The Dead Letter · Part I · Chapter 1 11 (2/3)

I was interested in watching two things⁠—first, the attachment between Miss Argyll and Lenore; secondly, the persistent effort of James to overcome his first aversion, and his ultimate success. By the second day he had mastered his chagrin at the evident dislike of the child, who could hardly compel herself to be polite to him, and who grew constrained and pale whenever he was near her. James Argyll was not the man to allow a child to slight him with impunity. His indolence was a repugnance to business and study; it was no weakness of the will, for when he set his resolves upon an object, he usually accomplished it. I saw that he had resolved to conquer Lenore. He paid court to her as if she were a “lady of the land,” instead of a little girl; on New Year’s he overwhelmed her with splendid presents; he took her out sleigh-riding with him, in a fancy cutter, which he declared was only just large enough for those two, with chimes of silver bells and a spirited horse. I ought not to have felt grieved that Lenore, also, like the rest of the world, proved faithless to me. But I did. I was more hurt by her growing indifference to me and her increasing fascination for James than the subject warranted. I should have known that rides and dolls, flowers and flatteries, and a dainty little ring for her forefinger, would win any little maiden of eleven; but I had estimated Lenore’s character higher. I had noticed her attractions and repulsions, the former always toward noble and true persons⁠—the latter toward the unworthy. Now, however, my little bird was charmed by the serpent’s eye; she was under the influence of James’ will, and I resigned her.

About ten days after my visit to Mrs. Scott, I kept my promise to her, by returning to inquire about the present condition of Moreland villa. I saw, as soon as I entered the cottage, that her mind was preyed on by the same convictions which had troubled her on the former occasion.

“If there ain’t at least one ghost in that house, then there never was such a thing, and there never will be⁠—now! You’ve seen for yourself there ain’t a human being in it⁠—and there is something! I’ve seen it and heard it, and you can’t convince a person against them two senses, I reckon.”

“I don’t want to convince you, Mrs. Scott; I only want to convince myself what this thing is which you have seen and heard. Have you had any new revelations?”

“I’ve seen the death-light once since, standing over the house; we saw it, too, shinin’ out of that room⁠—John and I saw that together. We was so set on findin’ out whether it was spirits or not, we mustered up courage to go through the house ag’in the next day, and as sure as you’re settin’ there, something had been back and laid down on that bed ag’in⁠—something light, that scarcely made a dent⁠—you needn’t tell me’t was any human mortal, which it wasn’t. We’ve heard children cryin’, too, which is an evil omen, the dream-book says; an’ to clap the climax, Mr. Redfield, there’s no use keepin’ it back⁠—we’ve seen the ghost!”

I was now as interested as the woman could desire; she had stopped, mysteriously, after making this grave declaration, and sat looking me in the eyes. I returned her gaze with one of silent inquiry, leaning a little forward in my chair. Mrs. Scott smoothed her apron absently, with her large hands, still looking into my eyes, as if she saw the ghost in their distending pupils. I made up my mind that I was going to hear either something of ridiculous shadowyness magnified into an apparition, or something which would give some tangible clue to the mystery, if there was a mystery, of Moreland villa.

“You have been fortunate,” said I. “What was it like, pray?”

“You’ve noticed there was a little balcony under the windows of Henry’s room?”

“I know there is such a balcony.”

“It was there we saw it. You know how bright the nights have been lately, with the full moon and the snow. John and I walked out, night before last, to the front of the villa, to see what we could see⁠—and there it was! It was as light as day, and we both had a good look at it. I don’t know how long it might have stayed if I hadn’t screamed. John clapped his hand over my mouth to stop me, but he was too late; it sort of riz right up and disappeared.”

“But what was it like⁠—man, woman, or child?”

“It was like a ghost, I tell you,” replied the housekeeper, stoutly. “I s’pose sperits are dressed purty much alike in the next world, whether they’re men or women. We read in the Bible of the white robes⁠—and I’ve never heard of a spook that was dressed in any other way. It may have been Henry in his shroud, for all I know⁠—that’s what I believe it was⁠—there now!”

“Henry was never dressed in a shroud,” I answered, gravely; “he was buried in a black-broadcloth suit. So you see that you were not correct there.”

“Oh, well, Mr. Redfield, we can’t understand these things⁠—it isn’t given to us. I can tell you what John and I saw, and you can make up your own mind. There was a shape, on the balcony, standing straight up, white all over. A long white garment hung from its head to its feet; its face was turned up to the moon, and its arms were raised as if it prayed. It’s eyes was wide open, and it’s face as pale as a corpse’s. John and I will both make our affydavit to it, in court, if it’s necessary.”

“Where did it go to when it disappeared?”

“It seemed to me to turn into the air; but that I wouldn’t be so sure about. John thought it went right through the side of the house.”

“Was the window open behind it?”

“Wal, really now, I wouldn’t swear that it was, or wasn’t. The fact is, I was so scaart the minit I saw it, I like to have dropped. John was for staying ‘to see if it wouldn’t come ag’in,’ but I wouldn’t let him, so we both cut and run.”

“I am sorry you didn’t use your eyes to better advantage.”

“When you see a thing like that, I reckon you’ll run, too. It ain’t at all likely the window was open, or we would have noticed it. It was all shut up the next mornin’, the same as ever.”

“That was yesterday. I suppose you have not been in the villa since?”

“Lord! no, sir. I wouldn’t go now for a hundred dollars.”

“Have you noticed anything else peculiar?”

“Yes, sir. There’s been footsteps around the house in the snow.”

“Indeed?” I said, eagerly; “that is more like something. Can I see them now?”

“No, sir; the sun’s melted ’em all off. But if you think they’re the tracks of persons comin’ about the house for any purpose, just tell me, will you, sir, how they happened to be just about the porch, and so on, and not a track to it, nor away from it, in no direction?”

“Indeed, I can not explain it, until I’ve rooted out the mystery from the beginning.”

“Nor it can’t be explained,” cried the housekeeper, triumphantly.

It worried her to think I was so skeptical when she had given such absolute proofs; the idea of the haunted villa was making her really sick, yet she would not give up her cherished belief in its being haunted. I think she would have been disappointed if anyone had come forward and sworn himself the ghost.

I sat a little while pondering her statements. There had been nothing, on the former occasion, to convince me that any intruder, human or spiritual, had been in the villa⁠—except the shadowy imprint of a form on Henry’s bed, and for the proof that it had not been made before the house was cleaned up, I had nothing but her word. As for the death-light and the wailing sounds, I conceived that, in that lonesome, solitary place, two persons of the class to which these belonged, with their excited imaginations reacting upon each other, might easily persuade themselves of such marvels. Even in this last statement, that both of them had clearly and distinctly seen a white form on the balcony of the room, I did not find much to disturb me. There is nothing better for producing all kinds of shapes and phantoms to a frightened or superstitious eye, than a bright, moonlight night. It is far better than the deepest darkness. The earth is full of weird shadows; the most familiar objects take on an unnatural appearance in the gleaming rays, enhanced in their strange effect by the black, fantastic shadows which stretch away from them. Add to this, a garment of snow spread over everything. The landscape on which we have rested our gaze, every day, for years, under these circumstances will be as novel to us, as if it were a bit of scenery transplanted from some strange and far country. A vivid fancy, predisposed to the work, can make an excellent ghost out of a rosebush or a fence-post⁠—a fearful apparition out of the shadow of a cornice heaped with snow. In the present case, not only were the man and his wife in that feverish state in which the eye makes visions for itself, but they were quite ready to link such phantoms with Henry’s room, which they had previously decreed to be the favorite abode of the ghost. A review of the whole case led me rather to be vexed with them, than satisfied there was any reason for the mental “stew” into which they had heated themselves. The only tangible things of the whole medley were⁠—the footprints. If there were actually traces of feet walking about the premises, that was enough to satisfy me⁠—not of a ghost, but of a person, engaged in prying about the villa for some unlawful purpose. I made up my mind to watch for this person, and entrap him. It occurred to me, at once, that one of those daredevil spirits, to be found in every community, was purposely getting up scenic effects on the premises, for the amusement of spreading the report that the villa was haunted, and exciting the gossip and credulity of the village. I was indignant at the heartlessness of the plan, and resolved, should I catch the perpetrator, to inflict such summary chastisement, as would cure him of his taste for practical joking. The assertion of the woman that the tracks began and ended nowhere⁠—that no one had approached the house, because there were no footsteps coming in from any direction⁠—did not receive entire credit from me. Were that actually the case, then, it was positive evidence that the person was secreted in the dwelling⁠—an idea foolish and incredible on the face of it, for many reasons.

However, I was in earnest, now, about the matter; I would ascertain the truth or explode the falsehood, and make an end of it, before painful reports should reach the ears of friends, or every idle ragamuffin in the country make that hallowed place, consecrated by the ties and memories of the one now gone, the focus of his vulgar curiosity.

“Where is your husband?”

“He’s sortin’ pertaters, or tyin’ up seeds, in the loft.”

“Please call him down, and give me the keys of the house.”

The gardener came, following very reluctantly, at my bidding, while I again entered the villa, and went over every room, stationing him in the hall, so that no one could possibly escape during my visit to the lower and upper floors. I searched from cellar to garret, while Mrs. Scott, with her pale-blue eyes wide open, and affecting a bustling bravery which her looks belied, accompanied me. Once, at a sudden noise, she seized the skirts of my overcoat, but resigned them when I told her it was caused by John’s shutting the front hall-door.

“Dear! dear! there’s rats in the villa, at last!” she exclaimed, removing the cover of a flour-barrel which stood in the storeroom. “They’ve been in this flour! I’m sorry, for they’re an awful pest. They’ll make trouble if I don’t watch ’em clost. I believe I’ll pizen ’em. Mrs. Moreland told me to take this flour home and use it up; but we haven’t needed it yet, and I’ve left it here, and now they’ve made pretty work with it.”

“If there are rats here, I shan’t be surprised at all kinds of noises,” I remarked. “Rats are equal to almost anything. They will tramp like an army of men, or stalk like a solitary burglar. They will throw down plates and cups⁠—like this one, broken on the floor here, since we came here last; muss pillows and drag books out of place. You really will have to keep a sharp lookout.”

“They won’t cry like a child, nor moan like a sick person, nor stand on balconies dressed in shrouds!” observed the housekeeper.

“I think they would do the first two,” and I smiled, “but as to the latter, I’m not prepared to assert.”

“I reckon not. I only wish you’d seen it, Mr. Redfield.”

“I shall stay tonight in the hope of that pleasure, Mrs. Scott.”

“I’m right glad to hear you say so, sir. It’s not pleasant to be placed in the situation I am⁠—to know what I know, and not to have my word taken.”

It was true; it could not be pleasant for her to have her earnest statements received with so much skepticism; I did not wonder that she felt hurt, almost offended; at the same time I felt as if I, in my turn, should be intensely aggravated if I found out there was nothing in all this flurry.

This second search resulted in nothing, like the first. It was nearly dark when we returned to the cottage, where Mrs. Scott allowed me to dandle her fat, good-natured baby, Johnny, while she prepared tea in a style befitting the important occasion of “company.”

“If you’re in earnest about sittin’ up to watch, I’ll make coffee, instid of tea, if it’s agreeable to you, Mr. Redfield. It’s better to keep one awake.”

I assented to this assertion, being of a similar opinion myself. She set her husband to grinding the delectable berry in a hand-mill, and soon an excellent supper, with cold ham and hot biscuits, was placed upon the table. The night promised to be clear and cold; the moon would not rise until about eleven; I fortified myself against the hardships of my adventure by two cups of strong coffee, with a substantial meal; passed an hour or two chatting with the couple and singing Johnny to sleep; then, about eight o’clock, I buttoned my overcoat close, tied my muffler about my neck, and went forth to begin picket-duty.

“I’ll leave the coffeepot on the stove, and a good fire,” was the parting promise of the good woman, who seemed to think I had rather a solemn time before me.

“Thank you, Mrs. Scott; if I make no discoveries by one or two o’clock, I shall come in to warm myself, and give up the hope for this occasion. You know midnight is the witching-hour⁠—it will be useless to stay much later.”

“The Lord be with you,” she said, earnestly.