The Fourth Ghost Story MEGAPACK ®. Sarah Orne Jewett
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the Common question, were each and all laid before me with a circumstantiality that possessed the deepest interest for my excellent fellow-traveller, but none whatever for myself. From these, to my despair, he went on to more intricate matters: to the approximate expenses of construction per mile; to the estimates sent in by different contractors; to the probable traffic returns of the new line; to the provisional clauses of the new act as enumerated in Schedule D of the company’s last half-yearly report; and so on and on and on, till my head ached and my attention flagged and my eyes kept closing in spite of every effort that I made to keep them open. At length I was roused by these words:
“Seventy-five thousand pounds, cash down.”
“Seventy-five thousand pounds, cash down,” I repeated, in the liveliest tone I could assume. “That is a heavy sum.”
“A heavy sum to carry here,” replied Mr. Dwerrihouse, pointing significantly to his breast-pocket, “but a mere fraction of what we shall ultimately have to pay.”
“You do not mean to say that you have seventy-five thousand pounds at this moment upon your person?” I exclaimed.
“My good sir, have I not been telling you so for the last half-hour?” said Mr. Dwerrihouse, testily. “That money has to be paid over at half-past eight o’clock this evening, at the office of Sir Thomas’s solicitors, on completion of the deed of sale.”
“But how will you get across by night from Blackwater to Stockbridge with seventy-five thousand pounds in your pocket?”
“To Stockbridge!” echoed the lawyer. “I find I have made myself very imperfectly understood. I thought I had explained how this sum only carries us as far as Mallingford—the first stage, as it were, of our journey—and how our route from Blackwater to Mallingford lies entirely through Sir Thomas Liddell’s property.”
“I beg your pardon,”I stammered. I fear my thoughts were wandering. So you only go as far as Mallingford tonight?”
“Precisely. I shall get a conveyance from the Blackwater Arms. And you?”
“Oh, Jelf sends a trap to meet me at Clayborough! Can I be the bearer of any message from you?”
“You may say, if you please, Mr. Langford, that I wished I could have been your companion all the way, and that I will come over, if possible, before Christmas.”
“Nothing more?”
Mr. Dwerrihouse smiled grimly. “Well,” he said, “you may tell my cousin that she need not burn the hall down in my honour this time, and that I shall be obliged if she will order the blue-room chimney to be swept before I arrive.”
“That sounds tragic. Had you a conflagration on the occasion of your last visit to Dumbleton?”
“Something like it. There had been no fire lighted in my bedroom since the spring, the flue was foul, and the rooks had built in it; so when I went up to dress for dinner I found the room full of smoke and the chimney on fire. Are we already at Blackwater?”
The train had gradually come to a pause while Mr. Dwerrihouse was speaking, and, on putting my head out of the window, I could see the station some few hundred yards ahead. There was another train before us blocking the way, and the guard was making use of the delay to collect the Blackwater tickets. I had scarcely ascertained our position when the ruddy-faced official appeared at our carriage door.
“Tickets, sir!” said he.
“I am for Clayborough,” I replied, holding out the tiny pink card.
He took it, glanced at it by the light of his little lantern, gave it back, looked, as I fancied, somewhat sharply at my fellow-traveller, and disappeared.
“He did not ask for yours,” I said, with some surprise.
“They never do,” replied Mr. Dwerrihouse; “they all know me, and of course I travel free.”
“Blackwater! Blackwater!” cried the porter, running along the platform beside us as we glided into the station.
Mr. Dwerrihouse pulled out his deed-box, put his travelling-cap in his pocket, resumed his hat, took down his umbrella, and prepared to be gone.
“Many thanks, Mr. Langford, for your society,” he said, with old-fashioned courtesy. “I wish you a good-evening.”
“Good-evening,” I replied, putting out my hand.
But he either did not see it or did not choose to see it, and, slightly lifting his hat, stepped out upon the platform. Having done this, he moved slowly away and mingled with the departing crowd.
Leaning forward to watch him out of sight, I trod upon something which proved to be a cigar-case. It had fallen, no doubt, from the pocket of his waterproof coat, and was made of dark morocco leather, with a silver monogram upon the side. I sprang out of the carriage just as the guard came up to lock me in.
“Is there one minute to spare?” I asked, eagerly. “The gentleman who travelled down with me from town has dropped his cigar-case; he is not yet out of the station.”
“Just a minute and a half, sir,” replied the guard. “You must be quick.”
I dashed along the platform as fast as my feet could carry me. It was a large station, and Mr. Dwerrihouse had by this time got more than half-way to the farther end.
I, however, saw him distinctly, moving slowly with the stream. Then, as I drew nearer, I saw that he had met some friend, that they were talking as they walked, that they presently fell back somewhat from the crowd and stood aside in earnest conversation. I made straight for the spot where they were waiting. There was a vivid gas-jet just above their heads, and the light fell upon their faces. I saw both distinctly—the face of Mr. Dwerrihouse and the face of his companion. Running, breathless, eager as I was, getting in the way of porters and passengers, and fearful every instant lest I should see the train going on without me, I yet observed that the newcomer was considerably younger and shorter than the director, that he was sandy-haired, moustachioed, small-featured, and dressed in a close-cut suit of Scotch tweed. I was now within a few yards of them. I ran against a stout gentleman, I was nearly knocked down by a luggage-truck, I stumbled over a carpet-bag; I gained the spot just as the driver’s whistle warned me to return.
To my utter stupefaction, they were no longer there. I had seen them but two seconds before—and they were gone! I stood still; I looked to right and left; I saw no sign of them in any direction. It was as if the platform had gaped and swallowed them.
“There were two gentlemen standing here a moment ago,” I said to a porter at my elbow; “which way can they have gone?”
“I saw no gentlemen, sir,” replied the man.
The whistle shrilled out again. The guard, far up the platform, held up his arm, and shouted to me to “come on!”
“If you’re going on by this train, sir,” said the porter, “you must run for it.”
I did run for it, just gained the carriage as the train began to move, was shoved in by the guard, and left, breathless and bewildered, with Mr. Dwerrihouse’s cigar-case still in my hand.
It was the strangest disappearance in the world; it was like a transformation trick in a pantomime. They were there one moment—palpably there, talking, with the gaslight full upon their faces—and the next moment they were gone. There was no door near, no window, no staircase; it was a mere slip of barren platform, tapestried with big advertisements. Could anything be more mysterious?
It was not worth thinking about, and yet, for my life, I could not help pondering upon it—pondering, wondering, conjecturing, turning it over and over in my mind, and beating my brains for a solution of the enigma. I thought of it all the way from Blackwater to Clayborough. I thought of it all the way from Clayborough to Dumbleton, as I rattled along the smooth highway in a trim dog-cart, drawn by a splendid black mare and driven by the silentest and dapperest of East Anglian grooms.
We did the nine miles in