EARTH-BOUND.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CVII, Issue 12819, 26 May 1902, Page 3

EARTH-BOUND.

(By JOHN STRANGE WINTER.) Author of “ Bootle’s Baby,” “ Houp-la,” etc. I don’t think that people really know what ai ghost is, and they certainly do not know what it feels like to he what is called a ghost. All the same, when we have passed over, you must understand that we never think of ourselves as “ghosts.” No, we are ourselves just the same as if we had remained on earth. But sometimes our passing over is brought about in such a way that all of us do not get to the other side, and that part which remains behind oftentimes takes a material form, and then those who are still occupants of the planet call it—a ghost. I have long been anxious to explain the truth on this subject to- such as are interested in those still lingering about the scene of their earth life, and for many years I longed for the power of putting down my words in black and white, so that I might actually explain these things to the world I have left, which you know, as a rule, ghosts have no opportunity of doing.- Ghosts who can materialise the voice might dictate their wishes, hut not many people would have the nerve to take pen and paper and transcribe the utterances of a ghost; and yet, if they knew us, they would understand how harmless we are, how little we wish to injure those with whom we crave touch and speech, with whom we crave any kind of communication.,

In my times on earth I, of course, knew the terrible stories' that were told of Glands Castle, and other -ancestral homes, and I, too, shared with my brothers and sisters the indefinable horror which attaches itself to the personalities of those who are no- longer, humanly speaking, alive. Let me explain myself a little more clearly. My name wag Dorothy Trench. I lived a couple of hundred years ,ago in my father’s house in the fair county of Worcester. There is a tablet in Ashburton Church which says: “ To the tender memory of Lady D,orothy, only daughter of Gilbert Trench, E'arl of Ashbury, who died November 30th, 1702, from the result of an accident. She was young and very fair. Her place on earth and in the hearts of her sorrowing parents can never be filled by. another.”. I have seen my poor mother sitting in her accustomed corner of the great pew in Ashburton Church, her eyes fixed upon that pathetic monument, while my heart was breaking to comfort her.

And how did I come by my earthly end? Well, it happened one day that I was about to descend the great flight of stairs leading to the large hall. Somebody had shut the iron dog-gates at the foot of the last step, and I, tripping, fell, striking my head against the trelUs work of the gates. For a moment I knew nothing, hut when I came to my senses again I was standing, with a curious empty, dazed feeling, as if I were light-headed. I heard screams from various parts of the house, and the sound of running feet. I tried to tell them that I was not really hurt, and then, looking down, I saw a young girl, lily-skinned and golden-haired, lying huddled up in a heap just within the dog-gates. I was so bewildered from the effects of the blow that I stood speechless. I watched them raise her, saw the head with its wealth of trailing golden hair fall helplessly down, saw the golden locks which crowned it dabbled in blood. They carried her reverently to one of the great settles in the hall, and I followed, a little unsteady on my feet, a little light of limb and head, wondering who it was and why she was there.

I remember so well the old butler and my own old nurse standing trying to restore her.-

“ She is dead,” said Andrew, “ she is dead.”

Then my old nurse broke in with a terrible cry. “Who is'to tell her ladyship?” “ That,” said Andrew, “is your work, Goody.” “ Mine—mine !” she cried. And then she flung her apron over her head, and sobbed, “ Oh the day, the weary day!” 1 understood what had happened when my mother came. You can imagine what I felt, I standing there by myself, with all my own feelings, my own senses about me, and yet unable to attract the notice of any of those persons present? And there‘that other self lay, pale and motionless, while my mother’s heart broke. Oh, if she was unhappy, I was unhappy too.

I somehow did not understand all the truth. I had had an idea all my life that Vrhen people died, as they expressed it on earth, when people died they went either to a shining heaven or to a desolate hell. I was in neither. I had been hurried out of my earth life, and so I became neither a shining nor an evil spirit, but a poor ghost. I was a prisoner in the halls, of my ancestors, my only company a poor knave who had been hanged upon the battlements for some trivial offence of which he was wholly innocent. . Well, the years went by. You know we ghosts are not cognisant of the flight of

time as we were when still upon the planet ; day and night are all the same to us; our new life is wholly different to the old one; and while we are still bound down by the ties of love or of any other deep feeling to the life we have lived upon earth, we are wholly unconscious of the actual flight of time. But we have, as it were, beacon lights on our way. i watched my mother, day by day, change ■ from a beautiful and comely woman, barely middle-aged, until she was old and decrepit. A great many years must have passed ere the summons came to her that her earthly career was at an end. Week by week I watched her sad eyes fixed upon that memorial tablet, day after day I was there to receive her when she entered my room night and morning, as she had always done; and then, when she, too, had passed over, oh, sorrow of sorrows, I was still hard bound upon earth, and I was left alone. They all went out of the old house one by one, and new faces took the places of those I had loved—new faces, new ways, new manners, new customs, and 1 and the poor knave were all-alone, with them and yet not with them, kin and yet strange, mere shadows unable to attract the smallest attention, unable to arouse any feeling but fear. Oh, my case was sad, very sad. i was alone, and yet always in a crowd. 1 was still so young. I longed for someone to pet me, to make much of me, to mother me; and I was always alone—quite alone. If I could have passed over into the spirit world—l mean if all of me, if the sentient part of me could have passed over into the spirit world, I should have wanted nothing, cared for nothing, craved for nothing ; but whether my own craving to comfort my mother, whether my mother’s yearning for me had served to make me earth-bound, I do not know, I only know that one by one those that I had known and trusted and loved vanished away from the old house, and I was left alone. I did not count the poor knave who had been hanged a couple of hundred years before the day on which I tripped and fell down the great stairs. He and I had nothing in common. He was earth-bound, too, and he never ventured to address me unless I passed the time of day with him. So two hundred years went by. Yes, I know that it was two hundred years, because one day I was wandering disconsolately in the great picture galle’ry, and I heard one of the daughters of my house explaining my portrait. “ She was called Dorothy Trench,” she was saying. “ She was killed, you know, at the foot of the stairs, two hundred years ago. That was why they took do>vn the dog gates, but the stanchions are there still, and the gates wo gave to the church. They stand on either side of the chancel.”

“ Then you were called after her?’’ said one of her hearers.

“ I ways called Dorothy Trench after her. I often tell my people it was an unlucky omen, because I have grown up so much like her.”

“ She was very lovely,” said the other. “ Oh, you mustn’t say that. You might think me begging the question. You couldn’t help giving that answer, but I dread the fate that may be in store for me. I have a feeling that I, too, shall die young, that I, too, shall come to my end by accident, as she did. I go downstairs always with my hand on the balustrades. I would'rest my other hand on the wall, only the stairs are so wide that I cannot reach to both. I often go and look at my little ancestress, the other Dorothy Trench, but I wish they had called me after anyone else.” Then they passed on down the long gallery, stopping here and there to look at the different portraits, joking and laughing between themselves; and finally they all went downstairs into the great hall below. All, did I say? No, my namesake, Dorothy, and her attendant cavalier, looking so different to what ,he would have looked ir my day, lingered behind and wandered somehow down the great gallery once more. I followed —no, I didn’t follow exactly, for I linked my arm in hers, feeling that at last I had got an interest in life, feeling that at last I had found someone who loved me, someone who would be interested in me, someone who wouldn’t be frightened if I could materialise and show myself, I, in my habit as I used to be.

They used to call it “playing gooseberry ” in my day; it’s a thankless task. Those two took no more heed of me than if I had been the air through which we walked; and yet I was myself, tangible, warm, palpitating. I had 'my pretty blue gown on.; my hair tied up with a blue ribbon. As We . passed a great lookingglass I saw myself— oh, so like the Dorothv whose arm I held.' We might have been twin rosebuds on a single stem; and yet they took no heed of me. I left them at last. I could not bear ;to hear tbe lover’s lender whisperings. 1 could not bear to see her half shy, half coquettish upward glances.

“ You should have no fear,” he said, “ the other Lady Dorothy never had a lover by all accounts. You have taken your fate into your own hands. Your line of life will be turned away from the old house very soon how. History does not repeat itself in every detail, and if it did —if it did, I don’t think, my Dorothy, that I should live to hear my sorrow very long. I don’t think I could go on for thirty, forty, fifty years, as the mother of that poor little girl did. I should make a short and sharp end of it.” “Oh,” she' shuddered, “how cold it is, Geoffrey. Let us go down to the hall; it will be warmer there.” I had not the heart to follow them. 1 stayed behind and looked at my portrait. Then I went and gazed at myself in the great sheet of looking-glass, and then I wandered away to a dark corner that I knew of, and I wept. Oh, the tears that poor spirits weep! There is no comfort in them; they give no relief. In the spirit world tears are not the emblems of hope. Yet even as I sat and wept, hope did come to me, a ray of light crept in upon my earth-bound brain. If I could meet with some human sympathy I might be released from these centuries of weary standing still, and I might pass over to that other world where I should-find those who must have been seeking me for nigh upon two hundred years. The question was how could I touch the great fount of human, living sympathy? I had heard, by what had fallen from the other Dorothy Trench’s lips, that she was interested in me. She was sorry, grieved, when she thought of the sad story of my suddenly-ended youth. If I could once materialise myself in her presence and could establish communication with her, tie. rest would be easy. I had not very long, a matter of a few years, possessed the power of materialising myself. I felt that day that if I could only find Dorothy’s own room, I should accomplish my task easily. But I had seen Dorothy and other members of the family disappear into a comparatively modern wing of the house, one into which I bad never ventured to intrude. I felt quite nervous as I bent my footsteps thither; 1 bad not the most remote idea which was Dorothy’s chamber. The air felt different, unaccustomed. I didn’t know my way. I tried to stop across the threshold of the long corridor which gave upon the new wing. No, I was frightened. I drew back, and then I caught sight of a light at a little distance. Ob, I knew where that came from. I went down trie stairs, shivering as I passed over the place where tbe dog gates had hung. I crossed the great hall, apd I

pushed open the door of what used to be called “My Ladyes’ Parlour,” I don’t think that I had been in that room for a century. It was quite different. I remembered very well, a long time ago, going down to see if my mother was there. I found a strange lady with a Spanish-look-ing face, and the room that had used to be decked in dainty chintz, and the wall painted pink, was hung with rich deep King-cup yellow’. I remember so well that I turned -with a cry and fled, and I heard as I passed the portal a petulant voice saying, “ Oh, what draughts there are in this old house!”

Yet the change was even greater now than that of a century ago. The walls were pale vivid green, the curtains a deep rich crimson, the chairs and couches all covered in scarlet leather. It was a hard room for a lady’s parlour. There were curious old engravings on the walls, and a great round table littered with papers, and a man sitting in a big chair, smoking. I stood quite amazed, when suddenly he put down his paper and stared at me with a look of the most intense astonishment.

“Lady Dorothy!” he said. I smiled. It -was so delicious to he spoken to by my name. “What are you doing down here? Do you see the time?” He glanced at the clock on the chimney-shelf. I looked at it too. It pointed to the hour of three. The man got up. “ You ought to be in bed,” he said. “Whafc will Kilhampton, say?” “Kilhampton? What should he say? Then I stretched out my hand. ■“ Oh, you don’t understand. I have come to. you for sympathy.” “To me—to me? My God! Lady Dorothy, go back, go back.” He turned and put out a hand to warn me off. ‘ Go back to your room. Forget that you came in here at all. Everyone has gone to ; nobody will know. This is madness. “ Oh, no,” I said, “ no. It is new life.” I moved towards him. He edged away. “Oh,” I said, in a frenzy of terror that after all. my years of loneliness I had been brought into touch with a warm, living, palpitating human being to no purpose, “Oh, don’t go away. You could not be so cruel. You don’t understand. How shall I tell you? I have been waiting centuries for this moment.”

“ Lady Dorothy,” he said, and he spoke in such a stern tone that I shivered where I stood, “you don't understand what madness this' is. If Kilhampton ” “ Kilhampton is here,” said another voice.

I turned. At the door stood the young man that I had seen in the gallery with the other Dorothy. He looked at me with eyes which made my blood freeze in my veins with terror.

“I heard everything that you said,” he went on. “I was not eavesdropping. I came down again to write a note to you, that I might send it to you early in the morning. I have no need to write it now. I must apologise, Lady Dorothy, for having made you the recipient of my unwelcome attentions.”

I lifted my hand to my throat. I tried to speak—l did not understand what he meant. The words died on my lips. Oh, how strange people are now. that I have come in touch with them again! A great wave of feeling came surging over me that I, who had longed for two long weary centuries to have touch once more with the living, had better have remained in the company of the poor knave in the western wing. The man called Kilhampton turned to the other man whom 1 had found in the room. “Murray,” he said, “I must do you the justice to say that ! heard every word that passed between you, and I must exonerate you from all blame in this matter. At the same time, Lady Dorothy, so far as I am concerned, is free from this moment.” The man called Murray made a step forward. “Kilhampton, I swear to you ” he began. “ You needn’t swear. I believe you without it. Lady Dorothy I will bid you farewell.”

There was an instant’s pause. Oh, my heart beat so hard it choked the words that; came tumbling to my unaccustomed lips. “I see,” he went on, ‘‘that you'have discarded the ring which I gave you. You will doubtless send it to me in the morning.” He never waited for my reply; he turned and went. And I stood there not comprehending; not exactly understanding— Oh, no, not then understanding at all. “Don’t you think, Lady Dorothy,”'said Murray, “ that you haci better go back to your room?” ; , I looked at him, I wrung my hands in my distress. “ Would you explain to me,” I said, “would you explain all that that gentleman said?”, “ That gentleman? Lord Kilhamptou?” “Is he Lord Kilhamptou? I don’t know. I have seen him about the house. He spoke as'if he knew me. He said he had given me a ring. I have no ring. Look.” And I put out my hands to show him that there was no jewel of any kind encircling any of my fingers. “He never gave you a ring? Oh, yes, Lady Dorothy, indeed he did. I can vouch for it, for I saw it the first day that you wore it.” “ Bub you have never seen me before,” I cried.

“ I have never seen you before! My dear Lady Dorothy—oh, this must be looked into Lee me go and rouse.your father and mother. Let me fetch Kilhamptou back again. She must be walking in her sleep,” he said. He spoke as if to himself. “I am not walking in my sleep. You cannot fetch my father and mother. They’ve been dead two hundred years and more.” "This is horrible!” he exclaimed. He was already at the door. “ Do you mind waiting here until I return?” "Yes, I will wait.”

He seemed to be gone some few min; utes. You know we poor ghosts have no great knowledge of time. Presently 1 heard them coming back. I heard Murray’s eager voice. “ Oh, out of her senses, my dear fellow. • She’s walk- 1 ing in her sleep; she’s not rational. I thought she was until you had gone out of the room. She says her father and mother have been dead two hundred years.” I turned and looked at them as they caane in. Lord Kilhamptou came straight across the room to me. “Dorothy,” he said, “you don’t feel well.” “Yes, 1-feel as 1 always do. I was so happy when I found—that—l could speak and hold communication with—wlili this gentleman. But he says you gave me a ring. You never gave me a ring. ' I never had a ring in my life.” "Indeed I did give you a ring last week, Dorothy.” “ .No.” I held up my hand to show him that it was mgless. He caught at it. “ That is not Dorothy’s hand. Look, you know her so well, Murray. 'The fingers are quite different. She had a long third finger. This is a short one. Look-—the shape of the nails, the colour, the size. Who are you?” “ 1 am—l am —I was "Dorothy Trench once.” ■

“Dorothy Trench! Not my Dorothy Trench? It’s not the same hand, Murray. I tell you it isn’t the same hand. And her clothes —Dorothy hasn't gob a dress like this; This is a fancy dress.” “ Lady Dorothy was wearing a blue dress last night at dinner.” “ Yes, a blue dress. Not like this, not this colour. It isn’t the same. Who are you?” “I told you I was Dorothy Trench once.” “But who are you now?” • " 1 suppose I am Dorothy Trench now ”

“ What do you mean by your father and mother having been dead for two hundred years?” “Oh, don’t you understand? I was that Dorothy Trench who was killed at the foot of the stairs there. 1 have been wandering about this house, unseen, unsuspected, foi , two hundred years. I can’t get over to the other side, where my near relations are; and so 1 have been hovering about for two hundred years Until to-night. And then I came down here—l think I came to look for the Dorothy Trench that lives now, the girl I saw you walking with in the gallery only to-day, the girl who was talking about me. Don’t you understand?” “You don’t mean that you are a ghost?” “Well—-I—l think I am myself. I am not dead, because lam here; I am not alive, because nobody has seen me for two hundred years, and I thought this gentleman,” stretching out my hand towards the other man, “I thought this gentleman would help me. I never knew till to-day why I was so lonely, why I could not go where all my near relations went when they left this planet. I know now, though I don’t exactly know how the knowledge came to me, that I have been earth-bound. You see, I was killed —I mean I can t explain it, but if somebody would love me just a little, it would help me to get out of this terrible condition, and to go onward to my own people. His face 'changed. “Nay,” he said, “ that seems a pity. Since you have come, can’t you stay altogether?” The suggestion broke the spell. With a cry I turned and fled back to the gallery where I had lived in loneliness for two long centuries. I sped straight to the place where a desk stood. Yes, there was pen, ink and paper. But the time had gone by, I could not trace a single word. I‘ felt i weak, exhausted, powerless, and some strange voice came to me, saying; “ Rest for a little while, Dorothy Trench. Later on the power will come, so that you can write down your strange story, and then you will rest again, and in that time of peace you will be wafted over to the othe side.”