Tom Ossington's Ghost Part 27

"And he'd laugh--and, though it was the gentle laugh of his which I had known so well of old, there was something about it which seemed to mock me, and cut me like a whip and make me quiver. He'd take my arm again, and lead me from the house and back to the gaol, and I'd wake to find myself lying on the bare board, alone in the dark cell, crying like a child.

"In the morning, perhaps at dinner-time, he'd come into the cell in the usual way, and ask me:

"'Charlie, do you remember last night?' 'Yes, Tom,' I'd reply, 'I do.'

And then he'd go on:

"'Mind you don't forget. It's most important, Charlie, that you shouldn't forget. I'll tell you what you must remember. Take this and write it down.'

"And he'd give me something, my Bible, or my prayer-book, or even the card of rules which was hung against the wall, and a piece of pencil--though where he got that from I never knew, and he'd say, 'Now write what I dictate.'

"And I did, just as you saw it on the paper which I left behind; the first line, 'Tom Ossington's Ghost'--he always made me write that; it was the only allusion he ever made to there being anything unusual about his presence there; and the second line, 'right--straight across--three--four--up.' When I'd written it he'd say:

"'Charlie, mind you take the greatest care of that; don't let it go out of your possession for a moment. It's the guide to that fortune of yours.'

"Then he'd go. And the moment he had gone the warder would come bursting in, and catch me with the pencil, and the Bible, or whatever it was, in my hand, with the writing on the flyleaf. And he'd begin to gird at me.

"'So you're at it again, are you? And you've got a pencil, have you?

and been writing in your Bible? You're a pretty sort, upon my word you are. I tell you what it is, my lad, you'll get yourself into serious trouble before you've done.'

"And he'd take the pencil away with him, and the Bible, and the writing; and I'd be reported again, and punished with the utmost severity which was within the compa.s.s of the Governor's power."

Ballingall stopped again. A convulsive fit of trembling seemed to go all over him.

"Towards the end, the vision took another form. Tom would bring me to the house--only I think, not to this room, but to another--and he would do something--he would do something. I saw quite clearly what it was he did, and understood it well, but, so soon as I was out of the house, the recollection of what he had done became blurred as by a mist. I could not remember at all. I'd wake in my cell in an agony to think that all that Tom had shown me should have slipped my memory. In the morning he'd come and ask:

"'Charlie, you remember what we did last night?'

"'No, Tom, I don't. I've tried to think, but I can't. It's all forgotten.'

"He'd laugh--his laugh seeming to mock me more than ever.

"'Never mind, Charlie, I'll tell you all about it. You write down what I say.'

"And I wrote it down--the last line which was on the sc.r.a.p of paper.

Though I never knew what it meant--never! never! I've searched my brains many times to think; and been punished for writing it again and again.

"At last I was released. At last--my G.o.d, at last!"

His whole frame quivered. He drew himself upright, as if endeavouring to bear himself as became a man.

"I was treated, when going out, according to my deserts. I had earned no favour, and I received none. The Governor reprimanded me, by way of a G.o.d-speed; told me that my conduct, while in prison, had been very bad, and warned me that it would go ill with me if I returned. I went out in the rags in which I had entered, without a penny in my pocket--hungry at the moment of release, I have not tasted bite or sup from the time that I came out of gaol until tonight.

"In the afternoon I came round to Clover Cottage. The first thing I saw was him." He pointed to Graham. "He was afraid of me, and I was afraid of him--that is the truth. Otherwise I should have gone up to him and asked him for at least a shilling, because directly I caught sight of him I knew what he was after, and that I was going to be tricked and robbed again. While I was trying to summon up courage enough to beg of the man whom I knew had played me false, I saw some one else, and I ran away.

"I meant to get a bed in the casual ward of the Wandsworth Workhouse.

But Tom came to me as I was going there, and told me not to be so silly, but to come and get the fortune which was waiting for me at Clover Cottage. So I came. But I never got the fortune.

"And ever since I've been growing hungrier and hungrier, until I've grown beside myself with hunger--because Tom stopped me when I was going to the workhouse again last night, and bade me not to be so silly, though I don't know why I should have been silly in seeking for shelter and for food. And not a couple of hours ago he came to me while I was trying to find a hole on the Common in which to sleep, and packed me off once more to fetch away my fortune. But I haven't found it yet--not yet, not yet. Though"--he stretched out his arms on either side of him, and on his face there came a strange look of what seemed exultation--"I know it's near."

In the pause which followed, Ella raised her hand.

"Listen," she exclaimed; "who's that? There's some one at the garden gate."

There did seem some one at the garden gate, some one who opened and shut it with a bang. They heard footsteps on the tiles which led to the front door. While they waited, listening for a knock, another sound was heard.

"Hark," cried Ella. "There's some one fumbling with a latchkey at the door, trying to open it. Whoever can it be--at this hour of the night?

There must be some mistake."

"I think," said Madge, in her eyes there was a very odd expression, "it is possible there is no mistake--this time."

CHAPTER XVI

TWO VISITORS

Instinctively Ella drew closer to Jack, nestling at his side, as if for the sake of the near neighbourhood. Graham advanced towards Madge, placing himself just at her back, with a something protective in his air--as if he designed to place himself in front of her at an instant's warning. While Ballingall moved farther towards the window, with that in his bearing which curiously suggested the bristling hairs of the perturbed and anxious terrier. And all was still--with that sort of silence which is pregnant with meaning.

Without in the stillness, there could be plainly heard the fumbling of the latchkey, as if some one, with unaccustomed hands, was attempting to insert it in the door. Presently, the aperture being found, and the key turned, the door was opened. Some one entered the house; and, being in, the door was shut--with a bang which seemed to ring threateningly through the little house, causing the listeners to start. Some one moved, with uncertain steps, along the pa.s.sage. A grasp was laid from without on the handle of the sitting-room door.

They saw it turn. The door opened--while those within, with one accord, held their breath. And there entered as strange and pitiful a figure as was ever seen.

It was the "ghost's wife," the woman who had so troubled Madge, who had done her best that afternoon to keep her outside the house. She was the saddest sight in her parti-coloured rags, the dreadful relics of gaudy fripperies.

When they saw it was her, there was a simultaneous half-movement, which never became a whole movement, for it was stopped at its initiatory stage--stopped by something which was in the woman's face, and by the doubt if she was alone.

On her face--her poor, dirty, degraded, wrinkled face--which was so pitifully thin there was nothing left of it but skin and bone, there was a look which held them dumb. It was a look like nothing which any of them had ever seen before. It was not only that it was a look of death--for it was plain that the outstretched fingers of the angel already touched her brow; but it was the look of one who seemed to see beyond the grave--such a look as we might fancy on the face of the dead in that sudden shock of vision which, as some tell us, comes in the moment after death.

She was gazing straight in front of her, as if at some one who was there; and she said, in the queerest, shakiest voice:

"So, Tom, you've brought me home at last. I'm glad to be at home again. Oh, Tom!" This last with the strangest catching in her throat.

She looked about her with eyes that did not see. "It seems a long time since I was at home. I thought I never should come back--never! After all, there's nothing to a woman like her home--nothing, Tom." Again there was that strange catching. "You've brought me a long way--a long, long way. To think that you should see me in the Borough--after all these years--and should bring me right straight home, I wondered, if ever you did see me, if you'd bring me home--Tom. Only I wish--I wish you'd seen me before. I'm--a little tired now."

She put her hand up to her face with a gesture which suggested weariness which was more than mortal, and which only eternal rest could soothe--her hand in what was once a glove. When she removed it there was something in her eyes which showed that she had suddenly attained to at least a partial consciousness of her surroundings. She looked at the two girls and the two men grasped together on her right, with, at any rate, a perception that they were there.

"Who--who are these people? Whoever you are, I'm glad to see you; this is a great night with me. I've seen my husband for the first time for years and years, and he's brought me home with him again--after all that time. This is my husband--Tom."

She held out her hand, as if designating with it some one who was in front of her. They, on their part, were silent, spellbound, uncertain whether the person to whom and of whom she spoke with so much confidence might not be present, though by them unseen.

"It's a strange homecoming, is it not? And though I'm tired--oh, so tired!--I'm glad I'm home again. To this house he brought me when we were married--didn't you, Tom? In this house my baby was born--wasn't it, Tom? And here it died." There came a look into her face which, for the moment, made it beautiful; to such an extent is beauty a matter of expression. "My dear little baby! It seems only the other day when I held it in my arms. It's as if the house were full of ghosts--isn't it, Tom?"

Her eyes wandered round the room, as if in search of some one or of something, and presently they lighted upon Mr. Ballingall. As they did so, the whole expression of her countenance was changed; it a.s.sumed a look of unspeakable horror.

"Charles Ballingall!" she gasped. "Tom--Tom, what is he doing here?"

She stretched out her hands, seeming to seek for protection from the some one who was in front of her--repeating the other's name as if involuntarily, as though it were a thing accursed.