Tales of Men and Ghosts

is story simpl

d he had to go away for six months, and work harder than ever when he came back. He had no knack for business, no head for figures, no dimmest insight into the mysteries of commerce. He wanted to travel and write — those were his inmost longings. And as the years dragged on, and he neared middle-age without making any more money, or acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed him. He tried writing, but he always came home from the office so tired that his brain could not work. For half the year he did not reach his dim up-town flat till after dark, and could only “brush up” for dinner, and afterward lie on the lounge with his pipe, while his sister dro

iddle-aged, and he watched the reflection of the process in his sister’s wasted face. At eighteen she had been pretty, and as full of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial, insignificant — she had missed her chance of life. And she had no resources, poor creature, was fashioned simply for the primitive functions she had been denied the chance to fulfil! It exasper

gainst the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not moved

were all scattered, and one of the nieces offered to lend us her cottage if we’d relieve her of duty for two months. It was a nuisance for me, of course, for Wrenfield is two hours from town; but my

re grown under glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield — his big kitchen-garden was surrounded by blinking battalions of green-houses. And in nearly all of them melons were grown — early melons and late, French, English, domestic — dwarf melons and monsters: every shape, colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like children — a staff of trained atte

ies. The cardinal rule of his existence was not to let himself be ‘worried.’ . . I remember his advising me to try it myself, one day when I spoke to him about Kate’s bad health, and her need of a change. ‘I never let myself worry,’ he said complac

st for us and the others. But his life was a good deal sounder than mine or Kate’s — and one could picture him taking e

m, prodding and leering at the fruit, like a fat Turk in his seraglio. When he bragged to me of the expense of growing them I was reminded of a hideous old Lothario bragging of what his pleasures cost. And the resemblance was completed by the fact that he couldn’t eat as much as a

stone-pine, with one’s eyes on the sky, and let the cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the vision was suggested by the fact that, as I entered cousin Joseph’s hideous black walnut library, I passed one of the under-gardeners

n — the fattest melon I’d ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy of contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated myself on finding him in such a mood, since I had made u

delicious smoothness to the touch?’ It was as if he had said ‘she’ instead of ‘it,’ and wh

surpass its plumpest, pulpiest sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be photographed and celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The Italian had done well — seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And that very morning he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be shown next day at the

he pauper scoundrel deported! I’ll show him what money can do!’ As likely as not there was some murderous Black-hand business under it — it would be found that the fellow was a member of a ‘gang.’ Those Italians would murder you for a quarter. He meant to have the police look into it . . . And then he grew frightened at his own excit

d make him see his power of giving happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I tried to tell him something about my situation and Kate’s — spoke of my ill-health, my unsuc

wn as smooth as an egg-shell again — his eyes peered ove

arfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. ‘Do you understand any

o much for me,’ he said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll prepare for my

ray set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured himself a tall

t another,”

elf: “By God, if you won’t, I’ll make you.” He spoke more tranquilly as the narrative proceeded, as though his rage had died down once the resolve to act on it was taken. He applied his whole mind to the ques

, on getting home, found Kate excited over a report from Wrenfield. The Italian had been there again — had somehow slipped into the house, made his way up to the library, and “used threatening language.” Th

e more an important figure. The medical men reassured the family — too completely! — and to the patient they recommended a more varied diet: advised him to take whatever “tempted him.” And so one day, tre

t the house since ‘the scene.’ It was said that he had tender relations with the kitchen-maid, and the rest seemed easy to explain. But when they looked round to ask him for th

is head thrown back, looking about the familiar room. Everything in it had grown grimacing an

isn’t ‘remorse,’ understand. I’m glad the old skin-flint is dead — I’m glad the others have their money. B

then he said: “What on ea

back my health, and came home to tie myself up to my work. And I’ve slaved at it steadily for ten years without reward — without the most distant hope of success! Nobody wil