Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (119 page)

From
Vain Oblations, by
Katharine Fullerton Gerould; copyright 1914
by Charles Scribner's Sons; used by permission of the publishers.

On
the Staircase

By KATHARINE FULLERTON
GEROULD

P
robably
the least wise way to begin a ghost-story is to say that
one does not believe in ghosts. It suggests
that one has never seen the real article. Perhaps, in one sense, I never have;
yet I am tempted to set down a few facts that I have never turned over to the
Society for Psychical Research or discussed at my club. The fact is that I had
ingeniously forgotten them until I saw Harry Medway, the specialist— my old
classmate—a few years ago. I say "forgotten"; of course, I had not
forgotten them, but, in order to carry on the business of life, I had managed
to record them, as it were, in sympathetic ink. After I heard what Harry Medway
had to say, I took out the loose sheets and turned them to the fire. Then the
writing came out strong and clear again—letter by letter, line by line, as
fatefully as Belshazzar's "immortal postscript." Did I say that I do
not believe in ghosts? Well —I am getting toward the end, and a few
inconsistencies may be forgiven to one who is not far from discoveries that
will certainly be inconsistent with much that we have learned by heart in this
interesting world. Perhaps it will be pardoned me as a last flicker of moribund
pride if I say that in my younger days I was a crack shot, and to the best of
my belief never refused a bet or a drink or an adventure. I do not remember
ever having been afraid of a human being; and yet I have known fear. There are
weeks, still, when I live in a bath of it. I think I will amend my first
statement, and say instead that I
do
not
believe
in
any
ghosts
except
my
own—oh,
and
in
Wender's and
Lithway's,
of
course.

Some
people
still
remember
Lithway
for
the
sake
of
his
charm.
He never
achieved
anything,
so
far
as
I
know,
except
his
own
delightful personality.
He
was
a
classmate
of
mine,
and
we
saw
a
great
deal
of each
other
both
in
and
after
college—until
he
married,
indeed.
His marriage
coincided
with
my
own
appointment
to
a
small
diplomatic post
in
the
East;
and
by
the
time
that
I
had
served
my
apprenticeship, come
into
my
property,
resigned
from
the
service,
and
returned
to America,
Lithway's
wife
had
suddenly
and
tragically
died.
I
had
never seen
her
but
once—on
her
wedding
day—but
I
had
reason
to
believe that
Lithway
had
every
right
to
be
as
inconsolable
as
he
was.
If
he
had ever
had
any
ambition
in
his
own
profession,
which
was
law,
he
lost it
all
when
he
lost
her.
He
retired
to
the
suburban
country,
where
he bought
a
new
house
that
had
just
been
put
up.
He
was
its
first
tenant, I
remember.
That
fact,
later,
grew
to
seem
important.
There
he relapsed
into
a
semi-populated
solitude,
with
a
few
visitors,
a
great many
books,
and
an
inordinate
amount
of
tobacco.
These
details
I gathered
from
Wender
in
town,
while
I
was
adjusting
my
affairs.

Never
had
an
inheritance
come
so
pat
as
mine.
There
were
all
sorts of
places
I
wanted
to
go
to,
and
now
I
had
money
enough
to
do
it. The
wanderlust
had
nearly
eaten
my
heart
out
during
the
years
when I
had
kicked
my
heels
in
that
third-rate
legation.
I
wanted
to
see Lithway,
but
a
dozen
minor
catastrophes
prevented
us
from
meeting during
those
breathless
weeks,
and
as
soon
as
I
could
I
positively
had to
be
off.
Youth
is
like
that.
So
that,
although
Lithway's
bereavement had
been
very
recent,
at
the
time
when
I
was
in
America
settling
my affairs
and
drawing
the
first
installment
of
my
beautiful
income— there
is
no
beauty
like
that
of
unearned
increment—I
did
not
see
him until
he
had
been
a
widower
for
more
than
two
years.

The
first
times
I
visited
Lithway
were
near
together.
I
had
begun what
was
to
be
my
almost
lifelong
holiday
by
spending
two
months alone—save
for
servants—on
a
house-boat
in
the
Vale
of
Cashmere; and
my
next
flights
were
very
short.
When
I
came
back
from
those, I
rested
on
level
wing
at
Braythe.
Lithway
was
a
little
bothered,
on one
of
these
occasions,
about
the
will
of
a
cousin
who
had
died
in Germany,
leaving
an
orphan
daughter,
a
child
of
six
or
seven.
His conscience
troubled
him
sometimes,
and
occasionally
he
said
he
ought to
go
over
and
see
that
the
child's
inheritance
was
properly
administered.
But
there
was
an
aunt—a
mother's
sister—to
look
after
the child,
and
her
letters
indicated
that
there
was
plenty
of
money
and a
good
lawyer
to
look
after
the
investments.
Since
his
wife's
death, Lithway
had
sunk
into
lethargy.
He
had
enough
to
live
on,
and
he drew
out
of
business
entirely,
putting
everything
he
had
into
government
bonds.
When
he
hadn't
energy
enough
left
to
cut
off
coupons, he
said,
he
should
know
that
it
was
time
for
him
to
commit
suicide. He
really
spoke
as
if
he
thought
that
final
indolence
might
arrive
any day.
I
read
the
aunt's
letters.
She
seemed
to
be
a
good
sort,
and
the pages
reeked
of
luxury
and
the
maternal
instinct.
I
rather
thought
it would
be
a
good
excuse
to
get
Lithway
out
of
his
rut,
and
advised
him to
go;
but,
when
he
seemed
so
unwilling,
I
couldn't
conscientiously say
I
thought
the
duty
imperative.
I
had
long
ago
exhausted
Germany —I
had
no
instinct
to
accompany
him.