Death, the Knight, and the Lady: A Ghost Story

By H. De Vere Stacpoole

"Death, the Knight, and the Lady" by H. De Vere Stacpoole. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Dec 2, 2019
• ISBN: 4057664573513

Book preview

H. De Vere Stacpoole

Death, the Knight, and the Lady

A Ghost Story

Published by Good Press, 2022

[e-mail]

EAN 4057664573513

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I I DESCRIBE MYSELF

CHAPTER II JAMES WILDER

CHAPTER III A SOUND WHICH REMINDS ME OF MY PAST

CHAPTER IV INSTRUCTIONS PERFORMED

CHAPTER V WE SAY GOOD-BYE

CHAPTER VI —AND I START

CHAPTER VII NORTH!

CHAPTER VIII THE DIMLY-PAINTED FACE

CHAPTER IX GERALDINE

CHAPTER X WE MEET

CHAPTER XI THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK

CHAPTER XII THE MORNING

CHAPTER XIII YOU WERE NOT DRESSED LIKE THIS

CHAPTER XIV THE BALLADE OF THE FALCON

CHAPTER XV MY LETTER

CHAPTER XVI THE BLACK HORSE AND THE WHITE

CHAPTER XVII THE OLD OAK CHEST

CHAPTER XVIII THE TRUMPETER

CHAPTER XIX THE TRUMPETER

CHAPTER XX THE RUBY WINE

CHAPTER XXI AND THEY LAID HIM TO HIS REST

CHAPTER XXII THE END

CHAPTER I

I DESCRIBE MYSELF

Table of Contents

I cannot

tell you my story unless I tell you who I am and what I am. Oh, it is not for pleasure that I am writing all this down, but just because I—must.

My name is Beatrice Sinclair, and I am the last representative of an old and ruined family. There were Sinclairs in the time of King Charles who were great people at Court—you must accept the statement, for I cannot write much about this family of mine, the very thought of it fills me with a kind of horror. What would all those men with long flowing hair, those women with patches on their faces,—what would they say if they could see me, the last of their race, and could know what I have been?

Perhaps you guess what I mean, perhaps you are sneering at me; you can do so if you please, for I am so very ill that I care for nothing now, and they say I am dying. I know now, oh, I know well why an animal crawls away and hides itself to die: though I am only twenty-three I know more about death than those Egyptians who have been shut up in pyramids alone with him for a thousand years.

From the window where I am sitting now, wrapped up in shawls, I can see the garden; the frost has gone, and I can see a yellow crocus that has pushed its head up through the dark, stiff mould. If it knew what I know of life, it would draw that head back.

You must think me a very gloomy person, and indeed just now I am, for I am thinking of a part of my history of which I shall not speak, but only hint.

Some time, no matter how long ago, I was living at the Bath Hotel. I had plenty of clothes and money, and I thought I was in love. Well, one day I found myself deserted, I found a letter on the breakfast table enclosing a blue strip of paper—a cheque for two hundred pounds. I did not scream and tear my hair as a girl I know said she did when she was deserted, I believe I laughed.

I went to the theatre that night alone, and everybody stared at me. I was beautiful then, I am nearly as beautiful now, but it was only on that night that I first fully recognised how beautiful I was, I could see it in the faces of the men who looked at me, and in the manner of the women,—how women hate one another! and yet some women have been very good to me.

Well, when I got home I found supper waiting for me, and after supper I looked at myself again in the long pier glass opposite the fireplace; then a strange feeling came over me that I had never felt before, I felt a thirst to be admired, I say thirst, for it was so, it was really in the back of my throat that this feeling came, but it was in my head as well; it was not the admiration of ordinary people that I wanted; I craved to see some being as lovely as myself turn its head to gaze at me.

Oh! my beautiful face, how I loved you, oh! the nights I have woken up shivering to think of the dissecting rooms where they take the bodies of the people who have no friends.

At the end of six months my two hundred pounds were nearly gone. I lived innocently, I lived in a kind of dream. Men filled me with a kind of horror, when they looked at me in the streets I shuddered; I shudder still, and I wonder why God ever made such a blind and cruel thing as man.

I moved into furnished rooms: all this is misty now in my mind. If I had died then I might never have gone to heaven, but I would never have seen hell. I got typhoid fever; my rings lay on the dressing table, hoops of sapphires and emeralds; each fortnight a ring went to pay for my rooms and the doctor, who seemed never able to cure me.

I cannot tell you much after this, I can only say that I struggled, mad with pride and mad with hatred. I starved, but why should I pain you, and make more sad a story that is already sad enough?

---

CHAPTER II

JAMES WILDER

Table of Contents

It

is about six months ago. I was in a very bad way. I was walking along the south side of Russell Square one day—the 17th of September I remember now—and thinking to myself how I should pay my landlady the three weeks' rent owing to her.

Deeply as I was trying to think I could not help noticing a man coming towards me, striding along with his hat tilted back from his forehead, his head in the air, and looking just like a person walking in his sleep. I made way to let him pass, then suddenly I felt him grasp me by the arm and I heard him say Ah!

I knew at once—how shall I put it—that he only wanted to speak to me, that he had mistaken me for someone he knew, and as I looked in his face I did not feel a bit afraid, although his face was strange enough, goodness knows.

What is your name? he asked.

Jane Seymour, I replied, for it was my name, at least the name I went under.

Ah! he said, and his hand fell from my arm. I never saw a person look so disappointed as he looked just then; I heard him muttering something like always the same, disappointment, death, then he turned to go, and I broke into tears.

I was hungry and I had no money; he had seemed almost friendly, and now he was going—I could scarcely speak, I leaned up against the railings, I remember trying to hide a hole in my glove, for I had determined on telling him my real name.

Well? he said, Well?

My name is Beatrice Sinclair, I answered; that is my real name.

Then I stopped crying, for I was absolutely frightened, such a change came over this strange man; two large tears ran down his face, he clasped