“Where is She?” asked Mrs. Wragge, in a tremulous whisper. “Where’s the woman who scuttled by me into your room?”
“Pooh!” said Magdalen. “No woman scuttled by you—as you call it. Look in and see for yourself.”
She threw open the door. Mrs. Wragge walked into the room—looked all over it—saw nobody—and indicated her astonishment at the result by dropping a fourth parcel, and trembling helplessly from head to foot.
“I saw her go in here,” said Mrs. Wragge, in awestruck accents. “A woman in a gray cloak and a poke bonnet. A rude woman. She scuttled by me on the stairs—she did. Here’s the room, and no woman in it. Give us a Prayer-book!” cried Mrs. Wragge, turning deadly pale, and letting her whole remaining collection of parcels fall about her in a little cascade of commodities. “I want to read something Good. I want to think of my latter end. I’ve seen a Ghost!”
“Nonsense!” said Magdalen. “You’re dreaming; the shopping has been too much for you. Go into your own room and take your bonnet off.”
“I’ve heard tell of ghosts in night-gowns, ghosts in sheets, and ghosts in chains,” proceeded Mrs. Wragge, standing petrified in her own magic circle of linen-drapers’ parcels. “Here’s a worse ghost than any of ’em—a ghost in a gray cloak and a poke bonnet. I know what it is,” continued Mrs. Wragge, melting into penitent tears. “It’s a judgment on me for being so happy away from the captain. It’s a judgment on me for having been down at heel in half the shops in London, first with one shoe and then with the other, all the time I’ve been out. I’m a sinful creature. Don’t let go of me—whatever you do, my dear, don’t let go of me!” She caught Magdalen fast by the arm and fell into another trembling fit at the bare idea of being left by herself.
The one remaining chance in such an emergency as this was to submit to circumstances. Magdalen took Mrs. Wragge to a chair; having first placed it in such a position as might enable her to turn her back on her traveling-companion, while she removed the false eyebrows by the help of a little water. “Wait a minute there,” she said, “and try if you can compose yourself while I bathe my head.”
“Compose myself?” repeated Mrs. Wragge. “How am I to compose myself when my head feels off my shoulders? The worst Buzzing I ever had with the Cookery-book was nothing to the Buzzing I’ve got now with the Ghost. Here’s a miserable end to a holiday! You may take me back again, my dear, whenever you like—I’ve had enough of it already!”
Having at last succeeded in removing the eyebrows, Magdalen was free to combat the unfortunate impression produced on her companion’s mind by every weapon of persuasion which her ingenuity could employ.
The attempt proved useless. Mrs. Wragge persisted—on evidence which, it may be remarked in parenthesis, would have satisfied many wiser ghost-seers than herself—in believing that she had been supernaturally favored by a visitor from the world of spirits. All that Magdalen could do was to ascertain, by cautious investigation, that Mrs. Wragge had not been quick enough to identify the supposed ghost with the character of the old North-country lady in the Entertainment. Having satisfied herself on this point, she had no resource but to leave the rest to the natural incapability of retaining impressions—unless those impressions were perpetually renewed—which was one of the characteristic infirmities of her companion’s weak mind. After fortifying Mrs. Wragge by reiterated assurances that one appearance (according to all the laws and regulations of ghosts) meant nothing unless it was immediately followed by two more—after patiently leading back her attention to the parcels dropped on the floor and on the stairs—and after promising to keep the door of communication ajar between the two rooms if Mrs. Wragge would engage on her side to retire to her own chamber, and to say no more on the terrible subject of the ghost—Magdalen at last secured the privilege of reflecting uninterruptedly on the events of that memorable day.