Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [50]
I offered my one poor chair, saying, “Will you not sit?”
“Thank you for speaking.” She smiled again. “Won’t you take it yourself? You must feel weak after giving so much strength to me.” The golden bells of an elfin steeple beyond Land’s End—should such a thing exist—could not have spoken more sweetly.
“I will sit on my bed if you seat yourself, madam,” I replied. “I could not possibly sit in the presence of a lady who was standing.”
“Then sit I shall!” She suited her actions to these words; and the old chair, which always creaked abominably when supporting my weight, uttered not a sound.
I asked whether she did not wish some service of me, for it appeared to me, my initial awe having passed, that she would scarcely have mounted two pairs of stairs to a garret save she desired my assistance.
“You are a gentleman,” she said, “which makes it all the better; but let me first say that I could not have entered this chamber at all had you not invited me in your dreams. Nor could I have spoken had you not addressed me.”
“You are welcome here at any time,” I told her.
“Thank you, Brooks. It is an honour, one of which I am truly appreciative.” This was said with no hint of levity. “However, I must inform you that I can now enter whenever I wish. From those who invite us once, no second invitation is required. I can never speak, however, unless you invite it. That is the law.”
I well understood; our own situation is, as a moment’s reflection will show, quite similar. When the matter is urgent, we must clear our throats or cough in the hope that we will be addressed.
“You may have heard my name, or so I flatter myself. I am called Alice Landon. It is not unfamiliar to you?”
“Always with praise,” I replied, “though that praise has done little to prepare me for the perfection I observe at the present moment. But if you will allow it, Miss Landon?”
“Speak.”
“You were so kind as to style me a gentleman, this although I am, as you surely know, only what is called a gentleman’s gentleman.”
She laughed again—that thrilling sound. “Why, a gentleman’s gentleman is a gentleman twice over, surely. Our dear Queen is waited upon by women who are styled ladies-in-waiting. Do you imagine they are not ladies-in-actuality? They would be dismissed at once. No, you are a gentleman, and I am a ghost. Does that surprise you?”
“It horrifies me,” I confessed, “although I guessed it long before. Even though I have heard your name more than once, you were always named as a living lady. Many must bitterly regret your passing, and I count myself among them.”
“Allow me to relieve your grief. I am at the present moment still alive, though I shan’t live out this pleasant weather.”
“If you are not yet gone . . . ?”
“The explanation is easily given, yet difficult to comprehend.” She rose sighing and went to the open window. “Indeed, Brooks, I must confess that I myself comprehend it only imperfectly. It will assist us, perhaps, if you are familiar with a tale much read at Christmas. Dickens is the author’s name.” She turned to face me, smiling. “He is the man who composed The Pickwick Papers, unless I am greatly mistaken.”
I had risen when she rose. “I have never read those, I fear. Do you intend the tale of Ebenezer Scrooge and Marley’s ghost?”
“Yes. Precisely that. I’m happy to find you familiar with it.”
“I heard it read,” I explained. “My master was asked to spend the holiday at the home of Sir Edward Darby. The tale was read while Sir Edward’s guests were seated around the table, and we were permitted to stand behind and listen if we wished. I did, having no work to do just then and thinking it possible my master might require some service.”
She smiled; it is a strange woman who is not made more beautiful by a smile. “You are familiar with it at least. You must recall that there