The Dead Letter · Part I · Chapter 1 10 (2/3)

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 seven or eight times myself.”

“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 the winter starlight. I met the gardener going home, but did not stop to speak with him⁠—went directly to my lodgings. The fire was out in my room, and I crept into bed, forgetting that I had gone without my tea.

True to my promise, I went the next day to the villa. Mrs. Scott brought the keys, I unlocked the doors, and together we entered the long-vacant place. There is always something impressive, one might say, “ghostly,” about a deserted building. When you enter into it, you feel the influence of those who were last within it, as if some portion of them lingered in the old locality. I confess that I felt an almost superstitious awe and dread, as I stepped over the threshold which I had last crossed with him. How joyful, how full of young and princely life, he had then been, his face lit up, as a man’s face lights up when he attends upon the woman he loves and expects soon to make his own! He was leading Eleanor to a carriage; they had been talking about the improvements they were going to make in the house. How every look and tone came back to me! With a silent shudder, I stepped into the hall, which had that moldy smell of confined air belonging to a closed dwelling. I hastened to throw open the shutters. When I unclosed a door, I flung it wide, stepping quickly in, and raising the windows, so as to have the sunlight before looking much about. I had to do it all, for my companion kept close to me, never stirring from my elbow. I went into every room on every floor, from the kitchen to the garret. Into the latter I only glanced, as Mrs. Scott said there was nothing up there which she wanted, or which required attention. It was a loft, rough-floored, of comfortable height, with a window at the gable end. The roof ran up sharply in the center, the villa being built in the Gothic style. There was such a collection of rubbish in it as is usual to such places⁠—broken-down furniture, worn-out trunks, a pile of mattresses in a corner, over which a blanket had been thrown to keep them from the dust, some clothing depending from a line, and three or four barrels. Mrs. Scott was standing at the foot of the ladder, which led up into the attic out of a small room, or closet, used for storing purposes. I saw she was uneasy at having me even that far from her, and after a brief survey of the garret, I assured her there were no ghosts there, and descended.

“Help yourself to some of them apples,” said the woman, pointing to some boxes and barrels in the room where we now stood. “They’re winter pippins. John’s going to send them into the city, to the family, in a week or two. We’ve permission to keep ’em here, because it’s dry and cool, and the closet being in the middle of the house, it don’t freeze. It’s a good place for fruit. Hark! What was that?”

“It was a cat,” said I, as I put a couple of the apples in my overcoat pocket. “It sounded like a cat⁠—in the garret. If we shut it up there, it’ll starve.”

I went up the ladder again, looking carefully about the attic, and calling coaxingly to the animal, but no cat showed itself, and I came down, saying it must have been in one of the lower rooms, and had probably run in since we opened the doors.

“It sartingly sounded overhead,” persisted my companion, looking nervous, and keeping closer to me than ever.

I had heard the noise, but would not have undertaken to say whether it came from above or below.

“If that is the material she makes ghosts of, I’m not surprised that she has a full supply,” I thought.

In going out, the woman was careful to close the door, and I could see her stealing covert glances into every corner, as we passed on, as if she expected, momently, to be confronted by some unwelcome apparition, there in the broad light of day. There were no traces of any intruders having made free with the house. The clothes and china closets were undisturbed, and the bureaus the same.

“This was Harry’s room; he liked it because it had the best view of the river,” said Mrs. Scott, as we paused before a chamber on the second floor.

We both hesitated; her apron was at her eyes, and my own throat swelled suddenly: reverently I opened the door, and stepped within, followed by the housekeeper. As I raised the window, and flung back the shutter, she gave a scream. I was really startled. Turning quickly, I saw her with her hands thrown up, an expression of terror upon her face.

“I told you the house was haunted,” she murmured, retreating backward toward the door.

“What do you see?” I asked, glancing about for the cause of her alarm.

“This room,” she gasped⁠—“it was his⁠—and he comes here still. I know it!”

“What makes you think so? Has it been disturbed? If it has, rest assured it has been by the living, not the dead.”

“I wish I thought so,” she said, solemnly. “It can not be. No other part of the house is in the least disturbed. No one has had admission to it⁠—it is impossible; not a crack, not a cranny, by which anything but a spirit could have got in. Harry’s been here, Mr. Redfield; you can’t convince me different.”

“And if he has,” I said, calmly, for I saw that she was much agitated, “are you any more afraid of him now than you were when he was in the body? You loved him then; think you he will harm you now? Rather you ought to be glad, since you believe in ghosts, that it is a good spirit which haunts these premises⁠—the innocent spirit of the murdered, not the guilty one of the murderer.”

“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?”