The Shadowy Third, and Other StoriesGlasgow, Ellen Anderson Gholson
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The Shadowy Third, and Other Stories
Glasgow, Ellen Anderson Gholson
American fiction; Ghost stories; Short stories, American
My preparations took only a few minutes. In those days I always kept a
suitcase packed and ready for sudden calls; and it was not yet six
o’clock when I turned from Tenth Street into Fifth Avenue, and stopped
for a minute, before ascending the steps, to look at the house in which
Doctor Maradick lived. A fine rain was falling, and I remember thinking,
as I turned the corner, how depressing the weather must be for Mrs.
Maradick. It was an old house, with damp-looking walls (though that may
have been because of the rain) and a spindle-shaped iron railing which
ran up the stone steps to the black door, where I noticed a dim flicker
through the old-fashioned fanlight. Afterwards I discovered that Mrs.
Maradick had been born in the house—her maiden name was Calloran—and
that she had never wanted to live anywhere else. She was a woman—this I
found out when I knew her better—of strong attachments to both persons
and places; and though Doctor Maradick had tried to persuade her to move
uptown after her marriage, she had clung, against his wishes, to the old
house in lower Fifth Avenue. I dare say she was obstinate about it in
spite of her gentleness and her passion for the doctor. Those sweet,
soft women, especially when they have always been rich, are sometimes
amazingly obstinate. I have nursed so many of them since—women with
strong affections and weak intellects—that I have come to recognize the
type as soon as I set eyes upon it.
My ring at the bell was answered after a little delay, and when I
entered the house I saw that the hall was quite dark except for the
waning glow from an open fire which burned in the library. When I gave
my name, and added that I was the night nurse, the servant appeared to
think my humble presence unworthy of illumination. He was an old negro
butler, inherited perhaps from Mrs. Maradick’s mother, who, I learned
afterwards, was from South Carolina; and while he passed me on his way
up the staircase, I heard him vaguely muttering that he “wa’n’t gwinter
tu’n on dem lights twel de chile had done playin’.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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