A SPIRIT BRIDE by Andrew Haggard

PART I

The origin of the very sad adventure, which has tinged my life with grief, was that I went by invitation to a séance which was held in a haunted house. Although the owner and his wife had for long been disturbed by horrid shrieks and other unaccountable noises, and although the servants and themselves had occasionally had fleeting “rencontres” with flitting shadowy forms, they had never been able to make out what it was that the ghosts wanted, as these never stopped long enough to be asked. At length, however, it became almost impossible to live in the house, the spirits that inhabited it having developed the unpleasant habit of twitching the bed-clothes at night from off the living inhabitants. It was of no use putting them on again, they were twitched off repeatedly. Now, even a worm will turn, and my friends, Mr. Smith and his wife, who had given the spiritual inhabitants of the old Manor House a free rein as long as they had contented themselves with shriekings, tramplings, rattling of chains, and sudden flittings by in the long passages, drew a line at twitching of bed-clothes. They therefore determined to obtain the services of the most powerful medium of the day, and, if possible, make the ghosts materialise fully, give an account of themselves, and say what it was they wanted. Smith was a stockbroker, without a scrap of superstition in his nature. He had only bought the Manor House a year or two before, and would not in the least have objected to buying the family ghost also, on account of the air of respectability that it would give the place, had he been told about it. But he had been “done.” Instead of one family ghost there were evidently two or three, and they were, not only not respectable, but distinctly malignant and spiteful spirits.

“I would not mind them much,” said Smith to me, “if only they would treat me fairly; but as they don’t appear inclined to do that, I will be even with them soon by pulling the old house down until the site it occupied is as flat and unrecognisable as the place where stood Babylon of old. I will put the plough over it too, and turn it into an apple orchard,” he added reflectively. “Apples do very well down there. Not much fun they’ll get twitching bed-clothes then,” he chuckled vindictively between his teeth. “But I’ll tell them all this at the séance, and give them a chance though. Perhaps when I have made it quite plain to them, that if I have to go they will have to do too, they will be a bit more reasonable, and we may be friends yet. But we’ll have a nice little party at the séance, even if it is the last party we ever have in my house.”

As Smith said, he had a nice little party, but with a view to making the thing a greater success, he had only invited those whom he had heard of as being believers in spiritualism. Some of these he had never even met himself before; thus as a party it was scarcely a congenial one, for very few of those present knew each other,—not that that made much difference to the people, who only went with the object of studying the supernatural.

When Mr. Hawkshaw, the celebrated medium, arrived from town it was eleven o’clock at night. About a dozen of the visitors arrived with him, and as there were several people already assembled we formed quite a large party. When the medium was shown over the house and told to choose a room in which he thought the séance had better be held, he selected a musty old room known as the library. There were not very many books in it, but what there were were large and heavy ones, and there were plenty of chairs, sofas, and settees, quite sufficient, indeed, to accommodate all the guests. As I took my seat on the end of the sofa, I particularly noticed that the chair against it to my right was unoccupied. We determined at first to sit in the dark, so we bound the medium hand and foot and laid him on a sofa, sealed him tight over every knot with many seals, and turned out the lights. No sooner were the lights turned out than a fearful crash was heard behind us on my side of the room. It was the sound of falling books, and as we heard one mighty tome after another being dashed violently on the floor the air became redolent of dust. It was almost stifling.

Suddenly a voice shouted out in an authoritative tone, “You had better all join hands and sing a hymn, there are spirits present.”

I knew the voice to be that of John Roberts, the medium’s controlling spirit. He had been in his lifetime one of the earliest disciples of John Wesley, and had always shown himself to be a religious God-fearing spirit. In accordance with John Roberts’s directions I took hold of the hand of the person on my left, and was leaning across the empty chair on my right to take that of my nearest neighbour, when I found the chair was no longer unoccupied, for a little hand instantly seized mine. I had hardly time for astonishment, indeed only just had time to think that someone must have moved nearer to me, when the din in the room became so terrific that it seemed as if all the powers of hell had broken loose. All the fallen books commenced flying round the room, we were violently lifted up in our seats and shaken, and we could then hear a large table overturned with a smash.

“Strike a light,” roared out John Roberts, “or someone will be killed.”

Instantly half a dozen matches were lighted, just in time for me to see that a heavy book-case was tottering and about to fall on the heads of several of the people opposite. When the lights were struck, and candles lighted, I was able to see whose hand it was I was grasping on my right. I found it was that of a most beautiful young lady, a brunette, with a perfect figure, splendid black hair, and a pair of lovely and lustrous dark eyes, which were turned somewhat mockingly upon mine.

“Are you frightened,” she asked, smiling somewhat sarcastically. “I should have thought, Mr. Ashburton, you were accustomed to the vagaries of the spirits by this time! But never mind, hold tight on to me, I am smaller than you, but I will protect you all the same. The spirits and I are very good friends.”

I wondered how she knew my name, but giving her hand a responsive grip, I answered, “Well, really, my dear young lady, you make me feel a little ashamed of myself, but I must honestly own I do not like the idea of being hit in the eye by the brass-bound corner of an ancient bible, or of having my head bashed in by a falling book-case. Still I am glad to find that you are a friend of the spirits,” I added, laughingly, “as, then, quite apart from your generous offer to protect me, you will probably run less risk of being hurt yourself.”

“Hush,” she said, laying a shapely finger on her charming lips, “we must go on with the séance. Don’t you know we have come here to see the ghosts? But we will not go on with the business quite in the dark any longer,” she said. “It is too rough altogether.” Then to my surprise she spoke in an authoritative voice, “John Roberts, we cannot run this séance quite in the dark or there will be accidents. We must have a couple of lamps lit and turned down low, placed at the corners of the room, and you must watch to see that the evil spirits do not overturn them and put them out.”

“Very well, Miss Evelyn,” answered the voice of the controlling spirit. “I think it will be safer for the medium too.”

“Have you any lamps, Mrs. Smith?” said my fair neighbour to our hostess. “If so you had better light them, and place them as I direct.”

Neither Mrs. Smith nor anybody else seemed to have the slightest idea who the young lady was who was thus taking the direction of affairs into her own hands, but she replied, “Oh, certainly Miss—Miss——”

“Miss Evelyn,” interposed the girl.

“Here are some lamps, Miss Evelyn, just outside the door. Where shall we put them?” For everyone recognised the fact that it was just as well that this very self-possessed young lady should be allowed to take the lead, as nobody else seemed to know what to do.

She lit the lamps and placed them in the corners, turned low; then, coming back to her seat next to me to my great satisfaction she once more took possession of my hand in her firm, but dainty grasp. “There,” said she, smiling at me. “Now, Mr. Ashburton, we shall see something.”

“I expect we shall, Miss Evelyn,” I replied. “And if so, it will be entirely due to you.” I only wished I knew Miss Evelyn. Miss Evelyn—what?—but I liked the name Evelyn in itself without any surname.

We had not long to wait. We had scarcely resumed the clasp of hands all round before the medium was suddenly lifted off the sofa, carried across the room over our heads, and placed on the wide top of the book-shelf which had so recently nearly fallen down.

“He will do there nicely,” said Miss Evelyn. “He’s in a trance, and they will probably bring him down again if they want him. If not we can fetch him down ourselves.”

After the medium, the sofa that he had been lying on followed him on to the top of the book-case. It was placed right over him upside down, but he did not seem in any way annoyed by its weight, or, indeed, aware of its presence. Then the table upon which was one of the lamps was taken violently up, thrown down again and smashed, but the lamp was taken across the room and carefully placed by the other one.

“I saved that lamp,” called out the voice of the “Control,” John Roberts, as if seeking for approbation.

“Yes, John,” said Miss Evelyn, “that was right of you; but all these manifestations are simply rubbish. What we came here for was to see the materialised form of the ghosts that haunt this house, and to find out, if possible, what they want, not to see them play the fool like this.”

“I know that, Miss Evelyn,” answered John, “but they are bad, unruly spirits, who neither know me nor care for me at all.”

“Well, you had better tell them that if they don’t show themselves now they will never get another chance, as Mr. Smith is going to pull the house down over their heads. Are you not, Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, I am,” answered Mr. Smith, staring with astonishment. “But how do you know this?”

Before she could answer a frightful sound of combined scampering and shouting was heard outside coming along the corridor. The library door flew open, and two hideous beasts burst in. They had horrible human heads covered with long grey hair; one was a male and the other female, and their bodies were those of baboons. Their eyes were fierce, and their teeth long and sharp. They rushed round the room, clawing savagely at us as they passed, but stopped suddenly in front of the terrified Smith. Mrs. Smith and another lady fainted just then.

“You want to see us, Smith, do you? Well, here we are. And the reason that we are here is, that we are the Darwinian ancestors of the Smith family. The missing links, in fact. Do you see any resemblance to yourself?” and they gnashed their teeth dreadfully at him. “Now, say, are you going to keep us, or are you going to clear out and leave us and the place to ourselves?” And they made as if they would tear him to pieces. We were all nearly terrified out of our wits at these awful creatures, when the silvery tones of Miss Evelyn’s voice somewhat reassured us.

“You silly people,” she said, “don’t think anybody’s afraid of you, for although you have made such frights of yourselves, you have overdone it so much that a baby could see you are only masquerading. Missing links, indeed! Nonsense! If you really want anything settled, why not appear in your proper forms?”

“She’s too clever for us,” growled the female missing link. “Who is she? Well, perhaps she’s right, so let’s change. I am tired of this ugly form, at any rate. But in spite of what she says, we have nearly frightened a couple of women to death. That’s some satisfaction.”

“Very well, change,” said the male being.

The words were no sooner out of his mouth, when two of the handsomest creatures it has ever been my lot to behold stood before us—a gentleman and a lady clad in the court dress of the time of Charles II. But their faces, if handsome, were very, very evil. The lady swept round in front of me, and making a low curtsey, asked, with a hard sarcastic laugh, if I liked her any better so?

“Certainly, madam,” I replied, “very much better. But now you have assumed your proper and graceful form, will you not kindly tell us your history?”

They related their history, which, to cut it short, was as follows:—

They had inhabited this house formerly in Charles II.’s days, when the lady had been in the habit of using her beauty to lure the richest gallants of the day under their roof—one at a time. As she had always made absolute secrecy the condition of her favours, when the unfortunate cavaliers had been decoyed by her, and robbed and murdered by the male partner in her guilt, who was her husband, discovery of the whereabouts of the victims when they were missed became almost an impossibility. But the guilty couple had been found out at length and executed, and now they were doomed for ever to haunt the spot where they had committed their crimes. What they wished for, therefore, was to be left in undisputed possession of the Manor House. A compromise was come to by the intermediary of the self-possessed and beautiful Miss Evelyn. Smith agreed on the one side to give up to them entirely the oldest wing of the house. They agreed, on the other hand, never again to twitch at the bed-clothes, or in any way whatever to annoy the Smith family or their descendants. Smith and the male apparition shook hands on the compact, for the two ghosts were fully materialised for the time being. The lady also insisted upon shaking hands with me, as she was kind enough to say she still had a weakness for good looking young fellows. Personally, I did not at all like shaking hands with even the ghost of a murderess, but I thought it best to comply with a good grace. They then bowed politely to the company, and walking arm in arm out of the room, disappeared for ever.

John Roberts and other well-disposed spirits then quietly with unseen hands replaced Mr. Hawkshaw, the medium, and the sofa in their original positions. Hawkshaw was awakened from his trance, and the séance terminated pleasantly. Then we all went down to the dining-room to an excellent supper, of which we stood greatly in need.

During this meal the host and hostess, the latter of whom had quite recovered from her fright, both made a great deal of Miss Evelyn, but imagining, perhaps, that she had come with a friend, they asked her no questions as to her surname, nor how she had chanced to arrive so opportunely on the scene that evening, although I have cause to know that their curiosity about her was very great. But in fact they were just a little afraid of her. For my part, the more I saw of this girl the more I was struck with her beauty; while she continued to glance at me, strange to say, with a look in her grand lustrous eyes which was positively affectionate, and it seemed to me somehow from that look that she wished me to remain near her. It was at the same time a clinging and caressing glance. I did not refuse its unspoken invitation, but kept by her side when we sat down to supper. I found her a most interesting and well-read companion. She seemed to know about everything and everybody, and was just as much at home in Voltaire or Renan as she was in the books of Rider Haggard, or in the ordinary park and society gossip of the day. Supper ended, our host was in somewhat of a quandary. The last train from Kingston, which was the nearest station to the Manor, had gone to town, and he did not quite know how to dispose of all his guests, especially as now he had surrendered one wing to the spirits, he could only offer some of them, Miss Evelyn and myself included, shakedowns upon arm-chairs and sofas. Miss Evelyn, however, spoke in her quiet decided way: “Thanks, Mr. Smith, do not bother about me at all. I must be up in town very early indeed, and intend to stroll quietly along the river and wait for the first train at Richmond. It is a lovely night for a walk, and I feel that the air would do me good. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, unless, indeed, any gentleman”—and she glanced at me—“is dying for a cigar, and would like to come too.”

I, of course, took the hint, and offered my escort for the seven mile walk, which she accepted.

“Oh! Mr. Smith,” said she, when this was quite settled, “you can, by-the-bye, use to-night without fear the wing you have promised to give up. I can answer for it that you will not be molested at all, for I was responsible for the arrangement being made in the first instance, and I understand the spirits thoroughly. I will, therefore, make myself responsible for them not to take possession until to-morrow night at twelve o’clock.”

Her air of quiet conviction brought great relief to Smith and those who wished for a bed to sleep in, for although no one knew who she was, her face was very truthful, and after the events of the evening it was evident that she indeed knew thoroughly well all about the spirits and their doings.

That was an eventful walk I had with this strange young lady by night along the river bank. The harvest moon shone upon the rippling waters, and all nature seemed at peace. She had taken my arm, and in a short time it seemed to me as if our thoughts and minds were blended together—and I felt that she too was deeply moved by the beauty of the midnight scene. Her arm trembled in mine, and presently she said, answering my unspoken thoughts:

“Yes it is heavenly, but do you not think that it is more beautiful in the spheres where the spirits dwell than it is even here to-night?”

“No,” I answered gazing passionately upon her. “Nothing in this or any world can be more beautiful than this.”

She sighed deeply—then looked up in my face with a sweet smile and said earnestly—“Ah! George Ashburton, that is simply because you think you love me, is it not? You do not even know my name, beyond having heard the spirit of John Roberts call me Evelyn. You do not know where I come from, nor where I go—you have never seen me until four hours ago—and yet now you think in your heart that you love me better than all the world. You would jump into that river for my slightest wish, I verily believe—Say, is it not so?”

“Beautiful Evelyn,” I replied, “you are indeed right. I do not think, but know, that I love you as you say, sufficiently to lay my life down for you if need be. Ah! I verily believe that you have bewitched me.”

“Perhaps I have,” she answered more merrily, “but how do you know that you have not, by some wilful but unforgotten act of your own bewitched me too? I am not in the habit of taking midnight walks with strange gentlemen, you know. How do you know that this is not all a delusion—a dream? What means have you of telling that you are you, or that I am I? After the strange things you have seen to-night, why might not I rather be some vampire or evil spirit, seeking to lure you to destruction for purposes of my own? Do I look anything like an evil spirit?” she asked, looking up at me archly.

“Oh! no,” I exclaimed vehemently, “you are no evil spirit, but some good true woman, some woman whom I have known before somewhere, though I know not when or how, for you remind me of someone I seem to have seen in a dream—but evidently you know me, and know me well. Oh! I must tell you that I adore you first—you can tell me who you are or not as you choose.” And losing all control of myself I wound my arms around the beautiful girl and drew her to my heart. Oh! never, never shall I forget the exquisite sweetness and witchery of that moment when her lovely lips first met mine,—for oh, rapture, she ardently returned my loving embrace. Presently she threw back her shapely head a little, and I observed that there were tears coursing down her now pale cheeks—her great dark eyes were glistening with the pearly drops in the radiant moonlight.

“I, too, love you, George,” she whispered, “love you more than I can tell, with a greater, deeper love than woman ever yet had for man. Were it not so, I should not be here now. But I can tell you nothing now, you will have to take me entirely on trust. Moreover you will have to put up with my involuntary absence from you for thirty-six hours in every week, from every Saturday night until Monday at mid-day, and ask no questions as to where I go or what I do. Some day, perhaps, you may lose me altogether. If you can endure this—if you can stand this tremendous test, then indeed will your love be proved to be great, noble, and true, and as a reward for the sacrifices you make to comply with my conditions, we may be allowed one or two heavenly years of happiness together, we must not expect more than that. I warn you beforehand. Do not decide now. I will see you to-morrow—you can tell me what you have determined on then. One word more; if you think the conditions I impose are hard, know this, that I am utterly powerless to avoid making them, and this it is as painful to me to impose them as it will be to you to comply with them. Further, I may tell you this, although you cannot remember when or where it was, yet we have met before, and, moreover, I have made the most frightful sacrifices to be enabled to meet you again. Now kiss me, and let us be happy to-night in our love, while leaving this matter of your final decision concerning our future till to-morrow.”

Silently I enfolded her once more in my arms, and as I did so, I felt even more strongly than before that we were one in heart and soul. And I too knew somehow that it was not for the first time on this evening that I had loved her pure spirit, although the beautiful bodily form that veiled it was new to me.

PART II

Evelyn and I arrived at Richmond, shortly after dawn, and after merrily partaking of coffee together amid a crowd of workmen at an itinerant coffee seller’s stall, we took the first train up to London, where I dropped my companion at South Kensington Station as she said she lived close by. She did not say where, and I did not ask. On parting she promised to meet me at the same place late in the afternoon, when she would learn my decision. But she begged me as an especial favour to go to bed, and sleep for an hour or two before thinking about it; I vowed that I was not sleepy and could not, whereupon the graceful girl, saying smilingly—“then I must charm you to sleep, sir,” bent forward and kissed me on both eyes. “Now good-bye, dear one,” she added; “go home at once and dream of me.” And she left me. I felt drowsy at once, and when I got home slept a sound refreshing sleep until past mid-day. In the afternoon I met her again, when in a pretty summery frock she looked even more beautiful than she had done the day before. She looked up enquiringly when we met.

“I accept your conditions,” I said, “accept them unreservedly.”

She pressed my arm in a confiding grateful manner, while her face was overspread with such a gladsome look of content, that my own happiness became also too great for words.

“Then now that that is settled,” said Evelyn, “we will get married to-morrow, Wednesday”—the séance had been on Monday night—“that will give us three whole days together before I must leave you for the first time. Ah me,” she sighed, “I fear, dear one, that you will find these absences heart-rending, but we must not repine, but remember that since there can be no absolutely unmixed happiness in the world, we must make the best of that which we can get while it lasts. Therefore let us waste no time. You can get a special license for me in the name of Ellen Montgomery, and we will be married at St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, as you live in that parish.”

For I had a little house close by. It was too big for one, but would do nicely for two. We agreed that I should wire to the Smiths and ask them to come up to the wedding—and also ask Mr. Smith to give the bride away. They were very much surprised, but they were already excessively interested in Miss Evelyn, and suspecting some mystery about her were all the more willing to accede to our request. I got a friend from the Club to act as my best man, the two Miss Smiths were bridesmaids, and we were duly made man and wife. After this quiet wedding we had a delicious and jovial little breakfast at the Albemarle Hotel, where we resolved to pass the three days of our honeymoon. And never has it fallen to the lot of man in this world to pass three days of more complete happiness than did I alone with my wife in that comfortable spot in the centre of London. If I had thought her charming before marriage, I found her an angel after, but not an insipid angel by any means. No, she was the brightest, happiest, most espiègle of girls; as I said before, I never knew such a mind, it was stored with everything.

On the Saturday night, when the time came for our first parting, we drove away from the Albemarle along Piccadilly together. She dropped me at my old home, and then after a long and tender embrace, she went on, giving the hansom-cab driver the vague address of South Kensington.

On the following Monday at twelve o’clock she returned to me, when we met with mutual transports of joy. And thus commenced our married life. The enforced absences only made our meetings all the happier, and for a time it was almost heaven. I kept religiously to my compact and never worried my wife as to her doings during her weekly absences from me, although I must own, that my curiosity as to the cause of her weekly departure was excessive. On one occasion, however, I must plead guilty to having played a trick upon her in the hope of retarding her departure. I contrived to put back all the clocks and also her own watch, for half an hour. To my surprise, however, this made no difference to her leaving at the proper time. Glancing at the drawing-room clock that Saturday night, she noticed that it only marked 11.15, when the hour was really 11.45. She merely remarked, “Oh! that clock is half an hour slow, but I must be going.” Then she looked at her watch and noticed the same thing. Coming across to me smilingly, she kissed me and said, “You silly boy, you have been doing this, but it is, alas! useless, for I know within myself, without any watches, when the time has come for me to go.” I felt ashamed of myself and never tried on anything of the sort again. At last a time came when my dear wife was likely to become a mother. Although I became more and more anxious on her account, this did not make any difference as regards her weekly appearances. She went off all the same, and the months passed by.

I found the Sundays very lonely in her absence, and did not know what to do with myself without her. One Sunday afternoon I went for a solitary walk in Kensington Gardens. Strolling moodily round the corner of some bushes I suddenly came upon an old gentleman and a young lady seated upon a garden seat. My astonishment was very great to recognise in the latter my wife, for she had once volunteered the statement that when she left me she never by any chance remained in town, but always travelled a great distance in the short time. Naturally I went up to her. I noticed that she looked very pale and was crying, and as I approached, I heard the old gentleman speaking to her in angry tones.

“Why, Evelyn, my dear,” I said, “it is a very great surprise to me to find you in town to-day. But what is the matter with you, darling, why are you crying like this? And why is this gentleman whom I do not know speaking harshly to you? What does it mean, dear? Tell me at once for it goes to my heart to see you thus unhappy.”

I do not know which of the couple looked more astonished when I thus addressed her. Both Evelyn and the old gentleman stared at me in the blankest amazement, Evelyn made not the slightest attempt to recognise me in any way. Indeed she put on an expression as if she really did not know me. There was silence for a moment, and then the old gentleman, turning to my wife, said sternly:

“Evelyn, who is this person who presumes to address you so familiarly.”

She replied with an air of truth—“I do not know him at all, Papa. I have never seen him before in all my life.”

I staggered as if struck at the lie. I had never known her to lie before, and then such a lie! To disown me like this! But I had not time for much reflection before the old man turned furiously upon me.

“By what right, sir, do you dare to address my daughter when she declares she does not know you”—

“By a very simple right,” I replied, “the right that a husband has to address his wife. She has been my wife for nearly a year.”

“Her husband! Oh! thank God that she is married,” said her father, “then I have been blaming her undeservedly for what I thought her approaching shame. Evelyn, my child, why did you not trust your poor old father, instead of causing all this distress? But why do you disown your husband now you see there is no cause to do so? On the contrary, introduce him to me, and let us all be friends together. What is his name?”

If I had been surprised before, I was much more surprised than ever when Evelyn, instead of complying with her father’s request rose from her seat, and angrily stamping on the ground said, looking me straight in the face—“Married! I am not married. Husband! I have no husband, at any rate if so he is not a husband of this world. I have never even seen this man before, and he is a liar if he says that I am his wife.”

“But I am not a liar,” I retorted. “And I do say distinctly that you are my wife Evelyn, and you have your wedding ring to prove it. Inside that ring is inscribed the date on which you married me at St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, last year, the 13th of July—”

“Now although I don’t know how you know my name, I can prove you are a liar,” said Evelyn, pulling off her glove. “See, I have no wedding ring—”

“No,” I answered, “but see, here is the white mark where it has been, and even if for some extraordinary reason you have taken it off, can you deny to me that you are about to become a mother, the mother of my child?”

“Oh! Heavens, this is too much, father. I repeat to you most positively that I do not know him—and yet in some extraordinary way he seems to know all about me, even that I have been in some awful way the victim of some unintelligible misfortune. But he profits on it, and calls me his wife, well knowing it is false. Can it be that he is himself in some way the cause of all this misery?”

There was no mistake about her voice—it was distinctly my wife’s voice.

“What in God’s name does all this mean?” exclaimed the father. “True, she has been away week after week with friends or relatives, and may possibly be married to you as you say, but why does she so persistently deny it?”

“Be good enough to tell me your name, sir,” I said.

“Thomas Montgomery, sir,” he replied—“And yours?”

“George Ashburton is my name, and I insist upon you and my wife here, who is apparently your daughter, accompanying me to St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, to see the register of marriages.”

He said he would accede to my request, and Evelyn had perforce to accompany us. He saw the register, and his daughter’s name as being married to me. When Evelyn again denied having ever been married there at all, both the clerk and the clergyman who had performed the ceremony told her father they identified her perfectly. After that she became quieted, resigned, and silent, but I insisted upon the father, who was completely dumbfounded, accompanying me to my house, which poor Evelyn declared vehemently she had never seen before. But the servants recognised her without doubt as being their mistress, and her photographs and dresses about the rooms completely convinced the father that she was most undoubtedly my wife. He became perfectly furious with her at length for what he declared to be her double deception, and despite her prayers and entreaties left her with me, saying that I was her husband and her place was with me, and that he washed his hands of her altogether. After he left, the poor girl fainted, and I had to put her in her own bed. She was quite ill and delirious all the afternoon and night, after coming to her senses. At length the doctor who was in the habit of attending her had to be fetched, when he found her declaring that she was not my wife, and that I had no business in her room, and so on—he took me on one side and told me he considered the case most dangerous. There was no doubt, he said, that her mind was completely off its balance.

This was what I feared myself from her extraordinary behaviour. However, although she declared she was perfectly well, and wanted no medicine, he made her take a very powerful opiate, which soon sent her into a trance, like sleep, which lasted until seven next morning. Then she awoke, but alas, no better, for she seemed not to know me in the least, and was perfectly horrified at finding me by her side. She wished to rise and leave the room and the house, and had to be detained by force. At ten o’clock, tired out, she fell asleep again, and at twelve she awoke perfectly cured apparently as far as her brain was concerned, although very weak. She knew me now perfectly, and was most loving in her manner, but asked me how she happened to be in bed, and seemed to know nothing about the day before. Indeed she seemed to think it utterly impossible she could have come to my house on the previous day, until I told her all about the meeting with her father and her strange manner. Then she became very serious, and saying, “I feared something of that sort would happen at last—the end will probably come soon now,” she turned on her side and wept bitterly. But she would tell me nothing as to why she wept.

All that week she was in weak health and early on the Saturday morning she was confined of a boy, and a fine little fellow he was too, bright and intelligent looking, with eyes like his mother’s. As the evening approached Evelyn became very anxious. She asked for her child, and pressed him to her breast, looking at me the while with the deepest love. I saw there was deep anguish in her glance.

“Do you know, George, my darling,” she said, “that this is Saturday, and that I ought to be away as usual at twelve o’clock to-night? But how can I go and leave my sweet young infant, leave him to be nursed by another, who not only will not care for him, but will probably even hate him. And yet what will happen if I do not go, God only knows.”

“You are too weak to go in any case,” I said. “Why you would kill yourself if you tried even to walk across the room, so that must settle the matter for you, dearest.”

“Ah! that would not matter,” she replied, “for since what took place last Sunday, my spirit could go, and yet I could leave my body here as it is now. But it would be somebody else’s soul that would dominate my body, just as it was last Sunday. She would not in the least understand being ill in bed with a baby, and who knows how she might treat the child? She is an unmarried girl, and might even murder it in her despair. It would be different if I could only see her and explain everything to the spirit form that conceals her identity now—but if we meet and talk it will be death to me certainly, perhaps to her too. No, I must not go, I must take all risks and stay here.” And putting her arms around my neck she wept on my heart.

“My darling wife,” I said, “I do not wish to distress you, but do you not think the time has now come to tell me all—”

“Yes,” said she, “it has. I will disclose everything. Listen my love. When you were very young and first of all began to attend spiritualistic séances, you frequently saw a spirit who gave herself the name of Muriel. I am that spirit— Nay, do not interrupt. In the first instance you could only see my face, then by degrees I used to be able to materialise more and more, until at length I came in the fullest materialised form and was for the time being as much flesh and blood as I am now. And we used to converse together for hours—until at length, you, in your mad boyish fashion, fell madly in love with me—Muriel—the spirit. And then one day, in a séance at which you alone were present, with the entranced medium, you persuaded me to allow you to kiss me. When you did so you embraced me so madly, so ardently, and I was so gained by your love, that I returned your kisses with the passion of the human being I was for the time, not with the chaste salute of a spirit. Then, you remember, to your despair I dematerialised in your arms. I scarcely had the time to whisper, “Farewell, I love you,” ere I was gone. And as a punishment, for ten long years I never was allowed to see you again, and with the cares of life you forgot your spirit love completely. However, my love for you had sunk deep into my nature, so much so that when the time came for either my advancement into another and a higher cycle in the spirit world—or else retardation in my former condition for a hundred thousand years, coupled with the temporary possession of you—I chose you, and I thank God, and shall thank God to all eternity that I did so. And this is how it was done. The girl whose earthly form I bear, Evelyn Montgomery, whom I had often met at séances, had lost an earthly lover whom she adored more than life itself. In the world of spirits he made a similar sacrifice to that I have done that he might be allowed to have her with him at times in the spirit. Then it was ordained that while I might assume her earthly form to be near you, she might, for all but thirty-six hours in every week, assume my own spirit form as the ethereal Muriel. But while I, being really a spirit, can find out, if I like, her earthly doings—she, belonging to an inferior order of beings to myself, cannot tell what I do. Hence her distress and astonishment when you forced her, in this my body which is also hers, to accompany you as your wife—also her distress at finding she was about to become a mother. Now to-night, I ought as usual to yield up to her for thirty-six hours this earthly frame, but I am physically unable to do so, and should I and she ever meet and speak of our own free will it has been from the beginning ordained that she—that is also I, in her earthly form will surely die. Not that she would mind; on the contrary, it would be her greatest happiness to join her spirit lover. But to me, my ever-loved darling, it will mean one hundred thousand years of regret to quit my earthly husband. But we shall see what happens to-night. I greatly fear, my husband, my beloved one, that you will lose me in any case—till then lavish upon me all the love of your soul. I will cherish its recollection and yours to all eternity.”

That was all her story, wonderful and sad—but true—too true. Only too well did I now remember my spirit love, Muriel, and now I understood also why I had loved my Evelyn from the first. Between eleven and twelve that night, Evelyn dozed with her infant at her breast. She then woke, and kissing the child, gave it to the nurse, telling her to take it to the next room and close the door. She then threw herself into my arms.

“She is come, George,” she whispered, “see, there is my own spirit shape materialising behind you.”

I turned, and saw the well-known beautiful spirit, Muriel. She spoke musically:

“Since you have not abandoned the form of Evelyn Montgomery to-night, spirit Muriel, I have been obliged to come myself in person and yield up your spirit form to you for the customary thirty-six hours.”

“Alas!” answered my darling wife, “it will not be for thirty-six hours only, but for ever, since you have voluntarily spoken to me. Do you forget the ordinance, Evelyn?”

“Ah!” answered the other, “how happy I shall be to regain my own body and die, sister.”

“And how sad I, to give up my husband, for eternity,” whispered now my dying wife, “although I know we, too, shall meet again in the spirit world.”

Even as she spoke the spirit form of the real Evelyn, had de­materialised, and passed into the body of my expiring wife. And then a new Muriel rapidly materialised as the spirit of my wife assumed its own spiritual form, and as the spirit Muriel placed her lips on mine in one last, lingering embrace, the body of Evelyn Montgomery gave up the ghost. And they passed away together.