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Title: The PastAuthor: Ellen Glasgow* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 0606571h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: August 2006Date most recently updated: August 2006This eBook was produced by: Richard ScottProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
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I had no sooner entered the house than I knew something was wrong.Though I had never been in so splendid a place before--it was one ofthose big houses just off Fifth Avenue--I had a suspicion from thefirst that the magnificence covered a secret disturbance. I wasalways quick to receive impressions, and when the black iron doorsswung together behind me, I felt as if I were shut inside aprison.
When I gave my name and explained that I was the new secretary, Iwas delivered into the charge of an elderly lady's-maid, who lookedas if she had been crying. Without speaking a word, though she noddedkindly enough, she led me down the hall, and then up a flight ofstairs at the back of the house to a pleasant bedroom in the thirdstorey. There was a great deal of sunshine, and the walls, which werepainted a soft yellow, made the room very cheerful. It would be acomfortable place to sit in when I was not working, I thought, whilethe sad-faced maid stood watching me remove my wraps and hat.
"If you are not tired, Mrs. Vanderbridge would like to dictate afew letters," she said presently, and they were the first words shehad spoken.
"I am not a bit tired. Will you take me to her?" One of thereasons, I knew, which had decided Mrs. Vanderbridge to engage me wasthe remarkable similarity of our handwriting. We were bothSoutherners, and though she was now famous on two continents for herbeauty, I couldn't forget that she had got her early education at thelittle academy for young ladies in Fredericksburg. This was a bond ofsympathy in my thoughts at least, and, heaven knows, I needed toremember it while I followed the maid down the narrow stairs andalong the wide hall to the front of the house.
In looking back after a year, I can recall every detail of thatfirst meeting. Though it was barely four o'clock, the electric lampswere turned on in the hall, and I can still see the mellow light thatshone over the staircase and lay in pools on the old pink rugs, whichwere so soft and fine that I felt as if I were walking on flowers. Iremember the sound of music from a room somewhere on the first floor,and the scent of lilies and hyacinths that drifted from theconservatory. I remember it all, every note of music, every whiff offragrance; but most vividly I remember Mrs. Vanderbridge as shelooked round, when the door opened, from the wood fire into which shehad been gazing. Her eyes caught me first. They were so wonderfulthat for a moment I couldn't see anything else; then I took in slowlythe dark red of her hair, the clear pallor of her skin, and the long,flowing lines of her figure in a tea-gown of blue silk. There was awhite bearskin rug under her feet, and while she stood there beforethe wood fire, she looked as if she had absorbed the beauty andcolour of the house as a crystal vase absorbs the light. Only whenshe spoke to me, and I went nearer, did I detect the heavinessbeneath her eyes and the nervous quiver of her mouth, which drooped alittle at the corners. Tired and worn as she was, I never saw herafterwards--not even when she was dressed for the opera--look quiteso lovely, so much like an exquisite flower, as she did on that firstafternoon. When I knew her better, I discovered that she was achangeable beauty; there were days when all the colour seemed to goout of her, and she looked dull and haggard; but at her best no oneI've ever seen could compare with her.
She asked me a few questions, and though she was pleasant andkind, I knew that she scarcely listened to my responses. While I satdown at the desk and dipped my pen into the ink, she flung herself onthe couch before the fire with a movement which struck me ashopeless. I saw her feet tap the white fur rug, while she pluckednervously at the lace on the end of one of the gold-coloured sofapillows. For an instant the thought flashed through my mind that shehad been taking something--drug of some sort--and that she wassuffering now from the effects of it. Then she looked at me steadily,almost as if she were reading my thoughts, and I knew that I waswrong. Her large radiant eyes were as innocent as a child's.
She dictated a few notes-all declining invitations--and then,while I still waited pen in hand, she sat up on the couch with one ofher quick movements, and said in a low voice, "I am not dining outto-night, Miss Wrenn. I am not well enough."
"I am sorry for that." It was all I could think of to say, for Idid not understand why she should have told me.
"If you don't mind, I should like you to come down to dinner.There will be only Mr. Vanderbridge and myself."
"Of course I will come if you wish it." I couldn't very wellrefuse to do what she asked me, yet I told myself, while I answered,that if I had known she expected me to make one of the family, Ishould never, not even at twice the salary, have taken the place. Itdidn't take me a minute to go over my slender wardrobe in my mind andrealize that I had nothing to wear that would look well enough.
"I can see you don't like it," she added after a moment, almostwistfully, "but it won't be often. It is only when we are diningalone."
This, I thought, was even queerer than the request--orcommand--for I knew from her tone, just as plainly as if she had toldme in words, that she did not wish to dine alone with herhusband.
"I am ready to help you in any way--in any way that I can," Ireplied, and I was so deeply moved by her appeal that my voice brokein spite of my effort to control it. After my lonely life I dare sayI should have loved any one who really needed me, and from the firstmoment that I read the appeal in Mrs. Vanderbridge's face I felt thatI was willing to work my fingers to the bone for her. Nothing thatshe asked of me was too much when she asked it in that voice, withthat look.
"I am glad you are nice," she said, and for the first time shesmiled--a charming, girlish smile with a hint of archness. "We shallget on beautifully, I know, because I can talk to you. My lastsecretary was English, and I frightened her almost to death wheneverI tried to talk to her." Then her tone grew serious. "You won't minddining with us. Roger--Mr. Vanderbridge--is the most charming man inthe world."
"Is that his picture?"
"Yes, the one in the Florentine frame. The other is my brother. Doyou think we are alike?"
"Since you've told me, I notice a likeness." Already I had pickedup the Florentine frame from the desk, and was eagerly searching thefeatures of Mr. Vanderbridge. It was an arresting face, dark,thoughtful, strangely appealing, and picturesque--though this mayhave been due, of course, to the photographer. The more I looked atit, the more there grew upon me an uncanny feeling of familiarity;but not until the next day, while I was still trying to account forthe impression that I had seen the picture before, did there flashinto my mind the memory of an old portrait of a Florentine noblemanin a loan collection last winter. I can't remember the name of thepainter--I am not sure that it was known--but this photograph mighthave been taken from the painting. There was the same imaginativesadness in both faces, the same haunting beauty of feature, and onesurmised that there must be the same rich darkness of colouring. Theonly striking difference was that the man in the photograph lookedmuch older than the original of the portrait, and I remembered thatthe lady who had engaged me was the second wife of Mr. Vanderbridgeand some ten or fifteen years younger, I had heard, than herhusband.
"Have you ever seen a more wonderful face?" asked Mrs.Vanderbridge. "Doesn't he look as if he might have been painted byTitian?"
"Is he really so handsome as that?"
"He is a little older and sadder, that is all. When we weremarried it was exactly like him." For an instant she hesitated andthen broke out almost bitterly, "Isn't that a face any woman mightfall in love with, a face any woman-living or dead-would not bewilling to give up?"
Poor child, I could see that she was overwrought and neededsomeone to talk to, but it seemed queer to me that she should speakso frankly to a stranger. I wondered why any one so rich and sobeautiful should ever be unhappy--for I had been schooled by povertyto believe that money is the first essential of happiness--and yether unhappiness was as evident as her beauty, or the luxury thatenveloped her. At that instant I felt that I hated Mr. Vanderbridge,for whatever the secret tragedy of their marriage might be, Iinstinctively knew that the fault was not on the side of the wife.She was as sweet and winning as if she were still the reigning beautyin the academy for young ladies. I knew with a knowledge deeper thanany conviction that she was not to blame, and if she wasn't to blame,then who under heaven could be at fault except her husband?
In a few minutes a friend came in to tea, and I went upstairs tomy room, and unpacked the blue taffeta dress I had bought for mysister's wedding. I was still doubtfully regarding it when there wasa knock at my door, and the maid with the sad face came in to bringme a pot of tea. After she had placed the tray on the table, shestood nervously twisting a napkin in her hands while she waited forme to leave my unpacking and sit down in the easy chair she had drawnup under the lamp.
"How do you think Mrs. Vanderbridge is looking?" she askedabruptly in a voice that held a breathless note of suspense. Hernervousness and the queer look in her face made me stare at hersharply. This was a house, I was beginning to feel, where everybody,from the mistress down, wanted to question me. Even the silent maidhad found voice for interrogation.
"I think her the loveliest person I've ever seen," I answeredafter a moment's hesitation. There couldn't be any harm in tellingher how much I admired her mistress.
"Yes, she is lovely--everyone thinks so--and her nature is assweet as her face." She was becoming loquacious. "I have never had alady who was so sweet and kind. She hasn't always been rich, and thatmay be the reason she never seems to grow hard and selfish, thereason she spends so much of her life thinking of other people. It'sbeen six years now, ever since her marriage, that I've lived withher, and in all that time I've never had a cross word from her."
"One can see that. With everything she has she ought to be ashappy as the day is long."
"She ought to be." Her voice dropped, and I saw her glancesuspiciously at the door, which she had closed when she entered. "Sheought to be, but she isn't. I have never seen any one so unhappy asshe has been of late--ever since last summer. I suppose I oughtn't totalk about it, but I've kept it to myself so long that I feel as ifit was killing me. If she was my own sister, I couldn't be any fonderof her, and yet I have to see her suffer day after day, and not say aword--not even to her. She isn't the sort of lady you could speak toabout a thing like that."
She broke down, and dropping on the rug at my feet, hid her facein her hands. It was plain that she was suffering acutely, and whileI patted her shoulder, I thought what a wonderful mistress Mrs.Vanderbridge must be to have attached a servant to her sostrongly.
"You must remember that I am a stranger in the house, that Iscarcely know her, that I've never so much as laid eyes on herhusband," I said warningly, for I've always avoided, as far aspossible, the confidences of servants.
"But you look as if you could be trusted." The maid's nerves, aswell as the mistress's, were on edge, I could see. "And she needssomebody who can help her. She needs a real friend-somebody who willstand by her no matter what happens." Again, as in the roomdownstairs, there flashed through my mind the suspicion that I hadgot into a place where people took drugs or drink--or were all out oftheir minds. I had heard of such houses.
"How can I help her? She won't confide in me, and even if she did,what could I do for her?"
"You can stand by and watch. You can come between her and harm--ifyou see it." She had risen from the floor and stood wiping herreddened eyes on the napkin. "I don't know what it is, but I know itis there. I feel it even when I can't see it."
Yes, they were all out of their minds; there couldn't be any otherexplanation. The whole episode was incredible. It was the kind ofthing, I kept telling myself, that did not happen. Even in a booknobody could believe it.
"But her husband? He is the one who must protect her."
She gave me a blighting look. "He would if he could. He isn't toblame--you mustn't think that. He is one of the best men in theworld, but he can't help her. He can't help her because he doesn'tknow. He doesn't see it."
A bell rang somewhere, and catching up the tea-tray, she pausedjust long enough to throw me a pleading word, "Stand between her andharm, if you see it."
When she had gone I locked the door after her, and turned on allthe lights in the room. Was there really a tragic mystery in thehouse, or were they all mad, as I had first imagined? The feeling ofapprehension, of vague uneasiness, which had come to me when Ientered the iron doors, swept over me in a wave while I sat there inthe soft glow of the shaded electric light. Something was wrong.Somebody was making that lovely woman unhappy, and who, in the nameof reason, could this somebody be except her husband? Yet the maidhad spoken of him as "one of the best men in the world," and it wasimpossible to doubt the tearful sincerity of her voice. Well, theriddle was too much for me. I gave it up at last with asigh--dreading the hour that would call me downstairs to meet Mr.Vanderbridge. I felt in every nerve and fibre of my body that Ishould hate him the moment I looked at him.
But at eight o'clock, when I went reluctantly downstairs, I had asurprise. Nothing could have been kinder than the way Mr.Vanderbridge greeted me, and I could tell as soon as I met his eyesthat there wasn't anything vicious or violent in his nature. Hereminded me more than ever of the portrait in the loan collection,and though he was so much older than the Florentine nobleman, he hadthe same thoughtful look. Of course I am not an artist, but I havealways tried, in my way, to be a reader of personality; and it didn'ttake a particularly keen observer to discern the character andintellect in Mr. Vanderbridge's face. Even now I remember it as thenoblest face I have ever seen; and unless I had possessed at least ashade of penetration, I doubt if I should have detected themelancholy. For it was only when he was thinking deeply that thissadness seemed to spread like a veil over his features. At othertimes he was cheerful and even gay in his manner; and his rich darkeyes would light up now and then with irrepressible humour. From theway he looked at his wife I could tell that there was no lack of loveor tenderness on his side any more than there was on hers. It wasobvious that he was still as much in love with her as he had beenbefore his marriage, and my immediate perception of this onlydeepened the mystery that enveloped them. If the fault wasn't his andwasn't hers, then who was responsible for the shadow that hung overthe house?
For the shadow was there. I could feel it, vague and dark, whilewe talked about the war and the remote possibilities of peace in thespring. Mrs. Vanderbridge looked young and lovely in her gown ofwhite satin with pearls on her bosom, but her violet eyes were almostblack in the candlelight, and I had a curious feeling that thisblackness was the colour of thought. Something troubled her todespair, yet I was as positive as I could be of anything I had everbeen told that she had breathed no word of this anxiety or distressto her husband. Devoted as they were, a nameless dread, fear, orapprehension divided them. It was the thing I had felt from themoment I entered the house; the thing I had heard in the tearfulvoice of the maid. One could scarcely call it horror, because it wastoo vague, too impalpable, for so vivid a name; yet, after all thesequiet months, horror is the only word I can think of that in any wayexpresses the emotion which pervaded the house.
I had never seen so beautiful a dinner table, and I was gazingwith pleasure at the damask and glass and silver--there was a silverbasket of chrysanthemums, I remember, in the centre of thetable--when I noticed a nervous movement of Mrs. Vanderbridge's head,and saw her glance hastily towards the door and the staircase beyond.We had been talking animatedly, and as Mrs. Vanderbridge turned away,I had just made a remark to her husband, who appeared to have falleninto a sudden fit of abstraction, and was gazing thoughtfully overhis soup-plate at the white and yellow chrysanthemums. It occurred tome, while I watched him, that he was probably absorbed in somefinancial problem, and I regretted that I had been so careless as tospeak to him. To my surprise, however, he replied immediately in anatural tone, and I saw, or imagined that I saw, Mrs. Vanderbridgethrow me a glance of gratitude and relief. I can't remember what wewere talking about, but I recall perfectly that the conversation keptup pleasantly, without a break, until dinner was almost half over.The roast had been served, and I was in the act of helping myself topotatoes, when I became aware that Mr. Vanderbridge had again falleninto his reverie. This time he scarcely seemed to hear his wife'svoice when she spoke to him, and I watched the sadness cloud his facewhile he continued to stare straight ahead of him with a look thatwas almost yearning in its intensity.
Again I saw Mrs. Vanderbridge, with her nervous gesture, glance inthe direction of the hall, and to my amazement, as she did so, awoman's figure glided noiselessly over the old Persian rug at thedoor, and entered the dining-room. I was wondering why no one spoketo her, why she spoke to no one, when I saw her sink into a chair onthe other side of Mr. Vanderbridge and unfold her napkin. She wasquite young, younger even than Mrs. Vanderbridge, and though she wasnot really beautiful, she was the most graceful creature I had everimagined. Her dress was of grey stuff, softer and more clinging thansilk, and of a peculiar misty texture and colour, and her parted hairlay like twilight on either side of her forehead. She was not likeany one I had ever seen before--she appeared so much frailer, so muchmore elusive, as if she would vanish if you touched her. I can'tdescribe, even months afterwards, the singular way in which sheattracted and repelled me.
At first I glanced inquiringly at Mrs. Vanderbridge, hoping thatshe would introduce me, but she went on talking rapidly in anintense, quivering voice, without noticing the presence of her guestby so much as the lifting of her eyelashes. Mr. Vanderbridge stillsat there, silent and detached, and all the time the eyes of thestranger--starry eyes with a mist over them--looked straight throughme at the tapestried wall at my back. I knew she didn't see me andthat it wouldn't have made the slightest difference to her if she hadseen me. In spite of her grace and her girlishness I did not likeher, and I felt that this aversion was not on my side alone. I do notknow how I received the impression that she hated Mrs.Vanderbridge--never once had she glanced in her direction--yet I wasaware, from the moment of her entrance, that she was bristling withanimosity, though animosity is too strong a word for the resentfulspite, like the jealous rage of a spoiled child, which gleamed nowand then in her eyes. I couldn't think of her as wicked any more thanI could think of a bad child as wicked. She was merely wilful andundisciplined and--I hardly know how to convey what Imean--selfish.
After her entrance the dinner dragged on heavily. Mrs.Vanderbridge still kept up her nervous chatter, but nobody listened,for I was too embarrassed to pay any attention to what she said, andMr. Vanderbridge had never recovered from his abstraction. He waslike a man in a dream, not observing a thing that happened beforehim, while the strange woman sat there in the candlelight with hercurious look of vagueness and unreality. To my astonishment not eventhe servants appeared to notice her, and though she had unfolded hernapkin when she sat down, she wasn't served with either the roast orthe salad. Once or twice, particularly when a new course was served,I glanced at Mrs. Vanderbridge to see if she would rectify themistake, but she kept her gaze fixed on her plate. It was just as ifthere were a conspiracy to ignore the presence of the stranger,though she had been, from the moment of her entrance, the dominantfigure at the table. You tried to pretend she wasn't there, and yetyou knew--you knew vividly that she was gazing insolently straightthrough you.
The dinner lasted, it seemed, for hours, and you may imagine myrelief when at last Mrs. Vanderbridge rose and led the way back intothe drawing-room. At first I thought the stranger would follow us,but when I glanced round from the hall she was still sitting therebeside Mr. Vanderbridge, who was smoking a cigar with his coffee.
"Usually he takes his coffee with me," said Mrs. Vanderbridge,"but tonight he has things to think over."
"I thought he seemed absent-minded."
"You noticed it, then?" She turned to me with her straightforwardglance, "I always wonder how much strangers notice. He hadn't beenwell of late, and he has these spells of depression. Nerves aredreadful things, aren't they?"
I laughed. "So I've heard, but I've never been able to affordthem."
"Well, they do cost a great deal, don't they?" She had a trick ofending her sentences with a question, "I hope your room iscomfortable, and that you don't feel timid about being alone on thatfloor. If you haven't nerves, you can't get nervous, can you?"
"No, I can't get nervous." Yet while I spoke, I was conscious of ashiver deep down in me, as if my senses reacted again to the dreadthat permeated the atmosphere.
As soon as I could, I escaped to my room, and I was sitting thereover a book, when the maid--her name was Hopkins, I haddiscovered--came in on the pretext of inquiring if I had everything Ineeded. One of the innumerable servants had already turned down mybed, so when Hopkins appeared at the door, I suspected at once thatthere was a hidden motive underlying her ostensible purpose.
"Mrs. Vanderbridge told me to look after you," she began. "She isafraid you will be lonely until you learn the way of things."
"No, I'm not lonely," I answered. "I've never had time to belonely."
"I used to be like that; but time hangs heavy on my hands now.That's why I've taken to knitting." She held out a grey yarn muffler."I had an operation a year ago, and since then Mrs. Vanderbridge hashad another maid--a French one--to sit up for her at night andundress her. She is always so fearful of overtaxing us, though thereisn't really enough work for two lady's maids, because she is sothoughtful that she never gives any trouble if she can help it."
"It must be nice to be rich," I said idly, as I turned a page ofmy book. Then I added almost before I realized what I was saying,"The other lady doesn't look as if she had so much money."
Her face turned paler if that were possible, and for a minute Ithought she was going to faint. "The other lady?"
"I mean the one who came down late to dinner--the one in the greydress. She wore no jewels, and her dress wasn't low in the neck."
"Then you saw her?" There was a curious flicker in her face as ifher pallor came and went.
"We were at the table when she came in. Has Mr. Vanderbridge asecretary who lives in the house?"
"No, he hasn't a secretary except at his office. When he wants oneat the house, he telephones to his office."
"I wondered why she came, for she didn't eat any dinner, andnobody spoke to her--not even Mr. Vanderbridge."
"Oh, he never speaks to her. Thank God, it hasn't come to thatyet."
"Then why does she come? It must be dreadful to be treated likethat, and before the servants, too. Does she come often?"
"There are months and months when she doesn't. I can always tellby the way Mrs. Vanderbridge picks up. You wouldn't know her, she isso full of life--the very picture of happiness. Then one eveningshe--the Other One, I mean--comes back again, just as she didto-night, just as she did last summer, and it all begins over fromthe beginning."
"But can't they keep her out--the Other One? Why do they let herin?"
"Mrs. Vanderbridge tries hard. She tries all she can every minute.You saw her to-night?"
"And Mr. Vanderbridge? Can't he help her?"
She shook her head with an ominous gesture. "He doesn't know."
"He doesn't know she is there? Why, she was close by him. Shenever took her eyes off him except when she was staring through me atthe wall."
"Oh, he knows she is there, but not in that way. He doesn't knowthat any one else knows."
I gave it up, and after a minute she said in an oppressed voice,"It seems strange that you should have seen her. I never have."
"But you know all about her."
"I know and I don't know. Mrs. Vanderbridge lets things dropsometimes--she gets ill and feverish very easily--but she never tellsme anything outright. She isn't that sort."
"Haven't the servants told you about her--the Other One?"
At this, I thought, she seemed startled. "Oh, they don't knowanything to tell. They feel that something is wrong; that is why theynever stay longer than a week or two--we've had eight butlers sinceautumn--but they never see what it is."
She stooped to pick up the ball of yarn which had rolled under mychair. "If the time ever comes when you can stand between them, youwill do it?" she asked.
"Between Mrs. Vanderbridge and the Other One?"
Her look answered me.
"You think, then, that she means harm to her?"
"I don't know. Nobody knows--but she is killing her."
The clock struck ten, and I returned to my book with a yawn, whileHopkins gathered up her work and went out, after wishing me a formalgoodnight. The odd part about our secret conferences was that as soonas they were over, we began to pretend so elaborately to each otherthat they had never been.
"I'll tell Mrs. Vanderbridge that you are very comfortable," wasthe last remark Hopkins made before she sidled out of the door andleft me alone with the mystery. It was one of those situations--I amobliged to repeat this over and over--that was too preposterous forme to believe in even while I was surrounded and overwhelmed by itsreality. I didn't dare face what I thought, I didn't dare face evenwhat I felt; but I went to bed shivering in a warm room, while Iresolved passionately that if the chance ever came to me I wouldstand between Mrs. Vanderbridge and this unknown evil that threatenedher.
In the morning Mrs. Vanderbridge went out shopping, and I did notsee her until the evening, when she passed me on the staircase as shewas going out to dinner and the opera. She was radiant in bluevelvet, with diamonds in her hair and at her throat, and I wonderedagain how any one so lovely could ever be troubled.
"I hope you had a pleasant day, Miss Wrenn," she said kindly. "Ihave been too busy to get off any letters, but to-morrow we shallbegin early." Then, as if from an afterthought, she looked back andadded, "There are some new novels in my sitting-room. You might careto look over them."
When she had gone, I went upstairs to the sitting-room and turnedover the books, but I couldn't, to save my life, force an interest inprinted romances, after meeting Mrs. Vanderbridge and remembering themystery that surrounded her. I wondered if "the Other One," asHopkins called her, lived in the house, and I was still wonderingthis when the maid came in and began putting the table to rights.
"Do they dine out often?" I asked.
"They used to, but since Mr. Vanderbridge hasn't been so well,Mrs. Vanderbridge doesn't like to go without him. She only wentto-night because he begged her to."
She had barely finished speaking when the door opened, and Mr.Vanderbridge came in and sat down in one of the big velvet chairsbefore the wood fire. He had not noticed us, for one of his moods wasupon him, and I was about to slip out as noiselessly as I could whenI saw that the Other One was standing in the patch of firelight onthe hearthrug. I had not seen her come in, and Hopkins evidently wasstill unaware of her presence, for while I was watching, I saw themaid turn towards her with a fresh log for the fire. At the moment itoccurred to me that Hopkins must be either blind or drunk, forwithout hesitating in her advance, she moved on the stranger, holdingthe huge hickory log out in front of her. Then, before I could uttera sound or stretch out a hand to stop her, I saw her walk straightthrough the grey figure and carefully place the log on theandirons.
So she isn't real, after all, she is merely a phantom, I foundmyself thinking, as I fled from the room, and hurried along the hallto the staircase. She is only a ghost, and nobody believes in ghostsany longer. She is something that I know doesn't exist, yet even,though she can't possibly be, I can swear that I have seen her. Mynerves were so shaken by the discovery that as soon as I reached myroom I sank in a heap on the rug, and it was here that Hopkins foundme a little later when she came to bring me an extra blanket.
"You looked so upset I thought you might have seen something," shesaid. "Did anything happen while you were in the room?"
"She was there all the time--every blessed minute. You walkedright through her when you put the log on the fire. Is it possiblethat you didn't see her?"
"No, I didn't see anything out of the way." She was plainlyfrightened. "Where was she standing?"
"On the hearthrug in front of Mr. Vanderbridge. To reach the fireyou had to walk straight through her, for she didn't move. She didn'tgive way an inch."
"Oh, she never gives way. She never gives way living or dead."
This was more than human nature could stand.
"In heavens name," I cried irritably, "who is she?"
"Don't you know?" She appeared genuinely surprised. "Why, she isthe other Mrs. Vanderbridge. She died fifteen years ago, just a yearafter they were married, and people say a scandal was hushed up abouther, which he never knew. She isn't a good sort, that's what I thinkof her, though they say he almost worshipped her."
"And she still has this hold on him?"
"He can't shake it off, that's what's the matter with him, and ifit goes on, he will end his days in an asylum. You see, she was veryyoung, scarcely more than a girl, and he got the idea in his headthat it was marrying him that killed her. If you want to know what Ithink, I believe she put it there for a purpose."
"You mean--?" I was so completely at sea that I couldn't frame arational question. "I mean she haunts him purposely in order to drivehim out of his mind. She was always that sort, jealous and exacting,the kind that clutches and strangles a man, and I've often thought,though I've no head for speculation, that we carry into the nextworld the traits and feelings that have got the better of us in thisone. It seems to me only common sense to believe that we're obligedto work them off somewhere until we are free of them. That is the waymy first lady used to talk, anyhow, and I've never found anybody thatcould give me a more sensible idea."
"And isn't there any way to stop it? What has Mrs. Vanderbridgedone?"
"Oh, she can't do anything now. It has got beyond her, though shehas had doctor after doctor, and tried everything she could think of.But, you see, she is handicapped because she can't mention it to herhusband. He doesn't know that she knows."
"And she won't tell him?"
"She is the sort that would die first--just the opposite from theOther One--for she leaves him free, she never clutches and strangles.It isn't her way." For a moment she hesitated, and then addedgrimly--"I've wondered if you could do anything?"
"If I could? Why, I am a perfect stranger to them all."
"That's why I've been thinking it. Now, if you could corner hersome day--the Other One-and tell her up and down to her face what youthink of her."
The idea was so ludicrous that it made me laugh in spite of myshaken nerves. "They would fancy me out of my wits! Imagine stoppingan apparition and telling it what you think of it!"
"Then you might try talking it over with Mrs. Vanderbridge. Itwould help her to know that you see her also."
But the next morning, when I went down to Mrs. Vanderbridge'sroom, I found that she was too ill to see me. At noon a trained nursecame on the case, and for a week we took our meals together in themorning-room upstairs. She appeared competent enough, but I am surethat she didn't so much as suspect that there was anything wrong inthe house except the influenza which had attacked Mrs. Vanderbridgethe night of the opera. Never once during that week did I catch aglimpse of the Other One, though I felt her presence whenever I leftmy room and passed through the hall below. I knew all the time aswell as if I had seen her that she was hidden there, watching,watching--
At the end of the week Mrs. Vanderbridge sent for me to write someletters, and when I went into her room, I found her lying on thecouch with a tea-table in front of her. She asked me to make the teabecause she was still so weak, and I saw that she looked flushed andfeverish, and that her eyes were unnaturally large and bright. Ihoped she wouldn't talk to me, because people in that state are aptto talk too much and then to blame the listener; but I had hardlytaken my seat at the tea-table before she said in a hoarse voice--thecold had settled on her chest:
"Miss Wrenn, I have wanted to ask you ever since the otherevening--did you--did you see anything unusual at dinner? From yourface when you came out I thought--I thought--"
I met this squarely. "That I might have? Yes, I did seesomething."
"You saw her?"
"I saw a woman come in and sit down at the table, and I wonderedwhy no one served her. I saw her quite distinctly."
"A small woman, thin and pale, in a grey dress?"
"She was so vague and--and misty, you know what I mean, that it ishard to describe her; but I should know her again anywhere. She woreher hair parted and drawn down over her ears. It was very dark andfine--as fine as spun silk."
We were speaking in low voices, and unconsciously we had movedcloser together while my idle hands left the tea things.
"Then you know," she said earnestly, "that she really comes--thatI am not out of my mind--that it is not an hallucination?"
"I know that I saw her. I would swear to it. But doesn't Mr.Vanderbridge see her also?"
"Not as we see her. He thinks that she is in his mind only." Then,after an uncomfortable silence, she added suddenly, "She is really athought, you know. She is his thought of her--but he doesn't knowthat she is visible to the rest of us."
"And he brings her back by thinking of her?"
She leaned nearer while a quiver passed over her features and theflush deepened in her cheeks. "That is the only way she comesback--the only way she has the power to come back--as a thought.There are months and months when she leaves us in peace because he isthinking of other things, but of late, since his illness, she hasbeen with him almost constantly." A sob broke from her, and sheburied her face in her hands. "I suppose she is always trying tocome--only she is too vague--and hasn't any form that we can seeexcept when he thinks of her as she used to look when she was alive.His thought of her is like that, hurt and tragic and revengeful. Yousee, he feels that he ruined her life because she died when the childwas coming--a month before it would have been born."
"And if he were to see her differently, would she change? Wouldshe cease to be revengeful if he stopped thinking her so?"
"God only knows. I've wondered and wondered how I might move herto pity."
"Then you feel that she is really there? That she exists outsideof his mind?"
"How can I tell? What do any of us know of the world beyond? Sheexists as much as I exist to you or you to me. Isn't thought all thatthere is--all that we know?"
This was deeper than I could follow; but in order not to appearstupid, I murmured sympathetically.
"And does she make him unhappy when she comes?"
"She is killing him--and me. I believe that is why she doesit."
"Are you sure that she could stay away? When he thinks of herisn't she obliged to come back?"
"Oh, I've asked that question over and over! In spite of hiscalling her so unconsciously, I believe she comes of her own will, Ihave always the feeling--it has never left me for an instant--thatshe could appear differently if she would. I have studied her foryears until I know her like a book, and though she is only anapparition, I am perfectly positive that she wills evil to us both.Don't you think he would change that if he could? Don't you think hewould make her kind instead of vindictive if he had the power?"
"But if he could remember her as loving and tender?"
"I don't know. I give it up--but it is killing me."
It was killing her. As the days passed I began to realize that shehad spoken the truth. I watched her bloom fade slowly and her lovelyfeatures grow pinched and thin like the features of a starved person.The harder she fought the apparition, the more I saw that the battlewas a losing one, and that she was only wasting her strength. Soimpalpable yet so pervasive was the enemy that it was like fighting apoisonous odour. There was nothing to wrestle with, and yet there waseverything. The struggle was wearing her out--was, as she had said,actually "killing her"; but the physician who dosed her daily withdrugs--there was need now of a physician--had not the faintest ideaof the malady he was treating. In those dreadful days I think thateven Mr. Vanderbridge hadn't a suspicion of the truth. The past waswith him so constantly--he was so steeped in the memories of it--thatthe present was scarcely more than a dream to him. It was, you see, areverse of the natural order of things; the thought had become morevivid to his perceptions than any object. The phantom had beenvictorious so far, and he was like a man recovering from the effectsof a narcotic. He was only half awake, only half alive to the eventsthrough which he lived and the people who surrounded him. Oh, Irealize that I am telling my story badly!--that I am slurring overthe significant interludes! My mind has dealt so long with externaldetails that I have almost forgotten the words that express invisiblethings. Though the phantom in the house was more real to me than thebread I ate or the floor on which I trod, I can give you noimpression of the atmosphere in which we lived day after day--of thesuspense, of the dread of something we could not define, of thebrooding horror that seemed to lurk in the shadows of the firelight,of the feeling always, day and night, that some unseen person waswatching us. How Mrs. Vanderbridge stood it without losing her reasonI have never known; and even now I am not sure that she could havekept her reason if the end had not come when it did. That Iaccidentally brought it about is one of the things in my life I ammost thankful to remember.
It was an afternoon in late winter, and I had just come up fromluncheon, when Mrs. Vanderbridge asked me to empty an old desk in oneof the upstairs rooms "I am sending all the furniture in that roomaway," she said; "it was bought in a bad period, and I want to clearit out and make room for the lovely things we picked up in Italy.There is nothing in the desk worth saving except some old lettersfrom Mr. Vanderbridge's mother before her marriage."
I was glad that she could think of anything so practical asfurniture, and it was with relief that I followed her into the dim,rather musty room over the library, where the windows were alltightly closed. Years ago, Hopkins had once told me, the first Mrs.Vanderbridge had used this room for a while, and after her death herhusband had been in the habit of shutting himself up alone here inthe evenings. This, I inferred, was the secret reason why my employerwas sending the furniture away. She had resolved to clear the houseof every association with the past.
For a few minutes we sorted the letters in the drawers of thedesk, and then, as I expected, Mrs. Vanderbridge became suddenlybored by the task she had undertaken. She was subject to thesenervous reactions, and I was prepared for them even when they seizedher so spasmodically. I remember that she was in the very act ofglancing over an old letter when she rose impatiently, tossed it intothe fire unread, and picked up a magazine she had thrown down on achair.
"Go over them by yourself, Miss Wrenn," she said, and it wascharacteristic of her nature that she should assume mytrustworthiness. "If anything seems worth saving you can file it--butI'd rather die than have to wade through all this."
They were mostly personal letters, and while I went on, carefullyfiling them, I thought how absurd it was of people to preserve somany papers that were entirely without value. Mr. Vanderbridge I hadimagined to be a methodical man, and yet the disorder of the deskproduced a painful effect on my systematic temperament. The drawerswere filled with letters evidently unsorted, for now and then I cameupon a mass of business receipts and acknowledgements crammed inamong wedding invitations or letters from some elderly lady, whowrote interminable pale epistles in the finest and most feminine ofItalian hands. That a man of Mr. Vanderbridge's wealth and positionshould have been so careless about his correspondence amazed me untilI recalled the dark hints Hopkins had dropped in some of her midnightconversations. Was it possible that he had actually lost his reasonfor months after the death of his first wife, during that year whenhe had shut himself alone with her memory? The question was still inmy mind when my eyes fell an the envelope in my hand, and I saw thatit was addressed to Mrs. Roger Vanderbridge. So this explained, in ameasure at least, the carelessness and the disorder! The desk was nothis, but hers, and after her death he had used it only during thosedesperate months when he barely opened a letter. What he had done inthose long evenings when he sat alone here it was beyond me toimagine. Was it any wonder that the brooding should have permanentlyunbalanced his mind?
At the end of an hour I had sorted and filed the papers, with theintention of asking Mrs. Vanderbridge if she wished me to destroy theones that seemed to be unimportant. The letters she had instructed meto keep had not come to my hand, and I was about to give up thesearch for them, when, in shaking the lock of one of the drawers, thedoor of a secret compartment fell open, and I discovered a darkobject, which crumbled and dropped apart when I touched it. Bendingnearer, I saw that the crumbled mass had once been a bunch offlowers, and that a streamer of purple ribbon still held together thefrail structure of wire and stems. In this drawer someone had hiddena sacred treasure, and moved by a sense of romance and adventure, Igathered the dust tenderly in tissue paper, and prepare to take itdownstairs to Mrs. Vanderbridge. It was not until then that someletters tied loosely together with a silver cord caught my eye, andwhile I picked them up, I remember thinking that they must be theones for which I had been looking so long. Then, as the cord broke inmy grasp and I gathered the letters from the lid of the desk, a wordor two flashed back at me through the torn edges of the envelopes,and I realized that they were love letters written, I surmised, somefifteen years ago, by Mr. Vanderbridge to his first wife.
"It may hurt her to see them," I thought, "but I don't daredestroy them. There is nothing I can do except give them to her."
As I left the room, carrying the letters and the ashes of theflowers, the idea of taking them to the husband instead of to thewife flashed through my mind. Then--I think it was some jealousfeeling about the phantom that decided me--I quickened my steps to arun down the staircase.
"They would bring her back. He would think of her more than ever,"I told myself, "so he shall never see them. He shall never see themif I can prevent it." I believe it occurred to me that Mrs.Vanderbridge would be generous enough to give them to him--she wascapable of rising above her jealousy, I knew--but I determined thatshe shouldn't do it until I had reasoned it out with her. "Ifanything on earth would bring back the Other One for good; it wouldbe his seeing these old letters," I repeated as I hastened down thehall.
Mrs. Vanderbridge was lying on the couch before the fire, and Inoticed at once that she had been crying. The drawn look in her sweetface went to my heart, and I felt that I would do anything in theworld to comfort her. Though she had a book in her hand, I could seethat she had not been reading. The electric lamp on the table by herside was already lighted, leaving the rest of the room in shadow, forit was a grey day with a biting edge of snow in the air. It was allvery charming in the soft light; but as soon as I entered I had afeeling of oppression that made me want to run out into the wind. Ifyou have ever lived in a haunted house--a house pervaded by anunforgettable past--you will understand the sensation of melancholythat crept over me the minute the shadows began to fall. It was notin myself--of this I am sure, for I have naturally a cheerfultemperament--it was in the space that surrounded us and the air webreathed.
I explained to her about the letters, and then, kneeling on therug in front of her, I emptied the dust of the flowers into the fire.There was though I hate to confess it, a vindictive pleasure inwatching it melt into the flames; and at the moment I believe I couldhave burned the apparition as thankfully. The more I saw of the OtherOne, the more I found myself accepting Hopkins's judgment of her.Yes, her behavior, living and dead, proved that she was not "a goodsort."
My eyes were still on the flames when a sound from Mrs.Vanderbridge--half a sigh, half a sob--made me turn quickly and lookup at her.
"But this isn't his handwriting," she said in a puzzled tone."They are love letters, and they are to her--but they are not fromhim." For a moment or two she was silent, and I heard the pagesrustle in her hands as she turned them impatiently. "They are notfrom him," she repeated presently, with an exultant ring in hervoice. "They are written after her marriage, but they are fromanother man." She was as sternly tragic as an avenging fate. "Shewasn't faithful to him while she lived. She wasn't faithful to himeven while he was hers--"
With a spring I had risen from my knees and was bending overher.
"Then you can save him from her. You can win him back! You haveonly to show him the letters, and he will believe."
"Yes, I have only to show him the letters." She was looking beyondme into the dusky shadows of the firelight, as if she saw the OtherOne standing there before her, "I have only to show him the letters,"I knew now that she was not speaking to me, "and he willbelieve."
"Her power over him will be broken," I cried out. "He will thinkof her differently. Oh, don't you see? Can't you see? It is the onlyway to make him think of her differently. It is the only way to breakfor ever the thought that draws her back to him."
"Yes, I see, it is the only way," she said slowly; and the wordswere still on her lips when the door opened and Mr. Vanderbridgeentered.
"I came for a cup of tea," he began, and added with playfultenderness, "What is the only way?"
It was the crucial moment, I realized--it was the hour of destinyfor these two--and while he sank wearily into a chair, I lookedimploringly at his wife and then at the letters lying scatteredloosely about her. If I had had my will I should have flung them athim with a violence which would have startled him out of hislethargy. Violence, I felt, was what he needed--violence, a storm,tears, reproaches--all the things he would never get from hiswife.
For a minute or two she sat there, with the letters before her,and watched him with her thoughtful and tender gaze. I knew from herface, so lovely and yet so sad, that she was looking again atinvisible things--at the soul of the man she loved, not at the body.She saw him, detached and spiritualized, and she saw also the OtherOne--for while we waited I became slowly aware of the apparition inthe firelight--of the white face and the cloudy hair and the look ofanimosity and bitterness in the eyes. Never before had I been soprofoundly convinced of the malignant will veiled by that thinfigure. It was as if the visible form were only a spiral of greysmoke covering a sinister purpose.
"The only way," said Mrs. Vanderbridge, "is to fight fairly evenwhen one fights evil." Her voice was like a bell, and as she spoke,she rose from the couch and stood there in her glowing beautyconfronting the pale ghost of the past. There was a light about herthat was almost unearthly--the light of triumph. The radiance of itblinded me for an instant. It was like a flame, clearing theatmosphere of all that was evil, of all that was poisonous anddeadly. She was looking directly at the phantom, and there was nohate in her voice--there was only a great pity, a great sorrow andsweetness.
"I can't fight you that way," she said, and I knew that for thefirst time she had swept aside subterfuge and evasion, and wasspeaking straight to the presence before her. "After all, you aredead and I am living, and I cannot fight you that way. I give upeverything. I give him back to you. Nothing is mine that I cannot winand keep fairly. Nothing is mine that belongs really to you."
Then, while Mr. Vanderbridge rose, with a start of fear, and cametowards her, she bent quickly, and flung the letters into the fire.When he would have stooped to gather the unburned pages, her lovelyflowing body curved between his hands and the flames; and sotransparent, so ethereal she looked, that I saw--or imagined that Isaw--the firelight shine through her. "The only way, my dear, is theright way," she said softly.
The next instant--I don't know to this day how or when it began--Iwas aware that the apparition had drawn nearer, and that the dreadand fear, the evil purpose, were no longer a part of her. I saw herclearly for a moment--saw her as I had never seen her before--youngand gentle and--yes, this is the only word for it--loving. It wasjust as if a curse had turned into a blessing, for, while she stoodthere, I had a curious sensation of being enfolded in a kind ofspiritual glow and comfort--only words are useless to describe thefeeling because it wasn't in the least like anything else I had everknown in my life. It was light without heat, glow without light--andyet it was none of these things. The nearest I can come to it is tocall it a sense of blessedness--of blessedness that made you at peacewith everything you had once hated.
Not until afterwards did I realize that it was the victory of goodover evil. Not until afterwards did I discover that Mrs. Vanderbridgehad triumphed over the past in the only way that she could triumph.She had won, not by resisting, but by accepting; not by violence, butby gentleness; not by grasping, but by renouncing. Oh, long, longafterwards, I knew that she had robbed the phantom of power over herby robbing it of hatred. She had changed the thought of the past, inthat lay her victory.
At the moment I did not understand this. I did not understand iteven when I looked again for the apparition in the firelight, and sawthat it had vanished. There was nothing there--nothing except thepleasant flicker of light and shadow on the old Persian rug.
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