Mr. Marischal stopped a moment. n.o.body spoke. Then he went on again.
"I should not have said "unchanged." There was one great change in the sweet face. You remember my telling you that one of my girl-friend"s greatest charms was her bright sunny happiness--she never seemed gloomy or depressed or dissatisfied, seldom even pensive. But in this respect the face I sat there gazing at was utterly unlike Maud Bertram"s. Its expression, as she--or "it"--stood there looking, not towards me, but out beyond, as if at some one or something outside the doorway, was of the profoundest sadness. Anything _so_ sad I had never seen in a human face, and I trust I never may. But I sat on, as motionless almost as she, gazing at her fixedly, with no desire, no power perhaps, to move or approach more nearly to the phantom. I was not in the least frightened.
I knew it _was_ a phantom, but I felt paralysed, and as if I myself had somehow got outside of ordinary conditions. And there I sat--staring at Maud, and there she stood, gazing before her with that terrible, unspeakable sadness in her face, which, even though I felt no _fear_, seemed to freeze me with a kind of unutterable pity.
"I don"t know how long I had sat thus, or how long I might have continued to sit there, almost as if in a trance, when suddenly I heard the front-door bell ring. It seemed to awaken me. I started up and glanced round, half-expecting that I should find the vision dispelled.
But no; she was still there, and I sank back into my seat just as I heard my brother coming quickly upstairs. He came towards the library, and seeing the door wide open walked in, and I, still gazing, saw his figure _pa.s.s through that of the woman in the doorway_ as you may walk through a wreath of mist or smoke--only, don"t misunderstand me, the figure of Maud till that moment had had nothing unsubstantial about it.
She had looked to me, as she stood there, literally and exactly like a living woman--the shade of her dress, the colour of her hair, the few ornaments she wore, all were as defined and clear as yours, Nina, at the present moment, and remained so, or perhaps became so again as soon as my brother was well within the room. He came forward addressing me by name, but I answered him in a whisper, begging him to be silent and to sit down on the seat opposite me for a moment or two. He did so, though he was taken aback by my strange manner, for I still kept my eyes fixed on the door. I had a queer consciousness that if I looked away _it_ would fade, and I wanted to keep cool and see what would happen. I asked Herbert in a low voice if _he_ saw nothing, but though he mechanically followed the direction of my eyes, he shook his head in bewilderment.
And for a moment or two he remained thus. Then I began to notice that the figure was growing less clear, as if it were receding, yet without growing smaller to the sight; it grew fainter and vaguer, the colours grew hazy. I rubbed my eyes once or twice with a half idea that my long watching was making them misty, but it was not so. My eyes were not at fault--slowly but surely Maud Bertram, or her ghost, melted away, till all trace of her had gone. I saw again the familiar pattern of the carpet where she had stood and the objects of the room that had been hidden by her draperies--all again in the most commonplace way, but she was gone, quite gone.
"Then Herbert, seeing me relax my intense gaze, began to question me. I told him exactly what I have told you. He answered, as every "common-sensible" person of course would, that it was strange, but that such things did happen sometimes and were cla.s.sed by the wise under the head of "optical delusions." I was not well, perhaps, he suggested. Been over-working? Had I not better see a doctor? But I shook my head. I was quite well, and I said so. And perhaps he was right, it might be an optical delusion only. I had never had any experience of such things.
""All the same," I said, "I shall mark down the date."
"Herbert laughed and said that was what people always did in such cases.
If he knew where Mrs. ---- then was he would write to her, just for the fun of the thing, and ask her to be so good as to look up her diary, if she kept one, and let us know what she had been doing on that particular day--"the 6th of April, isn"t it?" he said--when I would have it her wraith had paid me a visit. I let him talk. It seemed to remove the strange painful impression--painful because of that terrible sadness in the sweet face. But we neither of us knew where she was, we scarcely remembered her married name! And so there was nothing to be done--except, what I did at once in spite of Herbert"s rallying, to mark down the day and hour with scrupulous exactness in _my_ diary.
"Time pa.s.sed. I had not forgotten my strange experience, but of course the impression of it lessened by degrees till it seemed more like a curious dream than anything more real, when one day I _did_ hear of poor Maud again. "Poor" Maud I cannot help calling her. I heard of her indirectly, and probably, but for the sadness of her story, I should never have heard it at all. It was a friend of her husband"s family who had mentioned the circ.u.mstances in the hearing of a friend of mine, and one day something brought round the conversation to old times, and he startled me by suddenly inquiring if I remembered Maud Bertram. I said, of course I did. Did he know anything of her? And then he told me.
"She was dead--she had died some months ago after a long and trying illness, the result of a terrible accident. She had caught fire one evening when dressed for some grand entertainment or other, and though her injuries did not seem likely to be fatal at the time, she had never recovered the shock.
""She was so pretty," my friend said, "and one of the saddest parts of it was that I hear she was terrifically disfigured, and she took this most sadly to heart. The right side of her face was utterly ruined, and the sight of the right eye lost, though, strange to say, the left side entirely escaped, and seeing her in profile one would have had no notion of what had happened. Was it not sad? She was such a sweet, bright creature."
"I did not tell him _my_ story, for I did not want it chattered about, but a strange sort of shiver ran through me at his words. _It was the left side of her face only_ that the wraith of my poor friend had allowed me to see."
"Oh, Uncle Paul!" exclaimed Nina.
"And--as to the dates?" inquired Mr. Snowdon.
"I never knew the exact date of the accident," said Mr. Marischal, "but that of her death was fully six months after I had seen her. And in my own mind, I have never made any doubt that it was at or about, probably a short time after, the accident, that she came to me. It seemed a kind of appeal for sympathy--and--a farewell also, poor child."
They all sat silent for some little time, and then Mr. Marischal got up and went off to his own quarters, saying something vaguely about seeing if his letters had gone.
"What a touching story!" said Gladys Lloyd. "I am afraid, after all, it has been more painful than he realised for Mr. Marischal to tell it. Did you know anything of Maud"s husband, dear Lady Denholme? Was he kind to her? Was she happy?"
"We never heard much about her married life," her hostess replied. "But I have no reason to think she was unhappy. Her husband married again two or three years after her death, but that says nothing."
"N--no," said Nina. "All the same, mamma, I am sure she really did love Uncle Paul very much,--much more than he had any idea of. Poor Maud!"
"And he has never married," added Gladys.
"No," said Lady Denholme, "but there have been many practical difficulties in the way of his doing so. He has had a most absorbingly busy life, and now that he is more at leisure he feels himself too old to form new ties."
"But," persisted Nina, "if he had had any idea at the time that Maud cared for him so?"
"Ah well," Lady Denholme allowed, "in that case, in spite of the practical difficulties, things would probably have been different."
And again Nina repeated softly, "Poor Maud!"