed with a strong desire to visit St Beeds, though I had no connections whatever with the place, and had never stayed there in my life. I knew, of course, that it was an interesting old town, with a famous Cathedral, and I remember persuading myself at the time, and indeed telling my wife, that I ought to visit that Cathedral without further delay. As the day wore on the impulse grew stronger, and eventually overpowered me. I travelled down to St Beeds that night, and put up at one of the princ.i.p.al hotels.

"The next morning was spent in the usual manner of sight-seers in an ancient town. Reserving the Cathedral for the afternoon, I visited the old wall and the dismantled quays, and wandered among the narrow streets, reading history, as my habit is, from the monuments with which the place abounded. About noon I found my way to the s.p.a.cious market-place, and began inspecting the beautiful front of the old Town Hall.

"I suddenly became aware of a man on the opposite pavement, who was watching me with some interest. What drew my attention to him was a large ma.s.s of white roses which he was carrying in a basket; for, as you know, I have been for many years an enthusiastic rose-grower, and there is nothing which attracts the mind so rapidly as any circ.u.mstance connected with one's hobby. The man was dressed in good clothes; and it was this that prevented me at first from recognising him as the person who had met my two companions at the station seven months before.

"Seeing that I had observed him, he crossed the street.

"'You remember me?' he said. 'Well, I have been looking for you all over the town. Had I known your name I should have asked at the hotels.'

"'But how did you know I had arrived?' I asked.

"'My wife told me you were here.'

"'She must have seen me, then,' I said.

"'Yes, she saw you. She saw you arrive last night at the station. And she saw you later, standing under an electric lamp, in front of the Cathedral.'

"This struck me as odd, for I had purposely waited till near midnight before going to the Cathedral, that I might see the exterior in the light of the moon; and I had been confident that not a soul was about.

"'How is she?' I asked, for I remembered my previous impression that she was an invalid.