I heard myself stammer, “W—w—was I staring?”
“Yes. I wish you wouldn’t.”
I knew what he meant. He didn’t want me to keep on looking at that chair; he didn’t want to know that I was thinking of her. I bent my head closer over my sewing, so that I no longer had the phantasm in sight.
It was then I was aware that it had risen and was crossing the hearthrug. It stopped at Donald’s knees, and stood there, gazing at him with a look so intent and fixed that I could not doubt that this had some significance. I saw it put out its hand and touch him; and, though Donald sighed and shifted his position, I could tell that he had neither seen nor felt anything.
It turned to me then—and this was the first time it had given any sign that it was conscious of my presence—it turned on me a look of supplication, such supplication as I had seen on my sister’s face in her lifetime, when she could do nothing with him and implored me to intercede. At the same time three words formed themselves in my brain with a sudden, quick impulsion, as if I had heard them cried.
“Speak to him—speak to him!”
I knew now what it wanted. It was trying to make itself seen by him, to make itself felt, and it was in anguish at finding that it could not.
It knew then that I saw it, and the idea had come to it that it could make use of me to get through to him.
I think I must have guessed even then what it had come for.
I said, “You asked me what I was staring at, and I lied. I was looking at Cicely’s chair.”
I saw him wince at the name.
“Because,” I went on, “I don’t know how you feel, but I always feel as if she were there.”
He said nothing; but he got up, as though to shake off the oppression of the memory I had evoked, and stood leaning on the chimney-piece with his back to me.
The phantasm retreated to its place, where it kept its eyes fixed on him as before.
I was determined to break down his defences, to make him say something it might hear, give some sign that it would understand.
“Donald, do you think it’s a good thing, a kind thing, never to talk about her?”
“Kind? Kind to whom?”
“To yourself, first of all.”
“You can leave me out of it.”
“To me, then.”
“What’s it got to do with you?” His voice was as hard and cutting as he could make it.
“Everything,” I said. “You forget, I loved her.”
He was silent. He did at least respect my love for her.
“But that wasn’t what she wanted.”
That hurt him. I could feel him stiffen under it.
“You see, Donald,” I persisted, “I like thinking about her.”
It was cruel of me; but I had to break him.
“You can think as much as you like,” he said, “provided you stop talking.”
“All the same, it’s as bad for you,” I said, “as it is for me, not talking.”
“I don’t care if it is bad for me. I can’t talk about her, Helen. I don’t want to.”
“How do you know,” I said, “it isn’t bad for her?”
“For her?”
I could see I had roused him.
“Yes. If she really is there, all the time.”
“How d’you mean, there?”
“Here—in this room. I tell you I can’t get over that feeling that she’s here.”
“Oh, feel, feel,” he said; “but don’t talk to me about it!”
And he left the room, flinging himself out in anger. And instantly her flame went out.
I thought, “How he must have hurt her!” It was the old thing over again: I trying to break him down, to make him show her; he beating us both off, punishing us both. You see, I knew now what she had come back for: she had come back to find out whether he loved her. With a longing unquenched by death, she had come back for certainty. And now, as always, my clumsy interference had only made him more hard, more obstinate. I thought, “If only he could see her! But as long as he beats her off he never will.”
Still, if I could once get him to believe that she was there—
I made up my mind that the next time I saw the phantasm I would tell him.
The next evening and the next its chair was empty, and I judged that it was keeping away, hurt by what it had heard the last time.
But the third evening we were hardly seated before I saw it.
It was sitting up, alert and observant, not staring at Donald as it used, but looking round the room, as if searching for something that it missed.
“Donald,” I said, “if I told you that Cicely is in the room now, I suppose you wouldn’t believe me?”
“Is it likely?”
“No. All the same, I see her as plainly as I see you.”
The phantasm rose and moved to his side.
“She’s standing close beside you.”
And now it moved and went to the writing-table. I turned and followed its movements. It slid its open hands over the table, touching everything, unmistakably feeling for something it believed to be there.
I went on. “She’s at the writing-table now. She’s looking for something.”
It stood back, baffled and distressed. Then suddenly it began opening and shutting the drawers, without a sound, searching each one in turn.
I said, “Oh, she’s trying the drawers now!”
Donald stood up. He was not looking at the place where it was. He was looking hard at me, in anxiety and a sort of fright. I supposed that was why he remained unaware of the opening and shutting of the drawers.
It continued its desperate searching.
The bottom drawer stuck fast. I saw it pull and shake it, and stand back again, baffled.
“It’s locked,” I said.
“What’s locked?”
“That bottom drawer.”
“Nonsense! It’s nothing of the kind.”
“It is, I tell you. Give me the key. Oh, Donald, give it me!”
He shrugged his shoulders; but all the same he felt in his pockets for the key, which he gave me with a little teasing gesture, as if he humoured a child.
I unlocked the drawer, pulled it out to its full length, and there, thrust away at the back, out of sight, I found the Token.
I had not seen it since the day of Cicely’s death.
“Who put it there?” I asked.
“I did.”
“Well, that’s what she was looking for,” I said.
I held out the Token to him on the palm of my hand, as if it were the proof that I had seen her.
“Helen,” he said gravely,