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The Floating Press - Margaret Oliphant

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54 pages

English

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In the vast majority of ghost stories, the reader's gateway into the tale is the point of view of the person being haunted. In Margaret Oliphant's unique take on the genre, however, we're granted both sides of the story. This tale of a mysteriously missing will is enlivened (so to speak) by the "voice" of the deceased woman of the title, Old Lady Mary.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 février 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776529834
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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OLD LADY MARY
A STORY OF THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN
* * *
MARGARET OLIPHANT

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Old Lady Mary A Story of the Seen and the Unseen First published in 1885 Epub ISBN 978-1-77652-983-4 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77652-984-1 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV
Chapter I
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She was very old, and therefore it was very hard for her to make up hermind to die. I am aware that this is not at all the general view, butthat it is believed, as old age must be near death, that it prepares thesoul for that inevitable event. It is not so, however, in many cases. Inyouth we are still so near the unseen out of which we came, that death israther pathetic than tragic,—a thing that touches all hearts, but towhich, in many cases, the young hero accommodates himself sweetly andcourageously. And amid the storms and burdens of middle life there aremany times when we would fain push open the door that stands ajar, andbehind which there is ease for all our pains, or at least rest, ifnothing more. But age, which has gone through both these phases, is apt,out of long custom and habit, to regard the matter from a different view.All things that are violent have passed out of its life,—no more strongemotions, such as rend the heart; no great labors, bringing after themthe weariness which is unto death; but the calm of an existence which isenough for its needs, which affords the moderate amount of comfort andpleasure for which its being is now adapted, and of which there seems noreason that there should ever be any end. To passion, to joy, to anguish,an end must come; but mere gentle living, determined by a framework ofgentle rules and habits—why should that ever be ended? When a soul hasgot to this retirement and is content in it, it becomes very hard to die;hard to accept the necessity of dying, and to accustom one's self to theidea, and still harder to consent to carry it out.
The woman who is the subject of the following narrative was in thisposition. She had lived through almost everything that is to be found inlife. She had been beautiful in her youth, and had enjoyed all thetriumphs of beauty; had been intoxicated with flattery, and triumphant inconquest, and mad with jealousy and the bitterness of defeat when itbecame evident that her day was over. She had never been a bad woman, orfalse, or unkind; but she had thrown herself with all her heart intothose different stages of being, and had suffered as much as she enjoyed,according to the unfailing usage of life. Many a day during these stormsand victories, when things went against her, when delights did notsatisfy her, she had thrown out a cry into the wide air of the universeand wished to die. And then she had come to the higher table-land oflife, and had borne all the spites of fortune,—had been poor and rich,and happy and sorrowful; had lost and won a hundred times over; had satat feasts, and kneeled by deathbeds, and followed her best-beloved to thegrave, often, often crying out to God above to liberate her, to make anend of her anguish, for that her strength was exhausted and she couldbear no more. But she had borne it and lived through all; and now hadarrived at a time when all strong sensations are over, when the soul isno longer either triumphant or miserable, and when life itself, andcomfort and ease, and the warmth of the sun, and of the fireside, and themild beauty of home were enough for her, and she required no more. Thatis, she required very little more, a useful routine of hours and rules, aplay of reflected emotion, a pleasant exercise of faculty, making herfeel herself still capable of the best things in life—of interest in herfellow-creatures, kindness to them, and a little gentle intellectualoccupation, with books and men around. She had not forgotten anything inher life,—not the excitements and delights of her beauty, nor love, norgrief, nor the higher levels she had touched in her day. She did notforget the dark day when her first-born was laid in the grave, nor thattriumphant and brilliant climax of her life when every one pointed to heras the mother of a hero. All these things were like pictures hung in thesecret chambers of her mind, to which she could go back in silentmoments, in the twilight seated by the fire, or in the balmy afternoon,when languor and sweet thoughts are over the world. Sometimes at suchmoments there would be heard from her a faint sob, called forth, it wasquite as likely, by the recollection of the triumph as by that of thedeathbed. With these pictures to go back upon at her will she was neverdull, but saw herself moving through the various scenes of her life witha continual sympathy, feeling for herself in all her troubles,—sometimesapproving, sometimes judging that woman who had been so pretty, so happy,so miserable, and had gone through everything that life can go through.How much that is, looking back upon it!—passages so hard that the wonderwas how she could survive them; pangs so terrible that the heart wouldseem at its last gasp, but yet would revive and go on.
Besides these, however, she had many mild pleasures. She had a prettyhouse full of things which formed a graceful entourage suitable, asshe felt, for such a woman as she was, and in which she took pleasure fortheir own beauty,—soft chairs and couches, a fireplace and lightswhich were the perfection of tempered warmth and illumination. She had acarriage, very comfortable and easy, in which, when the weather wassuitable, she went out; and a pretty garden and lawns, in which, when shepreferred staying at home, she could have her little walk, or sit outunder the trees. She had books in plenty, and all the newspapers, andeverything that was needful to keep her within the reflection of the busylife which she no longer cared to encounter in her own person. The postrarely brought her painful letters; for all those impassioned interestswhich bring pain had died out, and the sorrows of others, when they werecommunicated to her, gave her a luxurious sense of sympathy, yetexemption. She was sorry for them; but such catastrophes could touch herno more: and often she had pleasant letters, which afforded her somethingto talk and think about, and discuss as if it concerned her,—and yet didnot concern her,—business which could not hurt her if it failed, whichwould please her if it succeeded. Her letters, her papers, her books,each coming at its appointed hour, were all instruments of pleasure. Shecame down-stairs at a certain hour, which she kept to as if it had beenof the utmost importance, although it was of no importance at all: shetook just so much good wine, so many cups of tea. Her repasts were asregular as clockwork—never too late, never too early. Her whole lifewent on velvet, rolling smoothly along, without jar or interruption,blameless, pleasant, kind. People talked of her old age as a model of oldage, with no bitterness or sourness in it. And, indeed, why should shehave been sour or bitter? It suited her far better to be kind. She was inreality kind to everybody, liking to see pleasant faces about her. Thepoor had no reason to complain of her; her servants were verycomfortable; and the one person in her house who was nearer to her ownlevel, who was her companion and most important minister, was verycomfortable too. This was a young woman about twenty, a very distantrelation, with "no claim," everybody said, upon her kind mistress andfriend,—the daughter of a distant cousin. How very few think anythingat all of such a tie! but Lady Mary had taken her young namesake when shewas a child, and she had grown up as it were at her godmother'sfootstool, in the conviction that the measured existence of the old wasthe rule of life, and that her own trifling personality counted fornothing, or next to nothing, in its steady progress. Her name was Marytoo—always called "little Mary" as having once been little, and not yetvery much in the matter of size. She was one of the pleasantest thingsto look at of all the pretty things in Lady Mary's rooms, and she had themost sheltered, peaceful, and pleasant life that could be conceived. Theonly little thorn in her pillow was, that whereas in the novels, of whichshe read a great many, the heroines all go and pay visits and haveadventures, she had none, but lived constantly at home. There wassomething much more serious in her life, had she known, which was thatshe had nothing, and no power of doing anything for herself; that she hadall her life been accustomed to a modest luxury which would make povertyvery hard to her; and that Lady Mary was over eighty, and had made nowill. If she did not make any will, her property would all go to hergrandson, who was so rich already that her fortune would be but as a dropin the ocean to him; or to some great-grandchildren of whom she knew verylittle,—the descendants of a daughter long ago dead who had married anAustrian, and who were therefore foreigners both in birth and name. Thatshe should provide for little Mary was therefore a thing which naturedemanded, and which would hurt nobody. She had said so often; but shedeferred the doing of it as a thing for which there was no hurry. For whyshould she die? There seemed no reason or need for it. So long as shelived, nothing could be