The Water Ghost and Others

A year passed by, and Willis recovered from the dreadful blow to his hopes, but he often puzzled over Miss Hollister’s singular behavior towards him.  He had placed the matter before several of his friends, and, with the exception of one of them, none was more capable of solving his problem than he.  This one had heard from his wife, a school friend and intimate acquaintance of Miss Hollister, now Mrs. Barrows, that Willis’s ideal had once expressed herself to the effect that she had admired Willis very much until she had discovered that he was not always as courteous as he should be.

“Courteous?  Not as courteous as I should be?” retorted Willis.  “When have I ever been anything else?  Why, my dear Bronson,” he added, “you know what my attitude towards womankind—­as well as mankind—­has always been.  If there is a creature in the world whose politeness is his weakness, I am that creature.  I’m the most courteous man living.  When I play poker in my own rooms I lose money, because I’ve made it a rule never to beat my guests in cards or anything else.”

“That isn’t politeness,” said Bronson.  “That’s idiocy.”

“It proves my point,” retorted Willis.  “I’m polite to the verge of insanity.  Not as courteous as I should be!  Great Scott!  What did I ever do or say to give her that idea?”

“I don’t know,” Bronson replied.  “Better ask her.  Maybe you overdid your politeness.  Overdone courtesy is often worse than boorishness.  You may have been so polite on some occasion that you made Miss Hollister think you considered her an inferior person.  You know what the poet insinuated.  Sorosis holds no fury like a woman condescended to by a man.”

“I’ve half a mind to write to Mrs. Barrows and ask her what I did,” said Willis.

“That would be lovely,” said Bronson.  “Barrows would be pleased.”

“True.  I never thought of that,” replied Willis.

“You are not a thoughtful thinker,” said Bronson, dryly.  “If I were you I’d bide my time, and some day you may get an explanation.  Stranger things have happened; and my wife tells me that the Barrowses are to spend the coming winter in New York.  You’ll meet them out somewhere, no doubt.”

“No; I shall decline to go where they are.  No woman shall cut me a second time—­not even Mrs. Barrows,” said Willis, firmly.

“Good!  Stand by your colors,” said Bronson, with an amused smile.

A week or two later Willis received an invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Bronson to dine with them informally.  “I have some very clever friends I want you to meet,” she wrote.  “So be sure to come.”

Willis went.  The clever friends were Mr. and Mrs. Barrows; and, to the surprise of Willis, he was received most effusively by the quondam Miss Hollister.

“Why, Mr. Willis,” she said, extending her hand to him.  “How delightful to see you again!”

“Thank you,” said Willis, in some confusion.  “I—­er—­I am sure it is a very pleasant surprise for me.  I—­er—­had no idea—­”

“Nor I,” returned Mrs. Barrows.  “And really I should have been a little embarrassed, I think, had I known you were to be here.  I—­ha! ha!—­it’s so very absurd that I almost hesitate to speak of it—­but I feel I must.  I’ve treated you very badly.”

“Indeed!” said Willis, with a smile.  “How, pray?”

“Well, it wasn’t my fault really,” returned Mrs. Barrows; “but do you remember, a little over a year ago, my riding up-town on a horse-car—­a Madison Avenue car—­with you?”

“H’m!” said Willis, with an affectation of reflection.  “Let me see; ah—­yes—­I think I do.  We were the only ones on board, I believe, and—­ah—­”

Here Mrs. Barrows laughed outright.  “You thought we were the only ones on board, but—­we weren’t.  The car was crowded,” she said.

“Then I don’t remember it,” said Willis.  “The only time I ever rode on a horse-car with you to my knowledge was—­”

“I know; this was the occasion,” interrupted Mrs. Barrows.  “You sat in a corner at the rear end of the car when I entered, and I was very much put out with you because it remained for a stranger, whom I had often seen and to whom I had, for reasons unknown even to myself, taken a deep aversion, to offer me his seat, and, what is more, compel me to take it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Willis.  “We were alone on the car.”

“To your eyes we were, although at the time I did not know it.  To my eyes when I boarded it the car was occupied by enough people to fill all the seats.  You returned my bow as I entered, but did not offer me your seat.  The stranger did, and while I tried to decline it, I was unable to do so.  He was a man of about my own age, and he had a most remarkable pair of eyes.  There was no resisting them.  His offer was a command; and as I rode along and thought of your sitting motionless at the end of the car, compelling me to stand, and being indirectly responsible for my acceptance of courtesies from a total and disagreeable stranger, I became so very indignant with you that I passed you without recognition as soon as I could summon up courage to leave.  I could not understand why you, who had seemed to me to be the soul of politeness, should upon this occasion have failed to do not what I should exact from any man, but what I had reason to expect of you.”

“But, Mrs. Barrows,” remonstrated Willis, “why should I give up a seat to a lady when there were twenty other seats unoccupied on the same car?”

“There is no reason in the world why you should,” replied Mrs. Barrows.  “But it was not until last winter that I discovered the trick that had been put upon us.”

“Ah?” said Willis.  “Trick?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Barrows.  “It was a trick.  The car was empty to your eyes, but crowded to mine with the astral bodies of the members of the Boston Theosophical Society.”

“Wha-a-at?” roared Willis.

“It is just as I have said,” replied Mrs. Barrows, with a silvery laugh.  “They are all great friends of my husband’s, and one night last winter he dined them at our house, and who do you suppose walked in first?”

“Madame Blavatsky’s ghost?” suggested Willis, with a grin.

“Not quite,” returned Mrs. Barrows.  “But the horrible stranger of the horse-car; and, do you know, he recalled the whole thing to my mind, assuring me that he and the others had projected their astral bodies over to New York for a week, and had a magnificent time unperceived by all save myself, who was unconsciously psychic, and so able to perceive them in their invisible forms.”

“It was a mean trick on me, Mrs. Barrows,” said Willis, ruefully, as soon as he had recovered sufficiently from his surprise to speak.

“Oh no,” she replied, with a repetition of her charming laugh, which rearoused in Willis’s breast all the regrets of a lost cause.  “They didn’t intend it especially for you, anyhow.”

“Well,” said Willis, “I think they did.  They were friends of your husband’s, and they wanted to ruin me.”

“Ruin you?  And why should the friends of Mr. Barrows have wished to do that?” asked Mrs. Barrows, in astonishment.

“Because,” began Willis, slowly and softly—­“because they probably knew that from the moment I met you, I—­But that is a story with a disagreeable climax, Mrs. Barrows, so I shall not tell it.  How do you like Boston?”