ded not
with time of day, but with recurrent actions, memories, moods. There
would be the bustle of his work, and that seemed to be morning. There
would be the planning of future days, and that seemed like an
afternoon, of sunshine; and there would be memories, as of old
shipmates, as of Uncle Robin--God rest his dear soul; as of Alan Donn
with his hearty cursing, his hearty laugh. And that was like an evening
with golden candle-light and red fire burning. And then would come the
quietness of night, all the bustle, all the plans, all the memories
gone. The fire out, the rooms empty. And in the strange place somewhere
within would come a strange lucidity, blue and cold and absolute as the
stars, and into that place would walk, as players stalk upon the stage,
each of three ghosts.

The first was his mother, who was dead, an apparition of chilling
terror. From afar she beheld him with eyes that were queerly inimical.
She had done nothing to him, nor he anything to her. She had done
nothing for him, nor he for her. Between them was nothing. When she had
died he had felt nothing, and that was the tragedy. No tears, no relief,
nothing. She had carried him in her womb, born him, suckled him; and he
had always felt he had been unwelcome. There had been no hospitality in
her body; just constraint. She had had no welcome for the little guest
of God; her heart had been hard to him and he at her breasts. Nothing
common to them in life, and now joined through the horrible significant
gulf of death. She could be with him always now, being dead. But where a
man's mother should come to him smilingly, with soft hands, with wisdom
and comfort passing that of life, she came with terrible empty eyes. He
could see her gaunt profile, her black brows. She was like an engraving
he had once seen of the witch Saul had used at En-dor, to call up
Samuel, who was dead. She had the same awful majesty, the same utter
loneliness.

"You gave me nothing in life. In death give me peace," he would cry. But
she stayed until it suited her to go, as she would have done in life.
Her haunted, haunting eyes ...!

And there would come another ghost, the ghost of the girl he had married
and he a boy--fourteen years ago. It was strange how he could remember
her--her red hair, her sullen mouth, her suspicious eyes. Her shoulders
drooped a little; there was no grace to her stance. She complained
against something, but she did not accuse him. He had married her,