_A Double-Barrelled Ghost._
I was ruined. The bank in which I had been a sleeping-partner from mycradle smashed suddenly, and I was exempted from income tax at onefell blow. It became necessary to dispose even of the family mansionand the hereditary furniture. The shame of not contributing to mycountry's exchequer spurred me to earnest reflection upon how to earnan income, and, having mixed myself another lemon-squash, I threwmyself back on the canvas garden-chair, and watched the white, scentedwreaths of my cigar-smoke hanging in the drowsy air, and provokinginexperienced bees to settle upon them. It was the sort of summerafternoon on which to eat lotus, and to sip the dew from the lips ofAmaryllises; but although I had an affianced Amaryllis (whoseChristian name was Jenny Grant), I had not the heart to dally with herin view of my sunk fortunes. She loved me for myself, no doubt, butthen I was not myself since the catastrophe; and although she hadhastened to assure me of her unchanged regard, I was not at allcertain whether _I_ should be able to support a wife in addition toall my other misfortunes. So that I was not so comfortable thatafternoon as I appeared to my perspiring valet: no rose in the gardenhad a pricklier thorn than I. The thought of my poverty weighed medown; and when the setting sun began flinging bars of gold among theclouds, the reminder of my past extravagance made my heart heavierstill, and I broke down utterly.
Swearing at the manufacturers of such collapsible garden-chairs, I wasstruggling to rise when I perceived my rings of smoke comportingthemselves strangely. They were widening and curving and flowing intodefinite outlines, as though the finger of the wind were shaping theminto a rough sketch of the human figure. Sprawling amid the ruins ofmy chair, I watched the nebulous contours grow clearer and clearer,till at last the agitation subsided, and a misty old gentleman, cladin vapour of an eighteenth-century cut, stood plainly revealed uponthe sun-flecked grass.
"Good afternoon, John," said the old gentleman, courteously removinghis cocked hat.
"Good afternoon!" I gasped. "How do you know my name?"
"Because I have not forgotten my own," he replied. "I am JohnHalliwell, your great-grandfather. Don't you remember me?"
A flood of light burst upon my brain. Of course! I ought to haverecognised him at once from the portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, justabout to be sold by auction. The artist had gone to full length inpainting him, and here he was complete, from his white wig,beautifully frizzled by the smoke, to his buckled shoes, from hisknee-breeches to the frills at his wrists.
"Oh! pray pardon my not having recognised you," I cried remorsefully;"I have such a bad memory for faces. Won't you take a chair?"
"Sir, I have not sat down for a century and a half," he said simply."Pray be seated yourself."
"PRAY BE SEATED YOURSELF," SAID THE GHOST SIMPLY.]
Thus reminded of my undignified position, I gathered myself up, andreadjusting the complex apparatus, confided myself again to its canvascaresses. Then, grown conscious of my shirt-sleeves, I murmured,--
"Excuse my deshabille. I did not expect to see you."
"I am aware the season is inopportune," he said apologetically. "But Idid not care to put off my visit till Christmas. You see, with usChristmas is a kind of Bank Holiday; and when there is a generalexcursion, a refined spirit prefers its own fireside. Moreover, I amnot, as you may see, very robust, and I scarce like to risk exposingmyself to such an extreme change of temperature. Your EnglishChristmas is so cold. With the pyrometer at three hundred and fifty,it is hardly prudent to pass to thirty. On a sultry day like this thecontrast is less marked."
"I understand," I said sympathetically.
"But I should hardly have ventured," he went on, "to trespass upon youat this untimely season merely out of deference to my ownvaletudinarian instincts. The fact is, I am a _litterateur_."
"Oh, indeed," I said vaguely; "I was not aware of it."
"Nobody was aware of it," he replied sadly; "but my calling at thisprofessional hour will, perhaps, go to substantiate my statement."
I looked at him blankly. Was he quite sane? All the apparitions I hadever heard of spoke with some approach to coherence, however imbeciletheir behaviour. The statistics of insanity in the spiritual worldhave never been published, but I suspect the percentage of madness ishigh. Mere harmless idiocy is doubtless the prevalent form ofdementia, judging by the way the poor unhappy spirits set aboutcompassing their ends; but some of their actions can only be explainedby the more violent species of mania. My great-grandfather seemed toread the suspicion in my eye, for he hastily continued:--
"Of course it is only the outside public who imagine that the spiritsof literature really appear at Christmas. It is the annuals thatappear at Christmas. The real season at which we are active on earthis summer, as every journalist knows. By Christmas the authors of ourbeing have completely forgotten our existence. As a writer myself, andcalling in connection with a literary matter, I thought it moreprofessional to pay my visit during the dog days, especially as yourbeing in trouble supplied me with an excuse for asking permission togo beyond bounds."
"You knew I was in trouble?" I murmured, touched by this sympathy froman unexpected quarter.
"Certainly. And from a selfish point of view I am not sorry. You havealways been so inconsiderately happy that I could never find a seemlypretext to get out to see you."
"Is it only when your descendants are in trouble that you are allowedto visit them?" I enquired.
"Even so," he answered. "Of course spirits whose births were tragic,who were murdered into existence, are allowed to supplement theinefficient police departments of the upper globe, and a similarcharter is usually extended to those who have hidden treasures ontheir conscience; but it is obvious that if all spirits were accordedwhat furloughs they pleased, eschatology would become a farce. Sir,you have no idea of the number of bogus criminal romances tendereddaily by those wishing to enjoy the roving license of avengingspirits, for the ex-assassinated are the most enviable of immortals,and cases of personation are of frequent occurrence. Our actresses,too, are always pretending to have lost jewels; there is no end to theexcuses. The Christmas Bank Holiday is naturally inadequate to ourneeds. Sir, I should have been far happier if my descendants had gonewrong; but in spite of the large fortune I had accumulated, both yourfather and your grandfather were of exemplary respectability andunruffled cheerfulness. The solitary outing I had was when yourfather attended a seance, and I was knocked up in the middle of thenight. But I did not enjoy my holiday in the least; the indignity ofhaving to move the furniture made the blood boil in my veins as in aspirit-lamp, and exposed me to the malicious badinage of my circle onmy return. I protested that I did not care a rap; but I was mightilyrejoiced when I learnt that your father had denounced the proceedingsas a swindle, and was resolved never to invite me to his table again.When you were born I thought you were born to trouble, as the sparksfly upwards from our dwelling-place; but I was mistaken. Up till nowyour life has been a long summer afternoon."
"Yes, but now the shades are falling," I said grimly. "It looks as ifmy life henceforwards will be a long holiday--for you."
He shook his wig mournfully.
"No, I am only out on parole. I have had to give my word of honour totry to set you on your legs again as soon as possible."
"You couldn't have come at a more opportune moment," I cried,remembering how he had found me. "You are a good as well as agreat-grandfather, and I am proud of my descent. Won't you have acigar?"
"Thank you, I never smoke--on earth," said the spirit hurriedly, witha flavour of bitter in his accents. "Let us to the point. You havebeen reduced to the painful necessity of earning your living."
I nodded silently, and took a sip of lemon-squash. A strange sense ofsalvation lulled my soul.
"How do you propose to do it?" asked my great-grandfather.
"Oh, I leave that to you," I said confidingly.
"Well, what do you say to a literary career?"
"Eh? What?" I gasped.
"A literary career," he
repeated. "What makes you so astonished?"
"Well, for one thing it's exactly what Tom Addlestone, theleader-writer of the _Hurrygraph_, was recommending to me thismorning. He said: 'John, my boy, if I had had your advantages tenyears ago, I should have been spared many a headache and supplied withmany a dinner. It may turn out a lucky thing yet that you gravitatedso to literary society, and that so many press men had free passes toyour suppers. Consider the number of men of letters you have mixeddrinks with! Why, man, you can succeed in any branch of literature youplease.'"
My great-grandfather's face was radiant. Perhaps it was only thesetting sun that touched it.
"A chip of the old block," he murmured. "That was I in my young days.Johnson, Goldsmith, Sheridan, Burke, Hume, I knew them all--gay dogs,gay dogs! Except that great hulking brute of a Johnson," he added,with a sudden savage snarl that showed his white teeth.
"I told Addlestone that I had no literary ability whatever, and hescoffed at me for my simplicity. All the same, I think he was onlypoking fun at me. My friends might puff me out to bull-size; but I amonly a frog, and I should very soon burst. The public might be cajoledinto buying one book; they could not be duped a second time. Don't youthink I was right? I haven't any literary ability, have I?"
"Certainly not, certainly not," replied my great-grandfather with analacrity and emphasis that would have seemed suspicious in a meremortal. "But it does seem a shame to waste so great an opportunity.The ball that Addlestone waited years for is at your foot, and it isgrievous to think that there it must remain merely because you do notknow how to kick it."
"Well, but what's a man to do?"
"What's a man to do?" repeated my great-grandfather contemptuously."Get a ghost, of course."
"By Jove!" I cried with a whistle. "That's a good idea! Addlestone hasa ghost to do his leaders for him when he's lazy. I've seen the youngfellow myself. Tom pays him six guineas a dozen, and gets threeguineas apiece himself. But of course Tom has to live in much betterstyle, and that makes it fair all round. You mean that I am to takeadvantage of my influence to get some other fellow work, and take acommission for the use of my name? That seems feasible enough. Butwhere am I to find a ghost with the requisite talents?"
"Here," said my great-grandfather.
"What! You?"
"Yes, I," he replied calmly.
"But you couldn't write--"
"Not now, certainly not. All I wrote now would be burnt."
"Then how the devil--?" I began.
"Hush!" he interrupted nervously. "Listen, and I will a tale unfold.It is called _The Learned Pig_. I wrote it in my forty-fifth year, andit is full of sketches from the life of all the more notablepersonages of my time, from Lord Chesterfield to Mrs. Thrale, from PegWoffington to Adam Smith and the ingenious Mr. Dibdin. I have paintedthe portrait of Sir Joshua quite as faithfully as he has painted mine.Of course much of the dialogue is real, taken from conversationspreserved in my note-book. It is, I believe, a complete picture of theperiod, and being the only book I ever wrote or intended to write, Iput my whole self into it, as well as all my friends."
"It must be, indeed, your masterpiece," I cried enthusiastically. "Butwhy is it called _The Learned Pig_, and how has it escapedpublication?"
"You shall hear. The learned pig is Dr. Johnson. He refused to takewine with me. I afterwards learnt that he had given up strong liqueursaltogether, and I went to see him again, but he received me withepigrams. He is the pivot of my book, all the other charactersrevolving about him. Naturally, I did not care to publish during hislifetime; not entirely, I admit, out of consideration to his feelings,but because foolish admirers had placed him on such a pedestal that hecould damn any book he did not relish. I made sure of surviving him,so many and diverse were his distempers; whereas my manuscriptsurvived me. In the moment of death I strove to tell your grandfatherof the hiding-place in which I had bestowed it; but I could only makesigns to which he had not the clue. You can imagine how it hasembittered my spirit to have missed the aim of my life and my dueniche in the pantheon of letters. In vain I strove to be registeredamong the 'hidden treasure' spirits, with the perambulatory privilegespertaining to the class. I was told that to recognise manuscriptsunder the head of 'treasures' would be to open a fresh door to abuse,there being few but had scribbled in their time and had a good conceitof their compositions to boot. I could offer no proofs of the value ofmy work, not even printers' proofs, and even the fact that themanuscript was concealed behind a sliding panel availed not to bringit into the coveted category. Moreover, not only did I have no otherpretext to call on my descendants, but both my son and grandson weretoo respectable to be willingly connected with letters and tooflourishing to be enticed by the prospects of profit. To you, however,this book will prove the avenue to fresh fortune."
"Do you mean I am to publish it under your name?"
"No, under yours."
"But, then, where does the satisfaction come in?"
"Your name is the same as mine."
"I see; but still, why not tell the truth about it? In a preface, forinstance."
"Who would believe it? In my own day I could not credit thatMacpherson spoke truly about the way Ossian came into his possession,nor to judge from gossip I have had with the younger ghosts did anyoneattach credence to Sir Walter Scott's introductions."
"True," I said musingly. "It is a played-out dodge. But I am notcertain whether an attack on Dr. Johnson would go down nowadays. Weare aware that the man had porcine traits, but we have almostcanonised him."
"The very reason why the book will be a success," he replied eagerly."I understand that in these days of yours the best way of attractingattention is to fly in the face of all received opinion, and so in therealm of history to whitewash the villains and tar and feather thesaints. The sliding panel of which I spoke is just behind the pictureof me. Lose no time. Go at once, even as I must."
The shadowy contours of his form waved agitatedly in the wind.
"But how do you know anyone will bring it out?" I said doubtfully. "AmI to haunt the publishers' offices till--"
"No, no, I will do that," he interrupted in excitement. "Promise meyou will help me."
"But I don't feel at all sure it stands a ghost of a chance," I said,growing colder in proportion as he grew more enthusiastic.
"It is the only chance of a ghost," he pleaded. "Come, give me yourword. Any of your literary friends will get you a publisher, andwhere could you get a more promising ghost?"
"Oh, nonsense!" I said quietly, unconsciously quoting Ibsen. "Theremust be ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sand of the sea."
I was determined to put the matter on its proper footing, for I sawthat under pretence of restoring my fortunes he was really trying toget me to pull his chestnuts out of the fire, and I resented thedeceptive spirit that could put forward such tasks as favours. It wasevident that he cherished a post-mortem grudge against the greatlexicographer, as well as a posthumous craving for fame, and wished touse me as the instrument of his reputation and his revenge. But I wasa man of the world, and I was not going to be rushed by a merephantom.
"I don't deny there are plenty of ghosts about," he answered withinsinuative deference. "Only will any of the others work for nothing?"
He saw he had scored a point, and his eyes twinkled.
"Yes, but I don't know that I approve of black-legs," I answeredsternly. "You are taking the bread and butter out of some honestghost's mouth."
The corners of his own mouth drooped; his eyes grew misty; he lookedfading away. "Most true," he faltered; "but be pitiful. Have you nogreat-grand-filial feelings?"
"No, I lost everything in the crash," I answered coldly. "Suppose thebook's a frost?"
"I shan't mind," he said eagerly.
"No, I don't suppose you _would_ mind a frost," I retortedwitheringly. "But look at the chaff you'd be letting me in for. Hadn'tyou better put off publication for a century or two?"
"No, no," he cried wildly; "our mansi
on will pass into strange hands.I shall not have the right of calling on the new proprietors."
"Phew!" I whistled; "perhaps that's why you timed your visit now, youartful old codger. I have always heard appearances are deceptive.However, I have ever been a patron of letters; and although I cannotapprove of post-mundane malice, and think the dead past should be letbury its dead, still, if you are set upon it, I will try and use myinfluence to get your book published."
"Bless you!" he cried tremulously, with all the effusiveness naturalto an author about to see himself in print, and trembled so violentlythat he dissipated himself away.
I stood staring a moment at the spot where he had stood, pleased athaving out-manoeuvred him; then my chair gave way with anothercrash, and I picked myself up painfully, together with the dead stumpof my cigar, and brushed the ash off my trousers, and rubbed my eyesand wondered if I had been dreaming. But no! when I ran into thecheerless dining-room, with its pervading sense of imminent auction, Ifound the sliding panel behind the portrait by Reynolds, which seemedto beam kindly encouragement upon me, and, lo! _The Learned Pig_ wasthere in a mass of musty manuscript.
As everybody knows, the book made a hit. The _Acadaeum_ was unusuallygenerous in its praise: "A lively picture of the century offarthingales and stomachers, marred only by numerous anachronisms andthat stilted air of faked-up archaeological knowledge which is, wesuppose, inevitable in historical novels. The conversations areparticularly artificial. Still, we can forgive Mr. Halliwell a gooddeal of inaccuracy and inacquaintance with the period, in view of thegraphic picture of the literary dictator from the novel point of viewof a contemporary who was not among the worshippers. It is curioushow the honest, sterling character of the man is brought out all themore clearly from the incapacity of the narrator to comprehend itsgreatness--to show this was a task that called for no little skill andsubtlety. If it were only for this one ingenious idea, Mr. Halliwell'sbook would stand out from the mass of abortive attempts to resuscitatethe past. He has failed to picture the times, but he has done what isbetter--he has given us human beings who are alive, instead of thefutile shadows that flit through the Walhalla of the averagehistorical novel."
All the leading critics were at one as to the cleverness with whichthe great soul of Dr. Johnson was made to stand out on the backgroundof detraction, and the public was universally agreed that this was theonly readable historical novel published for many years, and that theanachronisms didn't matter a pin. I don't know what I had done to TomAddlestone; but when everybody was talking about me, he went aboutsaying that I kept a ghost. I was annoyed, for I did not keep one inany sense, and I openly defied the world to produce him. Why, I neversaw him again myself--I believe he was too disgusted with the filliphe had given Dr. Johnson's reputation, and did not even take advantageof the Christmas Bank Holiday. But Addlestone's libel got to JennyGrant's ears, and she came to me indignantly, and said: "I won't haveit. You must either give up me or the ghost."
"To give up you would be to give up the ghost, darling," I answeredsoothingly. "But you, and you alone, have a right to the truth. It isnot my ghost at all, it is my great-grandfather's."
"Do you mean to say he bequeathed him to you?"
"It came to that."
I then told her the truth, and showed how in any case the profits ofmy ancestor's book rightfully reverted backwards to me. So we weremarried on them, and Jenny, fired by my success, tried _her_ hand on anovel, and published it, truthfully enough, under the name of J.Halliwell. She has written all my stories ever since, including thisone; which, if it be necessarily false in the letter, is true in thespirit.