



Produced by James Rusk





LITTLE NOVELS

By Wilkie Collins




MRS. ZANT AND THE GHOST.

I.

THE course of this narrative describes the return of a disembodied
spirit to earth, and leads the reader on new and strange ground.

Not in the obscurity of midnight, but in the searching light of day, did
the supernatural influence assert itself. Neither revealed by a vision,
nor announced by a voice, it reached mortal knowledge through the sense
which is least easily self-deceived: the sense that feels.

The record of this event will of necessity produce conflicting
impressions. It will raise, in some minds, the doubt which reason
asserts; it will invigorate, in other minds, the hope which faith
justifies; and it will leave the terrible question of the destinies of
man, where centuries of vain investigation have left it--in the dark.

Having only undertaken in the present narrative to lead the way along a
succession of events, the writer declines to follow modern examples by
thrusting himself and his opinions on the public view. He returns to
the shadow from which he has emerged, and leaves the opposing forces of
incredulity and belief to fight the old battle over again, on the old
ground.

II.

THE events happened soon after the first thirty years of the present
century had come to an end.

On a fine morning, early in the month of April, a gentleman of middle
age (named Rayburn) took his little daughter Lucy out for a walk in the
woodland pleasure-ground of Western London, called Kensington Gardens.

The few friends whom he possessed reported of Mr. Rayburn (not unkindly)
that he was a reserved and solitary man. He might have been more
accurately described as a widower devoted to his only surviving child.
Although he was not more than forty years of age, the one pleasure which
made life enjoyable to Lucy's father was offered by Lucy herself.

Playing with her ball, the child ran on to the southern limit of the
Gardens, at that part of it which still remains nearest to the old
Palace of Kensington. Observing close at hand one of those spacious
covered seats, called in England "alcoves," Mr. Rayburn was reminded
that he had the morning's newspaper in his pocket, and that he might do
well to rest and read. At that early hour the place was a solitude.

"Go on playing, my dear," he said; "but take care to keep where I can
see you."

Lucy tossed up her ball; and Lucy's father opened his newspaper. He
had not been reading for more than ten minutes, when he felt a familiar
little hand laid on his knee.

"Tired of playing?" he inquired--with his eyes still on the newspaper.

"I'm frightened, papa."

He looked up directly. The child's pale face startled him. He took her
on his knee and kissed her.

"You oughtn't to be frightened, Lucy, when I am with you," he said,
gently. "What is it?" He looked out of the alcove as he spoke, and saw a
little dog among the trees. "Is it the dog?" he asked.

Lucy answered:

"It's not the dog--it's the lady."

The lady was not visible from the alcove.

"Has she said anything to you?" Mr. Rayburn inquired.

"No."

"What has she done to frighten you?"

The child put her arms round her father's neck.

"Whisper, papa," she said; "I'm afraid of her hearing us. I think she's
mad."

"Why do you think so, Lucy?"

"She came near to me. I thought she was going to say something. She
seemed to be ill."

"Well? And what then?"

"She looked at me."

There, Lucy found herself at a loss how to express what she had to say
next--and took refuge in silence.

"Nothing very wonderful, so far," her father suggested.

"Yes, papa--but she didn't seem to see me when she looked."

"Well, and what happened then?"

"The lady was frightened--and that frightened me. I think," the child
repeated positively, "she's mad."

It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the lady might be blind. He rose at once
to set the doubt at rest.

"Wait here," he said, "and I'll come back to you."

But Lucy clung to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was afraid
to be by herself. They left the alcove together.

The new point of view at once revealed the stranger, leaning against the
trunk of a tree. She was dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. The
p