SHORT STORY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLVIII, Issue 14690, 26 May 1911, Page 4

SHORT STORY.

THE GHOST.

BY MADELINE MC'ciUE.

(Copyright.)

It was a dark, rainy afternoon, and they were already beginning to light the lamps as Mrs. Philip D'Egvillo walked hurriedly towards the Milhampton railway station. In her hand she carried a small leather bag containing a pair of slim black satin slippers, a long light scarf of oink silk, and a funny wriggling band of india-rubber with a soft velvet handle at either end. Mrs. D'Egville was tall and slight, with pathetic brown eyes and a very drunken husband, and she taught dancing in high-class schools and families, with special terms for skirt and scarf dancing, fencing, etc. She had always been fond of dancing, and although, when he married her, Philip D'Egvillo had demurred at her suggestion that she should help him in his work, he was careless and indolent, and now the greater part of it had devolved upon his wife. Just now she was doing her best to catch the 5.47 to Euston, and she thought rather enviously of the plump widow lady who played the dance musio at Miss Mouncey's High School for Young Ladies, who lived at Milhampton, and to whom the 5.47 " up" train was not a matter of weekly anxiety. It was now 5.30, and sho was still a long way from the station. Milhampton was growing rapidly, and was letting out tucks all round itself. New houses were springing up like mushrooms everywhere, and the road to the stationbetween building operations and heavy rain—was unspeakable. When sho got to the station she found that after all there was still time to buy a paper before the train came in. Then she received a horrible shock, for, putting her hand into her pocket, she found that her purse was gone. Gone gone as though it had never boon, and inside her purse had gono the return half of her ticket to London. Vaguely sho tried to remember just when sho had had it last. Sho distinctly remembered putting the return half of the ticket into it, just outside Milhampton station early that afternoon. Ah, now she knew! She had pint it down oh the bank by the roadside where sho had stopped to tie her shoe. That must have been where she had left it. The train came smoothly round the curve to the station, its two red eyes looking sinister in the darkness. It stopped opposite to her. Peoplo got out, and people got in, and then there was the sound of a whistle, and it puffed its way heavily Dondonwards, leaving Muriel D'Egville standing helplessly on the platform. It was useless to send a telegram. It was unlikely that Philip D'Egville would be at homo to receive it.

The bank on -which she had laid her purse was nearly half-a-mile away, hut as it, was now quito dark there was just one chance in a thousand in favour of its being still there. She made inquiries regarding the next train. Tho solitary porter was not comforting. "Ten-thirty," ho replied with brevity. Muriel D'Egvillc gathered up her skirts and walked out of tho station into the moist darkness beyond. Tho rain was coming down heavily now, and the station lamp was reflected in pools of light brown water. It was hopeless to try to pick her steps. She thought of her old nurse's directions when they were all children bathing nt tho seaside. "Go in quick, miss, and wet all over!"

She felt cold and depressed, and tried to arrange for the possibility of her not finding tho purse. Mrs. Mouncey did not livo at the school, and in any case Mrs. D'Kgvillo would not have cared to apply to her in any difficulty. She did not know where any of the governesses lived. It was a lonely road, and once she heard a tipsy laugh, and saw a heavy figure go lurching unsteadily past her in the darkness. But a certain grim familiarity with this special form of weakness had remored Muriel's girlish horror of it. and the sight only had the effect of making her wonder what her husband would think of her absence: it was unlikely that he would feel the slightest anxiety on her account. He knew that Muriel could take care of herself, and allowed her to do so.

Surely this was the place, near the bond of the road. She bent down and felt along tho bank, wetting her thin gloves through and through. No! A little further up, perhaps. At last there was no doubt about it. The purse was not there.

And tlicn the brave courage, which had supported nor so far, began to flag a littlo. It was getting quite late, and she was far from homo, stranded and purseless, miserably wet and cold. Siio had had a very light lunch, and _ had eaten nothing since one o'clock. (Miss Mouneoy, although she .always had tea at 4ho. school herself,. did

not caro to make tlio habit of extending her hospitality to tho staff). There was nobody to see, and Mrs. D'Egvillo sat down upon the sopping bank by the roadsido and indulged in the luxury of a few tears. All at once she started to her feet. Somebody was coming down tho road— almost up to her It was Mrs. Edwards, tho shy little woman who nlaved the piano for the dancing class. She peered uncertainly at tho tall figure in front of her. Is —is it Mrs. DLgvillo? she asked hesitatingly. .„,,,., •<• i i i Mrs. D'Egvillo looked at her as if she had been a beautiful angel from heaven instead of a little short plump woman, with plain stolid face and a round black felt hat. Sho very nearly embraced Mrs. Edwards, but as Mrs. Edwards was unaccustomed t.o, and exceedingly diffident about, demonstrations of any kind it was perhaps just as well that sho did not. Muriel told her story in a few words, and then the oilier put out a timid hand and felt the sleeve of her coat. "You are simply soaking wet," sho said. "You will catch your death of cold. The fare? With pleasure. I've got my purse in my pocket. Hut—won't you come with me till your train time?" sho added timidly. "Wo arc quite close to tho station. Do! You must got your things dry and have some supper before you go." The other's "Thank you!" was almost drowned by a sudden lump in her throat. A little unexpected kindness often has this effect upon emotional people. An hour later the two women were chatting brightly over some exceedingly _ wellmade coffee" in Mrs. Edwards's little sittingroom. Airs. D'Kqvillo wore a grey skirt and pink woollen bedroom slippers belonging to her hostess. Her own boots were drying much too quickly in front ot the fire. They also had to be ready to catch the 10.jo "up," because the shorter broader ones upon the hearthrug did not fit their mistress. Mrs. Edwards found herself talking easily and even confidentially to tho smiling, grave-eyed woman opposite to her. How was it, she wondered, that she had ever considered Mrs. D'Lgvillo either stiff or distant? She spoke tenderly of her oight-ye-ar-old son upstairs in ]>ed. "I think I'll put him in a bank like his poor father." she said. Muriel D'Kgville was politely > interested. "Your husband was in a bank?" "Oh, yes. He was agent for all Milhampton. Willie is like his father m some ways, hut then again he's such a lazy dreamy kind of lioy that I'm afraid he 11 want to lie an artist or something like that. Mrs. D'Egvillo laughed. "Oh, f you mustn't say 'afraid.' Mrs. Edwards," sho said. "When an artist is an artist, it is one of the finest, grandest things m tho world. I used to play at art onco myself, long ago," she added, looking far into the dancing heart of the fire. Retrospect gives some interesting expressions to tho human face sometimes, but mercifully very few people are foolish enough to waste their timo over tho study of expression. "Oh, did you?" replied Mrs. Edwards. "My only brother was an artist. He was always different, from me by nature. "Very big, too, and I was always such a little thing. I never really saw very much of him. I married voting, you see, and came to Milhampton, and he was always working at -his painting." . Airs. D'Egvillo was quickly interested. "Have you got any of his work?" she asked. , "Just a thing or two. He never seemed to mako much money by it. He did that, over the fireplace. Yes, and that one too. Sho pointed them out without much enthusiasm, and Mrs. D'Egvillo crossed over to look at them more closely. Both sketches were roughly done, but thoro was a boldness about the brushwork which she liked. . "Your brother must have worked in Paris," she remarked to the artist's sister. "Yes. How did you know? I'rom the pictures? How strange that you could tell like that! Oh, yes. Paris was tho rum of my brother." . . The other woman was still admiring tho sketches. Paris, sho know had been the ruin of many brothers—the scene of many tragedies. . . The rain beat against the window with a dismal pattering, and Muriel D Egyillo wakened suddenly out of deep thought to the recollection of the prosaic fact that time and trains wait for no man (or woman), and that it was time to put on the half-dry "Wait," said Mrs. Edwards, "till tho rain stops a little. It only takes about seven minutes from here, walking quite slowly. I've just got time to show you another ot my brother's pictures before you go Its upstairs. Will you come up? Well go quietly because Willie's asleep. Oh, no, the light won't waken him. Over here. Can you see?" ..,,., . , It, was an ordinary little bedroom, with white papery curtains and florid wallpaper. In one corner Willie Edwards lay asleep, breathing heavily. Willie was going to bo very like his mother. On the wall opposite tho window was another small painting, in front of which Mrs. Edwards stood holding up the candle as high as sho could reach. In a moment, and without the slightest warning, Muriel D'Egvillo was face to face with it-looking straight into the eyes of a girl whom sho had put away from her and tried to forget for the last 10 years. Iho portrait—for it was obviously a portraitrepresented a tall slim girl, with laughing brown eyes and shadowy hair. The pose was easy and graceful, and there was genius in overv line of the picture. Mrs. D Egville gazed at it in silence for a minute. After the first shock of seeing it unexpectedly, there was the bewildering coincidence of meeting it there—in Mrs. Edwards little house in Milhampton. She seated herself slowlv uren a creaking wicker chair. Hie wido" hat-brim threw a heavy shadow over her face. . , "Your brother? she said in a low, uncertain voice. "Did — your — brother do this?" "Yes. His—my name was Farmerrow, you know. Here aro his initials in tho corner 'D.F.' Do you see the others underneath? 'M' something? These were hers. Ho was engaged to this girl once. She was an artist, too. Oh, he would have given his soul for her. And if sho didn't jilt him after all and run off with a, common dancing master or something. Got over it? Not he Dick never got over it. Couldn't seem to "settle down to anything without her, and just went from bad to worse. Well, ho dead now, poor boy." "Dead? I didn't know — you didn t tell —" „...,, .1 "Oh, yes. Poor Dick is dead. And perhaps, after all—. They sent, me this afterwards—out of his room, you know. Oh, I think a girl like that should lie. I don't know what's bad enough, do you? What do you think?" ~.-*, , , Tho other woman had turned her head away. She was still looking at the picture. Oh, she was—she looks very, very young,'' sho murmured in a low voice. She looked white and tired by tho flickering light of the candle. "Young! Youngs no excuse for spoiling a man's life! No, no. The girl always gets off scot free; it is the man that suffers. Eh? Not always? Oh, don't you think so? I knew a case— must yon go? I was forgetting that wretched train. Well, perhaps you had better, it's so miserable to have to mako a rush for it. Oh, nonsense ! I have enjoyed having you. I only wish you could have stayed for tho night. Well, if you must —" '"Yes. I absolutely must," said Mrs. Philip D'Egvillo. "My husband will be so anxious about me'."