Chapter 2

I don’t imagine that Mrs. Turvey had ever read Cowper: in fact, it is
exceedingly improbable that Mrs. Turvey’s poetical readings had ever
extended beyond the works of the late lamented Dr. Watts. This talented
author had, it is pretty certain, come under her notice, for it is on
record that she once reprimanded her niece, Topsey, for putting her
fingers into the marmalade-pot, by telling her that—

‘Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do.’

And fancying that this solemn warning by itself might not be
sufficient, she had added to it a picture of the delights of an active
life by requesting Topsey to contemplate the habits of the busy bee,
who ‘improves each shining hour by gathering honey all the day from
every opening flower.’ A quotation which was singularly inapt under the
circumstance, for, substitute marmalade for honey, and open jam-pot for
opening flower, and Topsey had been really doing her best to imitate
the bright example aforesaid.

Topsey might have retorted to this effect had she been a sharp child,
but unfortunately she was not. So she just wiped her sticky little
fingers on her pinafore, looked up with a roguish smile at her ‘aunty,’
and darted from the room, to find as much mischief (or marmalade) as
she could elsewhere.

Mrs. Turvey and Topsey, her twelve-year-old niece, were the sole
inhabitants of a great old-fashioned house in a street near Russell
Square. Mrs. Turvey was housekeeper to Mr. Gurth Egerton, a gentleman
who was travelling abroad for the benefit of his health, and feeling
lonely with fourteen rooms all to herself, not to speak of cellars,
dark corners, and gloomy passages, she had, in an evil hour, obtained
permission of her brother, a widower and a railway guard, to take his
little daughter into her keeping, and so have the echoes of the
desolate mansion occasionally awakened with a human voice.

Topsey woke the echoes, and no mistake. The echoes had a bad time of it
if they were at all sleepy echoes. They did have forty winks now and
then in the day, when Topsey ran errands; but as a rule they were only
allowed to drop off and take their natural rest when Topsey took
hers—at night.

See what a mischievous little thing this Topsey is. She has actually
kept Cowper waiting while we are attending to her.

Let us hark back to Cowper and Mrs. Turvey at once.

There is a well-known passage in ‘The Winter’s Evening,’ which I never
read, even on a hot June day, without wishing it was a winter’s
evening, and I could take the poet’s advice. Thus it runs:—

‘Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups

That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,

So let us welcome peaceful evening in.’

Now Mrs. Turvey, I will venture to say, had never read this charming
piece of advice, but she was certainly putting it into practice. It
_was_ a winter’s evening, singularly enough, and she had stirred the
fire, closed the shutters fast, and let fall the curtains. The table
stood too near the fire for a sofa, to be wheeled round, but three
chairs were set in nice convenient places, the urn was bubbling and
hissing away as cheerily as possible, and three cups and saucers stood
waiting in a quiet and contented manner to take their proper part in
the programme of the evening’s entertainment.

Cowper doesn’t mention muffins, beautifully browned and lavishly
buttered, standing on the hob, and he is discreetly silent as to a
glass dish of home-made marmalade. Neither can I discover any reference
to a fat black pussy dozing, the picture of sleek contentment, on the
hearthrug. In these particulars Mrs. Turvey had, I make bold to assert,
improved upon the poet. But then Cowper only proposed to welcome the
evening in. Mrs. Turvey’s welcome was designed for something with a
more substantial appetite.

Don’t imagine I intend to convey that Mrs. Turvey’s visitor was going
to eat the cat. That was always on the hearthrug. The marmalade and the
muffins were the specialities which denoted the expected advent of
company.

There were _three_ cups and saucers set. Now, allotting one to Mrs.
Turvey and one to Topsey, we might, by setting our wits to work, arrive
at the conclusion that only one visitor was expected. Our wits would
have performed the task confided to them most creditably if this was
the result of their labour, for there is a knock at the door, and
presently Topsey, who has been upstairs on the _qui vive_, comes
dancing down into the housekeeper’s little room with the intelligence
that ‘He’s come.’

‘He’ follows very closely at Miss Topsey’s heels. ‘He’ is a fat,
smiling gentleman of fifty, and so shining that it seems almost a waste
to burn the gas when he is in the room.

His bald head shines, his face shines, his coat shines, his boots
shine, his buttons shine, his black stock shines, and his old-fashioned
stand-up collar shines.

He smiles a sweet smile at Mrs. Turvey, and when he opens his mouth you
see that he has white shiny teeth.

‘You’re late, Mr. Jabez,’ says Mrs. Turvey, as, having shaken hands
with her visitor and motioned him to the tea-table, she seats herself
and prepares to do the honours.

‘Business, my dear madam, business. Nothing but business would have
made me late for this appointment, you may be sure,’ answers the
gentleman, shining all over his face, till he reflects the teapot and
the teapot reflects him.

‘Ah!’ sighs Mrs. Turvey, ‘business is a strange thing!’

‘Yes, my dear madam, it is, and never stranger than in our line.
Muffins—thank you; I adore muffins. I’ve been in our line thirty years,
Mrs Turvey, and our business gets stranger every day. Now our business
to-night, for instance——’

‘Ahem!’

Mr. Jabez is so suddenly interrupted by the warning eye of Mrs. Turvey
that he gives a little cough, and swallows a little piece of muffin,
and the redness which ensues, together with the extra shininess, makes
him look like a setting sun sinking slowly below the horizon of Mrs.
Turvey’s tea-table.

Mrs. Turvey’s glance has implied that the conversation is to be
deferred till Topsey is out of the room. Let us take advantage of the
lull in the conversation to properly introduce the worthy housekeeper’s
visitor.

Mr Jabez Duck is a clerk in the employ of that eminent firm of
solicitors, Messrs. Grigg and Limpet, Lincoln’s Inn. Messrs. Grigg and
Limpet are the family solicitors of Mr. Gurth Egerton, and have the
entire management of his affairs during his long absence abroad. Mr.
Duck is the clerk specially entrusted with this part of the firm’s
business, and occasions for visits to the house have from time to time
arisen.

Mr. Duck pays Mrs. Turvey her housekeeping allowance, sees her with
regard to accounts that are applied for, authorises repairs, and comes
occasionally to refer to papers and documents, or to see if they are in
the library of the firm’s absent client. This is the business part of
the acquaintanceship. But beyond this there is a little personal
friendship. Mrs. Turvey is a spinster, in spite of her matronly
appellation, and Mr. Duck is a bachelor. Mr. Duck stays occasionally to
take a friendly cup of tea after his business has been transacted.
Confidences have been exchanged; under the potent influence of the
cheering cup their hearts have been opened, and little secrets have
oozed out. Curiosity has been awakened on both sides, and the affairs
of the absent Mr. Egerton have become deeply interesting to them.

Mr. Duck has come to tea this evening by special invitation, for
something has occurred of the deepest interest. The firm have news of a
very startling character; and what more natural than that, having
called in the morning and hinted that he should perhaps have something
of great importance to communicate, Mr. Duck should have been requested
to come to tea that evening and have a quiet chat?

Mrs. Turvey hated to hear important intelligence on the doorstep, or to
have a secret imparted to her in the vulgar daylight, when brushes and
brooms were about. If there was a nice delightful mystery to be
revealed, or a little scandal to be whispered, let her drink it with
her tea, after her work was done, and when she could sit still and
enjoy it with muffin and marmalade.

Mr. Duck was quite of her opinion, and so the invitation had been
readily accepted.

The only difficulty was Topsey; but this, with great diplomacy, Mrs.
Turvey had got over.

The servant next door was going to the Polytechnic that evening, and
had promised to take Topsey with her directly Mrs. Turvey hinted that
her niece had few opportunities of going out, and she thought that the
ghost entertainment was one which, from an educational point of view,
no child should miss.

The glance with which Mrs. Turvey favoured Mr. Duck was therefore
intended to inform him that he was to hold his tongue on the important
matter for the present, but that by-and-by he would have an opportunity
of speaking unreservedly.

Mrs. Turvey had not calculated upon also sending the good man’s piece
of muffin the wrong way. That was an unforeseen contingency, from
which, however, Mr. Duck speedily recovered, and shone as placidly as
ever.

When tea was over, and Topsey had been packed off to see the ghost,
with instructions not only for the evening but for her entire conduct
in life, with many warnings not to tumble under ‘buses or to leave go
her friend’s hand, and with strict injunctions not to get entangled in
any machinery that might happen to be going at the Polytechnic, Mrs.
Turvey settled herself down and prepared to hear Mr. Duck’s narrative.

Mr. Duck commenced by solemnly lifting his eyes to the ceiling, and
exclaiming, in dramatic tones:

‘Mrs. Turvey, madam, Mr. Gurth Egerton is there!’

Mrs. Turvey started up with a little scream, and glanced in amazement
at the ceiling. Then she looked at Mr. Duck, to see if he was in his
right senses.

‘Where?’ she gasped, presently.

‘In heaven, ma’am,’ answered the gentleman; then, dropping his voice
and glancing significantly at the carpet, he added, ‘I trust he’s not
_there_.’

‘Lawks a mercy, Mr. Duck, how awful! You don’t mean to say that the
master’s dead?’

‘I don’t say positively he is, ma’am, and I can’t say positively that
he is not, but the chances are that he is _there_ now.’ Mr. Duck had
glanced at the carpet as he spoke, but he instantly corrected the
mistake, and looked up solemnly at the ceiling.

‘Mr. Duck,’ said Mrs. Turvey, half crying, ‘don’t trifle with my
feelings. I’ve been alone in this house so long, I’ve lost all the
nerve I ever had. If the master’s dead I’d rather not stop here. I
shouldn’t like to be in a dead man’s house. He was never easy in his
life, poor man, and—and——’

‘And he’s just one of those men you’d expect to come wandering about
his house after death—eh, Mrs. Turvey?’

‘Well,’ answered the lady, glancing uneasily round, ‘it’s a dreadful
thing to say, but I always did believe, and I always shall believe, as
the master had—had——’

‘Had something on his conscience that wouldn’t let him rest. Exactly,
Mrs. Turvey.’

‘Lor’ how you do catch me up. Well, yes. It’s no good mincing matters.
But how and where did he die?’

‘How and where we can’t exactly tell,’ answered Mr. Duck; ‘but from
information received, as they say at Scotland Yard, he left America in
the _Bon Espoir_, that was wrecked last summer; and as he has never
been heard of since, the conclusion is obvious.’

‘But he might not have come in the _Boney’s Paw_.’

‘We are certain that he did sail in her. The information that he was
among the passengers reached our firm only this week, though the wreck
took place six months ago. But the information is correct; the owners
confirm it upon application.’

‘But he may be heard of yet. There were some persons saved.’

‘Every one of them is accounted for. The boats were all picked up, and
the passengers our firm have written to all state that a Mr. Gurth
Egerton was on board. The _Diana_ passed the scene of the wreck, and
reported, on her arrival at Baltimore, that she had saved one
passenger—a Mr. George Englehardt. Besides, if he had been saved we
should, of course, have heard from him. Dr. Birnie was his intimate
friend, and is left executor to the will. Dr. Birnie agrees with the
firm that Mr. Gurth Egerton went down, my dear Mrs. Turvey, in the _Bon
Espoir_.’

When she realised that her master was actually dead, Mrs. Turvey felt
she ought to cry, and she begged Mr. Duck to excuse her while she did
so. What was to become of her? She’d lived in the house this ten years,
first as servant and then as housekeeper, and of course it wouldn’t be
kept on. Oh, it was very dreadful, and she didn’t know what she should
do.

Mr. Duck let her have a good cry, and then he shone upon her. ‘My poor
soul,’ he said, when the paroxysm was over, ‘you distress yourself
needlessly. I think I may tell you, without a breach of confidence,
that you are provided for. The will was opened by the firm to-day.’

Mrs. Turvey sobbed again.

Mr. Duck edged his chair a little nearer to her. ‘Susan,’ he said,
softly, ‘I shouldn’t have spoken so abruptly but for this. Oh, Susan,
you need never want a home.’

Mrs. Turvey looked up through her tears and beheld the shining face of
Messrs. Grigg and Limpet’s clerk so close to hers that it almost made
her blink. At least that must have been the reason that she turned her
head away.

Mr. Duck took her hand.

‘Susan,’ he said, pressing the imprisoned member gently against his
shiny satin waistcoat, ‘don’t spurn me. You are alone in the world now,
but I can offer you a shelter.

Come, weep on my bosom, my own stricken deer,

Though the world all turn from thee, thy shelter is here.

Those are lines, Susan, which I composed myself the first time I saw
you, but which I dared not utter till now.’

The stricken deer sighed, but declined to weep upon the shiny bosom of
her adorer.

‘It is very sudden,’ she faltered. ‘I—I really never thought there was
anything——’

Jabez assured her there had always been a suspicion; that now it had
ripened into a fact.

For an hour or more the conversation was a mixture of poetical
quotations, business suggestions, reminiscences of Mr. Gurth Egerton,
and tender declarations in Mr. Duck’s shiniest and sweetest manner.

Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door.

Mrs. Turvey jumped up from her chair and straightened her cap.

‘Who is it?’ exclaimed Mr. Duck, nervously.

‘Why, it must be Topsey,’ said the lady, after a moment’s thought.
‘Dear me! I’d no idea it was so late. I think you’d better go, Mr.
Duck.’

‘And when shall I call again, Susan?—for your answer.’

Mr. Duck showed his shiny teeth and rolled his shiny eyes so sweetly
that Mrs. Turvey could not resist him any more.

‘To-morrow, Jabez.’

There was a soft sound as of the sudden collision of a pair of lips and
a cheek, and then Mrs. Turvey, followed by Mr. Duck, went upstairs to
the front door.

It was Topsey brought back. Mr. Duck bade Mrs. Turvey good-night on the
steps as though nothing had happened, for Topsey’s sharp little ears
were open, and he went off whistling ‘’Tis my delight on a shiny
night,’ and Topsey went downstairs with her aunt.

She was full of the ghost. She acted the ghost. She showed her aunty
how the ghost looked, and how it rose mysteriously from nothing and
walked towards its victim.

Mrs. Turvey did not enter very heartily into the scene. She did not
like ghosts at any time, but to-night, when her master’s death had been
so suddenly communicated to her, she positively hated ghosts.

Do what she would, she could not shake off the idea that she was in a
dead man’s house. All the stories of uneasy spirits visiting their
earthly dwelling-places floated across her brain, and presently she
turned sharply to the child, and told her not to chatter but to get
ready for bed.

They slept on the ground floor, in a room that had been a servant’s
room in the days when Mr. Egerton kept up an establishment.

Now in her confusion at parting with her elderly admirer right under
Topsey’s watchful eye, Mrs. Turvey had forgotten to fasten up the front
door. As a matter of fact, she had closed it so carelessly that the
lock had not caught at all.

She suddenly recollected her omission to examine the fastenings with
her usual care, so she sent Topsey to do it, while she got the bread
and cheese out of the larder for her frugal supper.

Topsey ran up and got half-way down the hall. Then she started back,
trembling in every limb. It was quite dark in the passage, but the door
was slowly swinging back on its hinges. As it opened and the pale light
of the street lamp wandered in, the figure of a man with a face ghastly
in the glare of the flickering illumination from without glided towards
her. Her brain was full of the ghost illusion she had seen that
evening. This was just how the apparition had walked.

Slowly it came nearer and nearer to her.

With a sudden effort the terrified child found her voice and gave a
wild cry.

‘Aunty!’ she shrieked. ‘Save me! The ghost! the ghost!’

Mrs. Turvey ran upstairs, terrified at the child’s cries.

She reached the hall, held up her arms, and fell down in a swoon.

The sea had given up its dead.

There, in the hall of his earthly dwelling, stood the ghost of Gurth
Egerton.