LITTLE NOVELS

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[Italics are indicatedby underscores
James Rusk, jrusk@cyberramp.net.]

LITTLE NOVELS

by Wilkie Collins

MRS. ZANT AND THE GHOST.

I.

THE course of this narrative describes the return of a
disembodied spirit to earth, and leads the reader on new and
strange ground.

Not in the obscurity of midnight, but in the searching light of
day, did the supernatural influence assert itself. Neither
revealed by a vision, nor announced by a voice, it reached mortal
knowledge through the sense which is least easily self-deceived:
the sense that feels.

The record of this event will of necessity produce conflicting
impressions. It will raise, in some minds, the doubt which reason
asserts; it will invigorate, in other minds, the hope which faith
justifies; and it will leave the terrible question of the
destinies of man, where centuries of vain investigation have left
it--in the dark.

Having only undertaken in the present narrative to lead the way
along a succession of events, the writer declines to follow
modern examples by thrusting himself and his opinions on the
public view. He returns to the shadow from which he has emerged,
and leaves the opposing forces of incredulity and belief to fight
the old battle over again, on the old ground.

II.

THE events happened soon after the first thirty years of the
present century had come to an end.

On a fine morning, early in the month of April, a gentleman of
middle age (named Rayburn) took his little daughter Lucy out for
a walk in the woodland pleasure-ground of Western London, called
Kensington Gardens.

The few friends whom he possessed reported of Mr. Rayburn (not
unkindly) that he was a reserved and solitary man. He might have
been more accurately described as a widower devoted to his only
surviving child. Although he was not more than forty years of
age, the one pleasure which made life enjoyable to Lucy's father
was offered by Lucy herself.

Playing with her ball, the child ran on to the southern limit of
the Gardens, at that part of it which still remains nearest to
the old Palace of Kensington. Observing close at hand one of
those spacious covered seats, called in England "alcoves," Mr.
Rayburn was reminded that he had the morning's newspaper in his
pocket, and that he might do well to rest and read. At that early
hour the place was a solitude.

"Go on playing, my dear," he said; "but take care to keep where I
can see you."

Lucy tossed up her ball; and Lucy's father opened his newspaper.
He had not been reading for more than ten minutes, when he felt a
familiar little hand laid on his knee.

"Tired of playing?" he inquired--with his eyes still on the
newspaper.

"I'm frightened, papa."

He looked up directly. The child's pale face startled him. He
took her on his knee and kissed her.

"You oughtn't to be frightened, Lucy, when I am with you," he
said, gently. "What is it?" He looked out of the alcove as he
spoke, and saw a little dog among the trees. "Is it the dog?" he
asked.

Lucy answered:

"It's not the dog--it's the lady."

The lady was not visible from the alcove.

"Has she said anything to you?" Mr. Rayburn inquired.

"No."

"What has she done to frighten you?"

The child put her arms round her father's neck.

"Whisper, papa," she said; "I'm afraid of her hearing us. I think
she's mad."

"Why do you think so, Lucy?"

"She came near to me. I thought she was going to say something.
She seemed to be ill."

"Well? And what then?"

"She looked at me."

There, Lucy found herself at a loss how to express what she had
to say next--and took refuge in silence.

"Nothing very wonderful, so far," her father suggested.

"Yes, papa--but she didn't seem to see me when she looked."

"Well, and what happened then?"

"The lady was frightened--and that frightened me. I think," the
child repeated positively, "she's mad."

It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the lady might be blind. He rose
at once to set the doubt at rest.

"Wait here," he said, "and I'll come back to you."

But Lucy clung to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was
afraid to be by herself. They left the alcove together.

The new point of view at once revealed the stranger, leaning
against the trunk of a tree. She was dressed in the deep mourning
of a widow. The pallor of her face, the glassy stare in her eyes,
more than accounted for the child's terror--it excused the
alarming conclusion at which she had arrived.

"Go nearer to her," Lucy whispered.

They advanced a few steps. It was now easy to see that the lady
was young, and wasted by illness--but (arriving at a doubtful
conclusion perhaps under the present circumstances) apparently
possessed of rare personal attractions in happier days. As the
father and daughter advanced a little, she discovered them. After
some hesitation, she left the tree; approached with an evident
intention of speaking; and suddenly paused. A change to
astonishment and fear animated her vacant eyes. If it had not
been plain before, it was now beyond all doubt that she was not a
poor blind creature, deserted and helpless. At the same time, the
expression of her face was not easy to understand. She could
hardly have looked more amazed and bewildered, if the two
strangers who were observing her had suddenly vanished from the
place in which they stood.

Mr. Rayburn spoke to her with the utmost kindness of voice and
manner.

"I am afraid you are not well," he said. "Is there anything that
I can do--"

The next words were suspended on his lips. It was impossible to
realize such a state of things; but the strange impression that
she had already produced on him was now confirmed. If he could
believe his senses, her face did certainly tell him that he was
invisible and inaudible to the woman whom he had just addressed!
She moved slowly away with a heavy sigh, like a person
disappointed and distressed. Following her with his eyes, he saw
the dog once more--a little smooth-coated terrier of the ordinary
English breed. The dog showed none of the restless activity of
his race. With his head down and his tail depressed, he crouched
like a creature paralyzed by fear. His mistress roused him by a
call. He followed her listlessly as she turned away.

After walking a few paces only, she suddenly stood still.

Mr. Rayburn heard her talking to herself.

"Did I feel it again?" she said, as if perplexed by some doubt
that awed or grieved her. After a while her arms rose slowly, and
opened with a gentle caressing action--an embrace strangely
offered to the empty air! "No," she said to herself, sadly, after
waiting a moment. "More perhaps when to-morrow comes--no more
to-day." She looked up at the clear blue sky. "The beautiful
sunlight! the merciful sunlight!" she murmured. "I should have
died if it had happened in the dark."

Once more she called to the dog; and once more she walked slowly
away.

"Is she going home, papa?' the child asked.

"We will try and find out," the father answered.

He was by this time convinced that the poor creature was in no
condition to be permitted to go out without some one to take care
of her. From motives of humanity, he was resolved on making the
attempt to communicate with her friends.

III.

THE lady left the Gardens by the nearest gate; stopping to lower
her veil before she turned into the busy thoroughfare which leads
to Kensington. Advancing a little way along the High Street, she
entered a house of respectable appearance, with a card in one of
the windows which announced that apartments were to let.

Mr. Rayburn waited a minute--then knocked at the door, and asked
if he could see the mistress of the house. The servant showed him
into a room on the ground floor, neatly but scantily furnished.
One little white object varied the grim brown monotony of the
empty table. It was a visiting-card.

With a child's unceremonious curiosity Lucy pounced on the card,
and spelled the name, letter by letter: "Z, A, N, T," she
repeated. "What does that mean ?"

Her father looked at the card, as he took it away from her, and
put it back on the table. The name was printed, and the address
was added in pencil: "Mr. John Zant, Purley's Hotel."

The mistress made her appearance. Mr. Rayburn heartily wishe d
himself out of the house again, the moment he saw her. The ways
in which it is possible to cultivate the social virtues are more
numerous and more varied than is generally supposed. This lady's
way had apparently accustomed her to meet her fellow-creatures on
the hard ground of justice without mercy. Something in her eyes,
when she looked at Lucy, said: "I wonder whether that child gets
punished when she deserves it?"

"Do you wish to see the rooms which I have to let?" she began.

Mr. Rayburn at once stated the object of his visit--as clearly,
as civilly, and as concisely as a man could do it. He was
conscious (he added) that he had been guilty perhaps of an act of
intrusion.

The manner of the mistress of the house showed that she entirely
agreed with him. He suggested, however, that his motive might
excuse him. The mistress's manner changed, and asserted a
difference of opinion.

"I only know the lady whom you mention," she said, "as a person
of the highest respectability, in delicate health. She has taken
my first- floor apartments, with excellent references; and she
gives remarkably little trouble. I have no claim to interfere
with her proceedings, and no reason to doubt that she is capable
of taking care of herself."

Mr. Rayburn unwisely attempted to say a word in his own defense.

"Allow me to remind you--" he began.

"Of what, sir?"

"Of what I observed, when I happened to see the lady in
Kensington Gardens."

"I am not responsible for what you observed in Kensington
Gardens. If your time is of any value, pray don't let me detain
you."

Dismissed in those terms, Mr. Rayburn took Lucy's hand and
withdrew. He had just reached the door, when it was opened from
the outer side. The Lady of Kensington Gardens stood before him.
In the position which he and his daughter now occupied, their
backs were toward the window. Would she remember having seen them
for a moment in the Gardens?

"Excuse me for intruding on you," she said to the landlady. "Your
servant tells me my brother-in-law called while I was out. He
sometimes leaves a message on his card."

She looked for the message, and appeared to be disappointed:
there was no writing on the card.

Mr. Rayburn lingered a little in the doorway on the chance of
hearing something more. The landlady's vigilant eyes discovered
him.

"Do you know this gentleman?" she said maliciously to her lodger.

"Not that I remember."

Replying in those words, the lady looked at Mr. Rayburn for the
first time; and suddenly drew back from him.

"Yes," she said, correcting herself; "I think we met--"

Her embarrassment overpowered her; she could say no more.

Mr. Rayburn compassionately finished the sentence for her.

"We met accidentally in Kensington Gardens," he said.

She seemed to be incapable of appreciating the kindness of his
motive. After hesitating a little she addressed a proposal to
him, which seemed to show distrust of the landlady.

"Will you let me speak to you upstairs in my own rooms?" she
asked.

Without waiting for a reply, she led the way to the stairs. Mr.
Rayburn and Lucy followed. They were just beginning the ascent to
the first floor, when the spiteful landlady left the lower room,
and called to her lodger over their heads: "Take care what you
say to this man, Mrs. Zant! He thinks you're mad."

Mrs. Zant turned round on the landing, and looked at him. Not a
word fell from her lips. She suffered, she feared, in silence.
Something in the sad submission of her face touched the springs
of innocent pity in Lucy's heart. The child burst out crying.

That artless expression of sympathy drew Mrs. Zant down the few
stairs which separated her from Lucy.

"May I kiss your dear little girl?" she said to Mr. Rayburn. The
landlady, standing on the mat below, expressed her opinion of the
value of caresses, as compared with a sounder method of treating
young persons in tears: "If that child was mine," she remarked,
"I would give her something to cry for."

In the meantime, Mrs. Zant led the way to her rooms.

The first words she spoke showed that the landlady had succeeded
but too well in prejudicing her against Mr. Rayburn.

"Will you let me ask your child," she said to him, "why you think
me mad?"

He met this strange request with a firm answer.

"You don't know yet what I really do think. Will you give me a
minute's attention?"

"No," she said positively. "The child pities me, I want to speak
to the child. What did you see me do in the Gardens, my dear,
that surprised you?" Lucy turned uneasily to her father; Mrs.
Zant persisted. "I first saw you by yourself, and then I saw you
with your father," she went on. "When I came nearer to you, did I
look very oddly--as if I didn't see you at all?"

Lucy hesitated again; and Mr. Rayburn interfered.

"You are confusing my little girl," he said. "Allow me to answer
your questions--or excuse me if I leave you."

There was something in his look, or in his tone, that mastered
her. She put her hand to her head.

"I don't think I'm fit for it," she answered vacantly. "My
courage has been sorely tried already. If I can get a little rest
and sleep, you may find me a different person. I am left a great
deal by myself; and I have reasons for trying to compose my mind.
Can I see you tomorrow? Or write to you? Where do you live?"

Mr. Rayburn laid his card on the table in silence. She had
strongly excited his interest. He honestly desired to be of some
service to this forlorn creature--abandoned so cruelly, as it
seemed, to her own guidance. But he had no authority to exercise,
no sort of claim to direct her actions, even if she consented to
accept his advice. As a last resource he ventured on an allusion
to the relative of whom she had spoken downstairs.

"When do you expect to see your brother-in-law again?" he said.

"I don't know," she answered. "I should like to see him--he is so
kind to me."

She turned aside to take leave of Lucy.

"Good-by, my little friend. If you live to grow up, I hope you
will never be such a miserable woman as I am." She suddenly
looked round at Mr. Rayburn. "Have you got a wife at home?" she
asked.

"My wife is dead."

"And _you_ have a child to comfort you! Please leave me; you
harden my heart. Oh, sir, don't you understand? You make me envy
you!"

Mr. Rayburn was silent when he and his daughter were out in the
street again. Lucy, as became a dutiful child, was silent, too.
But there are limits to human endurance--and Lucy's capacity for
self-control gave way at last.

"Are you thinking of the lady, papa?" she said.

He only answered by nodding his head. His daughter had
interrupted him at that critical moment in a man's reflections,
when he is on the point of making up his mind. Before they were
at home again Mr. Rayburn had arrived at a decision. Mrs. Zant's
brother-in-law was evidently ignorant of any serious necessity
for his interference--or he would have made arrangements for
immediately repeating his visit. In this state of things, if any
evil happened to Mrs. Zant, silence on Mr. Rayburn's part might
be indirectly to blame for a serious misfortune. Arriving at that
conclusion, he decided upon running the risk of being rudely
received, for the second time, by another stranger.

Leaving Lucy under the care of her governess, he went at once to
the address that had been written on the visiting-card left at
the lodging-house, and sent in his name. A courteous message was
returned. Mr. John Zant was at home, and would be happy to see
him.

IV.

MR. RAYBURN was shown into one of the private sitting-rooms of
the hotel.

He observed that the customary position of the furniture in a
room had been, in some respects, altered. An armchair, a
side-table, and a footstool had all been removed to one of the
windows, and had been placed as close as possible to the light.
On the table lay a large open roll of morocco leather, containing
rows of elegant little instruments in steel and ivory. Waiting by
the table, stood Mr. John Zant. He said "Good-morning" in a bass
voice, so profound and so melodious that those two commonplace
words assumed a new importance, coming from his lips. His
personal appearance was in harmony with his magnificent voice--
he was a tall, finely-made man of dark complexion; with big
brilliant black eyes, and a noble curling beard, which hid the
whole lower part of his face. Having bowed with a happy mingling
of dignity and politeness, the conventional side of this
gentleman's character suddenly vanished; and a crazy side, to all
appearance, took its place. He dropped on his knees in front of
the footstool. Had he forgotten to say his prayers that morning,
and was he in such a hurry to remedy the fault that he had no
time to spare for consulting appearances? The doubt had hardly
suggested itself, before it was set at rest in a most unexpected
manner. Mr. Zant looked at his visitor with a bland smile, and
said:

"Please let me see your feet."

For the moment, Mr. Rayburn lost his presence of mind. He looked
at the instruments on the side-table.

"Are you a corn-cutter?" was all he could say.

"Excuse me, sir, " returned the polite operator, "the term you
use is quite obsolete in our profession." He rose from his knees,
and added modestly: "I am a Chiropodist."

"I beg your pardon."

"Don't mention it! You are not, I imagine, in want of my
professional services. To what motive may I attribute the honor
of your visit?"

By this time Mr. Rayburn had recovered himself.

"I have come here," he answered, "under circumstances which
require apology as well as explanation."

Mr. Zant's highly polished manner betrayed signs of alarm; his
suspicions pointed to a formidable conclusion--a conclusion that
shook him to the innermost recesses of the pocket in which he
kept his money.

"The numerous demands on me--" he began.

Mr. Rayburn smiled.

"Make your mind easy," he replied. "I don't want money. My object
is to speak with you on the subject of a lady who is a relation
of yours."

"My sister-in-law!" Mr. Zant exclaimed. "Pray take a seat."

Doubting if he had chosen a convenient time for his visit, Mr.
Rayburn hesitated.

"Am I likely to be in the way of persons who wish to consult
you?" he asked.

"Certainly not. My morning hours of attendance on my clients are
from eleven to one." The clock on the mantelpiece struck the
quarter-past one as he spoke. "I hope you don't bring me bad
news?" he said, very earnestly. "When I called on Mrs. Zant this
morning, I heard that she had gone out for a walk. Is it
indiscreet to ask how you became acquainted with her?"

Mr. Rayburn at once mentioned what he had seen and heard in
Kensington Gardens; not forgetting to add a few words, which
described his interview afterward with Mrs. Zant.

The lady's brother-in-law listened with an interest and sympathy,
which offered the strongest possible contrast to the unprovoked
rudeness of the mistress of the lodging-house. He declared that
he could only do justice to his sense of obligation by following
Mr. Rayburn's example, and expressing himself as frankly as if he
had been speaking to an old friend.

"The sad story of my sister-in-law's life," he said, "will, I
think, explain certain things which must have naturally perplexed
you. My brother was introduced to her at the house of an
Australian gentleman, on a visit to England. She was then
employed as governess to his daughters. So sincere was the regard
felt for her by the family that the parents had, at the entreaty
of their children, asked her to accompany them when they returned
to the Colony. The governess thankfully accepted the proposal."

"Had she no relations in England?" Mr. Rayburn asked.

"She was literally alone in the world, sir. When I tell you that
she had been brought up in the Foundling Hospital, you will
understand what I mean. Oh, there is no romance in my
sister-in-law's story! She never has known, or will know, who her
parents were or why they deserted her. The happiest moment in her
life was the moment when she and my brother first met. It was an
instance, on both sides, of love at first sight. Though not a
rich man, my brother had earned a sufficient income in mercantile
pursuits. His character spoke for itself. In a word, he altered
all the poor girl's prospects, as we then hoped and believed, for
the better. Her employers deferred their return to Australia, so
that she might be married from their house. After a happy life of
a few weeks only--"

His voice failed him; he paused, and turned his face from the
light.

"Pardon me," he said; "I am not able, even yet, to speak
composedly of my brother's death. Let me only say that the poor
young wife was a widow, before the happy days of the honeymoon
were over. That dreadful calamity struck her down. Before my
brother had been committed to the grave, her life was in danger
from brain-fever."

Those words placed in a new light Mr. Rayburn's first fear that
her intellect might be deranged. Looking at him attentively, Mr.
Zant seemed to understand what was passing in the mind of his
guest.

"No!" he said. "If the opinions of the medical men are to be
trusted, the result of the illness is injury to her physical
strength--not injury to her mind. I have observed in her, no
doubt, a certain waywardness of temper since her illness; but
that is a trifle. As an example of what I mean, I may tell you
that I invited her, on her recovery, to pay me a visit. My house
is not in London--the air doesn't agree with me--my place of
residence is at St. Sallins-on-Sea. I am not myself a married
man; but my excellent housekeeper would have received Mrs. Zant
with the utmost kindness. She was resolved--obstinately resolved,
poor thing--to remain in London. It is needless to say that, in
her melancholy position, I am attentive to her slightest wishes.
I took a lodging for her; and, at her special request, I chose a
house which was near Kensington Gardens.

"Is there any association with the Gardens which led Mrs. Zant to
make that request?"

"Some association, I believe, with the memory of her husband. By
the way, I wish to be sure of finding her at home, when I call
to-morrow. Did you say (in the course of your interesting
statement) that she intended--as you supposed--to return to
Kensington Gardens to-morrow? Or has my memory deceived me?"

"Your memory is perfectly accurate."

"Thank you. I confess I am not only distressed by what you have
told me of Mrs. Zant--I am at a loss to know how to act for the
best. My only idea, at present, is to try change of air and
scene. What do you think yourself?"

"I think you are right."

Mr. Zant still hesitated.

"It would not be easy for me, just now," he said, "to leave my
patients and take her abroad."

The obvious reply to this occurred to Mr. Rayburn. A man of
larger worldly experience might have felt certain suspicions, and
might have remained silent. Mr. Rayburn spoke.

"Why not renew your invitation and take her to your house at the
seaside?" he said.

In the perplexed state of Mr. Zant's mind, this plain course of
action had apparently failed to present itself. His gloomy face
brightened directly.

"The very thing!" he said. "I will certainly take your advice. If
the air of St. Sallins does nothing else, it will improve her
health and help her to recover her good looks. Did she strike you
as having been (in happier days) a pretty woman?"

This was a strangely familiar question to ask--almost an
indelicate question, under the circumstances A certain furtive
expression in Mr. Zant's fine dark eyes seemed to imply that it
had been put with a purpose. Was it possible that he suspected
Mr. Rayburn's interest in his sister-in-law to be inspired by any
motive which was not perfectly unselfish and perfectly pure? To
arrive at such a conclusion as this might be to judge hastily and
cruelly of a man who was perhaps only guilty of a want of
delicacy of feeling. Mr. Rayburn honestly did his best to assume
the charitable point of view. At the same time, it is not to be
denied that his words, when he answered, were carefully guarded,
and that he rose to take his leave.

Mr. John Zant hospitably protested.

"Why are you in such a hurry? Must you really go? I shall have
the honor of returning your visit to-morrow, when I have made
arrangements to profit by that excellent suggestion of yours.
Good-by. God bless you."

He held out his hand: a hand with a smooth s urface and a tawny
color, that fervently squeezed the fingers of a departing friend.
"Is that man a scoundrel?" was Mr. Rayburn's first thought, after
he had left the hotel. His moral sense set all hesitation at
rest--and answered: "You're a fool if you doubt it."

V.

DISTURBED by presentiments, Mr. Rayburn returned to his house on
foot, by way of trying what exercise would do toward composing
his mind.

The experiment failed. He went upstairs and played with Lucy; he
drank an extra glass of wine at dinner; he took the child and her
governess to a circus in the evening; he ate a little supper,
fortified by another glass of wine, before he went to bed--and
still those vague forebodings of evil persisted in torturing him.
Looking back through his past life, he asked himself if any woman
(his late wife of course excepted!) had ever taken the
predominant place in his thoughts which Mrs. Zant had
assumed--without any discernible reason to account for it? If he
had ventured to answer his own question, the reply would have
been: Never!

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