offered the house of Mistress Cholmondley,[138] a widow, who lived with her daughter in the white cottage.
The tiny house looked very nice, and after a lunch of bread and cheese at the little inn I made my way[139] to it by the path that passes through the churchyard. I pushed the door and entered.
The cottage was interesting, but my hosts disappointed me. My hostess was sleeping in her big chair all day long. She was a woman of between forty and fifty. A narrow, uninteresting woman, she was trying to look much younger.
All other details were, however, most satisfactory; and I tried to work. I wrote for perhaps an hour, and then I threw my pen. I looked about the room.[140] An old book-case stood against the wall. I came nearer. The key was in the lock, I opened glass doors, and examined the shelves. There was a curious collection: novels and poems; whose authors I had never heard of; old magazines, diaries. On the top shelf, however, was a volume of Keats.[141] I tried to take it, a small picture fell down on the floor.
I picked the picture, and took it to the window, and examined it. It was the picture of a young girl, dressed in the fashion of thirty years ago. Her face was beautiful, such as one finds in all miniatures, but with soul behind the soft deep eyes. The sweet lips laughed at me, and there was a sadness in the smile. Even my small knowledge of Art told me that the work was excellent. And it was strangely forgotten in the book-case.
I placed it back, and sat down to my work again. But the face of the miniature did not disappear. It looked out at me from the shadows. I grew angry with myself, and made an effort to fix my mind[142] upon the paper in front of me. But my thoughts refused to return to work. Once, over my shoulder, I saw the girl from the picture – she was sitting in the big chair in the far corner. I closed my eyes and opened them again. There was nobody in the room.
Next morning I forgot the incident, but the light of the lamp awoke the memory of it within me. I took the miniature from its place and looked at it.
And then I understood that I knew the face. Where did I see her, and when? I had met her and spoken to her. The picture smiled at me. I put it back upon its shelf. I tried to recollect my brains.[143] We had met somewhere – in the country – a long time ago, and had talked of usual things. Why had I never seen her again?
My landlady entered to lay my supper, and I questioned her.
“Oh, yes,” answered my landlady. Ladies often lodged with her. Sometimes people stayed the whole summer. They were wandering in the woods. Some of her lodgers were young ladies, but she cannot remember any of them precisely. They came and went away, few people returned.
“Have you offered rooms for a long time?” I asked. “I suppose, fifteen – twenty years, right?”
“Longer than that,” she said quietly. “We came here from the farm when my father died. That is twenty-seven years ago now.”
I hastened to close the conversation. I did not learn much. Who was the girl from the miniature, how the picture came to the dusty book-case were still mysteries. Strangely, I could not put a direct question.
So two days more passed by. My work took gradually my mind, and the face of the miniature visited me less often. But in the evening of the third day, which was a Sunday, a curious thing happened.
I was returning from a walk, and dusk was falling as I reached the cottage. When I was passing the window of my room, I saw the sweet fair face that became so familiar to me. The girl stood close to the window, the beautiful hands clasped across the breast. Her eyes were looking at the road through the village. I was close to the window, but the hedge hid me. After a minute, I suppose, though it appeared longer, the figure drew back into the darkness of the room and disappeared.
I entered, but the room was empty. I called, but no one answered. Am I crazy? This girl appeared not to my brain but to my senses. I do not believe in ghosts, but I believe in the hallucinations of a weak mind, and this explanation was not very satisfactory to myself.
I tried to forget the incident, but it did not leave me. I took out a book at random[144] to amuse myself, a volume of verses by unknown poet. I found that its sentimental passages were marked.
One poem was particularly interesting for the reader. It was the old, old story of the gallant who rides away, leaving the maiden to weep.[145] The poetry was poor. We laugh at these stories, but they are very important for many people.
I wanted to learn more, and next morning while my landlady was clearing away my breakfast things,[146] I asked her once again.
“By the way,” I said, “if I leave any books or papers here, send them to me at once, please”. And I added, “Your lodgers often leave some of their things, I suppose.”
“Not often,” she answered. “Never that I can remember, except in the case of one poor lady who died here.”
I glanced up quickly.
“In this room?” I asked.
“Well, not exactly in this room. We carried her upstairs, but she died immediately. She was dying when she came here. But I did not know that. So many people don’t like houses where death occurred.”
I did not speak for a while.
