The sociable ghost Being the adventures of a reporter who was invited by the sociable ghost to a grand banquet, ball, and convention under the ground of old Trinity churchyard. A true tale of the things he saw and did not see while he was not there.
young man understood when, by an unfortunate movement she half turned
her head and he saw that there was not another spear of hair on her
whole skull. Between a desire to laugh at the utter ridiculousness of
her pretension, and pity for the little feminine vanity that made her
cling to her one poor lone curl, the young man retired into the shadows
made by the decorations, and that is how he happened to hear the
conversation of several lady ghosts.
As soon as the banquet was finished, the Egyptian princess had been
installed in her high chair, and she held audience with as many men as
could crowd around her, and so the women were in a measure left to
themselves. They gathered into groups and fell to discussing various
subjects. Some told of what they had been doing the evening before, when
they were abroad in their spiritual form only. One of them said sadly:
“I went to the place where my husband and I always loved to be. I
thought perhaps he might be there, for he promised me as I lay dying
that on every anniversary of my death he would go there. It was there
that we had become engaged, and we were so happy there—”
“Did he come?” asked she of the lone curl.
“Yes; he did come, but he brought another woman with him, and the very
things he used to say to me he said to her. He kissed her and told her
that he had never loved anyone as he loved her, for such love comes but
once in a lifetime. She is the fifth woman to whom I have heard him say
the same things. I wish he would at least seek some other place for his
foolishness, for you cannot imagine how foolish it seems to hear a man
make love to another woman. He wouldn't be my choice of a man anyhow if
I had my life to live over again. It will be a happy day when I get my
passport and can leave all these worries behind.”
Here was the question of passports again, and yet the newspaper man did
not know what it meant. He began to blame himself for remissness in his
duty, and to fear that he would find himself outside without having
learned it. So he made up his mind that he would ask his host about it
the first thing when he should find him again.
The second woman took up the conversation and said:
“Well, Mary, your lot is not so hard as mine. You had no little children
to leave. When I died I went to my old home and hovered over my little
children, knowing that they needed a mother’s care, and there sat
another woman beside the cradle, and it was she who answered when my
baby cried. It was the first time the baby spoke and she called that
woman mother.”
At this moment the girl with the curl, as the reporter called her, began
to complain again, but this time it was about the grave of Charlotte
Temple.
“Really it wearies me to see what a ridiculous fuss all the lovelorn
fools make about her grave. And, she got her passport long ago. Really I
think that is paying a premium on weakness. One would think she was the
only one to be disappointed in a man. Here come any number of silly
things every day and nearly always bring something to put on her slab,
which isn’t much, anyhow. Not a word of epitaph, nothing but her name.
“The only thing good about it is that someone hollowed out a place so
that birds can drink out of it. After a rain there may be some water
there, but it soon dries up, and others bring flower pots and bouquets
for poor Floyd to sweep away. I noticed tonight that there was a scrubby
little fish geranium in a dried up pot standing there and a most forlorn
little kitten was trying to find a few drops of water.”
The young man instantly resolved that he would find that poor little
kitten which, he felt sure, was the very one at which he had shied the
stone. His mother would not object, so having set his conscience at
rest, as so many of us do by promising to right a wrong—later on—he
found himself again listening when one of the other women took up the
conversation, and looking at the Egyptian, who still seemed to monopolize
the gentlemen ghosts to a most scandalous extent and remarked:
“I think a woman as black as that mummy ought not to be allowed here
among us. As to princesses of her time, they were no better than they
should be, and if history is correct, they went about in such a state as
to scandalize anybody. They certainly couldn't have been pretty with
those black faces. And I, for one, don’t think they should be set up for
miracles either.”
At this moment there passed a queer-looking woman ghost. Her back was
bad and her legs were queer, like those of poor little Jenny Wren, and
she had, in spite of her affliction, such a grand air of importance that
she was remarkable among all the ghosts. As she passed the girl with the
curl, she gave her head a toss as if she really intended an insult. As
soon as she had passed out of hearing, the girl with the curl turned to
the others and said:
“Did you see Mrs. Simon Mullinstalk? I imagine you will know her the next
time you do, for she is so proud of that name that she tries to project
her personality everywhere. Did you ever hear how she came by that
magnificent name?”
“No,” they all said in a chorus, “who is she, anyway?”
“Why she was an old maid, and her name was Susannah Skinks. She was the
only daughter of old Solon Skinks. He had a snug little fortune, but was
such a miser that they never had enough to eat. I have heard my mother
say that it was working beyond her strength while she was small that she
became as you see her. When her father died—her mother had died long
before—he gave her all he had, on the promise that while she lived she
would never marry anyone. She kept her promise, but when she lay upon
her deathbed—she was then forty-eight years old—she for some reason felt
that she did not wish to have her name and age go down to posterity on
her tombstone as an old maid. She unbosomed her feelings to her pastor.
He knew she had money and might remember the missionary work in which he
was interested, and advised her, saying that she was practically dead
now, and there could be no harm in making a deathbed marriage.
“They sent for the man whose name appealed to her. He was a hopeless
paralytic, and had to be brought to her. They were left alone while she
unfolded her plan to him. She wanted to be able to have 'Mrs.' on her
tombstone, and if he consented to marry her now, she would will him
everything she possessed. This just suited him, for the county had been
supporting him for a long time, and he felt his position keenly. Here
was a chance to suddenly become a man of importance, and from being a
pauper, he could also provide for his old mother. As the minister was
there and everything foreseen and provided for, the wedding was soon
over and notice of it sent to the local paper. The old mother was sent
for and Mr. Mullinstalk remained. Two days later she died. She had
designed what she wished to have put on her tombstone. But when the
sculptor went to carve the name, he somehow miscalculated the length of
the name and could get only as far as Mrs. Simon Mullinst—, and carried
the rest to a line below, but Simon seemed to think it was all right.”
“Did she give anything to the missionaries?” asked an old lady with
great interest.
“Not a penny, but she gave all her old clothes. That preacher was
engaged to be married at the time and after the wedding they went off to
some desolate place where the savages killed them. The cannibals were
merciful enough to grant their last request, and that was that they
should be boiled in the same kettle, and served up in the same dish, so
that people could say of them that ‘they were lovely in their lives and
in death were not divided,’”
“It must have been an intolerable blessing, when they loved each other
so. Poor critters! Well, they are having their reward, I hope.”
Just then the tall ghost came along and spoke to the lady of the long,
lone curl. He asked her if she would not like to take a turn, at the
same time lifting her small hand in his, with exceeding care so as not
to break any of the delicate bones. He said:
“My dear young lady, how glad I am of having the honor of seeing you
once more. It makes me regret that things are as they are here, yet I
find a balm for my hurt in the fact that there is no marrying, or giving
in marriage, for thus I am assured that no one else can claim you. We
can be friends until we get our passports, and possibly we shall be
permitted to maintain the same friendly relations beyond.”
At this delicate compliment, the maiden bowed her head and smiled, as
indeed she had to, having no means of doing anything else. So, when the
tall ghost offered his arm to take her around to see the decorations,
she managed so skillfully that she took his right arm so that he should
not see the bald side of her head. If he had seen it he could not have
made any objections since his own head was as bare of hair as a stone.
As they moved off the young man turned his attention again to the women
and their conversation. He heard one say:
“I do not belong here, for I am buried in old St. Luke's, and if it
hadn't been for the kindness of a friend I should have had nowhere to go
tonight. I really wish we could stay dead and not have to come out until
we are called for transfer. I never come out, but I am made to wish I
hadn't. You know they have taken our peaceful resting place and made a
public park of it, and that without being sure that we were all removed.
Those of us without relatives left were removed by the Trinity
Corporation, or at least that is what I was told. While they were moving
the bodies, I remembered a verse that was written by someone who must
have seen something like this. It runs:
“There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot,
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road is rough and the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings:
‘Rattle his bones over the stones,
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns.’”
“Nobody seems to think that old bones can feel. What hurts me worst
though is where it said on my monument, for I had a rather nice one for
the period when I was buried, that ‘she died at the age of 21 in the
bloom of her youth and beauty, leaving her parents and her young husband
desolate.’ Yes; my young husband remained desolate just one year and a
day, and then he married again. But as long as they lived my parents
mourned for me. I tell you what, my dears, a man’s love for a woman
lasts just as long as she is there to make him comfortable, and no
longer. I saw him not long ago, and he is old and fat, bald and
toothless, and he chews tobacco. Since then I have been almost glad that
I am dead. I wish I could get my passport, but I suppose I have not
learned all the lessons the Master has set for me.”
“Do you believe that it is true that when we marry there is a truer
union than that between parents and children? You know that it says in
the Bible, ‘For this cause a man shall leave his father and his mother,
and they twain shall be one flesh.’”
Another woman who up to now had taken no part in the conversation spoke
in a resonant voice, and with a certain manner that betokened long
practice in public. She said impressively:
“Yes; we have all heard that, but I think the translators have got it
mixed, and it should not read shall, but will leave his father and
mother, for we know that he will do just as he likes and find a good
reason for anything he wants to do. And we do not need to be told how
long it takes him to forget the wife he declared he could not live
without. And we can calculate to the hour when he will remarry. The fact
of the matter is that man is an utterly selfish being. Women have been
expecting too much of men. They should be taught that women are not to