the manor-house was very old and very solid. it held nothing of any high value, perhaps, but it held nothing cheap or weak. it was complete before the days of machine-made furniture and of so-called ?sthetic art, and those that had ruled over it since had been withheld by innate taste or a happy lack of means from adding to it either within or without. thus it had remained at a standstill through an extraordinary lapse of years, and all was now beautifully, frankly old; it stood in its simplicity, perfect in antique shabbiness. only without, the creepers flung ever new shoots about the sturdy strength of the stones. only within, it was haunted by a memory, by a presence; and this presence was young even to boyhood. and the young ghost harmonised with the aged house, seemed to belong to it as surely as—year by year—the spirit of spring to the ancient garden.
rosamond, whose life purpose had so long been to avoid the haunting of the past, awoke in the dawn of her first day at saltwoods to find herself in a very habitation of memories; nay, more, to feel, in some inexplicable manner, that the dead were more alive in this house than the quick, and yet—strange mystery of the heart—that she was glad of it. she watched the dawn wax as on one memorable morning in her far-off indian palace; not here on beetle's-wing green and eastern glow of carmine and purple, but upon brown of wainscot oak and dim rosebud of faded chintz. and, as the lights spread between the gaps of the shutters, there grew upon her from the panelled wall a strong young face with bold wide-open eyes—eyes very young, set under brows already thoughtful. a very english face, despite the olive of the cheek, the darkness of the hair, close-cut, that still had a crisp wave under the cock of the sandhurst cap.
"i felt i was not alone," said rosamond, half in dream, supporting herself on her elbow to look more nearly, "and so it was you!"
but the eyes were gazing past her, out on life, full of eagerness. and the close lips were set with a noble determination. what great things this boy soldier was going to make of his future!
rosamond let herself fall back upon her pillows, something like a sob in her throat. then, opposite to her, between the windows, she met full the glance of the same eyes that had but now avoided hers. they were child's eyes this time, gazing, full of soft wonder, out of a serious child's face, framed by an aureole of copper curls—the wonderful tint that is destined to turn to densest black.
rosamond stretched at ease, resting her eyes on those of the lovely child's—childless woman, who had never desired children, began to picture to herself how proud a mother would be of such a little son as this. and then her mind wandered to the mother, who, lying where she now lay, had feasted her waking heart and gratified her maternal pride, so many mornings with this vision.
then something began to stir in her that had not yet stirred before; an inchoate desire, an ache, a jealousy; yes, a jealousy of the dead woman who had borne such a child! she turned restlessly from the sight of the two pictures, flung herself to the far side of the bed, and sent her glance and thought determinedly wandering into the recess of an alcove where night still kept the growing light at bay.
a drowsiness fell over her mind again; with vague interest she found herself speculating what might the different objects be that the darkness still enwrapt partly from her sight.
here was a high chair of unusual shape—a prie-dieu? here was a gothic bracket, jutting from the wall above; thereon something glimmered palely forth; a statuette perchance, or alabaster vase of special slender art? nay, not so, for now she could distinguish the wide-stretched arms, the pendant form; it was the carven ivory of a crucifix. the late mrs. english's shrine, her altar? rosamond's interest quickened—she had heard of this unknown relative's goodness from the son's lips, but had never heard this goodness specified as regarded religion. his mother, then, had been high church ... roman catholic perhaps? rosamond was almost amused, with the detached amusement of one to whom religion means little personal.
under this impulse of curiosity she rose from her bed, pulled the window shutters aside to let in the day, and then went back to examine the alcove.
it held a shrine indeed, an altar to inevitable sacrifice, to the most sacred relics. beneath the pallid symbol, figure of the great renunciation, was placed a closed frame. and all around and about, in ordered array, the records of a boy's life: medals for prowess in different sports; a cup or two; a framed certificate of merit; in front of the frame, a case bulging with letters. upon each side of the altar hung shelves filled with books, some in the handsome livery of school prizes, some in the battered covers of the much-perused playroom favourite.
rosamond stood and looked. a moment or two she hesitated, then she began to tremble. there was within her the old desire of flight, the old sick longing to hide away, to bury, to ignore. but something stronger than herself held her. the day was past when she could deny herself to sorrow. the cup was at her lips and she knew that she must drink.
she would open that letter-case, she would gaze at the face in the closed frame; her coward heart was to be spared no longer.
she took up a volume. as it fell apart she saw the full-page book-plate engraved with the arms of winchester school and the fine copperplate inscription:
anno s?culari 1884
pr?mium in re mathematica
meritus et consecutus est henricus english.
(h?c olim meminisse juvabit).
the life of christopher columbus.... it was bound in crimson calf, and the gilt edges of its unopened pages clung crisply together.
she replaced it on the shelf and, with the same dreary mechanical determination, drew forth another. the "boy's own book"; a veteran, this; from too much loving usage, dogs'-eared, scored with small grimy finger-prints; its quaint woodcuts highly coloured here and there by a very juvenile artist.
"to henry english, on his ninth birthday, from his affectionate mother," ran the dedication, in a flowing italian hand. a gift that had made a little lad very happy, some twenty-five years ago.
and now rosamond's fingers hovered over the case of letters. well did her heart forebode whose missives lay treasured there. nevertheless, the sight of the handwriting struck her like a stab. not yet could she summon strength to read those close-marked pages. nay—were they even hers to read?
"darling old mammy—" this was not for her.
yet she turned the sheets over and over, lingering upon them. here was an envelope, endorsed in the same fair running hand as the book: "my beloved son's last letter." and here, on a card, was gummed a piece of white heather—memorial of god knows what pretty coquetry between the stalwart soldier and his "darling old mammy."
what things must people live through—people who dare to love!
rosamond had never loved. had she not done well? when love offered itself to her she had been too young to know its face. and now.... she dropped the case from her hands as if it burnt her, and stood, poised for flight; then, as if driven by an invincible force, seized upon the closed frame, almost with anger. fate held her, she could not escape.
harry english, looking at her! not the child, not the adolescent, but harry the man as she, his wife, had known him. even through the incomplete medium of a photograph, the strong black and white of his colouring, the bold line of his features, the concentrated purposeful expression, was reproduced with an effect of extraordinary vitality.
it seemed almost impossible to think of him as dead who could look at her so livingly from this little portrait.
* * * * *
old mary came in hurriedly.
"here i am, ma'am, here i am! i heard you call."
rosamond lifted dazed eyes. it took a perceptible space of time for the meaning of the words to filter to her brain. then she said with vague impatience:
"i did not call."
"but you wanted me, surely," said the woman. her glance wandered from the portrait in her new mistress's hand to the disorder on her old mistress's altar. "surely you wanted me, ma'am."
she took a warm wrapper from the bed and folded it round lady gerardine. she supported her to an armchair and placed a cushion to her feet. the ministering hands were warm and strong; and rosamond felt suddenly that in truth she was cold and weak, and that these attentions were grateful to her. she looked up again at the withered face, ethereally aged, at the blue eyes that seemed illumined from some source not of this world.
"perhaps i did want you," she said.
a thin, self-absorbed, silent woman was old mary. she regarded the world as with the gaze of the seer and moved within the small circlet of her duty wrapped in a mystic dignity of her own. some held her in contempt, as madwoman; others in awe, as having "seen things."
if the manor-house had the reputation of being haunted, it was doubtless due to mary's ways. no one from the neighbourhood would have consented to inhabit the ancient place with her. but fortunately mary had a stout niece of her own, who averred that ghosts were indigestion, and who slept the sleep of the scrubber and the just, no matter what else might walk.
the housekeeper's strange eyes softened as she looked down into the fair pale face of her young master's widow.
"my dear lady that's gone," she said, "must be glad to know that there is another heart keeping watch here."
her voice was soft and had a muffled sound as of one used to long silence. the tone seemed to harmonise with the singularity of the words. a small cold shiver ran over rosamond; she stared without replying.
"the day the news came," proceeded the housekeeper, dreamily, "she set up that altar to him. and there she found peace."
as old mary spoke, the habit of the trained servant was still strong upon her. she stooped to tuck in the fold of rosamond's dressing-gown closer round her feet.
"there she prayed," she went on, as she straightened herself again, "and then, he came back to her in peace."
rosamond closed the frame in her hands with a snap. she felt every impulse within her strike out against the mystic atmosphere that seemed to be closing round her.
"what are you saying?" she cried sharply. "in heaven's name what do you mean? who came back—the dead?"
old mary smiled again. she bent over the chair.
"why, ma'am," she said, as if speaking to a frightened child, "you don't need to be told, a good lady like you: to those that have faith, there is no death."
"no death!" echoed rosamond. "all life is death. everything is full of death."
there was a strangling bitterness in her throat that broke forth in a harsh laugh. the placid room seemed to swim round with her; when she came to herself the servant was holding her hands once more. her voice was falling into her ears with a measured soothing cadence:
"not here. there is no death in this house. don't you feel it, ma'am? it's not death that is here. why, her that is gone, she passed from me there, in that bed, as the night passes into day. that is not death. not an hour before the summons came for her she was wandering—as the doctor called it. i knew better. she saw him and was speaking to him. 'ah, harry,' she says, joyful, 'i knew you were not dead.' and then she turns to me. 'he is not dead, mary,' she says, 'it was all a mistake.'"
rosamond listened, her pale lips apart, her gaze dark and wondering.
"why, ma'am," went on old mary. "haven't you felt it yourself, this night; didn't you feel his sweet company the minute you set foot in the house? i think it was my lady's great love that brought him back here. and now that she is gone, he's still here. and it's strange, he's here more than she is. she does not come as he does."
her eyes became fixed on far-off things. still clasping rosamond's hand she seemed to transmit a glow, a warmth that reached to the heart. rosamond's sick and cowering soul felt at rest as upon a strength greater than her own.
his company! was that not what she had felt? was it not that to which she had awakened? ay, the old woman was right: it was sweet!
"there is no death," asserted old mary, once again, "no death unless we make it. it's our fault if our dead do not live for us; it's our earthly bodies that won't acknowledge the spirit. it's we who make our dead dead, who bury them, who make corpses of them and coffins for them, to hide them away in the cold earth."
rosamond wrenched her hands from the wrinkled grasp. she sprang to her feet, seized by a sudden anguish that was actual physical pain.
"go, go!" she cried wildly. she was caught up as in a whirlwind of unimaginable terror. what had she done? had she laid harry english in the grave? was he dead to her through her own deed, he that had lived on for his mother? had she in her cowardice hammered him into his coffin, and would he always be a corpse to her because she had made him dead?
through the inarticulate voices of her torment, she heard the door close and felt she was alone. and then she found herself upon her knees before the shrine, the photograph case still clenched between her fingers, praying blindly, madly, inarticulately—to what? she knew not. to the white christ on the cross, who had risen from the dead? or to the strong soldier whose image she held, and for whom there could be no rising again?
when the storm passed at length she was broken, chilled, and unconsoled. old mary's words came back to her: "she prayed there and she got peace." well, the mother may have found peace in prayer. but for the wife, there was none! "he came back in peace"; he had not come back to her—to rosamond, his wife!
a wave of revolt broke over her; against the god who had invented death for his creatures, or against stupid blind fate disposing of those human lives that have no god.
she rose slowly to her feet; her glance swept the homely room—the bed where the mother had died—to end once again upon the altar. what right had she, the old woman, to lay claim to rosamond english's husband? the babe, the boy, may have been hers, let her have him! but the man—the man belonged to the wife. "and ye shall leave father and mother and cleave to one." "there is authority for it in your very scriptures," cried rosamond, aloud. and, with fingers trembling with passionate eagerness she set to work to rob the frame of its treasure, the shrine of its chief relic.
soon it lay in her hand, the clipped photograph. she carried it away, from the altar to the window, and stood a long, long while, devouring it with her gaze. so had he looked. no man had ever bolder, truer eyes. ah, and no woman but rosamond had seen them flame into passion—passion that yet then had had no meaning for her who saw! and those lips, folded into sternness, had any one known them to break into lines of tenderness as they were used for her? none at least, not even his mother, had heard them whisper what they had whispered to the wife—to the wife whose ears had been deaf, then, as a child's, because of her uncomprehending heart!
what was it old mary had said? "it is we who make our dead dead." and had he lived on in this house because of the love of a withered heart, and should he not live again for her, his wife who was young and strong—and still virgin to love?
what she had buried she would dig out of the earth again, were it with bleeding fingers. that voice should speak once more, were each accent to stab her with its poignancy of loss. he should live, were it to be her death.
with dilated nostrils, panting for breath, her hair floating behind her, beautiful in her thrall of passion like some valkyrie rising over blood and death, she rushed to the door and summoned jani with ringing call. there is an exaltation of spirit to which pain is highest joy, and rosamond ran now to her sorrow as the mystic to his cross.
"jani!" she called. "bring me captain english's box."
