“Wal, the truth is,” she said apologetically, “I never did used to be afraid of anything, dead or alive. But, since young Mr. Henry was took away so sudden, I’ve been nervous and frightened like. I’ve never got over the shock. I’ll holler right out, sometimes, in broad daylight, if anything startles me, if it’s only a door slamming. Husband laughs at me and scolds me, but I can’t help it.”
“Nobody’s going to hurt you, because another had evil happen to him.”
“I know that as well as anybody. It’s not because I’ve reason to be afeard, that I am—it’s the shock, you see. There, there, Johnny, be still, will you? I used to go all over the place the darkest night that ever was—but now, really, I’m ashamed to tell you, I dasn’t put my face out after dark.”
“I should think it would be unpleasant, such a chronic state of fear,” and I half-smiled through my own melancholy, at the woman’s anxious face.
“Onpleasant! I reckon it is mighty onpleasant. But there’s good reason for it.”
“You just acknowledged that there was no reason—that it was fancy, Mrs. Scott.”
“You’re goin’ to trip me over my own words, Mr. Redfield. It was fancy, at first, just nervousness; but lately—lately, as I said, there’s been things—”
“What things?”
“I know you’ll laugh at me, sir; and you won’t half believe me, neither—so I guess I’d better not make a fool of myself before you. But if you, or any other livin’ person, had seen what I seen, and heard what I heard, then you’d know what I know—that’s all!”
She spoke with such evident earnestness, and I had hitherto felt so much respect for the sturdy strength and integrity of her New England character, that my curiosity was somewhat aroused. I thought best to let her quiet herself, however, before leading her to converse about the subject most on her mind, as I saw that she still trembled from the fright I had given her by my sudden knock at the door.
“How’s the place getting on since the winter weather set in? I suppose your husband had the plants housed long ago. Has he been making any changes with the grounds? I suppose not, since the family has so completely deserted the villa. I came out tonight to take a look at it. This is the twenty-third of December, do you remember?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ of it all day, Mr. Redfield.”
“It’s terrible to see the house standing there in silence and darkness, tonight. There seemed to me something ghostly about it—I could not endure it. Have you been through the rooms lately?”
This last question I asked without any other object than to keep up the conversation; she had started and looked curiously at me, when I casually used the figurative expression of “ghostly,” and now she shook her head.
“I’ve not been through the house lately,” she said. “I ought to go, I know—it wants airin’, and there’s bedclothes and things in the closet wants lookin’ after.”
“Then why do you not attend to it?”
“That’s it,” she answered, looking me uneasily in the face.
“What?”
“Well, sir, to tell you the truth, it’s my opinion, and I know, laugh as you may—”
“I haven’t laughed, Mrs. Scott.”
She arose, looked at her boy, now fast asleep in his cradle, went to the window, drew the little white curtain across the lower half, resumed her chair, glanced about the room, and was opening her lips to speak, when a slight rattling sound against the panes of glass, made her clasp her hands together and utter a cry.
“What on earth was that?”
I did indeed now laugh at her pale face, answering, in some vexation,
“It was the snow breaking from the eaves, and slipping down against the window.”
“Oh!” drawing a long breath. “You are provoked at me, Mr. Redfield. If you knew all, you wouldn’t be.”
“Well, tell me all, at once, then, and let me judge.”
Again she gave a cautious look about, as if invisible guests might hear and not relish her revelation, drew her chair a little nearer mine, and said, impressively,
“The house is haunted!”
“Is that all?” I asked, feeling quite relieved, for her manner had startled me in spite of myself.
“It’s enough!” was the significant response. “To tell you flatly, sir, John’s about concluded to write to Mr. Moreland, and give up the situation.”
“Your husband! is he so foolish, too? There are no such things as haunted houses, Mrs. Scott; and to give up a permanent and excellent home like this, upon any such idle fancy, seems to me very unwise.”
“Goodness knows I’ve liked the place,” she cried, bursting into tears, “and that we don’t know what to turn to when we leave this. But I’m worn out with it—I can’t stand it no longer! You see how unsettled I am now.”
Unsettled enough, certainly, from the usually composed and self-reliant woman in whose judgment I had placed considerable confidence.
“You haven’t told me anything to prove your assertion. I don’t believe in ghosts, I warn you; but I’d like to hear your reasons for thinking the villa has got one.”
“I always made fun of ghosts, myself, and so did John, until this happened. He won’t own up now, ’cept that he’s ready to leave the place, and won’t go in with me in broad daylight, to ’tend to the rooms. So I know he’s just as scairt as I am. And you know John’s no coward with anything he can see or handle, and it’s no disgrace to a body to be shy of onearthly things. I’m a bold woman myself, but I ain’t ready to face a spook.”
“What makes you think the house is haunted?”
“Plenty of things.”
“Please mention a few. I’m a lawyer, you know, and demand the proofs.”
“I’ve seen a curious light hovering over the roof of the house of nights.”
“Did your husband see it also?”
“Yes, he did see it, night before last. He wouldn’t believe till he see it. I’ve seen it
