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    Grim Tales
    Grim Tales
    Grim Tales
    Ebook92 pages1 hour

    Grim Tales

    By E. Nesbit

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    "Grim Tales" by E. Nesbit. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGood Press
    Release dateNov 20, 2019
    ISBN4057664179609
    Grim Tales
    Author

    E. Nesbit

    Edith Nesbit was born in 1858 and, like her fictional characters in The Railway Children, her middle-class family was one whose fortunes declined. After surviving a tough and nomadic childhood she met and married her husband, Hubert Bland, in 1880 whilst pregnant with the couple's first child. Financial hardship was to dog Nesbit again when Bland's business failed, forcing her to write to support their burgeoning family. She only later in life focused on writing the children's stories for which she became so well known, including The Story of The Treasure Seekers (1899), The Wouldbegoods (1901), Five Children and It (1902) and The Railway Children (1906). She died in 1924.

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      Book preview

      Grim Tales - E. Nesbit

      E. Nesbit

      Grim Tales

      Published by Good Press, 2022

      [email protected]

      EAN 4057664179609

      Table of Contents

      GRIM TALES.

      THE EBONY FRAME.

      JOHN CHARRINGTON'S WEDDING.

      UNCLE ABRAHAM'S ROMANCE.

      THE MYSTERY OF THE SEMI-DETACHED.

      FROM THE DEAD.

      I.

      II.

      III.

      MAN-SIZE IN MARBLE.

      THE MASS FOR THE DEAD .

      GRIM TALES.

      Table of Contents

      THE EBONY FRAME.

      Table of Contents

      To be rich is a luxurious sensation—the more so when you have plumbed the depths of hard-up-ness as a Fleet Street hack, a picker-up of unconsidered pars, a reporter, an unappreciated journalist—all callings utterly inconsistent with one's family feeling and one's direct descent from the Dukes of Picardy.

      When my Aunt Dorcas died and left me seven hundred a year and a furnished house in Chelsea, I felt that life had nothing left to offer except immediate possession of the legacy. Even Mildred Mayhew, whom I had hitherto regarded as my life's light, became less luminous. I was not engaged to Mildred, but I lodged with her mother, and I sang duets with Mildred, and gave her gloves when it would run to it, which was seldom. She was a dear good girl, and I meant to marry her some day. It is very nice to feel that a good little woman is thinking of you—it helps you in your work—and it is pleasant to know she will say Yes when you say Will you?

      But, as I say, my legacy almost put Mildred out of my head, especially as she was staying with friends in the country just then.

      Before the first gloss was off my new mourning I was seated in my aunt's own armchair in front of the fire in the dining-room of my own house. My own house! It was grand, but rather lonely. I did think of Mildred just then.

      The room was comfortably furnished with oak and leather. On the walls hung a few fairly good oil-paintings, but the space above the mantelpiece was disfigured by an exceedingly bad print, The Trial of Lord William Russell, framed in a dark frame. I got up to look at it. I had visited my aunt with dutiful regularity, but I never remembered seeing this frame before. It was not intended for a print, but for an oil-painting. It was of fine ebony, beautifully and curiously carved.

      I looked at it with growing interest, and when my aunt's housemaid—I had retained her modest staff of servants—came in with the lamp, I asked her how long the print had been there.

      Mistress only bought it two days afore she was took ill, she said; but the frame—she didn't want to buy a new one—so she got this out of the attic. There's lots of curious old things there, sir.

      Had my aunt had this frame long?

      Oh yes, sir. It come long afore I did, and I've been here seven years come Christmas. There was a picture in it—that's upstairs too—but it's that black and ugly it might as well be a chimley-back.

      I felt a desire to see this picture. What if it were some priceless old master in which my aunt's eyes had only seen rubbish?

      Directly after breakfast next morning I paid a visit to the lumber-room.

      It was crammed with old furniture enough to stock a curiosity shop. All the house was furnished solidly in the early Victorian style, and in this room everything not in keeping with the drawing-room suite ideal was stowed away. Tables of papier-maché and mother-of-pearl, straight-backed chairs with twisted feet and faded needlework cushions, firescreens of old-world design, oak bureaux with brass handles, a little work-table with its faded moth-eaten silk flutings hanging in disconsolate shreds: on these and the dust that covered them blazed the full daylight as I drew up the blinds. I promised myself a good time in re-enshrining these household gods in my parlour, and promoting the Victorian suite to the attic. But at present my business was to find the picture as black as the chimley-back; and presently, behind a heap of hideous still-life studies, I found it.

      Jane the housemaid identified it at once. I took it downstairs carefully and examined it. No subject, no colour were distinguishable. There was a splodge of a darker tint in the middle, but whether it was figure or tree or house no man could have told. It seemed to be painted on a very thick panel bound with leather. I decided to send it to one of those persons who pour on rotting family portraits the water of eternal youth—mere soap and water Mr. Besant tells us it is; but even as I did so the thought occurred to me to try my own restorative hand at a corner of it.

      My bath-sponge, soap, and nailbrush vigorously applied for a few seconds showed me that there was no picture to clean! Bare oak presented itself to my persevering brush. I tried the other side, Jane watching me with indulgent interest. The same result. Then the truth dawned on me. Why was the panel so thick? I tore off the leather binding, and the panel divided and fell to the ground in a cloud of dust. There were two pictures—they had been nailed face to face. I leaned them against the wall, and the next moment I was leaning against it myself.

      For one of the pictures was myself—a perfect portrait—no shade of expression or turn of feature wanting. Myself—in a cavalier dress, love-locks and all! When had this been done? And how, without my knowledge? Was this some whim of my aunt's?

      Lor', sir! the shrill surprise of Jane at my elbow; what a lovely photo it is! Was it a fancy ball, sir?

      Yes, I stammered. I—I don't think I want anything more now. You can go.

      She went; and I turned, still with my heart beating violently, to the other picture. This was a woman of the type of beauty beloved of Burne Jones and Rossetti—straight nose, low brows, full lips, thin hands, large deep luminous eyes. She wore a black velvet gown. It was a full-length portrait. Her arms rested on a table beside her, and her head on her hands; but her face was turned full forward, and her eyes met those of the spectator bewilderingly. On the table by her were compasses and instruments whose uses I did not know, books, a goblet, and a miscellaneous heap of papers and pens. I saw all this afterwards. I believe it was a quarter of an hour before I could turn my eyes away from hers. I have never seen any other eyes like hers. They appealed, as a child's or a dog's do; they commanded, as might those of an empress.

      Shall I sweep up the dust, sir? Curiosity had brought Jane back. I acceded. I turned from her my portrait. I

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