Benjamin Farjeon - The Last Tenant

"I don't see anything, Edward."

"Does not that prove that the figure you spoke of was a trick of the imagination?"

"You actually saw nothing?"

"Nothing."

All this time she had been sitting on the floor, keeping tight hold of me. I assisted her to her feet; she was so weak that she could hardly stand.

"For Heaven's sake!" she said "do not let us remain in the house another minute."

I was as anxious to leave as she was, and had I been alone I should have rushed downstairs in blind haste, but I had to attend to my wife. The power of rapid motion had deserted her, and when we were about to pass through the passage she shrunk back, fearing that the apparition of the young girl was lurking there. She experienced the same fear as we descended the stairs, and clung to me in terror when we approached an open door. I was grateful that the apparition of the cat-which followed us faithfully down to the hall-was invisible to her; if it had not been she would have lost her senses again, and it would have been hard work for me to carry her out, as she is by no means of a light weight.

The question which now agitated me was whether the cat would come into the streets with us, or would return to the resting place which should have been its last. It was soon and plainly answered.

I opened the street door, and stood upon the threshold. The cat stood there also. I paused to give it the opportunity of returning, but it evinced no desire to do so. I went down the stone steps to the front garden; the cat accompanied me. I walked through the front garden out of the gate, straight into Lamb's Terrace, and thence across the wretched wastes of ground into more cheerful thoroughfares; and the skeleton cat was by my side the whole of the time.

The evidence of civilized life by which we were now surrounded restored Maria's spirits; she found her tongue.

"Why did you stop on the doorstep, Edward?" she asked.

"I had to lock the street door," I answered.

"We will not take that house, my dear," she said.

"No, we will not take it."

Some unaccustomed note in my voice struck her as strange.

"Is anything the matter with you?" she asked.

"No," I replied, glancing at the cat, "nothing."

"What are you looking at? Why are your eyes wandering so?"

"My dear," I said, with an attempt to speak in a lively tone, and failing dismally, "I must be a bit unstrung, that is all."

She accepted my explanation as satisfactory.

"No wonder," she said; "I would not go through such another trial for all the money in the world."

For a little while we walked along in silence, and then I asked my wife whether she would ride or walk home.

"I should prefer to walk," she said; "it is early, and the air is fresh and reviving. Things look all the brighter now we are out of that horrible place. A walk will do us good."

I made no demur, though I was curious to see what the skeleton cat would do when we entered an omnibus full of people. It would experience a difficulty in finding a place on the floor of the 'bus, and there would be no room for it to stretch itself comfortably on the seats. I wished to ascertain, also, whether among a number of strangers there would be one to whom it would make itself visible. I peered into the faces of the passers-by with this thought in my mind, but I saw no expression of surprise in them, notwithstanding that the cat seemed to touch their legs in brushing past. Again and again did I turn my eyes away from the apparition; and again and again, looking down at my feet, I beheld it as clearly as if it were an actual living example of its species. Once we got into a crowd and I hoped that I had lost it. No such luck; it evinced no disposition to leave me.

"Edward," said my wife, "I am sure you are not well. I have tired you out with this eternal looking over houses to let. You have been very patient with me" – she pressed my arm affectionately-"and I will try and make it up to you. I know you never really wished to move."

"I never wished it, Maria."

"And you have gone through all this for my sake. I don't like to give up a thing once I have set my mind on it, – you know that of old, my dear, – but the experiences of this morning will last me a lifetime; so I will give this up."

"The idea of moving?" I asked in a dull voice. "You give it up altogether?"

"Yes, altogether. We will remain in our old house."

It is a singular confession to make, but this proclamation of the victory I had gained afforded me no satisfaction. I had no wish to move; my earnest desire was to remain where we were; but with the infernal cat gliding by my side, I could think of nothing but the haunted house in Lamb's Terrace which we had just quitted. In that house was the spectral figure of the girl who, by spiritual means, had opened a door I had locked, and presented herself to me. She was now alone. I had deprived her of a companion who, for aught I knew, might have been a solace to her. It was as if I had been guilty of a crime; as if I had condemned her to solitude. But it was folly to torment myself with such reflections. What had I to do with the incidents of this eventful day? I was a passive instrument, and was being led by unseen hands. More pertinent to ask what was the portent of the apparitions, and why the supernatural visitation was inflicted upon me, although to these questions I could expect no answer. Involuntarily I stooped to assure myself once more that the cat was but a shadow.

"What are you stooping for?" inquired my wife.

"I thought I had dropped my handkerchief."

"It is here, in your pocket." She took it out and handed it to me.

"I was mistaken," I muttered.

She held up her sunshade and hailed a passing hansom, saying energetically, and with a troubled look at me, "We will ride home."

I did not object. I think if she had said "We will fly home," I should have made an attempt to fly, so absolutely was I, for the time, deprived of the power of deciding my own movements. I did not see the cat spring into the cab, but directly we were seated, there it lay crouched in front of us; and when the driver pulled up at our house there it was waiting for the street door to be opened.

"Lie down and rest yourself for an hour," said my wife, with deep concern in her voice.

"No," I replied, "I will smoke a pipe in the garden."

With wifely solicitude she filled my pipe for me, and held a lighted match to the tobacco. I puffed up, thanked her with a look, and went into the garden accompanied by the cat.

In the part of London in which we live there are pleasant gardens attached to many of the houses, and our little plot of ground is by no means to be despised. It is some ninety feet in length, is divided in the center by a broad graveled space, and has a graveled walk all around it; and here when the weather permits, my wife and I frequently sit and enjoy ourselves. I am also the proud possessor of a greenhouse, which, as well as the borders and beds I have laid out, is in summer and autumn generally bright with flowers, of which I am very fond; and into this greenhouse I walked to smoke the green fly, which was doing its worst for my pelargoniums. There are a couple of trees in my garden, and birds' nests in them. The birds were flitting among the branches, and I looked at the cat, wondering whether it would spring after its feathered victims.

It took no notice of them, nor they of it. I remained in the greenhouse ten or twelve minutes, and then it occurred to me to make an experiment. With a swift and sudden motion I left the greenhouse and pulled the door behind me, shutting the cat inside. I walked toward the center of the garden, and the animal I thought I had cunningly imprisoned glided on at my side. Doors shut and locked, and doubtless stone walls, presented no greater obstacle to the creature than the air I breathed.