The Old Lodger

: THE CENRAL STATES AND THE GREAT LAKES
: Myths And Legends Of Our Own Land

In 1868 there died in Detroit a woman named Marie Louise Thebault, more

usually called Kennette. She was advanced in years, and old residents

remembered when she was one of the quaintest figures and most assertive

spirits in the town, for until a few years before her death she was rude

of speech, untidy in appearance, loved nothing or respected nothing

unless it might be her violin and her money, and lived alone in a little
< r /> old house on the river-road to Springwells. Though she made shoes for a

living, she was of so miserly a nature that she accepted food from her

neighbors, and in order to save the expense of light and fuel she spent

her evenings out. Yet she read more or less, and was sufficiently

acquainted with Volney, Voltaire, and other skeptics to shock her church

acquaintances. Love of gain, not of company, induced her to lease one of

her rooms to a pious old woman, from whom she got not only a little rent,

but the incidental use of her fuel and light.



When the pious one tried to win her to the church it angered her, and

then, too, she had a way of telling ghost stories that Kennette laughed

at. One of these narratives that she would dwell on with especial

self-conviction was that of Lieutenant Muir, who had left his mistress,

when she said No to his pleadings, supposing that she spoke the truth,

whereas she was merely trying to be coquettish.



He fell in an attack on the Americans that night, and came back,

bleeding, to the girl who had made him throw his life away; he pressed

her hand, leaving the mark of skeleton fingers there, so that she always

kept it gloved afterward. Then there was the tale of the two men of

Detroit who were crushed by a falling tree: the married one, who was not

fatally hurt, begged his mate to call his wife, as soon as his soul was

free, and the woman, hearing the mournful voice at her door, as the

spirit passed on its way to space, ran out and rescued her husband from

his plight. She told, too, of the feu follet, or will-o'-the-wisp, that

led a girl on Grosse Isle to the swamp where her lover was engulfed in

mire and enabled her to rescue him. There was Grand'mere Duchene,

likewise, who worked at her spinning-wheel for many a night after death,

striking fear to her son's heart, by its droning, because he had not

bought the fifty masses for the repose of her soul, but when he had

fulfilled the promise she came no more. Another yarn was about the

ghost-boat of hunter Sebastian that ascends the straits once in seven

years, celebrating his return, after death, in accordance with the

promise made to Zoe, his betrothed, that--dead or alive--he would return

to her from the hunt at a certain time.



To all this Kennette turned the ear of scorning. Bah! she cried. I

don't believe your stories. I don't believe in your hell and your

purgatory. If you die first, come back. If I should, and I can, I will

come. Then we may know whether there is another world.



The bargain was made to this effect, but the women did not get on well

together, and soon Kennette had an open quarrel with her lodger that

ended by her declaring that she never could forgive her, but that she

would hold her to her after-death compact. The lodger died, and while

talking of her death at the house of a neighbor a boy, who had arrived

from town, casually asked Kennette--knowing her saving ways--why she had

left the light burning in her house. Grasping a poker, she set off at

once to punish the intruder who had dared to enter in her absence, but

when she arrived there was no light. On several evenings the light was

reported by others, but as she was gadding in the neighborhood she never

saw it until, one night, resolved to see for herself, she returned early,

softly entered at the back door, and went to bed. Hardly had she done so

when she saw a light coming up-stairs. Sitting bolt upright in bed she

waited. The light came up noiselessly and presently stood in the

room--not a lantern or candle, but a white phosphorescence. It advanced

toward her, changing its form until she saw a cloudy likeness to a human

being. For the first time in her life she feared. Come no nearer! she

cried. I know you. I believe you, and I forgive.



The light vanished. From that night it was remarked that Kennette began

to age fast--she began to change and become more like other women. She

went to church and her face grew softer and kinder. It was the only time

that she saw the spirit, but the effect of the visit was permanent.