Stories of Mystery | Page 2

signs, which bear a strange name, and wringing his ghostly hands in
lamentation at the wrong done his memory! Rumor told it in a whisper,
many years ago. Perhaps it was believed by a few of the oldest
inhabitants of the city; but the highly respectable quarter never heard of
it, and, if it had, would not have been bribed to believe it, by any sum.

Some one had said that some very old person had seen a phantom there.
Nobody knew who some one was. Nobody knew who the very old
person was. Nobody knew who had seen it, nor when, nor how. The
very rumor was spectral.
All this was many years ago. Since then it has been reported that a
ghost was seen there one bitter Christmas eve, two or three years back.
The twilight was already in the street; but the evening lamps were not
yet lighted in the windows, and the roofs and chimney-tops were still
distinct in the last clear light of the dropping day. It was light enough,
however, for one to read easily, from the opposite sidewalk, "Dr. C.
Renton," in black letters, on the silver plate of a door, not far from the
Gothic portal of the Swedenborgian church. Near this door stood a
misty figure, whose sad, spectral eyes floated on vacancy, and whose
long, shadowy white hair lifted like an airy weft in the streaming wind.
That was the ghost! It stood near the door a long time, without any
other than a shuddering motion, as though it felt the searching blast,
which swept furiously from the north up the declivity of the street,
rattling the shutters in its headlong passage. Once or twice, when a
passer-by, muffled warmly from the bitter air, hurried past, the
phantom shrank closer to the wall, till he was gone. Its vague, mournful
face seemed to watch for some one. The twilight darkened gradually,
but it did not flit away. Patiently it kept its piteous look fixed in one
direction,--watching,--watching; and, while the howling wind swept
frantically through the chill air, it still seemed to shudder in the
piercing cold.
A light suddenly kindled in an opposite window. As if touched by a
gleam from the lamp, or as if by some subtle interior illumination, the
spectre became faintly luminous, and a thin smile seemed to quiver
over its features. At the same moment, a strong, energetic figure--Dr.
Renton himself--came in sight, striding down the slope of the pavement
to his own door, his overcoat thrown back, as if the icy air were a
tropical warmth to him, his hat set on the back of his head, and the
loose ends of a 'kerchief about his throat, streaming in the nor'wester.
The wind set up a howl the moment he came in sight, and swept upon
him; and a curious agitation began on the part of the phantom. It glided

rapidly to and fro, and moved in circles, and then, with the same swift,
silent motion, sailed toward him, as if blown thither by the gale. Its
long, thin arms, with something like a pale flame spiring from the tips
of the slender fingers, were stretched out, as in greeting, while the wan
smile played over its face; and when he rushed by, unheedingly, it
made a futile effort to grasp the swinging arms with which he appeared
to buffet back the buffeting gale. Then it glided on by his side, looking
earnestly into his countenance, and moving its pallid lips with agonized
rapidity, as if it said, "Look at me--speak to me--speak to me--see me!"
But he kept his course with unconscious eyes, and a vexed frown on his
forehead betokening an irritated mind. The light that had shone in the
figure of the phantom darkened slowly, till the form was only a pale
shadow. The wind had suddenly lulled, and no longer lifted its white
hair. It still glided on with him, its head drooping on its breast, and its
long arms hanging by its side; but when he reached the door, it
suddenly sprang before him, gazing fixedly into his eyes, while a
convulsive motion flashed over its grief-worn features, as if it had
shrieked out a word. He had his foot on the step at the moment. With a
start, he put his gloved hand to his forehead, while the vexed look went
out quickly on his face. The ghost watched him breathlessly. But the
irritated expression came back to his countenance more resolutely than
before, and he began to fumble in his pocket for a latch-key, muttering
petulantly, "What the devil is the matter with me now?" It seemed to
him that a voice had cried clearly, yet as from afar, "Charles
Renton!"--his own name. He had heard it in