“I know it,” she said. “I’m not afraid—I don’t think I could be really afraid of Henry’s ghost, even if I should see it; but it’s so—awful, isn’t it?”
“Not to me, at all. If such things were permitted, I should like to meet this spiritual visitant, and ask him the one question—if, indeed, he could answer it. I should like to have him point out the guilty. If his hand could reach out from the spiritual world, and stretch a blasting finger toward his murderer, that would be awful to the accursed one, but it would be welcome to me. But what makes you think Henry has been here?”
She pointed to the bed; there was a pressure upon it, as if some light shape had lain there—just the faintest indentation of a head on one of the pillows; from thence she pointed to a little writing-table, between the windows, on which a book lay open, and where there were some papers and engravings; then to a pair of slippers standing on the carpet at the head of the bed. The room was a delightful one, furnished with blue and white—Henry’s favorite colors. Two or three exquisite little pictures hung on the walls, and not the slightest toy occupied a niche in any place but spoke of the taste and refinement which had chosen it. From the two windows, the view of the river flowing amidst the hills, and the lovely country spreading far away, was such as would satisfy the eye of a poet, turned from the page before him on the little writing-table, to rest upon the fairer page of nature.
“I came into this room the day of the funeral,” said the housekeeper, with a trembling voice, “and I sot all to rights, as if the master was coming back the next day. But little I thought he would really come! I spread that bed as smooth as paper; I put on fresh slips on the pillows, and sot ’em up without a dent or wrinkle in ’em; I put his slippers with their toes to the wall, and now they’re standin’ as he always left ’em when he took ’em off. Them papers has been stirred, and he’s been readin’ in that book. She gave him that, and it was a favorite with him; I’ve often seen him with it in his hand. You may shake your head, Mr. Redfield, but I know Henry’s been back here in his room.”
“If anything in this room has been disturbed, rest assured there’s been some living intruder here. A spirit would have had no need of slippers, and would have made no impression on your smooth bed.”
“You can talk your big words, for you are an edicated man, Mr. Redfield, but you can’t convince me against my own persuasion. It’s been no human being has mussed that spread—why, it’s hardly wrinkled—you can just see it’s been laid on, and that’s all. Besides, how did they get in? Can you tell me that? Through the keyhole, mebbe, and went out the same way!”
Her voice was growing sharp and a little sarcastic. I saw that it was in vain to try to disabuse her mind of its impression while she was in her present excited state. And, indeed, I had no worthy argument to offer. To all appearance the rest of the house had been undisturbed; there was not a broken fastening, a displaced bar of any kind, and nothing missing. It would seem as if nothing weightier than a shadow had stirred the pillow, and moved about the room. As long as I could not tell what it was, I could not positively assert what it was not.
I sat by the open window, while she smoothed the pillow, and placed every article with an exactness which would inevitably betray the slightest disturbance.
“You shall see for yourself, sir, the next time you come here,” she muttered.
As I waited, I lifted a little volume, which lay, with others, on the table before me. It was Mrs. Browning’s, and it opened at a page where a bookmark had been left—once I had seen Eleanor embroidering that very mark, I was sure. The first lines which caught my eye were these:
“It trembled on the grass
With a low, shadowy laughter;
The sounding river, which rolled forever,
Stood dumb and stagnant after.”
Just then a cloud swept over the noonday sun; a chill struck through the open window; the wind which blew in, fluttering the page, could not have been more dreary had it blown across a churchyard. Shivering, I continued to read:
“It trembled on the grass
With a low, shadowy laughter;
And the wind did toll, as a passing soul
Were sped by church-bell after;
And shadows ’stead of light,
Fell from the stars above,
In flakes of darkness on her face
Still bright with trusting love.
Margret! Margret!He loved but only thee!
That love is transient, too;
The wild hawk’s bill doth dabble still
In the mouth that vowed thee true.
Will he open his dull eyes,
When tears fall on his brow?
Behold the death-worm in his heart
Is a nearer thing than thou,
Margret! Margret!”
I know not if the housekeeper spoke to me. The clouds thickened about the sun; a dampness came in from the air. I held the book, staring at it, like one in a trance, and pondering the strange coincidence. Evidently, Henry had read these verses when he last opened the book—perhaps the lovers had read them together, with a soft sigh for the fate of Margret, and a smile in each other’s faces to think how safe their happiness was—how far removed from this doleful “Romaunt.” Now would he “open his dull eyes,” for Eleanor’s tears? I seemed to hear the low laugh of the mocking fiend; a more than wintry sereness settled upon the landscape:
“It trembled on the floor!
“We’re goin’ to have a stormy Christmas,” said my companion. “It’ll suit our feelin’s better’n a sunny one, I’m sure. Hark! there’s my
