The Black Cat, Vol. I, No. 6, March 1896

“I made inquiries about the Leslies, and found that many people believed that Leslie had stifled his wife, and then taken some subtle poison which left no trace; but there was no evidence to support this theory; no sign of poison had been found, no cause could be given for such an act, and nothing could explain the midnight screams. A week passed quietly, when one night my brother awakened our mother, telling her that his wife was ill. She had awakened from a bad dream almost suffocated, and my mother worked over her for some time before she was restored. She refused to tell her dream, but we were well assured that it was a repetition of Mrs. Weston’s. The next morning my brother and his wife went to their home.

“I had one more experience in that house which I shall never forget. My father was to be out one night until midnight at the meeting of a society of which he was a member, and my mother and I decided to wait up for him.

“About eleven o’clock mother lay down on the couch and went to sleep. The room was brightly lighted, and I sat near the couch reading.

“Just as I heard my father come in I was startled by a sudden moan from my mother. I turned quickly toward the couch, and as I did so I saw plainly that the sofa pillow lay upon her face. I snatched it away, and awakened her with some little difficulty.

“Meantime my father had come into the room, and as he entered a scream, terrible in its nearness and intensity, rang out, thrilling us all with a sickening shock. We left the next day.”

This finished his story. No explanation of these happenings has ever been given. The Leslies’ death remains a mystery, and to explain the Presence that occupied this cottage after their death would be to account for a side of life which we barely touch and cannot comprehend.

The house is still to let.

[Illustration]

Of Course—Of Course Not.

BY HARRY M. PECK.

They sat, side by side, on a big hearth-rug, gazing into the glowing coals. The one was a young man, of perhaps twenty-eight, and the other an old dog, of perhaps ten. That’s not a criticism on the poverty of the English language. It simply shows how much more a dog can “get out,” or perhaps “put into,” ten years than a man.

They sat there, anyway. Young or old. Young and old. And they gazed into the coals. And the young one blew great clouds of smoke out of a fragrant briarwood at the old one. But the old one did not mind. He was acclimated.

It was in the cozy bachelor apartments of Neil Richards. Neil was a fellow who had succeeded, by dint of presumable study, money, and late nights, in getting through college in a commendable manner, seven years before. Since that time he had been engaged in the financial business. Not exactly as a legitimate broker; nor as a negotiator of loans; nor again as a pawnbroker; but in that pleasanter line which on a business letter-head—if he had owned such a thing—would have been expressed something like this: “Neil Richards, Income Spender, Pleasant Street, Easyville.” Anyway, he had been traveling, intermittently, to improve himself, as the phrase goes, since the day he calmly, and with the most approved senioric gravity, tucked a sheepskin under his arm and discarded his cap and gown.

But, after his latest peripatetic streak, he was back again, at last, in New York, in his old rooms, in his favorite seat on the hearth-rug, with his dog beside him, and—in love. The fellows at the club had said for several weeks past, as Richards would excuse himself, get up, and go out about nine o’clock evenings: “Funny about Neil, isn’t it? He leaves us every night at nine o’clock, and goes home, and they say he sits down and talks to that old dog, General, of his till midnight. Guess he must be in love.”

And the fellows were right. Neil was hopelessly, fearfully, and miserably in love. Her name was Dorcas—Dorcas Howland; not a particularly pretty name, nor a particularly pretty girl; but a girl with such a wealth of sweetness, tact, common sense, and intelligence that more would have made her a curiosity. Neil had seen her at what is known as a large affair one evening, two months ago; was presented, murmured his platitudes, had a waltz, and immediately put her on a pedestal. He had seen her a few times since, once driving, when he received a bow that kept him absent-minded for a week; and on a few other occasions at the house of a friend, where he had passed some of the shortest quarter hours of his existence—talking to her. And that was as far as he had gone. It isn’t exactly strange, then, is it, that when a man almost deifies a girl he has known only two months he should like to sit down on a hearth-rug and talk to an old dog he has known for ten years? A club, and cocktails, and gossip, and late hours are no solace at all, under such circumstances.

But we left them on the hearth-rug, gazing into the coals. “You see, General, it’s like this: I’m in love—desperately in love—and Miss Howland doesn’t care a rap for me. Probably thinks I am just like all the rest of them, looking for her money, when I’m really not. You understand, General, that I’m not.”

The General blinked sympathetically, and looked hard at the coals. Neil threw an arm affectionately around the dog. “You see, I like to tell you these things, old boy, because you never say anything about them.” There was silence for a few moments, while Richards meditatively pulled away at his pipe and the dog pensively thought of his puppyhood and its loves. “She’s so sweet and dainty,” at last continued Neil. “How she would brighten up a home for us, wouldn’t she, General?” The dog turned his head, and, looking at his master, reached one great paw over and laid it on Richards’s knee. “Shake, is it, old man? Well, here goes. I thought you felt as I did. Now, General, you and I must scheme how to get her.” The dog thumped his tail appreciatively on the rug, and they both went to work staring at the coals again.

And so they sat on,—Neil solemnly meditative, the General silently sympathetic. It was a good hour later, when Neil’s pipe had burned out, and the dog’s head had drowsily fallen against his shoulder, that Richards heard the elevator bell ring, and a moment after the upward rush of the car. Then, as the elevator stopped at his landing, he heard the voice of old Barker, the janitor, saying, “Yes, sir; Mr. Richards is always in nights now, sir. I am sure you will find him still up. Door to the right, sir; and do be careful, sir, not to go to the left, as them’s Miss Stevens’s apartments, sir, and no one is allowed to disturb her, sir, till I takes her up her cup of tea, and the saucer of milk for the gray cat, sir, at half after—” but the remainder of the old man’s loquacity was muffled by the sound of voices.

“Some of the boys, come to drag me out on one of their infernal midnight romps, I suppose,” said Richards to himself, with a discontented sigh. “They did that only three nights ago. Why can’t they let a poor devil smoke his pipe in peace?” Then, as footsteps approached the door, he arose and surveyed himself in a long mirror at the end of the room. He did not look very presentable, he admitted. His hair was mussed, his clothes were full of tobacco ashes, and he hadn’t, when he sat down, even taken the trouble to don a lounging jacket; hence was in his shirt-sleeves. “But who cares?” remarked Richards to himself. “If these stupid night hawks will come here at such an hour, they will have to take things as they find them. Suppose they will have something to drink, however.” As he turned to the cabinet set in the side of the room, with his back to the door, and reached for decanters and glasses, a knock sounded, and a cheery voice shouted, “O Neil, I say, Neil, I’m coming in.”

“Come in, you infernal rounder, if you must,” was the reply. “Bring them all in; you are never alone. You and your gang are, without exception, the most unexcelled set of thoughtless, reveling peace-disturbers I know of. You fellows have been at this thing for ten years,” continued Neil; “you know you have, Bob” (still busy with the decanters). “Don’t you ever intend letting up? Why don’t you fellows say something? This is no monologue.”

By this time Richards had succeeded in extricating the troublesome decanters from the mass of bottles and glasses, and, turning around, faced the door. To his amazement, instead of the crowd of merry faces he had expected to see peering in at him, he saw only two. One was that of Bob Cutting, his chum, and the other—was that—of Miss Dorcas Howland! The door was wide open. She stood a little in front. Cutting was in the doorway. The gleam from the dying coals and the ruddy reflection from a lamp with a big red shade over in the corner brought out every detail of her face and figure.

And Neil stood, with a decanter in each hand, coatless, and mussed, and speechless. The silence did not last long, however. Miss Howland smiled, bowed sweetly to Neil, and stepped into the room. “Good-evening, Mr. Richards,” she said, and held out her hand. Neil managed, in a dazed sort of a way, to set down the decanter that was in his right hand without breaking it, and accepted the proffered hand. Bob Cutting looked on and smiled. “Too astounded to speak, Mr. Richards,” remarked the young woman. “Well, an explanation certainly is due you. Then you may not think me so utterly indiscreet as appearances would seem to warrant. Mr. Cutting, will you kindly try to put matters straight, and, at the same time, assure Mr. Richards that we are his guests? His accent, as I recollect it, is a pleasing one. For ‘this is no monologue,’ you know,” and she smiled pleasantly at Neil.

“Yes,” broke in Cutting, as Miss Howland paused, “you see, Neil, it’s like this. It does look funny, I admit; but I was walking home with Dorcas—er—Miss Howland, from some working girls’ club she engineers, and we were chatting about picturesque bachelor apartments, or, rather, I was describing some of them to her that I know the best, and I struck yours. I think I must have grown very eloquent in my description, for Miss Howland insisted that she must see these famous apartments, of which, by the way, all the girls have heard. Knowing it would be all right, as far as you were concerned, I proposed we come over to-night and make you a call, though”—as he looked ruefully around the room—“I really didn’t think she’d come.”

Neil, during the recital, had quite recovered himself, and privately decided that if a man and a girl were willing to take the social risk he surely could meet them half way. So he calmly placed the other decanter on a table, and, turning to them, remarked, “I am very glad to see you. This is a little bit out of the ordinary, but the unexpected is quite often the pleasantest. Won’t you sit down, Miss Howland? I am extremely sorry that your visit to my den couldn’t have been made under more favorable circumstances; at one of my little teas, for instance. Under other than the present circumstances I should feel that an apology was due you for my personal appearance. I am quite aware that I have no coat on, that my hair is mussed, and that I have a general and virulent attack of the malady bachelor-at-homeness. However, I shan’t apologize.” And then the democratic Neil pulled up two big armchairs, and, having seen his guests cosily seated before the replenished fire, calmly and coatlessly resumed his place on the hearth-rug beside the General. Miss Howland looked surprised, but said nothing. Then she reached over and patted the silky head of the dog. He took the caress in a dignified sort of way, but nestled closer, if possible, to Richards. “What a handsome fellow,” she softly said; “and how much he thinks of his master,” she added to herself.

The three chatted away together about bachelor dens, people, and other generalities for some time, when suddenly Miss Howland rose and, turning to Cutting, said: “I wonder if you’d mind granting me one more favor. I wish to have a little talk with Mr. Richards—alone.” She paused a moment. “I know it’s unconventional, but the rest of this is, also, and I know you won’t take it amiss, will you?”

“Not at all,” Cutting answered. “Suppose I manipulate the ivories while you have your talk. Don’t feel that it must be abbreviated on my account; but when you get through, why, do as they do in the plays, ring for me, and, like the footman, I’ll appear. Is it feasible?”

“Quite so, thank you,” answered the girl; “it’s so good of you.” And, with a pipe in one hand and a tobacco jar in the other, Bob vanished through the portières; and a moment later the click of billiard balls announced that he had found occupation.

The girl turned to Richards. He had risen with Cutting and had now donned a Japanese smoking-jacket, in which, somehow, he felt better equipped for his strange tête-à-tête. As his eyes sought hers she looked him frankly in the face, and simply asked: “Mr. Richards, what do you think of me?” Richards was silent for a moment, and then, with his eyes on the dog at his feet, said: “Shall I tell you frankly?”

“Yes, please do,” answered the girl.

He looked up. “I think you have lots of courage, are a bit injudicious, and, of course, did not come here without reasons.”

She smiled. “You are frank, but don’t you think it rude to assume the role of inquisitor in your first remark?”

“But you asked me, didn’t you?” he gently replied.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.

She stood absently looking down at shaggy General sleeping peacefully on the hearth-rug. Richards watched her a minute, and then, stepping forward, said softly, “Please sit down, Miss Howland, and then you can tell me as much as you wish.”

A grateful look flashed into her face, as she took the big chair he offered her, and sank into it a little wearily. Leaning back, she scrutinized the well-cut, thoughtful face of the man. He had taken his place beside the dog again, and as he sat staring at the coals in the flickering firelight he seemed even handsomer than ever.

She looked at him a moment, and, without moving, said: “Mr. Richards, I’ve come here to-night on a queer mission. I wish advice. I wish to tell you something about myself, and then I want you to advise me as to what you think I ought to do. I have come to you under circumstances peculiar, to say the least, for these reasons: First, because what I have seen of you has led me to think you honest, frank, and sincere; second, because your friends assure me I am right. This has led me to believe you will be willing to overlook what might be construed as unwomanly, and, in addition, will be willing to help me in trouble. Am I right?” she hesitatingly asked.

“Yes, Miss Howland, you are,” he replied; “people who know anything about you could not misinterpret your actions. Don’t think circumstances affect me; but just tell me plainly what I can do for you.”

“I thought you would take it so,” she said in a tone of relief. “And now I’ll tell you what I wish to, and pray don’t regard it as a girl’s whim,—as a peculiar girl’s whim,—but simply try to assume the role of a willing listener and an impartial adviser. You see,” she continued, “I have no one to go to. I am alone in the world. My parents are both dead, and I live with an elderly aunt, who is as good to me as any one could be, but with whom I have absolutely nothing in common.”

The girl smiled thoughtfully. “She likes her tea and cat, her Goldsmith and Thackeray, early hours, and to be left alone. I am different. She is sixty-eight, and that’s the reason, I presume. Besides, she was never married. And now, Mr. Richards, I have come to the place where I hardly know what to say. It’s about my marrying. A funny thing to consult you about, isn’t it? You see, ever since I was a child it has been taken for granted that when I grew up I should marry a certain individual. My parents both seemed to consider it a settled matter, my aunt the same; and I suppose, as a child, I followed the general example. That man was Bob Cutting. We played together as children, living in adjacent houses, and virtually grew up together. I remember we used to have mock marriage ceremonies, at which he and I always figured as the principals, with some other youngster as the clergyman, and we always looked forward to the time when as ‘grown ups’ our marriage might be made ‘real.’ So matters drifted along. The children’s play stopped a good many years ago; but Bob has kept coming to see me just the same.

“And now—well, he wishes to carry out in earnest what was begun in play. A few nights ago he asked me to be his wife.”

The girl leaned forward, and absently smoothed the General’s head, as he lay there watching the coals. Presently she said:—

“Mr. Richards, then, and not till then, did I find I did not love him. But,” she added, “I did not tell him so. I said only: ‘We’ve been friends since we were children. Come to me next Sunday night, and I will give you my answer.’”

For a moment she sat without speaking; then she concluded: “Mr. Richards, you are Bob Cutting’s dearest friend. He hasn’t but one friend like you. No man has; no man can have; no man wishes more. I come to you and ask you, who know him so well, what shall I do? Shall I tell him Sunday night that I’ll marry him, or shall I say ‘no’? Is it selfish in a girl placed as I am to think of her own future, or ought I to give it up to him? He has been good to me; so good to me; I like him, but I do not love him.”

And then she leaned wearily back in her chair, and fixed her eyes on Richards. He did not look up. He did not seem to realize her presence. She watched him, and he watched the red embers glow, crumble, and fade into ashes. The dog whined in his sleep. Then, finally, Richards raised his head, and quietly said:—

“Miss Howland, I think it would be very wrong for you to marry Bob. As you say, I know him well. He is a fellow with such a wealth of love for those he cares for that if he finds it is not reciprocated he is miserable. Think what a lifetime of it would mean to him. And now, you see, in what I’ve said so far I’ve considered only Bob. I think you also ought to consider yourself. Two lives are involved; and why should they both be ruined? You are both young. If I were you I should tell Bob, in the kindest possible way, that I did not love him. He will grieve at first, but I think when he finds out you were not for him he will see that it’s for the best, and afterward will thank you. And, as for yourself, Miss Howland, when you’ve done this, you can say, ‘I’ve done my duty; I’ve done right.’ And some day”—the man hesitated—“and some day perhaps some other good man will come along, and ask you to marry him, and perhaps you’ll find you care a great deal for him; and the past, with its Bob, and its trouble,” and again he hesitated, “and its visit to Richards and the General will be a ghostly vision, which happiness and sunshine will soon wipe away.”

At this point he was interrupted suddenly by the General, who, as though scenting some vague trouble, started up with a sleepy “Wuff!”

The sound relieved the tension of the situation. Both laughed, and Miss Howland, rising, reached out her hand to Richards, who now stood facing her. “Thank you,” she said cordially. “You’ve been very good. You’ll return my visit some time, won’t you? And now, suppose we ‘ring the bell’ for Bob,” nodding towards an Oriental gong that hung suspended near the mantel.

Richards took her hand and, holding it a moment, said quietly: “I thank you; I will come. But, before you go, I want to ask you just one question. Don’t answer it unless you wish to. You told me that you don’t love Bob; is it—is it because there’s some one else?”

They say that a man’s life, and hopes, and ambitions can be snuffed out by a woman’s reply. And they also say that a man’s future can be made all sunshine and promise if hope can only enter in. And that sometimes comes from a woman’s reply, also.