The Empty House and Other Ghost Stories
opposite suddenly turned his face towards me for the first time and
began to speak.
His voice had a quiet dreamy note in it that was quite in harmony with
the day and the scene, but it sounded far away, I thought, almost as
though it came to me from outside where the shadows were weaving their
eternal tissue of dreams upon the garden floor. Moreover, there was no
trace in it of the rough quality one might naturally have expected, and,
now that I saw the full face of the speaker for the first time, I noted
with something like a start that the deep, gentle eyes seemed far more
in keeping with the timbre of the voice than with the rough and very
countrified appearance of the clothes and manner. His voice set pleasant
waves of sound in motion towards me, and the actual words, if I remember
rightly, were--
"You are a stranger in these parts?" or "Is not this part of the country
strange to you?"
There was no "sir," nor any outward and visible sign of the deference
usually paid by real country folk to the town-bred visitor, but in its
place a gentleness, almost a sweetness, of polite sympathy that was far
more of a compliment than either.
I answered that I was wandering on foot through a part of the country
that was wholly new to me, and that I was surprised not to find a place
of such idyllic loveliness marked upon my map.
"I have lived here all my life," he said, with a sigh, "and am never
tired of coming back to it again."
"Then you no longer live in the immediate neighbourhood?"
"I have moved," he answered briefly, adding after a pause in which his
eyes seemed to wander wistfully to the wealth of blossoms beyond the
window; "but I am almost sorry, for nowhere else have I found the
sunshine lie so warmly, the flowers smell so sweetly, or the winds and
streams make such tender music. . . ."
His voice died away into a thin stream of sound that lost itself in the
rustle of the rose-leaves climbing in at the window, for he turned his
head away from me as he spoke and looked out into the garden. But it was
impossible to conceal my surprise, and I raised my eyes in frank
astonishment on hearing so poetic an utterance from such a figure of a
man, though at the same time realising that it was not in the least
inappropriate, and that, in fact, no other sort of expression could have
properly been expected from him.
"I am sure you are right," I answered at length, when it was clear he
had ceased speaking; "or there is something of enchantment here--of real
fairy-like enchantment--that makes me think of the visions of childhood
days, before one knew anything of--of--"
I had been oddly drawn into his vein of speech, some inner force
compelling me. But here the spell passed and I could not catch the
thoughts that had a moment before opened a long vista before my inner
vision.
"To tell you the truth," I concluded lamely, "the place fascinates me
and I am in two minds about going further--"
Even at this stage I remember thinking it odd that I should be talking
like this with a stranger whom I met in a country inn, for it has always
been one of my failings that to strangers my manner is brief to
surliness. It was as though we were figures meeting in a dream, speaking
without sound, obeying laws not operative in the everyday working world,
and about to play with a new scale of space and time perhaps. But my
astonishment passed quickly into an entirely different feeling when I
became aware that the old man opposite had turned his head from the
window again, and was regarding me with eyes so bright they seemed
almost to shine with an inner flame. His gaze was fixed upon my face
with an intense ardour, and his whole manner had suddenly become alert
and concentrated. There was something about him I now felt for the first
time that made little thrills of excitement run up and down my back. I
met his look squarely, but with an inward tremor.
"Stay, then, a little while longer," he said in a much lower and deeper
voice than before; "stay, and I will teach you something of the purpose
of my coming."
He stopped abruptly. I was conscious of a decided shiver.
"You have a special purpose then--in coming back?" I asked, hardly
knowing what I was saying.
"To call away someone," he went on in the same thrilling voice, "someone
who is not quite ready to come, but who is needed elsewhere for a
worthier purpose." There was a sadness in his manner that mystified me
more than ever.
"You mean--?" I began, with an unaccountable access of trembling.
"I have come for someone who must soon move, even as I have moved."
He looked me through and through with a dreadfully piercing gaze, but I
met his eyes with a full straight stare, trembling though I was, and I
was aware that something stirred within me that had never stirred
before, though for the life of me I could not have put a name to it, or
have analysed its nature. Something lifted and rolled away. For one
single second I understood clearly that the past and the future exist
actually side by side in one immense Present; that it was _I_ who moved
to and fro among shifting, protean appearances.
The old man dropped his eyes from my face, and the momentary glimpse of
a mightier universe passed utterly away. Reason regained its sway over a
dull, limited kingdom.
"Come to-night," I heard the old man say, "come to me to-night into the
Wood of the Dead. Come at midnight--"
Involuntarily I clutched the arm of the settle for support, for I then
felt that I was speaking with someone who knew more of the real things
that are and will be, than I could ever know while in the body, working
through the ordinary channels of sense--and this curious half-promise of
a partial lifting of the veil had its undeniable effect upon me.
The breeze from the sea had died away outside, and the blossoms were
still. A yellow butterfly floated lazily past the window. The song of
the birds hushed--I smelt the sea--I smelt the perfume of heated summer
air rising from fields and flowers, the ineffable scents of June and of
the long days of the year--and with it, from countless green meadows
beyond, came the hum of myriad summer life, children's voices, sweet
pipings, and the sound of water falling.
I knew myself to be on the threshold of a new order of experience--of an
ecstasy. Something drew me forth with a sense of inexpressible yearning
towards the being of this strange old man in the window seat, and for a
moment I knew what it was to taste a mighty and wonderful sensation, and
to touch the highest pinnacle of joy I have ever known. It lasted for
less than a second, and was gone; but in that brief instant of time the
same terrible lucidity came to me that had already shown me how the past
and future exist in the present, and I realised and understood that
pleasure and pain are one and the same force, for the joy I had just
experienced included also all the pain I ever had felt, or ever could
feel. . . .
The sunshine grew to dazzling radiance, faded, passed away. The shadows
paused in their dance upon the grass, deepened a moment, and then melted
into air. The flowers of the fruit trees laughed with their little
silvery laughter as the wind sighed over their radiant eyes the old,
old tale of its personal love. Once or twice a voice called my name. A
wonderful sensation of lightness and power began to steal over me.
Suddenly the door opened and the inn-keeper's daughter came in. By all
ordinary standards, her's was a charming country loveliness, born of the
stars and wild-flowers, of moonlight shining through autumn mists upon
the river and the fields; yet, by contrast with the higher order of
beauty I had just momentarily been in touch with, she seemed almost
ugly. How dull her eyes, how thin her voice, how vapid her smile, and
insipid her whole presentment.
For a moment she stood between me and the occupant of the window seat
while I counted out the small change for my meal and for her services;
but when, an instant later, she moved aside, I saw that the settle was
empty and that there was no longer anyone in the room but our two
selves.
This discovery was no shock to me; indeed, I had almost expected it, and
the man had gone just as a figure goes out of a dream, causing no
surprise and leaving me as part and parcel of the same dream without
breaking of continuity. But, as soon as I had paid my bill and thus
resumed in very practical fashion the thread of my normal consciousness,
I turned to the girl and asked her if she knew the old man who had been
sitting in the window seat, and what he had meant by the Wood of the
Dead.
The maiden started visibly, glancing quickly round the empty room, but
answering simply that she had seen no one. I described him in great
detail, and then, as the description grew clearer, she turned a little
pale under her pretty sunburn and said very gravely that it must have
been the ghost.
"Ghost! What ghost?"
"Oh, the village ghost," she said quietly, coming closer to my chair
with a little nervous movement of genuine alarm, and adding in a lower
voice, "He comes before a death, they say!"
It was not difficult to induce the girl to talk, and the story she told
me, shorn of the superstition that had obviously gathered with the years
round the memory of a strangely picturesque figure, was an interesting
and peculiar one.
The inn, she said, was originally a farmhouse, occupied by a yeoman
farmer, evidently of a superior, if rather eccentric, character, who had
been very poor until he reached old age, when a son died suddenly in
the Colonies and left him an unexpected amount of money, almost a
fortune.
The old man thereupon altered no whit his simple manner of living, but
devoted his income entirely to the improvement of the village and to the
assistance of its inhabitants; he did this quite regardless of his
personal likes and dislikes, as if one and all were absolutely alike to
him, objects of a genuine and impersonal benevolence. People had always
been a little afraid of the man, not understanding his eccentricities,
but the simple force of this love for humanity changed all that in a
very short space of time; and before he died he came to be known as the
Father of the Village and was held in great love and veneration by all.
A short time before his end, however, he began to act queerly. He spent
his money just as usefully and wisely, but the shock of sudden wealth
after a life of poverty, people said, had unsettled his mind. He claimed
to see things that others did not see, to hear voices, and to have
visions. Evidently, he was not of the harmless, foolish, visionary
order, but a man of character and of great personal force, for the
people became divided in their opinions, and the vicar, good man,
regarded and treated him as a "special case." For many, his name and
atmosphere became charged almost with a spiritual influence that was
not of the best. People quoted texts about him; kept when possible out
of his way, and avoided his house after dark. None understood him, but
though the majority loved him, an element of dread and mystery became
associated with his name, chiefly owing to the ignorant gossip of the
few.
A grove of pine trees behind the farm--the girl pointed them out to me
on the slope of the hill--he said was the Wood of the Dead, because just
before anyone died in the village he saw them walk into that wood,
singing. None who went in ever came out again. He often mentioned the
names to his wife, who usually published them to all the inhabitants
within an hour of her husband's confidence; and it was found that the
people he had seen enter the wood--died. On warm summer nights he would
sometimes take an old stick and wander out, hatless, under the pines,