MY SPLENDID COUSIN - The Ghost

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THE GHOST

A Modern Fantasy

BY

ARNOLD BENNETT

AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WIVES' TALES," "CLAYHANGER,"

ETC., ETC.

BOSTON

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY

1911

Copyright, 1907

By HERBERT B. TURNER & CO.

Copyright, 1911

BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY (INCORPORATED)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. MY SPLENDID COUSIN

II. AT THE OPERA

III. THE CRY OF ALRESCA

IV. ROSA'S SUMMONS

V. THE DAGGER AND THE MAN

VI. ALRESCA'S FATE

VII. THE VIGIL BY THE BIER

VIII. THE MESSAGE

IX. THE TRAIN

X. THE STEAMER

XI. A CHAT WITH ROSA

XII. EGG-AND-MILK

XIII. THE PORTRAIT

XIV. THE VILLA

XV. THE SHEATH OF THE DAGGER

XVI. THE THING IN THE CHAIR

XVII. THE MENACE

XVIII. THE STRUGGLE

XIX. THE INTERCESSION

THE GHOST

CHAPTER I

MY SPLENDID COUSIN

I am eight years older now. It had never occurred to me that I am advancing in life and experience until, in setting myself to recall the various details of the affair, I suddenly remembered my timid confusion before the haughty mien of the clerk at Keith Prowse's.

I had asked him:

"Have you any amphitheatre seats for the Opera to-night?"

He did not reply. He merely put his lips together and waved his hand slowly from side to side.

Not perceiving, in my simplicity, that he was thus expressing a sublime pity for the ignorance which my demand implied, I innocently proceeded:

"Nor balcony?"

This time he condescended to speak.

"Noth--ing, sir."

Then I understood that what he meant was: "Poor fool! why don't you ask for the moon?"

I blushed. Yes, I blushed before the clerk at Keith Prowse's, and turned to leave the shop. I suppose he thought that as a Christian it was his duty to enlighten my pitiable darkness.

"It's the first Rosa night to-night," he said with august affability. "I had a couple of stalls this morning, but I've just sold them over the telephone for six pound ten."

He smiled. His smile crushed me. I know better now. I know that clerks in box-offices, with their correct neckties and their air of continually doing wonders over the telephone, are not, after all, the grand masters of the operatic world. I know that that manner of theirs is merely a part of their attire, like their cravats; that they are not really responsible for the popularity of great sopranos; and that they probably go home at nights to Fulham by the white omnibus, or to Hammersmith by the red one--and not in broughams.

		Animals often strike us as passionate machines. Eric Hoffer