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Tom Ossington's Ghost

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<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> <h3>UNDER THE SPELL</h3> "Mr. Graham!" she exclaimed. "Really, I do believe that if I had been asked what thing I most desired at this particular moment, I should have answered--you!" Graham's sombre features were chastened by a smile. "That's very good of you." "Look here!" Laying one hand against his arm, with the other she pointed at the sitting-room window. His glance followed her finger-tips. "Who's that?" "That's what I should very much like to ascertain." "I don't quite follow you. Do you mean that you don't know who she is?" "I only know that I've been away all day, and that on my return I find her there. How she got there I can't say--but she seems determined to keep me out." "You don't mean that! And have you no notion who the woman is? She looks half mad." "I should think she must be quite mad. It's the woman who forced herself into the house the day before yesterday after you had gone--that's all I know of her. This time she is not alone; she has a man in there with her." "A man! Not--Ballingall?" "No, not Ballingall. At least, I only caught a glimpse of him--but it's not the man who was watching you. From her behaviour the woman must be perfectly insane." "We'll soon make an end of her, insane or not." Graham went to the window. The woman, completely unabashed, had remained right in front of it, an observant spectator of their proceedings. He spoke to her. "Open the door at once!" She repeated the gesture she had used to Madge--raising her voice, at the same time, to a shrill scream. "Go away! go away! This house is mine--mine! I don't want any trespassers here." Graham turned to Madge. "Do you authorise me to gain an entry?" "Certainly. I don't want to spend the night out here." Permission was no sooner given than the thing was done. Grasping the upper sash of the window with both his hands, Graham brought it down with a run, tearing away the hasp from its fastening as if it had been so much thread. It was a capital object-lesson of the utility of such a safeguard against the wiles of a muscular burglar. The upper sash being lowered, in another moment the lower one was raised. Mr. Graham was in the room. The woman was possibly too astonished by the unceremonious nature of his proceedings to attempt any resistance, even had she felt disposed. Graham addressed Miss Brodie through the window. "Will you come this way? or shall I open the door?" "If you wouldn't mind, I'd rather you opened the door." He opened the door. Presently they were in the sitting-room, face to face with the intruders. Graham took them to task--the woman evincing no sign of discomposure. "Who are you, and what is the meaning of your presence on these premises?" "This house is mine--mine! It's all of it mine! And who are you, that you ask such a question--of a lady?" She crossed her hands on her breast with an assumption of dignity which, in a woman of her figure and scarecrow-like appearance, was sufficiently ludicrous. Graham eyed her as if subjecting her to a mental appraisement. Then he turned to the man. "And pray, sir, what explanation have you to offer of the felony you are committing?" This man was a little, undergrown fellow, with sharp hatchet-shaped features, and bent and shrunken figure. He had on an old grey suit of clothes, which was three or four sizes too large for him, the trousers being turned up in a thick roll over the top of an oft-patched pair of side-spring boots. There was about him none of the assurance which marked the woman--the air of bravado which he attempted to wear fitted him as ill as his garments. "I ain't committed no felony, not likely. She asked me to come to her house--so I come. She says to me, 'You come along o' me to my house, and I'll give you a bit of something to eat.' Now didn't you?" "Certainly. I suppose a gentleman is allowed to visit a lady if she asks him." The dreadful-looking woman, as she stood with her head thrown back, and her nose in the air, presented a picture of something which was meant for condescension, which was not without its pathos. "Of course!--ain't that what I'm saying? She come here, and she took a key out of her pocket, and she put it in the keyhole, and she opened the door, all quite regular, and she says, 'This here's my house,' and she asked me to come in, so of course I come in." "Do you mean to say that she gained entrance to this house by means of a key which she took from her pocket?" "Course! How do you suppose we came in?--through the window? Not hardly, that's not my line, and so I tell you." Graham returned to the woman. "Be so good as to give me the key with which you obtained admission to these premises." The woman put her hand up to her neck, for the first time showing signs of discomposure. "The key?" Starting back, she looked about her wildly, and broke into a series of shrill exclamations. "The key!--my key!--no!--no!--no!--It is all I have left--the only thing I've got. I've kept it through everything--I've never parted from it once. I won't give it you--no!" She came closer to him; glaring at him with terrible eyes. "It's my key--mine! I took it with me when I went that night. He was sitting in here, and I came downstairs with the key in my pocket, and I went--and he never knew. And I've kept it ever since, because I've always said that one day when I went back I should want my key to let me in: I hate to have to stand on the step while they are letting me in." Mr. Graham was regarding her intently, as if he was endeavouring to read what stood with her in the place of a soul. "Is your name Ossington?" "Ossington? Ossington?" She touched the sides of her forehead with the tips of her fingers, glancing about her affrightedly, as if making an effort to recall her surroundings. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Who said Ossington? Who said it? Who asked if my name was--Ossington?" Mr. Graham addressed Miss Brodie. "With your permission I should like to speak to this woman--after the man has gone." In his last words there was meaning. "By all means, if you wish it. Get rid of him at once. At the best the fellow is an impudent intruder, and the story he tells is a ridiculously lame one. He must have been perfectly well aware that a woman of this sort was not likely to possess a house of her own, and that accepting what he calls her invitation he was committing felony." The fellow in question shook his head as if he felt himself ill-used. "I call that hard--cruel hard. If the young lady was to think of it for half a moment she'd see as it was cruel hard." "The young lady declines to think of it. Have the goodness to take yourself away, and consider yourself lucky that you are allowed to escape scot free." The man moved towards the door, endeavouring to bear himself as if he were doing so of his own free will. He spoke to the woman. "Ain't you coming with me?" "Yes, I'm coming." She hastened towards him. Graham interposed. "Let him go. There are one or two things about which we should like to speak to you, this young lady and I, after he has gone." But she would have none of him. Shrinking back, she stared at him, in silence, for a second or two; then began to shriek at him like some wild creature. "I won't stay!--I won't!--I shall go!--I shall! You tried to get my key--my key! You touch it--you dare! You asked me if my name"--she stopped, stared about as if in terror, gave a great sigh, "You asked me if my name----" She stopped again--and sighed again, the pupils of her eyes dilating as she watched and listened for what was invisible and inaudible to all but her. Graham moved forward, intending to soothe her. Mistaking, apparently, his intention, she rushed at him with outstretched arms, giving utterance to yell after yell. In a moment she was past him and flying from the house. Her male companion, who stood still in the doorway, pointed his thumb over his shoulder with a grin. "There you are, you see--drove her out of her seven senses! So you have." Much more leisurely, the man went after the woman. For some reason, when Mr. Bruce Graham and Miss Brodie were left alone, nothing was said about the recent visitors. "If you'll sit down and wait," remarked Miss Brodie, "I'll go and take my things off." Having returned from performing those sacred offices, the topic still remained untouched. Possibly that was because there were so many things which needed doing. When one has been out all day, and keeps no maid, when one returns there are things which must be done. For instance, there was a fire to make. Miss Brodie observed that there ought to have been two, one in the kitchen, and one in the sitting-room; but declared that folks would have to be content with one. And that one Bruce Graham made. She brought in the wood, and the coal, and the paper; and then she went to fetch the matches. When she returned she caught him in the act. "What are you doing?" she demanded. He was on his knees on the hearthrug, with some sticks in his hand. "Making a fire--on scientific principles. I'm a scientific expert at this kind of thing. Women's methods are unscientific as a rule." "Indeed." Her air was scornful. "Men always think they can make fires. It's most surprising." She commented on his methods--particularly when he took the pieces of coal from the scuttle, and placed them in their places with his fingers. "That's right! Men always use their fingers to put coal on the fire--if they can. It's an agreeable habit." He continued calm. "It's scientific, strictly scientific; and may be logically defended, especially when a fire is being lighted. Heaping on coal with a shovel is unscientific--in the highest degree." He struck a match; presently the paper was in flames. "Now you had better go and wash your hands. You'll have to do it in the scullery; and by the time you're done, the fire will be out." But the fire was not out. It was a complete success. The kettle was put on, preparations were made for tea, and the table was laid, Graham showing a talent for rendering assistance which was not accorded the thanks it might have been. Madge was chilly. "I should imagine you were rather a handy person to have about the house." "There are diversities of gifts; let us hope that each of us has at least one." "Exactly. But, unfortunately, I do not care to see a man, what is called, 'making himself useful about the house'--if your gift lies in that direction. I suppose it is because I am not enough of a New Woman. Perhaps now you've given me your assistance in laying the cloth, you will give me some music." He was smoothing a corner of the cloth in question--and looked down. "It is you who are the teacher." She flashed up at him. "What do you mean by that?" "It is true--is it not?" "If you wish me to understand that you would rather not play, have the goodness to say so plainly." Whereupon he sat down--and played. And Madge listened. When he stopped, she was looking away from him, toward the fire. Tears were in her eyes. "I suppose you are a genius?" Her voice seemed a little strained. He shook his head. "No--the music comes out of the ends of my fingers." He went on playing. When he ceased, again she turned to him--with passionate eyes. "I never heard any one play like you before." "It's because I'm in the mood." He played on. It seemed to her that he spoke to her out of the soul of music. She sat still and listened. Her heart-strings tightened, her pulses throbbed, her cheeks burned; every nerve in her frame was on the alert. Never had such things been said to her before. She could have cried--and would have cried, if she had dared. The message breathed to her by Bruce Graham's playing told of a world of which she, unconsciously, had dreamed. He played; and she sat and listened, in the firelight, till Ella came home to tea. And with Ella came Jack Martyn. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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