The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1903-01-18

be. back to Engiand?"
Have you decided to tell me why I must
go?' L retorted.
You must go because of misfortunes
you will bring upon others If you remain.
And there are those in England who wish
for your presence"
II care nothing for them,'' 1 broke in.
And ii was true. For was falling in love
with-a ghost!
What, then, can / say to persuade you
that it is for your good. and for the good
of others that you go whence you Gamer
she murnured.
you will not explain in detail why you
wish to send me away" persisted; but
If you will use your powers of persuasion
upon me every night for week, 1 feel GER
tain that your eloquence alone can convince
me. Will you promise me seven visits
more?"
IF do promise that, my cousin Norman
De Poytron, will you in your turn promise
me at the end of that time to obey me?''
Eyes, promise faithfully, if you still tell
me 1 must co.
ut is. then. a bargain between u.s. the
sweet voice said. And at the same instant
out went the lamp as before. When rose
and lighted candle as on the previous
night. the room was empty, the painted
lady simpering feebly from her frame.
/ cannot describe the strangeness of the
seven days and nights that followed Prac-
tically. did not live at all by day. only
woke up to life when midnight was at hand.
She never failed to come when darkness
had fallen in the great, dingy room. And
We talked OF more things in heaven and
earth than are dreamt of in the philosophy
of common mortals. 1t was wonderful
experience-holding converse with a spirit.
We asked each other the strangest of
questions. and answered in the strangest
way. made her tell me things of the
world beyond. Alas! her revelations were
but guarded and disappointing. She made
me tell her of the changes on earth in
the two centuries since she had left it.
OF her own earth-story. however. she would
say nothing; and had she been a woman,
not a disembodied spirit, / should have
fancied a CLEAN of mischief in the glorious
eyes when I told her my tales of modern
society and politics. AS for me, I cannot
describe my state of mind. But-something
Of 1t would pour itself out to her on the
last, the seventh, night.
Tomorrow you will keep your promise
as truly as I have miner" she asked.
ITO co." stammered, "and never to see
you again?"
This must be goodbye" she answered
And I dared to think that the sweet spirit
voice trembled.
'Come to me in England" I cried, cor
I can't bear my life without YOU"
THAT cannot be-" she whispered.
Then I shall break my promise"
Nor would that serve you. If you broke
your word, do you think should ever show
myself to you again? No, never. never!'
There's but one way, then" I said,
slowly, Gin which I can keep you, and
since life without the sight of your face
and the thrill Of your voice is henceforth
worse than death, 1 choose death. When
1 have thrown off my body, my spirit will
be free to join yours. We shall live in the
same world forever. The joy of it! A
moments pang, and am with you-for
always. Cecile, l."
But with a cry she cut me short, her
voice louder and more human in quality
than had ever heard it before. mo- nor
she protested. You would not do a thing
so wicked. Oh. say you would not!'
won't lose your Though she had from
the first forbidden me to move on pain Of
seeing her vanish from before my eyes.
involuntarily I half rose. holding out my
arms.
Down went her lamp, with a crash as
loud as a real lamp Of silver. The room
was suddenly in pitch darkness. I heard
the fall of some heavy piece of furniture,
then a faint cry, and another fall.
/ sprang out of bed in the gray dressing
gown which / had taken to wearing in
honor of my sweet ghost. and it seemed an
hour before / found a match and lighted a
candle But / did do both, and saw the
spirit form of Cecile de Poytron extended
on the floor beside the chair which been
thrown over and against which in the
darkness she had stumbled.
I ran to her and knelt at her side. I took
her hand. 1t was warm flesh, satin
smooth. Her hair fell across my arm as
lifted her up and her eyes opened. "Oh,
how terrible,-how terrible! How ashamed
am" came s0bbingly in English from
sweet red lips that quivered humanity and
girlishly.
So the secret was out. Through the aper-
ture left by the slipping Of the picture
from its frame came Madame Lascelles,
drawn by the sound of the double fall and
the cry. Then I heard everything.
Her name really is Cecile, and the daring
idea had been hers, to which she had
forced her mothers consent. For she is
Madame Lascelles's daughter, and Mad
anne Lascelles, though half English, has
almost as much De Poytron blood in her
veins as /.
My queer old Uncle Roger found out
about his distant relationship widow and
her two little daughters-living in great
poverty in Paris. He invited them to the
castle, provided that madame would act
as his housekeeper. and she had thankfully
accepted. In his will he had left them his
money, which 1t was his opinion that his
nephew Norman did not need.
Their coming had been years ago, when
the girls were children. Now Cecile was
| eighteen, and the younger fourteen. Cecile
and her mother had grown to adore the old
| place where ancestors of theirs had lived
and died. Cecile had hoped that it might
become actually theirs; but my action had
dashed that hope. Then had not shown
myself and it had begun to revive again,
when the news of my arrival was received.
had said that might probably decide to