“What was it like?”
“Oh, Lordy, I’m sure I can’t tell exactly what it was like, when I never saw anything of the kind before; I suppose it’s like them deadlights that’s been seen over graves. It’s more like a bright shadow than an actual light—you can see through it like air. It wanders about the roof, then stops over one particular place. It would make your flesh creep to see it, sir!”
“I would like, above all things, to try it. Do you suppose, if we went out now, we should have the opportunity?”
“It’s too early; leastways, I’ve never seen it so early in the evenin’. The first time, my baby was sick, and I got up in the night to get him some drops, and as I looked out the window, there was the thing shinin’.”
“Is that all that makes you think the house haunted?”
“No, sir; we’ve heard things—curious sounds—even in the daytime.”
“What were the sounds like?”
“I couldn’t rightly explain ’em to you, sir. They were not human sounds.”
“Try and give me some idea of them.”
“They’d rise and fall, rise and fall—not like singing, nor crying, nor talking—a kind of wailing music, only not like it, either—that is, not like anything I ever heard. It seems to come mostly from the family-room, back o’ the library. John and me followed it up one evenin’. We went close up on the porch, and put our ears to the shutters. We heard it plain. We was so frightened, we’ve been glad not to go near the house again. I don’t feel as if I ever could.”
“I think I know what it was,” I said, half inclined to laugh. “The doors or sashes have been left open in such a way as to make a draught. It is the wind, singing through the crevices of the deserted mansion. I, myself, have heard the wind make most unearthly music under such circumstances.”
“ ’Twa’n’t wind at all,” said the gardener’s wife, in an offended tone.
“Perhaps persons have obtained access to the house that have no business there. They may deface the furniture, or carry off articles of value. You really ought to look to it, Mrs. Scott; it’s part of your duty.”
“There’s nobody got in—I’m certain of that. We’ve examined every door and window. There’s not the least sign of any human being about the premises. I tell you, Mr. Redfield, it’s spirits; and no wonder, considering how poor Henry was took away.”
She said this solemnly, relapsing into moody silence.
I felt quite convinced that the imaginations of the pair, already awed and excited by the murder, had converted some trifling atmospheric or other phenomena, or some combination of circumstances, easily explained when the key to them was found, into the mystery of a haunted house. I was sorry, for two reasons: first, that they thought of leaving, when I knew that their departure would give trouble to Mr. Moreland, who had left the entire charge of the place to them for years, and at a time when he was too bowed with heavier cares to be vexed with these small matters; second, that the couple would be sure to spread the report through the village, causing gossip and conjecture, and exciting a prurient interest which would throng the vicinity with idle wonder-seekers. So I said,
“I wish your husband was at home tonight. I must see him. It will not do for him to trouble Mr. Moreland at this time, by throwing up his situation. You would both of you be sorry and ashamed at such a movement, before many weeks, I’m convinced. What do you say to my coming out here tomorrow, and to our going through the house together? If there is anything in it which ought not to be, we will turn it out. I will stay until you have aired the house and looked at the clothing; then you can lock it up, and leave it for a few weeks without the necessity of going through it.”
“Well, Mr. Redfield, if you’re willin’ to do it, I ought to be ashamed to hang behind. I’ll do it, of course, and be thankful to you; for my conscience hain’t been easy, lettin’ them things go so. I’m right glad you happened out.”
“And tell your husband, please, not to say anything about this matter to others. It will make it unpleasant for the friends.”
“I did tell him not to. He ain’t said nothin’ yet, I’m sure. It’s the last thing we’d be willin’ to do, make any more trouble for them that has too much now, and that has always been kind to us. Must you go, sir?”
“Yes; I’ll say good night, Mrs. Scott. You may expect me in the morning, a little before noon. By the way, have you seen or heard anything of Miss Sullivan?”
“Not the least thing. She’s kept clear of here since that day you found her here. So she’s run away, entirely, has she? Well, well, well—I never! I declare, I turn these things over in my brain, some days, till my head gets dizzy.”
“So does mine, and my heart sick. Good night, ma’am.”
“Good night, and good luck to you, this dark night.”
She waited to see me through the gate, which led by a little lane past the kitchen-garden, and thence by a private road along down into the main one. As I passed the gate into the lawn, on my way out, I paused perhaps half an hour, in the hope of hearing or seeing the marvels of which the woman had spoken. There was no mystic light, blue or yellow, playing lambently over the roof; no sound, sinking and rising, came wildly on the starlit air; all was profound silence and darkness and coldness like that of the grave.
My half-contemptuous pity of the state of mind into which the gardener’s wife had worked herself, gave place to deeper emotions; I turned away, almost running along the smooth, hard-frozen road whose course was clearly discernible in
