diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/sotsn10.txt | 5398 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/sotsn10.zip | bin | 0 -> 86568 bytes |
2 files changed, 5398 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/sotsn10.txt b/old/sotsn10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c93bc40 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/sotsn10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5398 @@ +Project Gutenberg Etext of Stories Of The Supernatural by Wilkins +and +THE WIND IN THE ROSE-BUSH + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +Stories Of The Supernatural +and +THE WIND IN THE ROSE-BUSH + +by Mary Wilkins + +January, 1999 [Etext #1617] +[Date last updated: June 6, 2005] + + +Project Gutenberg Etext of Stories Of The Supernatural by Wilkins +*******This file should be named sotsn10.txt or sotsn10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, sotsn11.txt. +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, sotsn10a.txt. + + +This etext was prepared by Donald Lainson, charlie@idirect.com. + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, for time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an +up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes +in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has +a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a +look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a +new copy has at least one byte more or less. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take +to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text +files per month, or 384 more Etexts in 1997 for a total of 1000+ +If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the +total should reach over 100 billion Etexts given away. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext +Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion] +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001 +should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it +will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001. + + +We need your donations more than ever! + + +All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are +tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie- +Mellon University). + +For these and other matters, please mail to: + +Project Gutenberg +P. O. Box 2782 +Champaign, IL 61825 + +When all other email fails try our Executive Director: +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +We would prefer to send you this information by email +(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail). + +****** +If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please +FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives: +[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type] + +ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu +login: anonymous +password: your@login +cd etext/etext90 through /etext96 +or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information] +dir [to see files] +get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] +GET INDEX?00.GUT +for a list of books +and +GET NEW GUT for general information +and +MGET GUT* for newsletters. + +**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** +(Three Pages) + + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- +tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor +Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at +Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other +things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext +under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this +etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, +officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost +and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or +indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: +[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, +or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- + cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the etext (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the + net profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +THE WIND IN THE ROSE-BUSH + +And Other Stories Of The Supernatural + +By Mary Wilkins + + + + +Contents + +The Wind in the Rose-bush +The Shadows on the Wall +Luella Miller +The Southwest Chamber +The Vacant Lot +The Lost Ghost + + + + +THE WIND IN THE ROSE-BUSH + + +Ford Village has no railroad station, being on the other side of +the river from Porter's Falls, and accessible only by the ford +which gives it its name, and a ferry line. + +The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train +with her bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were +safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry- +boat as it shot swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a +horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the +deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, +although he was chewing, with as dully reflective an expression as +a cow. Beside Rebecca sat a woman of about her own age, who kept +looking at her with furtive curiosity; her husband, short and stout +and saturnine, stood near her. Rebecca paid no attention to +either of them. She was tall and spare and pale, the type of a +spinster, yet with rudimentary lines and expressions of matronhood. +She all unconsciously held her shawl, rolled up in a canvas bag, on +her left hip, as if it had been a child. She wore a settled frown +of dissent at life, but it was the frown of a mother who regarded +life as a froward child, rather than as an overwhelming fate. + +The other woman continued staring at her; she was mildly stupid, +except for an over-developed curiosity which made her at times +sharp beyond belief. Her eyes glittered, red spots came on her +flaccid cheeks; she kept opening her mouth to speak, making little +abortive motions. Finally she could endure it no longer; she +nudged Rebecca boldly. + +"A pleasant day," said she. + +Rebecca looked at her and nodded coldly. + +"Yes, very," she assented. + +"Have you come far?" + +"I have come from Michigan." + +"Oh!" said the woman, with awe. "It's a long way," she remarked +presently. + +"Yes, it is," replied Rebecca, conclusively. + +Still the other woman was not daunted; there was something which +she determined to know, possibly roused thereto by a vague sense of +incongruity in the other's appearance. "It's a long ways to come +and leave a family," she remarked with painful slyness. + +"I ain't got any family to leave," returned Rebecca shortly. + +"Then you ain't--" + +"No, I ain't." + +"Oh!" said the woman. + +Rebecca looked straight ahead at the race of the river. + +It was a long ferry. Finally Rebecca herself waxed unexpectedly +loquacious. She turned to the other woman and inquired if she knew +John Dent's widow who lived in Ford Village. "Her husband died +about three years ago," said she, by way of detail. + +The woman started violently. She turned pale, then she flushed; +she cast a strange glance at her husband, who was regarding both +women with a sort of stolid keenness. + +"Yes, I guess I do," faltered the woman finally. + +"Well, his first wife was my sister," said Rebecca with the air of +one imparting important intelligence. + +"Was she?" responded the other woman feebly. She glanced at her +husband with an expression of doubt and terror, and he shook his +head forbiddingly. + +"I'm going to see her, and take my niece Agnes home with me," said +Rebecca. + +Then the woman gave such a violent start that she noticed it. + +"What is the matter?" she asked. + +"Nothin', I guess," replied the woman, with eyes on her husband, +who was slowly shaking his head, like a Chinese toy. + +"Is my niece sick?" asked Rebecca with quick suspicion. + +"No, she ain't sick," replied the woman with alacrity, then she +caught her breath with a gasp. + +"When did you see her?" + +"Let me see; I ain't seen her for some little time," replied the +woman. Then she caught her breath again. + +"She ought to have grown up real pretty, if she takes after my +sister. She was a real pretty woman," Rebecca said wistfully. + +"Yes, I guess she did grow up pretty," replied the woman in a +trembling voice. + +"What kind of a woman is the second wife?" + +The woman glanced at her husband's warning face. She continued to +gaze at him while she replied in a choking voice to Rebecca: + +"I--guess she's a nice woman," she replied. "I--don't know, I-- +guess so. I--don't see much of her." + +"I felt kind of hurt that John married again so quick," said +Rebecca; "but I suppose he wanted his house kept, and Agnes wanted +care. I wasn't so situated that I could take her when her mother +died. I had my own mother to care for, and I was school-teaching. +Now mother has gone, and my uncle died six months ago and left me +quite a little property, and I've given up my school, and I've come +for Agnes. I guess she'll be glad to go with me, though I suppose +her stepmother is a good woman, and has always done for her." + +The man's warning shake at his wife was fairly portentous. + +"I guess so," said she. + +"John always wrote that she was a beautiful woman," said Rebecca. + +Then the ferry-boat grated on the shore. + +John Dent's widow had sent a horse and wagon to meet her sister-in- +law. When the woman and her husband went down the road, on which +Rebecca in the wagon with her trunk soon passed them, she said +reproachfully: + +"Seems as if I'd ought to have told her, Thomas." + +"Let her find it out herself," replied the man. "Don't you go to +burnin' your fingers in other folks' puddin', Maria." + +"Do you s'pose she'll see anything?" asked the woman with a +spasmodic shudder and a terrified roll of her eyes. + +"See!" returned her husband with stolid scorn. "Better be sure +there's anything to see." + +"Oh, Thomas, they say--" + +"Lord, ain't you found out that what they say is mostly lies?" + +"But if it should be true, and she's a nervous woman, she might be +scared enough to lose her wits," said his wife, staring uneasily +after Rebecca's erect figure in the wagon disappearing over the +crest of the hilly road. + +"Wits that so easy upset ain't worth much," declared the man. "You +keep out of it, Maria." + +Rebecca in the meantime rode on in the wagon, beside a flaxen- +headed boy, who looked, to her understanding, not very bright. She +asked him a question, and he paid no attention. She repeated it, +and he responded with a bewildered and incoherent grunt. Then she +let him alone, after making sure that he knew how to drive +straight. + +They had traveled about half a mile, passed the village square, and +gone a short distance beyond, when the boy drew up with a sudden +Whoa! before a very prosperous-looking house. It had been one of +the aboriginal cottages of the vicinity, small and white, with a +roof extending on one side over a piazza, and a tiny "L" jutting +out in the rear, on the right hand. Now the cottage was +transformed by dormer windows, a bay window on the piazzaless side, +a carved railing down the front steps, and a modern hard-wood door. + +"Is this John Dent's house?" asked Rebecca. + +The boy was as sparing of speech as a philosopher. His only +response was in flinging the reins over the horse's back, +stretching out one foot to the shaft, and leaping out of the wagon, +then going around to the rear for the trunk. Rebecca got out and +went toward the house. Its white paint had a new gloss; its blinds +were an immaculate apple green; the lawn was trimmed as smooth as +velvet, and it was dotted with scrupulous groups of hydrangeas and +cannas. + +"I always understood that John Dent was well-to-do," Rebecca +reflected comfortably. "I guess Agnes will have considerable. +I've got enough, but it will come in handy for her schooling. She +can have advantages." + +The boy dragged the trunk up the fine gravel-walk, but before he +reached the steps leading up to the piazza, for the house stood on +a terrace, the front door opened and a fair, frizzled head of a +very large and handsome woman appeared. She held up her black silk +skirt, disclosing voluminous ruffles of starched embroidery, and +waited for Rebecca. She smiled placidly, her pink, double-chinned +face widened and dimpled, but her blue eyes were wary and +calculating. She extended her hand as Rebecca climbed the steps. + +"This is Miss Flint, I suppose," said she. + +"Yes, ma'am," replied Rebecca, noticing with bewilderment a curious +expression compounded of fear and defiance on the other's face. + +"Your letter only arrived this morning," said Mrs. Dent, in a +steady voice. Her great face was a uniform pink, and her china- +blue eyes were at once aggressive and veiled with secrecy. + +"Yes, I hardly thought you'd get my letter," replied Rebecca. "I +felt as if I could not wait to hear from you before I came. I +supposed you would be so situated that you could have me a little +while without putting you out too much, from what John used to +write me about his circumstances, and when I had that money so +unexpected I felt as if I must come for Agnes. I suppose you will +be willing to give her up. You know she's my own blood, and of +course she's no relation to you, though you must have got attached +to her. I know from her picture what a sweet girl she must be, and +John always said she looked like her own mother, and Grace was a +beautiful woman, if she was my sister." + +Rebecca stopped and stared at the other woman in amazement and +alarm. The great handsome blonde creature stood speechless, livid, +gasping, with her hand to her heart, her lips parted in a horrible +caricature of a smile. + +"Are you sick!" cried Rebecca, drawing near. "Don't you want me to +get you some water!" + +Then Mrs. Dent recovered herself with a great effort. "It is +nothing," she said. "I am subject to--spells. I am over it now. +Won't you come in, Miss Flint?" + +As she spoke, the beautiful deep-rose colour suffused her face, her +blue eyes met her visitor's with the opaqueness of turquoise--with +a revelation of blue, but a concealment of all behind. + +Rebecca followed her hostess in, and the boy, who had waited +quiescently, climbed the steps with the trunk. But before they +entered the door a strange thing happened. On the upper terrace +close to the piazza-post, grew a great rose-bush, and on it, late +in the season though it was, one small red, perfect rose. + +Rebecca looked at it, and the other woman extended her hand with a +quick gesture. "Don't you pick that rose!" she brusquely cried. + +Rebecca drew herself up with stiff dignity. + +"I ain't in the habit of picking other folks' roses without leave," +said she. + +As Rebecca spoke she started violently, and lost sight of her +resentment, for something singular happened. Suddenly the rose- +bush was agitated violently as if by a gust of wind, yet it was a +remarkably still day. Not a leaf of the hydrangea standing on the +terrace close to the rose trembled. + +"What on earth--" began Rebecca, then she stopped with a gasp at +the sight of the other woman's face. Although a face, it gave +somehow the impression of a desperately clutched hand of secrecy. + +"Come in!" said she in a harsh voice, which seemed to come forth +from her chest with no intervention of the organs of speech. "Come +into the house. I'm getting cold out here." + +"What makes that rose-bush blow so when their isn't any wind?" +asked Rebecca, trembling with vague horror, yet resolute. + +"I don't see as it is blowing," returned the woman calmly. And as +she spoke, indeed, the bush was quiet. + +"It was blowing," declared Rebecca. + +"It isn't now," said Mrs. Dent. "I can't try to account for +everything that blows out-of-doors. I have too much to do." + +She spoke scornfully and confidently, with defiant, unflinching +eyes, first on the bush, then on Rebecca, and led the way into the +house. + +"It looked queer," persisted Rebecca, but she followed, and also +the boy with the trunk. + +Rebecca entered an interior, prosperous, even elegant, according to +her simple ideas. There were Brussels carpets, lace curtains, and +plenty of brilliant upholstery and polished wood. + +"You're real nicely situated," remarked Rebecca, after she had +become a little accustomed to her new surroundings and the two +women were seated at the tea-table. + +Mrs. Dent stared with a hard complacency from behind her silver- +plated service. "Yes, I be," said she. + +"You got all the things new?" said Rebecca hesitatingly, with a +jealous memory of her dead sister's bridal furnishings. + +"Yes," said Mrs. Dent; "I was never one to want dead folks' things, +and I had money enough of my own, so I wasn't beholden to John. I +had the old duds put up at auction. They didn't bring much." + +"I suppose you saved some for Agnes. She'll want some of her poor +mother's things when she is grown up," said Rebecca with some +indignation. + +The defiant stare of Mrs. Dent's blue eyes waxed more intense. +"There's a few things up garret," said she. + +"She'll be likely to value them," remarked Rebecca. As she spoke +she glanced at the window. "Isn't it most time for her to be +coming home?" she asked. + +"Most time," answered Mrs. Dent carelessly; "but when she gets over +to Addie Slocum's she never knows when to come home." + +"Is Addie Slocum her intimate friend?" + +"Intimate as any." + +"Maybe we can have her come out to see Agnes when she's living with +me," said Rebecca wistfully. "I suppose she'll be likely to be +homesick at first." + +"Most likely," answered Mrs. Dent. + +"Does she call you mother?" Rebecca asked. + +"No, she calls me Aunt Emeline," replied the other woman shortly. +"When did you say you were going home?" + +"In about a week, I thought, if she can be ready to go so soon," +answered Rebecca with a surprised look. + +She reflected that she would not remain a day longer than she could +help after such an inhospitable look and question. + +"Oh, as far as that goes," said Mrs. Dent, "it wouldn't make any +difference about her being ready. You could go home whenever you +felt that you must, and she could come afterward." + +"Alone?" + +"Why not? She's a big girl now, and you don't have to change +cars." + +"My niece will go home when I do, and not travel alone; and if I +can't wait here for her, in the house that used to be her mother's +and my sister's home, I'll go and board somewhere," returned +Rebecca with warmth. + +"Oh, you can stay here as long as you want to. You're welcome," +said Mrs. Dent. + +Then Rebecca started. "There she is!" she declared in a trembling, +exultant voice. Nobody knew how she longed to see the girl. + +"She isn't as late as I thought she'd be," said Mrs. Dent, and +again that curious, subtle change passed over her face, and again +it settled into that stony impassiveness. + +Rebecca stared at the door, waiting for it to open. "Where is +she?" she asked presently. + +"I guess she's stopped to take off her hat in the entry," suggested +Mrs. Dent. + +Rebecca waited. "Why don't she come? It can't take her all this +time to take off her hat." + +For answer Mrs. Dent rose with a stiff jerk and threw open the +door. + +"Agnes!" she called. "Agnes!" Then she turned and eyed Rebecca. +"She ain't there." + +"I saw her pass the window," said Rebecca in bewilderment. + +"You must have been mistaken." + +"I know I did," persisted Rebecca. + +"You couldn't have." + +"I did. I saw first a shadow go over the ceiling, then I saw her +in the glass there"--she pointed to a mirror over the sideboard +opposite--"and then the shadow passed the window." + +"How did she look in the glass?" + +"Little and light-haired, with the light hair kind of tossing over +her forehead." + +"You couldn't have seen her." + +"Was that like Agnes?" + +"Like enough; but of course you didn't see her. You've been +thinking so much about her that you thought you did." + +"You thought YOU did." + +"I thought I saw a shadow pass the window, but I must have been +mistaken. She didn't come in, or we would have seen her before +now. I knew it was too early for her to get home from Addie +Slocum's, anyhow." + +When Rebecca went to bed Agnes had not returned. Rebecca had +resolved that she would not retire until the girl came, but she was +very tired, and she reasoned with herself that she was foolish. +Besides, Mrs. Dent suggested that Agnes might go to the church +social with Addie Slocum. When Rebecca suggested that she be sent +for and told that her aunt had come, Mrs. Dent laughed meaningly. + +"I guess you'll find out that a young girl ain't so ready to leave +a sociable, where there's boys, to see her aunt," said she. + +"She's too young," said Rebecca incredulously and indignantly. + +"She's sixteen," replied Mrs. Dent; "and she's always been great +for the boys." + +"She's going to school four years after I get her before she thinks +of boys," declared Rebecca. + +"We'll see," laughed the other woman. + +After Rebecca went to bed, she lay awake a long time listening for +the sound of girlish laughter and a boy's voice under her window; +then she fell asleep. + +The next morning she was down early. Mrs. Dent, who kept no +servants, was busily preparing breakfast. + +"Don't Agnes help you about breakfast?" asked Rebecca. + +"No, I let her lay," replied Mrs. Dent shortly. + +"What time did she get home last night?" + +"She didn't get home." + +"What?" + +"She didn't get home. She stayed with Addie. She often does." + +"Without sending you word?" + +"Oh, she knew I wouldn't worry." + +"When will she be home?" + +"Oh, I guess she'll be along pretty soon." + +Rebecca was uneasy, but she tried to conceal it, for she knew of no +good reason for uneasiness. What was there to occasion alarm in +the fact of one young girl staying overnight with another? She +could not eat much breakfast. Afterward she went out on the little +piazza, although her hostess strove furtively to stop her. + +"Why don't you go out back of the house? It's real pretty--a view +over the river," she said. + +"I guess I'll go out here," replied Rebecca. She had a purpose: to +watch for the absent girl. + +Presently Rebecca came hustling into the house through the sitting- +room, into the kitchen where Mrs. Dent was cooking. + +"That rose-bush!" she gasped. + +Mrs. Dent turned and faced her. + +"What of it?" + +"It's a-blowing." + +"What of it?" + +"There isn't a mite of wind this morning." + +Mrs. Dent turned with an inimitable toss of her fair head. "If you +think I can spend my time puzzling over such nonsense as--" she +began, but Rebecca interrupted her with a cry and a rush to the +door. + +"There she is now!" she cried. She flung the door wide open, and +curiously enough a breeze came in and her own gray hair tossed, and +a paper blew off the table to the floor with a loud rustle, but +there was nobody in sight. + +"There's nobody here," Rebecca said. + +She looked blankly at the other woman, who brought her rolling-pin +down on a slab of pie-crust with a thud. + +"I didn't hear anybody," she said calmly. + +"I SAW SOMEBODY PASS THAT WINDOW!" + +"You were mistaken again." + +"I KNOW I saw somebody." + +"You couldn't have. Please shut that door." + +Rebecca shut the door. She sat down beside the window and looked +out on the autumnal yard, with its little curve of footpath to the +kitchen door. + +"What smells so strong of roses in this room?" she said presently. +She sniffed hard. + +"I don't smell anything but these nutmegs." + +"It is not nutmeg." + +"I don't smell anything else." + +"Where do you suppose Agnes is?" + +"Oh, perhaps she has gone over the ferry to Porter's Falls with +Addie. She often does. Addie's got an aunt over there, and +Addie's got a cousin, a real pretty boy." + +"You suppose she's gone over there?" + +"Mebbe. I shouldn't wonder." + +"When should she be home?" + +"Oh, not before afternoon." + +Rebecca waited with all the patience she could muster. She kept +reassuring herself, telling herself that it was all natural, that +the other woman could not help it, but she made up her mind that if +Agnes did not return that afternoon she should be sent for. + +When it was four o'clock she started up with resolution. She had +been furtively watching the onyx clock on the sitting-room mantel; +she had timed herself. She had said that if Agnes was not home by +that time she should demand that she be sent for. She rose and +stood before Mrs. Dent, who looked up coolly from her embroidery. + +"I've waited just as long as I'm going to," she said. "I've come +'way from Michigan to see my own sister's daughter and take her +home with me. I've been here ever since yesterday--twenty-four +hours--and I haven't seen her. Now I'm going to. I want her sent +for." + +Mrs. Dent folded her embroidery and rose. + +"Well, I don't blame you," she said. "It is high time she came +home. I'll go right over and get her myself." + +Rebecca heaved a sigh of relief. She hardly knew what she had +suspected or feared, but she knew that her position had been one of +antagonism if not accusation, and she was sensible of relief. + +"I wish you would," she said gratefully, and went back to her +chair, while Mrs. Dent got her shawl and her little white head-tie. +"I wouldn't trouble you, but I do feel as if I couldn't wait any +longer to see her," she remarked apologetically. + +"Oh, it ain't any trouble at all," said Mrs. Dent as she went out. +"I don't blame you; you have waited long enough." + +Rebecca sat at the window watching breathlessly until Mrs. Dent +came stepping through the yard alone. She ran to the door and saw, +hardly noticing it this time, that the rose-bush was again +violently agitated, yet with no wind evident elsewhere. + +"Where is she?" she cried. + +Mrs. Dent laughed with stiff lips as she came up the steps over the +terrace. "Girls will be girls," said she. "She's gone with Addie +to Lincoln. Addie's got an uncle who's conductor on the train, and +lives there, and he got 'em passes, and they're goin' to stay to +Addie's Aunt Margaret's a few days. Mrs. Slocum said Agnes didn't +have time to come over and ask me before the train went, but she +took it on herself to say it would be all right, and--" + +"Why hadn't she been over to tell you?" Rebecca was angry, though +not suspicious. She even saw no reason for her anger. + +"Oh, she was putting up grapes. She was coming over just as soon +as she got the black off her hands. She heard I had company, and +her hands were a sight. She was holding them over sulphur +matches." + +"You say she's going to stay a few days?" repeated Rebecca dazedly. + +"Yes; till Thursday, Mrs. Slocum said." + +"How far is Lincoln from here?" + +"About fifty miles. It'll be a real treat to her. Mrs. Slocum's +sister is a real nice woman." + +"It is goin' to make it pretty late about my goin' home." + +"If you don't feel as if you could wait, I'll get her ready and +send her on just as soon as I can," Mrs. Dent said sweetly. + +"I'm going to wait," said Rebecca grimly. + +The two women sat down again, and Mrs. Dent took up her embroidery. + +"Is there any sewing I can do for her?" Rebecca asked finally in a +desperate way. "If I can get her sewing along some--" + +Mrs. Dent arose with alacrity and fetched a mass of white from the +closet. "Here," she said, "if you want to sew the lace on this +nightgown. I was going to put her to it, but she'll be glad enough +to get rid of it. She ought to have this and one more before she +goes. I don't like to send her away without some good +underclothing." + +Rebecca snatched at the little white garment and sewed feverishly. + +That night she wakened from a deep sleep a little after midnight +and lay a minute trying to collect her faculties and explain to +herself what she was listening to. At last she discovered that it +was the then popular strains of "The Maiden's Prayer" floating up +through the floor from the piano in the sitting-room below. She +jumped up, threw a shawl over her nightgown, and hurried downstairs +trembling. There was nobody in the sitting-room; the piano was +silent. She ran to Mrs. Dent's bedroom and called hysterically: + +"Emeline! Emeline!" + +"What is it?" asked Mrs. Dent's voice from the bed. The voice was +stern, but had a note of consciousness in it. + +"Who--who was that playing 'The Maiden's Prayer' in the sitting- +room, on the piano?" + +"I didn't hear anybody." + +"There was some one." + +"I didn't hear anything." + +"I tell you there was some one. But--THERE AIN'T ANYBODY THERE." + +"I didn't hear anything." + +"I did--somebody playing 'The Maiden's Prayer' on the piano. Has +Agnes got home? I WANT TO KNOW." + +"Of course Agnes hasn't got home," answered Mrs. Dent with rising +inflection. "Be you gone crazy over that girl? The last boat from +Porter's Falls was in before we went to bed. Of course she ain't +come." + +"I heard--" + +"You were dreaming." + +"I wasn't; I was broad awake." + +Rebecca went back to her chamber and kept her lamp burning all +night. + +The next morning her eyes upon Mrs. Dent were wary and blazing with +suppressed excitement. She kept opening her mouth as if to speak, +then frowning, and setting her lips hard. After breakfast she went +upstairs, and came down presently with her coat and bonnet. + +"Now, Emeline," she said, "I want to know where the Slocums live." + +Mrs. Dent gave a strange, long, half-lidded glance at her. She was +finishing her coffee. + +"Why?" she asked. + +"I'm going over there and find out if they have heard anything from +her daughter and Agnes since they went away. I don't like what I +heard last night." + +"You must have been dreaming." + +"It don't make any odds whether I was or not. Does she play 'The +Maiden's Prayer' on the piano? I want to know." + +"What if she does? She plays it a little, I believe. I don't +know. She don't half play it, anyhow; she ain't got an ear." + +"That wasn't half played last night. I don't like such things +happening. I ain't superstitious, but I don't like it. I'm going. +Where do the Slocums live?" + +"You go down the road over the bridge past the old grist mill, then +you turn to the left; it's the only house for half a mile. You +can't miss it. It has a barn with a ship in full sail on the cupola." + +"Well, I'm going. I don't feel easy." + +About two hours later Rebecca returned. There were red spots on +her cheeks. She looked wild. "I've been there," she said, "and +there isn't a soul at home. Something HAS happened." + +"What has happened?" + +"I don't know. Something. I had a warning last night. There +wasn't a soul there. They've been sent for to Lincoln." + +"Did you see anybody to ask?" asked Mrs. Dent with thinly concealed +anxiety. + +"I asked the woman that lives on the turn of the road. She's stone +deaf. I suppose you know. She listened while I screamed at her to +know where the Slocums were, and then she said, 'Mrs. Smith don't +live here.' I didn't see anybody on the road, and that's the only +house. What do you suppose it means?" + +"I don't suppose it means much of anything," replied Mrs. Dent +coolly. "Mr. Slocum is conductor on the railroad, and he'd be away +anyway, and Mrs. Slocum often goes early when he does, to spend the +day with her sister in Porter's Falls. She'd be more likely to go +away than Addie." + +"And you don't think anything has happened?" Rebecca asked with +diminishing distrust before the reasonableness of it. + +"Land, no!" + +Rebecca went upstairs to lay aside her coat and bonnet. But she +came hurrying back with them still on. + +"Who's been in my room?" she gasped. Her face was pale as ashes. + +Mrs. Dent also paled as she regarded her. + +"What do you mean?" she asked slowly. + +"I found when I went upstairs that--little nightgown of--Agnes's +on--the bed, laid out. It was--LAID OUT. The sleeves were folded +across the bosom, and there was that little red rose between them. +Emeline, what is it? Emeline, what's the matter? Oh!" + +Mrs. Dent was struggling for breath in great, choking gasps. She +clung to the back of a chair. Rebecca, trembling herself so she +could scarcely keep on her feet, got her some water. + +As soon as she recovered herself Mrs. Dent regarded her with eyes +full of the strangest mixture of fear and horror and hostility. + +"What do you mean talking so?" she said in a hard voice. + +"It IS THERE." + +"Nonsense. You threw it down and it fell that way." + +"It was folded in my bureau drawer." + +"It couldn't have been." + +"Who picked that red rose?" + +"Look on the bush," Mrs. Dent replied shortly. + +Rebecca looked at her; her mouth gaped. She hurried out of the +room. When she came back her eyes seemed to protrude. (She had in +the meantime hastened upstairs, and come down with tottering steps, +clinging to the banisters.) + +"Now I want to know what all this means?" she demanded. + +"What what means?" + +"The rose is on the bush, and it's gone from the bed in my room! +Is this house haunted, or what?" + +"I don't know anything about a house being haunted. I don't +believe in such things. Be you crazy?" Mrs. Dent spoke with +gathering force. The colour flashed back to her cheeks. + +"No," said Rebecca shortly. "I ain't crazy yet, but I shall be if +this keeps on much longer. I'm going to find out where that girl +is before night." + +Mrs. Dent eyed her. + +"What be you going to do?" + +"I'm going to Lincoln." + +A faint triumphant smile overspread Mrs. Dent's large face. + +"You can't," said she; "there ain't any train." + +"No train?" + +"No; there ain't any afternoon train from the Falls to Lincoln." + +"Then I'm going over to the Slocums' again to-night." + +However, Rebecca did not go; such a rain came up as deterred even +her resolution, and she had only her best dresses with her. Then +in the evening came the letter from the Michigan village which she +had left nearly a week ago. It was from her cousin, a single +woman, who had come to keep her house while she was away. It was a +pleasant unexciting letter enough, all the first of it, and related +mostly how she missed Rebecca; how she hoped she was having +pleasant weather and kept her health; and how her friend, Mrs. +Greenaway, had come to stay with her since she had felt lonesome +the first night in the house; how she hoped Rebecca would have no +objections to this, although nothing had been said about it, since +she had not realized that she might be nervous alone. The cousin +was painfully conscientious, hence the letter. Rebecca smiled in +spite of her disturbed mind as she read it, then her eye caught the +postscript. That was in a different hand, purporting to be written +by the friend, Mrs. Hannah Greenaway, informing her that the cousin +had fallen down the cellar stairs and broken her hip, and was in a +dangerous condition, and begging Rebecca to return at once, as she +herself was rheumatic and unable to nurse her properly, and no one +else could be obtained. + +Rebecca looked at Mrs. Dent, who had come to her room with the +letter quite late; it was half-past nine, and she had gone upstairs +for the night. + +"Where did this come from?" she asked. + +"Mr. Amblecrom brought it," she replied. + +"Who's he?" + +"The postmaster. He often brings the letters that come on the late +mail. He knows I ain't anybody to send. He brought yours about +your coming. He said he and his wife came over on the ferry-boat +with you." + +"I remember him," Rebecca replied shortly. "There's bad news in +this letter." + +Mrs. Dent's face took on an expression of serious inquiry. + +"Yes, my Cousin Harriet has fallen down the cellar stairs--they +were always dangerous--and she's broken her hip, and I've got to +take the first train home to-morrow." + +"You don't say so. I'm dreadfully sorry." + +"No, you ain't sorry!" said Rebecca, with a look as if she leaped. +"You're glad. I don't know why, but you're glad. You've wanted to +get rid of me for some reason ever since I came. I don't know why. +You're a strange woman. Now you've got your way, and I hope you're +satisfied." + +"How you talk." + +Mrs. Dent spoke in a faintly injured voice, but there was a light +in her eyes. + +"I talk the way it is. Well, I'm going to-morrow morning, and I +want you, just as soon as Agnes Dent comes home, to send her out to +me. Don't you wait for anything. You pack what clothes she's got, +and don't wait even to mend them, and you buy her ticket. I'll +leave the money, and you send her along. She don't have to change +cars. You start her off, when she gets home, on the next train!" + +"Very well," replied the other woman. She had an expression of +covert amusement. + +"Mind you do it." + +"Very well, Rebecca." + +Rebecca started on her journey the next morning. When she arrived, +two days later, she found her cousin in perfect health. She found, +moreover, that the friend had not written the postscript in the +cousin's letter. Rebecca would have returned to Ford Village the +next morning, but the fatigue and nervous strain had been too much +for her. She was not able to move from her bed. She had a species +of low fever induced by anxiety and fatigue. But she could write, +and she did, to the Slocums, and she received no answer. She also +wrote to Mrs. Dent; she even sent numerous telegrams, with no +response. Finally she wrote to the postmaster, and an answer +arrived by the first possible mail. The letter was short, curt, +and to the purpose. Mr. Amblecrom, the postmaster, was a man of +few words, and especially wary as to his expressions in a letter. + +"Dear madam," he wrote, "your favour rec'ed. No Slocums in Ford's +Village. All dead. Addie ten years ago, her mother two years +later, her father five. House vacant. Mrs. John Dent said to have +neglected stepdaughter. Girl was sick. Medicine not given. Talk +of taking action. Not enough evidence. House said to be haunted. +Strange sights and sounds. Your niece, Agnes Dent, died a year +ago, about this time. + +"Yours truly, + +"THOMAS AMBLECROM." + + + +THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL + + +"Henry had words with Edward in the study the night before Edward +died," said Caroline Glynn. + +She was elderly, tall, and harshly thin, with a hard colourlessness +of face. She spoke not with acrimony, but with grave severity. +Rebecca Ann Glynn, younger, stouter and rosy of face between her +crinkling puffs of gray hair, gasped, by way of assent. She sat in +a wide flounce of black silk in the corner of the sofa, and rolled +terrified eyes from her sister Caroline to her sister Mrs. Stephen +Brigham, who had been Emma Glynn, the one beauty of the family. +She was beautiful still, with a large, splendid, full-blown beauty; +she filled a great rocking-chair with her superb bulk of +femininity, and swayed gently back and forth, her black silks +whispering and her black frills fluttering. Even the shock of +death (for her brother Edward lay dead in the house,) could not +disturb her outward serenity of demeanour. She was grieved over +the loss of her brother: he had been the youngest, and she had been +fond of him, but never had Emma Brigham lost sight of her own +importance amidst the waters of tribulation. She was always awake +to the consciousness of her own stability in the midst of +vicissitudes and the splendour of her permanent bearing. + +But even her expression of masterly placidity changed before her +sister Caroline's announcement and her sister Rebecca Ann's gasp of +terror and distress in response. + +"I think Henry might have controlled his temper, when poor Edward +was so near his end," said she with an asperity which disturbed +slightly the roseate curves of her beautiful mouth. + +"Of course he did not KNOW," murmured Rebecca Ann in a faint tone +strangely out of keeping with her appearance. + +One involuntarily looked again to be sure that such a feeble pipe +came from that full-swelling chest. + +"Of course he did not know it," said Caroline quickly. She turned +on her sister with a strange sharp look of suspicion. "How could +he have known it?" said she. Then she shrank as if from the +other's possible answer. "Of course you and I both know he could +not," said she conclusively, but her pale face was paler than it +had been before. + +Rebecca gasped again. The married sister, Mrs. Emma Brigham, was +now sitting up straight in her chair; she had ceased rocking, and +was eyeing them both intently with a sudden accentuation of family +likeness in her face. Given one common intensity of emotion and +similar lines showed forth, and the three sisters of one race were +evident. + +"What do you mean?" said she impartially to them both. Then she, +too, seemed to shrink before a possible answer. She even laughed +an evasive sort of laugh. "I guess you don't mean anything," said +she, but her face wore still the expression of shrinking horror. + +"Nobody means anything," said Caroline firmly. She rose and +crossed the room toward the door with grim decisiveness. + +"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Brigham. + +"I have something to see to," replied Caroline, and the others at +once knew by her tone that she had some solemn and sad duty to +perform in the chamber of death. + +"Oh," said Mrs. Brigham. + +After the door had closed behind Caroline, she turned to Rebecca. + +"Did Henry have many words with him?" she asked. + +"They were talking very loud," replied Rebecca evasively, yet with +an answering gleam of ready response to the other's curiosity in +the quick lift of her soft blue eyes. + +Mrs. Brigham looked at her. She had not resumed rocking. She +still sat up straight with a slight knitting of intensity on her +fair forehead, between the pretty rippling curves of her auburn +hair. + +"Did you--hear anything?" she asked in a low voice with a glance +toward the door. + +"I was just across the hall in the south parlour, and that door was +open and this door ajar," replied Rebecca with a slight flush. + +"Then you must have--" + +"I couldn't help it." + +"Everything?" + +"Most of it." + +"What was it?" + +"The old story." + +"I suppose Henry was mad, as he always was, because Edward was +living on here for nothing, when he had wasted all the money father +left him." + +Rebecca nodded with a fearful glance at the door. + +When Emma spoke again her voice was still more hushed. "I know how +he felt," said she. "He had always been so prudent himself, and +worked hard at his profession, and there Edward had never done +anything but spend, and it must have looked to him as if Edward was +living at his expense, but he wasn't." + +"No, he wasn't." + +"It was the way father left the property--that all the children +should have a home here--and he left money enough to buy the food +and all if we had all come home." + +"Yes." + +"And Edward had a right here according to the terms of father's +will, and Henry ought to have remembered it." + +"Yes, he ought." + +"Did he say hard things?" + +"Pretty hard from what I heard." + +"What?" + +"I heard him tell Edward that he had no business here at all, and +he thought he had better go away." + +"What did Edward say?" + +"That he would stay here as long as he lived and afterward, too, if +he was a mind to, and he would like to see Henry get him out; and +then--" + +"What?" + +"Then he laughed." + +"What did Henry say." + +"I didn't hear him say anything, but--" + +"But what?" + +"I saw him when he came out of this room." + +"He looked mad?" + +"You've seen him when he looked so." + +Emma nodded; the expression of horror on her face had deepened. + +"Do you remember that time he killed the cat because she had +scratched him?" + +"Yes. Don't!" + +Then Caroline reentered the room. She went up to the stove in +which a wood fire was burning--it was a cold, gloomy day of fall-- +and she warmed her hands, which were reddened from recent washing +in cold water. + +Mrs. Brigham looked at her and hesitated. She glanced at the door, +which was still ajar, as it did not easily shut, being still +swollen with the damp weather of the summer. She rose and pushed +it together with a sharp thud which jarred the house. Rebecca +started painfully with a half exclamation. Caroline looked at her +disapprovingly. + +"It is time you controlled your nerves, Rebecca," said she. + +"I can't help it," replied Rebecca with almost a wail. "I am +nervous. There's enough to make me so, the Lord knows." + +"What do you mean by that?" asked Caroline with her old air of +sharp suspicion, and something between challenge and dread of its +being met. + +Rebecca shrank. + +"Nothing," said she. + +"Then I wouldn't keep speaking in such a fashion." + +Emma, returning from the closed door, said imperiously that it +ought to be fixed, it shut so hard. + +"It will shrink enough after we have had the fire a few days," +replied Caroline. "If anything is done to it it will be too small; +there will be a crack at the sill." + +"I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself for talking as he did +to Edward," said Mrs. Brigham abruptly, but in an almost inaudible +voice. + +"Hush!" said Caroline, with a glance of actual fear at the closed +door. + +"Nobody can hear with the door shut." + +"He must have heard it shut, and--" + +"Well, I can say what I want to before he comes down, and I am not +afraid of him." + +"I don't know who is afraid of him! What reason is there for +anybody to be afraid of Henry?" demanded Caroline. + +Mrs. Brigham trembled before her sister's look. Rebecca gasped +again. "There isn't any reason, of course. Why should there be?" + +"I wouldn't speak so, then. Somebody might overhear you and think +it was queer. Miranda Joy is in the south parlour sewing, you +know." + +"I thought she went upstairs to stitch on the machine." + +"She did, but she has come down again." + +"Well, she can't hear." + +"I say again I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself. I +shouldn't think he'd ever get over it, having words with poor +Edward the very night before he died. Edward was enough sight +better disposition than Henry, with all his faults. I always +thought a great deal of poor Edward, myself." + +Mrs. Brigham passed a large fluff of handkerchief across her eyes; +Rebecca sobbed outright. + +"Rebecca," said Caroline admonishingly, keeping her mouth stiff and +swallowing determinately. + +"I never heard him speak a cross word, unless he spoke cross to +Henry that last night. I don't know, but he did from what Rebecca +overheard," said Emma. + +"Not so much cross as sort of soft, and sweet, and aggravating," +sniffled Rebecca. + +"He never raised his voice," said Caroline; "but he had his way." + +"He had a right to in this case." + +"Yes, he did." + +"He had as much of a right here as Henry," sobbed Rebecca, "and now +he's gone, and he will never be in this home that poor father left +him and the rest of us again." + +"What do you really think ailed Edward?" asked Emma in hardly more +than a whisper. She did not look at her sister. + +Caroline sat down in a nearby armchair, and clutched the arms +convulsively until her thin knuckles whitened. + +"I told you," said she. + +Rebecca held her handkerchief over her mouth, and looked at them +above it with terrified, streaming eyes. + +"I know you said that he had terrible pains in his stomach, and had +spasms, but what do you think made him have them?" + +"Henry called it gastric trouble. You know Edward has always had +dyspepsia." + +Mrs. Brigham hesitated a moment. "Was there any talk of an-- +examination?" said she. + +Then Caroline turned on her fiercely. + +"No," said she in a terrible voice. "No." + +The three sisters' souls seemed to meet on one common ground of +terrified understanding though their eyes. The old-fashioned latch +of the door was heard to rattle, and a push from without made the +door shake ineffectually. "It's Henry," Rebecca sighed rather than +whispered. Mrs. Brigham settled herself after a noiseless rush +across the floor into her rocking-chair again, and was swaying back +and forth with her head comfortably leaning back, when the door at +last yielded and Henry Glynn entered. He cast a covertly sharp, +comprehensive glance at Mrs. Brigham with her elaborate calm; at +Rebecca quietly huddled in the corner of the sofa with her +handkerchief to her face and only one small reddened ear as +attentive as a dog's uncovered and revealing her alertness for his +presence; at Caroline sitting with a strained composure in her +armchair by the stove. She met his eyes quite firmly with a look +of inscrutable fear, and defiance of the fear and of him. + +Henry Glynn looked more like this sister than the others. Both had +the same hard delicacy of form and feature, both were tall and +almost emaciated, both had a sparse growth of gray blond hair far +back from high intellectual foreheads, both had an almost noble +aquilinity of feature. They confronted each other with the +pitiless immovability of two statues in whose marble lineaments +emotions were fixed for all eternity. + +Then Henry Glynn smiled and the smile transformed his face. He +looked suddenly years younger, and an almost boyish recklessness +and irresolution appeared in his face. He flung himself into a +chair with a gesture which was bewildering from its incongruity +with his general appearance. He leaned his head back, flung one +leg over the other, and looked laughingly at Mrs. Brigham. + +"I declare, Emma, you grow younger every year," he said. + +She flushed a little, and her placid mouth widened at the corners. +She was susceptible to praise. + +"Our thoughts to-day ought to belong to the one of us who will +NEVER grow older," said Caroline in a hard voice. + +Henry looked at her, still smiling. "Of course, we none of us +forget that," said he, in a deep, gentle voice, "but we have to +speak to the living, Caroline, and I have not seen Emma for a long +time, and the living are as dear as the dead." + +"Not to me," said Caroline. + +She rose, and went abruptly out of the room again. Rebecca also +rose and hurried after her, sobbing loudly. + +Henry looked slowly after them. + +"Caroline is completely unstrung," said he. Mrs. Brigham rocked. +A confidence in him inspired by his manner was stealing over her. +Out of that confidence she spoke quite easily and naturally. + +"His death was very sudden," said she. + +Henry's eyelids quivered slightly but his gaze was unswerving. + +"Yes," said he; "it was very sudden. He was sick only a few +hours." + +"What did you call it?" + +"Gastric." + +"You did not think of an examination?" + +"There was no need. I am perfectly certain as to the cause of his +death." + +Suddenly Mrs. Brigham felt a creep as of some live horror over her +very soul. Her flesh prickled with cold, before an inflection of +his voice. She rose, tottering on weak knees. + +"Where are you going?" asked Henry in a strange, breathless voice. + +Mrs. Brigham said something incoherent about some sewing which she +had to do, some black for the funeral, and was out of the room. +She went up to the front chamber which she occupied. Caroline was +there. She went close to her and took her hands, and the two +sisters looked at each other. + +"Don't speak, don't, I won't have it!" said Caroline finally in an +awful whisper. + +"I won't," replied Emma. + +That afternoon the three sisters were in the study, the large front +room on the ground floor across the hall from the south parlour, +when the dusk deepened. + +Mrs. Brigham was hemming some black material. She sat close to the +west window for the waning light. At last she laid her work on her +lap. + +"It's no use, I cannot see to sew another stitch until we have a +light," said she. + +Caroline, who was writing some letters at the table, turned to +Rebecca, in her usual place on the sofa. + +"Rebecca, you had better get a lamp," she said. + +Rebecca started up; even in the dusk her face showed her agitation. + +"It doesn't seem to me that we need a lamp quite yet," she said in +a piteous, pleading voice like a child's. + +"Yes, we do," returned Mrs. Brigham peremptorily. "We must have a +light. I must finish this to-night or I can't go to the funeral, +and I can't see to sew another stitch." + +"Caroline can see to write letters, and she is farther from the +window than you are," said Rebecca. + +"Are you trying to save kerosene or are you lazy, Rebecca Glynn?" +cried Mrs. Brigham. "I can go and get the light myself, but I have +this work all in my lap." + +Caroline's pen stopped scratching. + +"Rebecca, we must have the light," said she. + +"Had we better have it in here?" asked Rebecca weakly. + +"Of course! Why not?" cried Caroline sternly. + +"I am sure I don't want to take my sewing into the other room, when +it is all cleaned up for to-morrow," said Mrs. Brigham. + +"Why, I never heard such a to-do about lighting a lamp." + +Rebecca rose and left the room. Presently she entered with a lamp-- +a large one with a white porcelain shade. She set it on a table, +an old-fashioned card-table which was placed against the opposite +wall from the window. That wall was clear of bookcases and books, +which were only on three sides of the room. That opposite wall was +taken up with three doors, the one small space being occupied by +the table. Above the table on the old-fashioned paper, of a white +satin gloss, traversed by an indeterminate green scroll, hung quite +high a small gilt and black-framed ivory miniature taken in her +girlhood of the mother of the family. When the lamp was set on the +table beneath it, the tiny pretty face painted on the ivory seemed +to gleam out with a look of intelligence. + +"What have you put that lamp over there for?" asked Mrs. Brigham, +with more of impatience than her voice usually revealed. "Why +didn't you set it in the hall and have done with it. Neither +Caroline nor I can see if it is on that table." + +"I thought perhaps you would move," replied Rebecca hoarsely. + +"If I do move, we can't both sit at that table. Caroline has her +paper all spread around. Why don't you set the lamp on the study +table in the middle of the room, then we can both see?" + +Rebecca hesitated. Her face was very pale. She looked with an +appeal that was fairly agonizing at her sister Caroline. + +"Why don't you put the lamp on this table, as she says?" asked +Caroline, almost fiercely. "Why do you act so, Rebecca?" + +"I should think you WOULD ask her that," said Mrs. Brigham. "She +doesn't act like herself at all." + +Rebecca took the lamp and set it on the table in the middle of the +room without another word. Then she turned her back upon it +quickly and seated herself on the sofa, and placed a hand over her +eyes as if to shade them, and remained so. + +"Does the light hurt your eyes, and is that the reason why you +didn't want the lamp?" asked Mrs. Brigham kindly. + +"I always like to sit in the dark," replied Rebecca chokingly. +Then she snatched her handkerchief hastily from her pocket and +began to weep. Caroline continued to write, Mrs. Brigham to sew. + +Suddenly Mrs. Brigham as she sewed glanced at the opposite wall. +The glance became a steady stare. She looked intently, her work +suspended in her hands. Then she looked away again and took a few +more stitches, then she looked again, and again turned to her task. +At last she laid her work in her lap and stared concentratedly. +She looked from the wall around the room, taking note of the +various objects; she looked at the wall long and intently. Then +she turned to her sisters. + +"What IS that?" said she. + +"What?" asked Caroline harshly; her pen scratched loudly across the +paper. + +Rebecca gave one of her convulsive gasps. + +"That strange shadow on the wall," replied Mrs. Brigham. + +Rebecca sat with her face hidden: Caroline dipped her pen in the +inkstand. + +"Why don't you turn around and look?" asked Mrs. Brigham in a +wondering and somewhat aggrieved way. + +"I am in a hurry to finish this letter, if Mrs. Wilson Ebbit is +going to get word in time to come to the funeral," replied Caroline +shortly. + +Mrs. Brigham rose, her work slipping to the floor, and she began +walking around the room, moving various articles of furniture, with +her eyes on the shadow. + +Then suddenly she shrieked out: + +"Look at this awful shadow! What is it? Caroline, look, look! +Rebecca, look! WHAT IS IT?" + +All Mrs. Brigham's triumphant placidity was gone. Her handsome +face was livid with horror. She stood stiffly pointing at the +shadow. + +"Look!" said she, pointing her finger at it. "Look! What is it?" + +Then Rebecca burst out in a wild wail after a shuddering glance at +the wall: + +"Oh, Caroline, there it is again! There it is again!" + +"Caroline Glynn, you look!" said Mrs. Brigham. "Look! What is +that dreadful shadow?" + +Caroline rose, turned, and stood confronting the wall. + +"How should I know?" she said. + +"It has been there every night since he died," cried Rebecca. + +"Every night?" + +"Yes. He died Thursday and this is Saturday; that makes three +nights," said Caroline rigidly. She stood as if holding herself +calm with a vise of concentrated will. + +"It--it looks like--like--" stammered Mrs. Brigham in a tone of +intense horror. + +"I know what it looks like well enough," said Caroline. "I've got +eyes in my head." + +"It looks like Edward," burst out Rebecca in a sort of frenzy of +fear. "Only--" + +"Yes, it does," assented Mrs. Brigham, whose horror-stricken tone +matched her sister's, "only-- Oh, it is awful! What is it, +Caroline?" + +"I ask you again, how should I know?" replied Caroline. "I see it +there like you. How should I know any more than you?" + +"It MUST be something in the room," said Mrs. Brigham, staring +wildly around. + +"We moved everything in the room the first night it came," said +Rebecca; "it is not anything in the room." + +Caroline turned upon her with a sort of fury. "Of course it is +something in the room," said she. "How you act! What do you mean +by talking so? Of course it is something in the room." + +"Of course, it is," agreed Mrs. Brigham, looking at Caroline +suspiciously. "Of course it must be. It is only a coincidence. +It just happens so. Perhaps it is that fold of the window curtain +that makes it. It must be something in the room." + +"It is not anything in the room," repeated Rebecca with obstinate +horror. + +The door opened suddenly and Henry Glynn entered. He began to +speak, then his eyes followed the direction of the others'. He +stood stock still staring at the shadow on the wall. It was life +size and stretched across the white parallelogram of a door, half +across the wall space on which the picture hung. + +"What is that?" he demanded in a strange voice. + +"It must be due to something in the room," Mrs. Brigham said +faintly. + +"It is not due to anything in the room," said Rebecca again with +the shrill insistency of terror. + +"How you act, Rebecca Glynn," said Caroline. + +Henry Glynn stood and stared a moment longer. His face showed a +gamut of emotions--horror, conviction, then furious incredulity. +Suddenly he began hastening hither and thither about the room. He +moved the furniture with fierce jerks, turning ever to see the +effect upon the shadow on the wall. Not a line of its terrible +outlines wavered. + +"It must be something in the room!" he declared in a voice which +seemed to snap like a lash. + +His face changed. The inmost secrecy of his nature seemed evident +until one almost lost sight of his lineaments. Rebecca stood close +to her sofa, regarding him with woeful, fascinated eyes. Mrs. +Brigham clutched Caroline's hand. They both stood in a corner out +of his way. For a few moments he raged about the room like a caged +wild animal. He moved every piece of furniture; when the moving of +a piece did not affect the shadow, he flung it to the floor, the +sisters watching. + +Then suddenly he desisted. He laughed and began straightening the +furniture which he had flung down. + +"What an absurdity," he said easily. "Such a to-do about a +shadow." + +"That's so," assented Mrs. Brigham, in a scared voice which she +tried to make natural. As she spoke she lifted a chair near her. + +"I think you have broken the chair that Edward was so fond of," +said Caroline. + +Terror and wrath were struggling for expression on her face. Her +mouth was set, her eyes shrinking. Henry lifted the chair with a +show of anxiety. + +"Just as good as ever," he said pleasantly. He laughed again, +looking at his sisters. "Did I scare you?" he said. "I should +think you might be used to me by this time. You know my way of +wanting to leap to the bottom of a mystery, and that shadow does +look--queer, like--and I thought if there was any way of accounting +for it I would like to without any delay." + +"You don't seem to have succeeded," remarked Caroline dryly, with a +slight glance at the wall. + +Henry's eyes followed hers and he quivered perceptibly. + +"Oh, there is no accounting for shadows," he said, and he laughed +again. "A man is a fool to try to account for shadows." + +Then the supper bell rang, and they all left the room, but Henry +kept his back to the wall, as did, indeed, the others. + +Mrs. Brigham pressed close to Caroline as she crossed the hall. +"He looked like a demon!" she breathed in her ear. + +Henry led the way with an alert motion like a boy; Rebecca brought +up the rear; she could scarcely walk, her knees trembled so. + +"I can't sit in that room again this evening," she whispered to +Caroline after supper. + +"Very well, we will sit in the south room," replied Caroline. "I +think we will sit in the south parlour," she said aloud; "it isn't +as damp as the study, and I have a cold." + +So they all sat in the south room with their sewing. Henry read +the newspaper, his chair drawn close to the lamp on the table. +About nine o'clock he rose abruptly and crossed the hall to the +study. The three sisters looked at one another. Mrs. Brigham +rose, folded her rustling skirts compactly around her, and began +tiptoeing toward the door. + +"What are you going to do?" inquired Rebecca agitatedly. + +"I am going to see what he is about," replied Mrs. Brigham +cautiously. + +She pointed as she spoke to the study door across the hall; it was +ajar. Henry had striven to pull it together behind him, but it had +somehow swollen beyond the limit with curious speed. It was still +ajar and a streak of light showed from top to bottom. The hall +lamp was not lit. + +"You had better stay where you are," said Caroline with guarded +sharpness. + +"I am going to see," repeated Mrs. Brigham firmly. + +Then she folded her skirts so tightly that her bulk with its +swelling curves was revealed in a black silk sheath, and she went +with a slow toddle across the hall to the study door. She stood +there, her eye at the crack. + +In the south room Rebecca stopped sewing and sat watching with +dilated eyes. Caroline sewed steadily. What Mrs. Brigham, +standing at the crack in the study door, saw was this: + +Henry Glynn, evidently reasoning that the source of the strange +shadow must be between the table on which the lamp stood and the +wall, was making systematic passes and thrusts all over and through +the intervening space with an old sword which had belonged to his +father. Not an inch was left unpierced. He seemed to have divided +the space into mathematical sections. He brandished the sword with +a sort of cold fury and calculation; the blade gave out flashes of +light, the shadow remained unmoved. Mrs. Brigham, watching, felt +herself cold with horror. + +Finally Henry ceased and stood with the sword in hand and raised as +if to strike, surveying the shadow on the wall threateningly. Mrs. +Brigham toddled back across the hall and shut the south room door +behind her before she related what she had seen. + +"He looked like a demon!" she said again. "Have you got any of +that old wine in the house, Caroline? I don't feel as if I could +stand much more." + +Indeed, she looked overcome. Her handsome placid face was worn and +strained and pale. + +"Yes, there's plenty," said Caroline; "you can have some when you +go to bed." + +"I think we had all better take some," said Mrs. Brigham. "Oh, my +God, Caroline, what--" + +"Don't ask and don't speak," said Caroline. + +"No, I am not going to," replied Mrs. Brigham; "but--" + +Rebecca moaned aloud. + +"What are you doing that for?" asked Caroline harshly. + +"Poor Edward," returned Rebecca. + +"That is all you have to groan for," said Caroline. "There is +nothing else." + +"I am going to bed," said Mrs. Brigham. "I sha'n't be able to be +at the funeral if I don't." + +Soon the three sisters went to their chambers and the south parlour +was deserted. Caroline called to Henry in the study to put out the +light before he came upstairs. They had been gone about an hour +when he came into the room bringing the lamp which had stood in the +study. He set it on the table and waited a few minutes, pacing up +and down. His face was terrible, his fair complexion showed livid; +his blue eyes seemed dark blanks of awful reflections. + +Then he took the lamp up and returned to the library. He set the +lamp on the centre table, and the shadow sprang out on the wall. +Again he studied the furniture and moved it about, but +deliberately, with none of his former frenzy. Nothing affected the +shadow. Then he returned to the south room with the lamp and again +waited. Again he returned to the study and placed the lamp on the +table, and the shadow sprang out upon the wall. It was midnight +before he went upstairs. Mrs. Brigham and the other sisters, who +could not sleep, heard him. + +The next day was the funeral. That evening the family sat in the +south room. Some relatives were with them. Nobody entered the +study until Henry carried a lamp in there after the others had +retired for the night. He saw again the shadow on the wall leap to +an awful life before the light. + +The next morning at breakfast Henry Glynn announced that he had to +go to the city for three days. The sisters looked at him with +surprise. He very seldom left home, and just now his practice had +been neglected on account of Edward's death. He was a physician. + +"How can you leave your patients now?" asked Mrs. Brigham +wonderingly. + +"I don't know how to, but there is no other way," replied Henry +easily. "I have had a telegram from Doctor Mitford." + +"Consultation?" inquired Mrs. Brigham. + +"I have business," replied Henry. + +Doctor Mitford was an old classmate of his who lived in a +neighbouring city and who occasionally called upon him in the case +of a consultation. + +After he had gone Mrs. Brigham said to Caroline that after all +Henry had not said that he was going to consult with Doctor +Mitford, and she thought it very strange. + +"Everything is very strange," said Rebecca with a shudder. + +"What do you mean?" inquired Caroline sharply. + +"Nothing," replied Rebecca. + +Nobody entered the library that day, nor the next, nor the next. +The third day Henry was expected home, but he did not arrive and +the last train from the city had come. + +"I call it pretty queer work," said Mrs. Brigham. "The idea of a +doctor leaving his patients for three days anyhow, at such a time +as this, and I know he has some very sick ones; he said so. And +the idea of a consultation lasting three days! There is no sense +in it, and NOW he has not come. I don't understand it, for my +part." + +"I don't either," said Rebecca. + +They were all in the south parlour. There was no light in the +study opposite, and the door was ajar. + +Presently Mrs. Brigham rose--she could not have told why; something +seemed to impel her, some will outside her own. She went out of +the room, again wrapping her rustling skirts around that she might +pass noiselessly, and began pushing at the swollen door of the +study. + +"She has not got any lamp," said Rebecca in a shaking voice. + +Caroline, who was writing letters, rose again, took a lamp (there +were two in the room) and followed her sister. Rebecca had risen, +but she stood trembling, not venturing to follow. + +The doorbell rang, but the others did not hear it; it was on the +south door on the other side of the house from the study. Rebecca, +after hesitating until the bell rang the second time, went to the +door; she remembered that the servant was out. + +Caroline and her sister Emma entered the study. Caroline set the +lamp on the table. They looked at the wall. "Oh, my God," gasped +Mrs. Brigham, "there are--there are TWO--shadows." The sisters +stood clutching each other, staring at the awful things on the +wall. Then Rebecca came in, staggering, with a telegram in her +hand. "Here is--a telegram," she gasped. "Henry is--dead." + + + +LUELLA MILLER + + +Close to the village street stood the one-story house in which +Luella Miller, who had an evil name in the village, had dwelt. She +had been dead for years, yet there were those in the village who, +in spite of the clearer light which comes on a vantage-point from a +long-past danger, half believed in the tale which they had heard +from their childhood. In their hearts, although they scarcely +would have owned it, was a survival of the wild horror and frenzied +fear of their ancestors who had dwelt in the same age with Luella +Miller. Young people even would stare with a shudder at the old +house as they passed, and children never played around it as was +their wont around an untenanted building. Not a window in the old +Miller house was broken: the panes reflected the morning sunlight +in patches of emerald and blue, and the latch of the sagging front +door was never lifted, although no bolt secured it. Since Luella +Miller had been carried out of it, the house had had no tenant +except one friendless old soul who had no choice between that and +the far-off shelter of the open sky. This old woman, who had +survived her kindred and friends, lived in the house one week, then +one morning no smoke came out of the chimney, and a body of +neighbours, a score strong, entered and found her dead in her bed. +There were dark whispers as to the cause of her death, and there +were those who testified to an expression of fear so exalted that +it showed forth the state of the departing soul upon the dead face. +The old woman had been hale and hearty when she entered the house, +and in seven days she was dead; it seemed that she had fallen a +victim to some uncanny power. The minister talked in the pulpit +with covert severity against the sin of superstition; still the +belief prevailed. Not a soul in the village but would have chosen +the almshouse rather than that dwelling. No vagrant, if he heard +the tale, would seek shelter beneath that old roof, unhallowed by +nearly half a century of superstitious fear. + +There was only one person in the village who had actually known +Luella Miller. That person was a woman well over eighty, but a +marvel of vitality and unextinct youth. Straight as an arrow, with +the spring of one recently let loose from the bow of life, she +moved about the streets, and she always went to church, rain or +shine. She had never married, and had lived alone for years in a +house across the road from Luella Miller's. + +This woman had none of the garrulousness of age, but never in all +her life had she ever held her tongue for any will save her own, +and she never spared the truth when she essayed to present it. She +it was who bore testimony to the life, evil, though possibly +wittingly or designedly so, of Luella Miller, and to her personal +appearance. When this old woman spoke--and she had the gift of +description, although her thoughts were clothed in the rude +vernacular of her native village--one could seem to see Luella +Miller as she had really looked. According to this woman, Lydia +Anderson by name, Luella Miller had been a beauty of a type rather +unusual in New England. She had been a slight, pliant sort of +creature, as ready with a strong yielding to fate and as +unbreakable as a willow. She had glimmering lengths of straight, +fair hair, which she wore softly looped round a long, lovely face. +She had blue eyes full of soft pleading, little slender, clinging +hands, and a wonderful grace of motion and attitude. + +"Luella Miller used to sit in a way nobody else could if they sat +up and studied a week of Sundays," said Lydia Anderson, "and it was +a sight to see her walk. If one of them willows over there on the +edge of the brook could start up and get its roots free of the +ground, and move off, it would go just the way Luella Miller used +to. She had a green shot silk she used to wear, too, and a hat +with green ribbon streamers, and a lace veil blowing across her +face and out sideways, and a green ribbon flyin' from her waist. +That was what she came out bride in when she married Erastus +Miller. Her name before she was married was Hill. There was +always a sight of "l's" in her name, married or single. Erastus +Miller was good lookin', too, better lookin' than Luella. +Sometimes I used to think that Luella wa'n't so handsome after all. +Erastus just about worshiped her. I used to know him pretty well. +He lived next door to me, and we went to school together. Folks +used to say he was waitin' on me, but he wa'n't. I never thought +he was except once or twice when he said things that some girls +might have suspected meant somethin'. That was before Luella came +here to teach the district school. It was funny how she came to +get it, for folks said she hadn't any education, and that one of +the big girls, Lottie Henderson, used to do all the teachin' for +her, while she sat back and did embroidery work on a cambric +pocket-handkerchief. Lottie Henderson was a real smart girl, a +splendid scholar, and she just set her eyes by Luella, as all the +girls did. Lottie would have made a real smart woman, but she died +when Luella had been here about a year--just faded away and died: +nobody knew what ailed her. She dragged herself to that +schoolhouse and helped Luella teach till the very last minute. The +committee all knew how Luella didn't do much of the work herself, +but they winked at it. It wa'n't long after Lottie died that +Erastus married her. I always thought he hurried it up because she +wa'n't fit to teach. One of the big boys used to help her after +Lottie died, but he hadn't much government, and the school didn't +do very well, and Luella might have had to give it up, for the +committee couldn't have shut their eyes to things much longer. The +boy that helped her was a real honest, innocent sort of fellow, and +he was a good scholar, too. Folks said he overstudied, and that +was the reason he was took crazy the year after Luella married, but +I don't know. And I don't know what made Erastus Miller go into +consumption of the blood the year after he was married: consumption +wa'n't in his family. He just grew weaker and weaker, and went +almost bent double when he tried to wait on Luella, and he spoke +feeble, like an old man. He worked terrible hard till the last +trying to save up a little to leave Luella. I've seen him out in +the worst storms on a wood-sled--he used to cut and sell wood--and +he was hunched up on top lookin' more dead than alive. Once I +couldn't stand it: I went over and helped him pitch some wood on +the cart--I was always strong in my arms. I wouldn't stop for all +he told me to, and I guess he was glad enough for the help. That +was only a week before he died. He fell on the kitchen floor while +he was gettin' breakfast. He always got the breakfast and let +Luella lay abed. He did all the sweepin' and the washin' and the +ironin' and most of the cookin'. He couldn't bear to have Luella +lift her finger, and she let him do for her. She lived like a +queen for all the work she did. She didn't even do her sewin'. +She said it made her shoulder ache to sew, and poor Erastus's +sister Lily used to do all her sewin'. She wa'n't able to, either; +she was never strong in her back, but she did it beautifully. She +had to, to suit Luella, she was so dreadful particular. I never +saw anythin' like the fagottin' and hemstitchin' that Lily Miller +did for Luella. She made all Luella's weddin' outfit, and that +green silk dress, after Maria Babbit cut it. Maria she cut it for +nothin', and she did a lot more cuttin' and fittin' for nothin' for +Luella, too. Lily Miller went to live with Luella after Erastus +died. She gave up her home, though she was real attached to it and +wa'n't a mite afraid to stay alone. She rented it and she went to +live with Luella right away after the funeral." + +Then this old woman, Lydia Anderson, who remembered Luella Miller, +would go on to relate the story of Lily Miller. It seemed that on +the removal of Lily Miller to the house of her dead brother, to +live with his widow, the village people first began to talk. This +Lily Miller had been hardly past her first youth, and a most robust +and blooming woman, rosy-cheeked, with curls of strong, black hair +overshadowing round, candid temples and bright dark eyes. It was +not six months after she had taken up her residence with her +sister-in-law that her rosy colour faded and her pretty curves +became wan hollows. White shadows began to show in the black rings +of her hair, and the light died out of her eyes, her features +sharpened, and there were pathetic lines at her mouth, which yet +wore always an expression of utter sweetness and even happiness. +She was devoted to her sister; there was no doubt that she loved +her with her whole heart, and was perfectly content in her service. +It was her sole anxiety lest she should die and leave her alone. + +"The way Lily Miller used to talk about Luella was enough to make +you mad and enough to make you cry," said Lydia Anderson. "I've +been in there sometimes toward the last when she was too feeble to +cook and carried her some blanc-mange or custard--somethin' I +thought she might relish, and she'd thank me, and when I asked her +how she was, say she felt better than she did yesterday, and asked +me if I didn't think she looked better, dreadful pitiful, and say +poor Luella had an awful time takin' care of her and doin' the +work--she wa'n't strong enough to do anythin'--when all the time +Luella wa'n't liftin' her finger and poor Lily didn't get any care +except what the neighbours gave her, and Luella eat up everythin' +that was carried in for Lily. I had it real straight that she did. +Luella used to just sit and cry and do nothin'. She did act real +fond of Lily, and she pined away considerable, too. There was +those that thought she'd go into a decline herself. But after Lily +died, her Aunt Abby Mixter came, and then Luella picked up and grew +as fat and rosy as ever. But poor Aunt Abby begun to droop just +the way Lily had, and I guess somebody wrote to her married +daughter, Mrs. Sam Abbot, who lived in Barre, for she wrote her +mother that she must leave right away and come and make her a +visit, but Aunt Abby wouldn't go. I can see her now. She was a +real good-lookin' woman, tall and large, with a big, square face +and a high forehead that looked of itself kind of benevolent and +good. She just tended out on Luella as if she had been a baby, and +when her married daughter sent for her she wouldn't stir one inch. +She'd always thought a lot of her daughter, too, but she said +Luella needed her and her married daughter didn't. Her daughter +kept writin' and writin', but it didn't do any good. Finally she +came, and when she saw how bad her mother looked, she broke down +and cried and all but went on her knees to have her come away. She +spoke her mind out to Luella, too. She told her that she'd killed +her husband and everybody that had anythin' to do with her, and +she'd thank her to leave her mother alone. Luella went into +hysterics, and Aunt Abby was so frightened that she called me after +her daughter went. Mrs. Sam Abbot she went away fairly cryin' out +loud in the buggy, the neighbours heard her, and well she might, +for she never saw her mother again alive. I went in that night +when Aunt Abby called for me, standin' in the door with her little +green-checked shawl over her head. I can see her now. 'Do come +over here, Miss Anderson,' she sung out, kind of gasping for +breath. I didn't stop for anythin'. I put over as fast as I +could, and when I got there, there was Luella laughin' and cryin' +all together, and Aunt Abby trying to hush her, and all the time +she herself was white as a sheet and shakin' so she could hardly +stand. 'For the land sakes, Mrs. Mixter,' says I, 'you look worse +than she does. You ain't fit to be up out of your bed.' + +"'Oh, there ain't anythin' the matter with me,' says she. Then she +went on talkin' to Luella. 'There, there, don't, don't, poor +little lamb,' says she. 'Aunt Abby is here. She ain't goin' away +and leave you. Don't, poor little lamb.' + +"'Do leave her with me, Mrs. Mixter, and you get back to bed,' says +I, for Aunt Abby had been layin' down considerable lately, though +somehow she contrived to do the work. + +"'I'm well enough,' says she. 'Don't you think she had better have +the doctor, Miss Anderson?' + +"'The doctor,' says I, 'I think YOU had better have the doctor. I +think you need him much worse than some folks I could mention.' +And I looked right straight at Luella Miller laughin' and cryin' +and goin' on as if she was the centre of all creation. All the +time she was actin' so--seemed as if she was too sick to sense +anythin'--she was keepin' a sharp lookout as to how we took it out +of the corner of one eye. I see her. You could never cheat me +about Luella Miller. Finally I got real mad and I run home and I +got a bottle of valerian I had, and I poured some boilin' hot water +on a handful of catnip, and I mixed up that catnip tea with most +half a wineglass of valerian, and I went with it over to Luella's. +I marched right up to Luella, a-holdin' out of that cup, all +smokin'. 'Now,' says I, 'Luella Miller, 'YOU SWALLER THIS!' + +"'What is--what is it, oh, what is it?' she sort of screeches out. +Then she goes off a-laughin' enough to kill. + +"'Poor lamb, poor little lamb,' says Aunt Abby, standin' over her, +all kind of tottery, and tryin' to bathe her head with camphor. + +"'YOU SWALLER THIS RIGHT DOWN,' says I. And I didn't waste any +ceremony. I just took hold of Luella Miller's chin and I tipped +her head back, and I caught her mouth open with laughin', and I +clapped that cup to her lips, and I fairly hollered at her: +'Swaller, swaller, swaller!' and she gulped it right down. She had +to, and I guess it did her good. Anyhow, she stopped cryin' and +laughin' and let me put her to bed, and she went to sleep like a +baby inside of half an hour. That was more than poor Aunt Abby +did. She lay awake all that night and I stayed with her, though +she tried not to have me; said she wa'n't sick enough for watchers. +But I stayed, and I made some good cornmeal gruel and I fed her a +teaspoon every little while all night long. It seemed to me as if +she was jest dyin' from bein' all wore out. In the mornin' as soon +as it was light I run over to the Bisbees and sent Johnny Bisbee +for the doctor. I told him to tell the doctor to hurry, and he +come pretty quick. Poor Aunt Abby didn't seem to know much of +anythin' when he got there. You couldn't hardly tell she breathed, +she was so used up. When the doctor had gone, Luella came into the +room lookin' like a baby in her ruffled nightgown. I can see her +now. Her eyes were as blue and her face all pink and white like a +blossom, and she looked at Aunt Abby in the bed sort of innocent +and surprised. 'Why,' says she, 'Aunt Abby ain't got up yet?' + +"'No, she ain't,' says I, pretty short. + +"'I thought I didn't smell the coffee,' says Luella. + +"'Coffee,' says I. 'I guess if you have coffee this mornin' you'll +make it yourself.' + +"'I never made the coffee in all my life,' says she, dreadful +astonished. 'Erastus always made the coffee as long as he lived, +and then Lily she made it, and then Aunt Abby made it. I don't +believe I CAN make the coffee, Miss Anderson.' + +"'You can make it or go without, jest as you please,' says I. + +"'Ain't Aunt Abby goin' to get up?' says she. + +"'I guess she won't get up,' says I, 'sick as she is.' I was +gettin' madder and madder. There was somethin' about that little +pink-and-white thing standin' there and talkin' about coffee, when +she had killed so many better folks than she was, and had jest +killed another, that made me feel 'most as if I wished somebody +would up and kill her before she had a chance to do any more harm. + +"'Is Aunt Abby sick?' says Luella, as if she was sort of aggrieved +and injured. + +"'Yes,' says I, 'she's sick, and she's goin' to die, and then +you'll be left alone, and you'll have to do for yourself and wait +on yourself, or do without things.' I don't know but I was sort of +hard, but it was the truth, and if I was any harder than Luella +Miller had been I'll give up. I ain't never been sorry that I said +it. Well, Luella, she up and had hysterics again at that, and I +jest let her have 'em. All I did was to bundle her into the room +on the other side of the entry where Aunt Abby couldn't hear her, +if she wa'n't past it--I don't know but she was--and set her down +hard in a chair and told her not to come back into the other room, +and she minded. She had her hysterics in there till she got tired. +When she found out that nobody was comin' to coddle her and do for +her she stopped. At least I suppose she did. I had all I could do +with poor Aunt Abby tryin' to keep the breath of life in her. The +doctor had told me that she was dreadful low, and give me some very +strong medicine to give to her in drops real often, and told me +real particular about the nourishment. Well, I did as he told me +real faithful till she wa'n't able to swaller any longer. Then I +had her daughter sent for. I had begun to realize that she +wouldn't last any time at all. I hadn't realized it before, though +I spoke to Luella the way I did. The doctor he came, and Mrs. Sam +Abbot, but when she got there it was too late; her mother was dead. +Aunt Abby's daughter just give one look at her mother layin' there, +then she turned sort of sharp and sudden and looked at me. + +"'Where is she?' says she, and I knew she meant Luella. + +"'She's out in the kitchen,' says I. 'She's too nervous to see +folks die. She's afraid it will make her sick.' + +"The Doctor he speaks up then. He was a young man. Old Doctor +Park had died the year before, and this was a young fellow just out +of college. 'Mrs. Miller is not strong,' says he, kind of severe, +'and she is quite right in not agitating herself.' + +"'You are another, young man; she's got her pretty claw on you,' +thinks I, but I didn't say anythin' to him. I just said over to +Mrs. Sam Abbot that Luella was in the kitchen, and Mrs. Sam Abbot +she went out there, and I went, too, and I never heard anythin' +like the way she talked to Luella Miller. I felt pretty hard to +Luella myself, but this was more than I ever would have dared to +say. Luella she was too scared to go into hysterics. She jest +flopped. She seemed to jest shrink away to nothin' in that kitchen +chair, with Mrs. Sam Abbot standin' over her and talkin' and +tellin' her the truth. I guess the truth was most too much for her +and no mistake, because Luella presently actually did faint away, +and there wa'n't any sham about it, the way I always suspected +there was about them hysterics. She fainted dead away and we had +to lay her flat on the floor, and the Doctor he came runnin' out +and he said somethin' about a weak heart dreadful fierce to Mrs. +Sam Abbot, but she wa'n't a mite scared. She faced him jest as +white as even Luella was layin' there lookin' like death and the +Doctor feelin' of her pulse. + +"'Weak heart,' says she, 'weak heart; weak fiddlesticks! There +ain't nothin' weak about that woman. She's got strength enough to +hang onto other folks till she kills 'em. Weak? It was my poor +mother that was weak: this woman killed her as sure as if she had +taken a knife to her.' + +"But the Doctor he didn't pay much attention. He was bendin' over +Luella layin' there with her yellow hair all streamin' and her +pretty pink-and-white face all pale, and her blue eyes like stars +gone out, and he was holdin' onto her hand and smoothin' her +forehead, and tellin' me to get the brandy in Aunt Abby's room, and +I was sure as I wanted to be that Luella had got somebody else to +hang onto, now Aunt Abby was gone, and I thought of poor Erastus +Miller, and I sort of pitied the poor young Doctor, led away by a +pretty face, and I made up my mind I'd see what I could do. + +"I waited till Aunt Abby had been dead and buried about a month, +and the Doctor was goin' to see Luella steady and folks were +beginnin' to talk; then one evenin', when I knew the Doctor had +been called out of town and wouldn't be round, I went over to +Luella's. I found her all dressed up in a blue muslin with white +polka dots on it, and her hair curled jest as pretty, and there +wa'n't a young girl in the place could compare with her. There was +somethin' about Luella Miller seemed to draw the heart right out of +you, but she didn't draw it out of ME. She was settin' rocking in +the chair by her sittin'-room window, and Maria Brown had gone +home. Maria Brown had been in to help her, or rather to do the +work, for Luella wa'n't helped when she didn't do anythin'. Maria +Brown was real capable and she didn't have any ties; she wa'n't +married, and lived alone, so she'd offered. I couldn't see why she +should do the work any more than Luella; she wa'n't any too strong; +but she seemed to think she could and Luella seemed to think so, +too, so she went over and did all the work--washed, and ironed, and +baked, while Luella sat and rocked. Maria didn't live long +afterward. She began to fade away just the same fashion the others +had. Well, she was warned, but she acted real mad when folks said +anythin': said Luella was a poor, abused woman, too delicate to +help herself, and they'd ought to be ashamed, and if she died +helpin' them that couldn't help themselves she would--and she did. + +"'I s'pose Maria has gone home,' says I to Luella, when I had gone +in and sat down opposite her. + +"'Yes, Maria went half an hour ago, after she had got supper and +washed the dishes,' says Luella, in her pretty way. + +"'I suppose she has got a lot of work to do in her own house to- +night,' says I, kind of bitter, but that was all thrown away on +Luella Miller. It seemed to her right that other folks that wa'n't +any better able than she was herself should wait on her, and she +couldn't get it through her head that anybody should think it +WA'N'T right. + +"'Yes,' says Luella, real sweet and pretty, 'yes, she said she had +to do her washin' to-night. She has let it go for a fortnight +along of comin' over here.' + +"'Why don't she stay home and do her washin' instead of comin' +over here and doin' YOUR work, when you are just as well able, and +enough sight more so, than she is to do it?' says I. + +"Then Luella she looked at me like a baby who has a rattle shook at +it. She sort of laughed as innocent as you please. 'Oh, I can't +do the work myself, Miss Anderson,' says she. 'I never did. Maria +HAS to do it.' + +"Then I spoke out: 'Has to do it I' says I. 'Has to do it!' She +don't have to do it, either. Maria Brown has her own home and +enough to live on. She ain't beholden to you to come over here and +slave for you and kill herself.' + +"Luella she jest set and stared at me for all the world like a +doll-baby that was so abused that it was comin' to life. + +"'Yes,' says I, 'she's killin' herself. She's goin' to die just +the way Erastus did, and Lily, and your Aunt Abby. You're killin' +her jest as you did them. I don't know what there is about you, +but you seem to bring a curse,' says I. 'You kill everybody that +is fool enough to care anythin' about you and do for you.' + +"She stared at me and she was pretty pale. + +"'And Maria ain't the only one you're goin' to kill,' says I. +'You're goin' to kill Doctor Malcom before you're done with him.' + +"Then a red colour came flamin' all over her face. 'I ain't goin' +to kill him, either,' says she, and she begun to cry. + +"'Yes, you BE!' says I. Then I spoke as I had never spoke before. +You see, I felt it on account of Erastus. I told her that she +hadn't any business to think of another man after she'd been +married to one that had died for her: that she was a dreadful +woman; and she was, that's true enough, but sometimes I have +wondered lately if she knew it--if she wa'n't like a baby with +scissors in its hand cuttin' everybody without knowin' what it was +doin'. + +"Luella she kept gettin' paler and paler, and she never took her +eyes off my face. There was somethin' awful about the way she +looked at me and never spoke one word. After awhile I quit talkin' +and I went home. I watched that night, but her lamp went out +before nine o'clock, and when Doctor Malcom came drivin' past and +sort of slowed up he see there wa'n't any light and he drove along. +I saw her sort of shy out of meetin' the next Sunday, too, so he +shouldn't go home with her, and I begun to think mebbe she did have +some conscience after all. It was only a week after that that +Maria Brown died--sort of sudden at the last, though everybody had +seen it was comin'. Well, then there was a good deal of feelin' +and pretty dark whispers. Folks said the days of witchcraft had +come again, and they were pretty shy of Luella. She acted sort of +offish to the Doctor and he didn't go there, and there wa'n't +anybody to do anythin' for her. I don't know how she DID get +along. I wouldn't go in there and offer to help her--not because I +was afraid of dyin' like the rest, but I thought she was just as +well able to do her own work as I was to do it for her, and I +thought it was about time that she did it and stopped killin' other +folks. But it wa'n't very long before folks began to say that +Luella herself was goin' into a decline jest the way her husband, +and Lily, and Aunt Abby and the others had, and I saw myself that +she looked pretty bad. I used to see her goin' past from the store +with a bundle as if she could hardly crawl, but I remembered how +Erastus used to wait and 'tend when he couldn't hardly put one foot +before the other, and I didn't go out to help her. + +"But at last one afternoon I saw the Doctor come drivin' up like +mad with his medicine chest, and Mrs. Babbit came in after supper +and said that Luella was real sick. + +"'I'd offer to go in and nurse her,' says she, 'but I've got my +children to consider, and mebbe it ain't true what they say, but +it's queer how many folks that have done for her have died.' + +"I didn't say anythin', but I considered how she had been Erastus's +wife and how he had set his eyes by her, and I made up my mind to +go in the next mornin', unless she was better, and see what I could +do; but the next mornin' I see her at the window, and pretty soon +she came steppin' out as spry as you please, and a little while +afterward Mrs. Babbit came in and told me that the Doctor had got a +girl from out of town, a Sarah Jones, to come there, and she said +she was pretty sure that the Doctor was goin' to marry Luella. + +"I saw him kiss her in the door that night myself, and I knew it +was true. The woman came that afternoon, and the way she flew +around was a caution. I don't believe Luella had swept since Maria +died. She swept and dusted, and washed and ironed; wet clothes and +dusters and carpets were flyin' over there all day, and every time +Luella set her foot out when the Doctor wa'n't there there was that +Sarah Jones helpin' of her up and down the steps, as if she hadn't +learned to walk. + +"Well, everybody knew that Luella and the Doctor were goin' to be +married, but it wa'n't long before they began to talk about his +lookin' so poorly, jest as they had about the others; and they +talked about Sarah Jones, too. + +"Well, the Doctor did die, and he wanted to be married first, so as +to leave what little he had to Luella, but he died before the +minister could get there, and Sarah Jones died a week afterward. + +"Well, that wound up everything for Luella Miller. Not another +soul in the whole town would lift a finger for her. There got to +be a sort of panic. Then she began to droop in good earnest. She +used to have to go to the store herself, for Mrs. Babbit was afraid +to let Tommy go for her, and I've seen her goin' past and stoppin' +every two or three steps to rest. Well, I stood it as long as I +could, but one day I see her comin' with her arms full and stoppin' +to lean against the Babbit fence, and I run out and took her +bundles and carried them to her house. Then I went home and never +spoke one word to her though she called after me dreadful kind of +pitiful. Well, that night I was taken sick with a chill, and I was +sick as I wanted to be for two weeks. Mrs. Babbit had seen me run +out to help Luella and she came in and told me I was goin' to die +on account of it. I didn't know whether I was or not, but I +considered I had done right by Erastus's wife. + +"That last two weeks Luella she had a dreadful hard time, I guess. +She was pretty sick, and as near as I could make out nobody dared +go near her. I don't know as she was really needin' anythin' very +much, for there was enough to eat in her house and it was warm +weather, and she made out to cook a little flour gruel every day, I +know, but I guess she had a hard time, she that had been so petted +and done for all her life. + +"When I got so I could go out, I went over there one morning. Mrs. +Babbit had just come in to say she hadn't seen any smoke and she +didn't know but it was somebody's duty to go in, but she couldn't +help thinkin' of her children, and I got right up, though I hadn't +been out of the house for two weeks, and I went in there, and +Luella she was layin' on the bed, and she was dyin'. + +"She lasted all that day and into the night. But I sat there after +the new doctor had gone away. Nobody else dared to go there. It +was about midnight that I left her for a minute to run home and get +some medicine I had been takin', for I begun to feel rather bad. + +"It was a full moon that night, and just as I started out of my +door to cross the street back to Luella's, I stopped short, for I +saw something." + +Lydia Anderson at this juncture always said with a certain defiance +that she did not expect to be believed, and then proceeded in a +hushed voice: + +"I saw what I saw, and I know I saw it, and I will swear on my +death bed that I saw it. I saw Luella Miller and Erastus Miller, +and Lily, and Aunt Abby, and Maria, and the Doctor, and Sarah, all +goin' out of her door, and all but Luella shone white in the +moonlight, and they were all helpin' her along till she seemed to +fairly fly in the midst of them. Then it all disappeared. I stood +a minute with my heart poundin', then I went over there. I thought +of goin' for Mrs. Babbit, but I thought she'd be afraid. So I went +alone, though I knew what had happened. Luella was layin' real +peaceful, dead on her bed." + +This was the story that the old woman, Lydia Anderson, told, but +the sequel was told by the people who survived her, and this is the +tale which has become folklore in the village. + +Lydia Anderson died when she was eighty-seven. She had continued +wonderfully hale and hearty for one of her years until about two +weeks before her death. + +One bright moonlight evening she was sitting beside a window in her +parlour when she made a sudden exclamation, and was out of the +house and across the street before the neighbour who was taking +care of her could stop her. She followed as fast as possible and +found Lydia Anderson stretched on the ground before the door of +Luella Miller's deserted house, and she was quite dead. + +The next night there was a red gleam of fire athwart the moonlight +and the old house of Luella Miller was burned to the ground. +Nothing is now left of it except a few old cellar stones and a +lilac bush, and in summer a helpless trail of morning glories among +the weeds, which might be considered emblematic of Luella herself. + + + +THE SOUTHWEST CHAMBER + + +"That school-teacher from Acton is coming to-day," said the elder +Miss Gill, Sophia. + +"So she is," assented the younger Miss Gill, Amanda. + +"I have decided to put her in the southwest chamber," said Sophia. + +Amanda looked at her sister with an expression of mingled doubt and +terror. "You don't suppose she would--" she began hesitatingly. + +"Would what?" demanded Sophia, sharply. She was more incisive than +her sister. Both were below the medium height, and stout, but +Sophia was firm where Amanda was flabby. Amanda wore a baggy old +muslin (it was a hot day), and Sophia was uncompromisingly hooked +up in a starched and boned cambric over her high shelving figure. + +"I didn't know but she would object to sleeping in that room, as +long as Aunt Harriet died there such a little time ago," faltered +Amanda. + +"Well!" said Sophia, "of all the silly notions! If you are going +to pick out rooms in this house where nobody has died, for the +boarders, you'll have your hands full. Grandfather Ackley had +seven children; four of them died here to my certain knowledge, +besides grandfather and grandmother. I think Great-grandmother +Ackley, grandfather's mother, died here, too; she must have; and +Great-grandfather Ackley, and grandfather's unmarried sister, +Great-aunt Fanny Ackley. I don't believe there's a room nor a bed +in this house that somebody hasn't passed away in." + +"Well, I suppose I am silly to think of it, and she had better go +in there," said Amanda. + +"I know she had. The northeast room is small and hot, and she's +stout and likely to feel the heat, and she's saved money and is +able to board out summers, and maybe she'll come here another year +if she's well accommodated," said Sophia. "Now I guess you'd +better go in there and see if any dust has settled on anything +since it was cleaned, and open the west windows and let the sun in, +while I see to that cake." + +Amanda went to her task in the southwest chamber while her sister +stepped heavily down the back stairs on her way to the kitchen. + +"It seems to me you had better open the bed while you air and dust, +then make it up again," she called back. + +"Yes, sister," Amanda answered, shudderingly. + +Nobody knew how this elderly woman with the untrammeled imagination +of a child dreaded to enter the southwest chamber, and yet she +could not have told why she had the dread. She had entered and +occupied rooms which had been once tenanted by persons now dead. +The room which had been hers in the little house in which she and +her sister had lived before coming here had been her dead mother's. +She had never reflected upon the fact with anything but loving awe +and reverence. There had never been any fear. But this was +different. She entered and her heart beat thickly in her ears. +Her hands were cold. The room was a very large one. The four +windows, two facing south, two west, were closed, the blinds also. +The room was in a film of green gloom. The furniture loomed out +vaguely. The gilt frame of a blurred old engraving on the wall +caught a little light. The white counterpane on the bed showed +like a blank page. + +Amanda crossed the room, opened with a straining motion of her thin +back and shoulders one of the west windows, and threw back the +blind. Then the room revealed itself an apartment full of an aged +and worn but no less valid state. Pieces of old mahogany swelled +forth; a peacock-patterned chintz draped the bedstead. This chintz +also covered a great easy chair which had been the favourite seat +of the former occupant of the room. The closet door stood ajar. +Amanda noticed that with wonder. There was a glimpse of purple +drapery floating from a peg inside the closet. Amanda went across +and took down the garment hanging there. She wondered how her +sister had happened to leave it when she cleaned the room. It was +an old loose gown which had belonged to her aunt. She took it +down, shuddering, and closed the closet door after a fearful glance +into its dark depths. It was a long closet with a strong odour of +lovage. The Aunt Harriet had had a habit of eating lovage and had +carried it constantly in her pocket. There was very likely some of +the pleasant root in the pocket of the musty purple gown which +Amanda threw over the easy chair. + +Amanda perceived the odour with a start as if before an actual +presence. Odour seems in a sense a vital part of a personality. +It can survive the flesh to which it has clung like a persistent +shadow, seeming to have in itself something of the substance of +that to which it pertained. Amanda was always conscious of this +fragrance of lovage as she tidied the room. She dusted the heavy +mahogany pieces punctiliously after she had opened the bed as her +sister had directed. She spread fresh towels over the wash-stand +and the bureau; she made the bed. Then she thought to take the +purple gown from the easy chair and carry it to the garret and put +it in the trunk with the other articles of the dead woman's +wardrobe which had been packed away there; BUT THE PURPLE GOWN WAS +NOT ON THE CHAIR! + +Amanda Gill was not a woman of strong convictions even as to her +own actions. She directly thought that possibly she had been +mistaken and had not removed it from the closet. She glanced at +the closet door and saw with surprise that it was open, and she had +thought she had closed it, but she instantly was not sure of that. +So she entered the closet and looked for the purple gown. IT WAS +NOT THERE! + +Amanda Gill went feebly out of the closet and looked at the easy +chair again. The purple gown was not there! She looked wildly +around the room. She went down on her trembling knees and peered +under the bed, she opened the bureau drawers, she looked again in +the closet. Then she stood in the middle of the floor and fairly +wrung her hands. + +"What does it mean?" she said in a shocked whisper. + +She had certainly seen that loose purple gown of her dead Aunt +Harriet's. + +There is a limit at which self-refutation must stop in any sane +person. Amanda Gill had reached it. She knew that she had seen +that purple gown in that closet; she knew that she had removed it +and put it on the easy chair. She also knew that she had not taken +it out of the room. She felt a curious sense of being inverted +mentally. It was as if all her traditions and laws of life were on +their heads. Never in her simple record had any garment not +remained where she had placed it unless removed by some palpable +human agency. + +Then the thought occurred to her that possibly her sister Sophia +might have entered the room unobserved while her back was turned +and removed the dress. A sensation of relief came over her. Her +blood seemed to flow back into its usual channels; the tension of +her nerves relaxed. + +"How silly I am," she said aloud. + +She hurried out and downstairs into the kitchen where Sophia was +making cake, stirring with splendid circular sweeps of a wooden +spoon a creamy yellow mass. She looked up as her sister entered. + +"Have you got it done?" said she. + +"Yes," replied Amanda. Then she hesitated. A sudden terror +overcame her. It did not seem as if it were at all probable that +Sophia had left that foamy cake mixture a second to go to Aunt +Harriet's chamber and remove that purple gown. + +"Well," said Sophia, "if you have got that done I wish you would +take hold and string those beans. The first thing we know there +won't be time to boil them for dinner." + +Amanda moved toward the pan of beans on the table, then she looked +at her sister. + +"Did you come up in Aunt Harriet's room while I was there?" she +asked weakly. + +She knew while she asked what the answer would be. + +"Up in Aunt Harriet's room? Of course I didn't. I couldn't leave +this cake without having it fall. You know that well enough. +Why?" + +"Nothing," replied Amanda. + +Suddenly she realized that she could not tell her sister what had +happened, for before the utter absurdity of the whole thing her +belief in her own reason quailed. She knew what Sophia would say +if she told her. She could hear her. + +"Amanda Gill, have you gone stark staring mad?" + +She resolved that she would never tell Sophia. She dropped into a +chair and begun shelling the beans with nerveless fingers. Sophia +looked at her curiously. + +"Amanda Gill, what on earth ails you?" she asked. + +"Nothing," replied Amanda. She bent her head very low over the +green pods. + +"Yes, there is, too! You are as white as a sheet, and your hands +are shaking so you can hardly string those beans. I did think you +had more sense, Amanda Gill." + +"I don't know what you mean, Sophia." + +"Yes, you do know what I mean, too; you needn't pretend you don't. +Why did you ask me if I had been in that room, and why do you act +so queer?" + +Amanda hesitated. She had been trained to truth. Then she lied. + +"I wondered if you'd noticed how it had leaked in on the paper over +by the bureau, that last rain," said she. + +"What makes you look so pale then?" + +"I don't know. I guess the heat sort of overcame me." + +"I shouldn't think it could have been very hot in that room when it +had been shut up so long," said Sophia. + +She was evidently not satisfied, but then the grocer came to the +door and the matter dropped. + +For the next hour the two women were very busy. They kept no +servant. When they had come into possession of this fine old place +by the death of their aunt it had seemed a doubtful blessing. +There was not a cent with which to pay for repairs and taxes and +insurance, except the twelve hundred dollars which they had +obtained from the sale of the little house in which they had been +born and lived all their lives. There had been a division in the +old Ackley family years before. One of the daughters had married +against her mother's wish and had been disinherited. She had +married a poor man by the name of Gill, and shared his humble lot +in sight of her former home and her sister and mother living in +prosperity, until she had borne three daughters; then she died, +worn out with overwork and worry. + +The mother and the elder sister had been pitiless to the last. +Neither had ever spoken to her since she left her home the night of +her marriage. They were hard women. + +The three daughters of the disinherited sister had lived quiet and +poor, but not actually needy lives. Jane, the middle daughter, had +married, and died in less than a year. Amanda and Sophia had taken +the girl baby she left when the father married again. Sophia had +taught a primary school for many years; she had saved enough to buy +the little house in which they lived. Amanda had crocheted lace, +and embroidered flannel, and made tidies and pincushions, and had +earned enough for her clothes and the child's, little Flora Scott. + +Their father, William Gill, had died before they were thirty, and +now in their late middle life had come the death of the aunt to +whom they had never spoken, although they had often seen her, who +had lived in solitary state in the old Ackley mansion until she was +more than eighty. There had been no will, and they were the only +heirs with the exception of young Flora Scott, the daughter of the +dead sister. + +Sophia and Amanda thought directly of Flora when they knew of the +inheritance. + +"It will be a splendid thing for her; she will have enough to live +on when we are gone," Sophia said. + +She had promptly decided what was to be done. The small house was +to be sold, and they were to move into the old Ackley house and +take boarders to pay for its keeping. She scouted the idea of +selling it. She had an enormous family pride. She had always held +her head high when she had walked past that fine old mansion, the +cradle of her race, which she was forbidden to enter. She was +unmoved when the lawyer who was advising her disclosed to her the +fact that Harriet Ackley had used every cent of the Ackley money. + +"I realize that we have to work," said she, "but my sister and I +have determined to keep the place." + +That was the end of the discussion. Sophia and Amanda Gill had +been living in the old Ackley house a fortnight, and they had three +boarders: an elderly widow with a comfortable income, a young +congregationalist clergyman, and the middle-aged single woman who +had charge of the village library. Now the school-teacher from +Acton, Miss Louisa Stark, was expected for the summer, and would +make four. + +Sophia considered that they were comfortably provided for. Her +wants and her sister's were very few, and even the niece, although +a young girl, had small expenses, since her wardrobe was supplied +for years to come from that of the deceased aunt. There were +stored away in the garret of the Ackley house enough voluminous +black silks and satins and bombazines to keep her clad in somber +richness for years to come. + +Flora was a very gentle girl, with large, serious blue eyes, a +seldom-smiling, pretty mouth, and smooth flaxen hair. She was +delicate and very young--sixteen on her next birthday. + +She came home soon now with her parcels of sugar and tea from the +grocer's. She entered the kitchen gravely and deposited them on +the table by which her Aunt Amanda was seated stringing beans. +Flora wore an obsolete turban-shaped hat of black straw which had +belonged to the dead aunt; it set high like a crown, revealing her +forehead. Her dress was an ancient purple-and-white print, too +long and too large except over the chest, where it held her like a +straight waistcoat. + +"You had better take off your hat, Flora," said Sophia. She turned +suddenly to Amanda. "Did you fill the water-pitcher in that +chamber for the schoolteacher?" she asked severely. She was quite +sure that Amanda had not filled the water-pitcher. + +Amanda blushed and started guiltily. "I declare, I don't believe I +did," said she. + +"I didn't think you had," said her sister with sarcastic emphasis. + +"Flora, you go up to the room that was your Great-aunt Harriet's, +and take the water-pitcher off the wash-stand and fill it with +water. Be real careful, and don't break the pitcher, and don't +spill the water." + +"In THAT chamber?" asked Flora. She spoke very quietly, but her +face changed a little. + +"Yes, in that chamber," returned her Aunt Sophia sharply. "Go +right along." + +Flora went, and her light footstep was heard on the stairs. Very +soon she returned with the blue-and-white water-pitcher and filled +it carefully at the kitchen sink. + +"Now be careful and not spill it," said Sophia as she went out of +the room carrying it gingerly. + +Amanda gave a timidly curious glance at her; she wondered if she +had seen the purple gown. + +Then she started, for the village stagecoach was seen driving +around to the front of the house. The house stood on a corner. + +"Here, Amanda, you look better than I do; you go and meet her," +said Sophia. "I'll just put the cake in the pan and get it in the +oven and I'll come. Show her right up to her room." + +Amanda removed her apron hastily and obeyed. Sophia hurried with +her cake, pouring it into the baking-tins. She had just put it in +the oven, when the door opened and Flora entered carrying the blue +water-pitcher. + +"What are you bringing down that pitcher again for?" asked Sophia. + +"She wants some water, and Aunt Amanda sent me," replied Flora. + +Her pretty pale face had a bewildered expression. + +"For the land sake, she hasn't used all that great pitcherful of +water so quick?" + +"There wasn't any water in it," replied Flora. + +Her high, childish forehead was contracted slightly with a puzzled +frown as she looked at her aunt. + +"Wasn't any water in it?" + +"No, ma'am." + +"Didn't I see you filling the pitcher with water not ten minutes +ago, I want to know?" + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"What did you do with that water?" + +"Nothing." + +"Did you carry that pitcherful of water up to that room and set it +on the washstand?" + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"Didn't you spill it?" + +"No, ma'am." + +"Now, Flora Scott, I want the truth! Did you fill that pitcher +with water and carry it up there, and wasn't there any there when +she came to use it?" + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"Let me see that pitcher." Sophia examined the pitcher. It was +not only perfectly dry from top to bottom, but even a little dusty. +She turned severely on the young girl. "That shows," said she, +"you did not fill the pitcher at all. You let the water run at the +side because you didn't want to carry it upstairs. I am ashamed of +you. It's bad enough to be so lazy, but when it comes to not +telling the truth--" + +The young girl's face broke up suddenly into piteous confusion, and +her blue eyes became filmy with tears. + +"I did fill the pitcher, honest," she faltered, "I did, Aunt +Sophia. You ask Aunt Amanda." + +"I'll ask nobody. This pitcher is proof enough. Water don't go +off and leave the pitcher dusty on the inside if it was put in ten +minutes ago. Now you fill that pitcher full quick, and you carry +it upstairs, and if you spill a drop there'll be something besides +talk." + +Flora filled the pitcher, with the tears falling over her cheeks. +She sniveled softly as she went out, balancing it carefully against +her slender hip. Sophia followed her. + +"Stop crying," said she sharply; "you ought to be ashamed of +yourself. What do you suppose Miss Louisa Stark will think. No +water in her pitcher in the first place, and then you come back +crying as if you didn't want to get it." + +In spite of herself, Sophia's voice was soothing. She was very +fond of the girl. She followed her up the stairs to the chamber +where Miss Louisa Stark was waiting for the water to remove the +soil of travel. She had removed her bonnet, and its tuft of red +geraniums lightened the obscurity of the mahogany dresser. She had +placed her little beaded cape carefully on the bed. She was +replying to a tremulous remark of Amanda's, who was nearly fainting +from the new mystery of the water-pitcher, that it was warm and she +suffered a good deal in warm weather. + +Louisa Stark was stout and solidly built. She was much larger than +either of the Gill sisters. She was a masterly woman inured to +command from years of school-teaching. She carried her swelling +bulk with majesty; even her face, moist and red with the heat, lost +nothing of its dignity of expression. + +She was standing in the middle of the floor with an air which gave +the effect of her standing upon an elevation. She turned when +Sophia and Flora, carrying the water-pitcher, entered. + +"This is my sister Sophia," said Amanda tremulously. + +Sophia advanced, shook hands with Miss Louisa Stark and bade her +welcome and hoped she would like her room. Then she moved toward +the closet. "There is a nice large closet in this room--the best +closet in the house. You might have your trunk--" she said, then +she stopped short. + +The closet door was ajar, and a purple garment seemed suddenly to +swing into view as if impelled by some wind. + +"Why, here is something left in this closet," Sophia said in a +mortified tone. "I thought all those things had been taken away." + +She pulled down the garment with a jerk, and as she did so Amanda +passed her in a weak rush for the door. + +"I am afraid your sister is not well," said the school-teacher from +Acton. "She looked very pale when you took that dress down. I +noticed it at once. Hadn't you better go and see what the matter +is? She may be going to faint." + +"She is not subject to fainting spells," replied Sophia, but she +followed Amanda. + +She found her in the room which they occupied together, lying on +the bed, very pale and gasping. She leaned over her. + +"Amanda, what is the matter; don't you feel well?" she asked. + +"I feel a little faint." + +Sophia got a camphor bottle and began rubbing her sister's +forehead. + +"Do you feel better?" she said. + +Amanda nodded. + +"I guess it was that green apple pie you ate this noon," said +Sophia. "I declare, what did I do with that dress of Aunt +Harriet's? I guess if you feel better I'll just run and get it and +take it up garret. I'll stop in here again when I come down. +You'd better lay still. Flora can bring you up a cup of tea. I +wouldn't try to eat any supper." + +Sophia's tone as she left the room was full of loving concern. +Presently she returned; she looked disturbed, but angrily so. +There was not the slightest hint of any fear in her expression. + +"I want to know," said she, looking sharply and quickly around, "if +I brought that purple dress in here, after all?" + +"I didn't see you," replied Amanda. + +"I must have. It isn't in that chamber, nor the closet. You +aren't lying on it, are you?" + +"I lay down before you came in," replied Amanda. + +"So you did. Well, I'll go and look again." + +Presently Amanda heard her sister's heavy step on the garret +stairs. Then she returned with a queer defiant expression on her +face. + +"I carried it up garret, after all, and put it in the trunk," said, +she. "I declare, I forgot it. I suppose your being faint sort of +put it out of my head. There it was, folded up just as nice, right +where I put it." + +Sophia's mouth was set; her eyes upon her sister's scared, agitated +face were full of hard challenge. + +"Yes," murmured Amanda. + +"I must go right down and see to that cake," said Sophia, going out +of the room. "If you don't feel well, you pound on the floor with +the umbrella." + +Amanda looked after her. She knew that Sophia had not put that +purple dress of her dead Aunt Harriet in the trunk in the garret. + +Meantime Miss Louisa Stark was settling herself in the southwest +chamber. She unpacked her trunk and hung her dresses carefully in +the closet. She filled the bureau drawers with nicely folded +linen and small articles of dress. She was a very punctilious +woman. She put on a black India silk dress with purple flowers. +She combed her grayish-blond hair in smooth ridges back from her +broad forehead. She pinned her lace at her throat with a brooch, +very handsome, although somewhat obsolete--a bunch of pearl grapes +on black onyx, set in gold filagree. She had purchased it several +years ago with a considerable portion of the stipend from her +spring term of school-teaching. + +As she surveyed herself in the little swing mirror surmounting the +old-fashioned mahogany bureau she suddenly bent forward and looked +closely at the brooch. It seemed to her that something was wrong +with it. As she looked she became sure. Instead of the familiar +bunch of pearl grapes on the black onyx, she saw a knot of blonde +and black hair under glass surrounded by a border of twisted gold. +She felt a thrill of horror, though she could not tell why. She +unpinned the brooch, and it was her own familiar one, the pearl +grapes and the onyx. "How very foolish I am," she thought. She +thrust the pin in the laces at her throat and again looked at +herself in the glass, and there it was again--the knot of blond and +black hair and the twisted gold. + +Louisa Stark looked at her own large, firm face above the brooch +and it was full of terror and dismay which were new to it. She +straightway began to wonder if there could be anything wrong with +her mind. She remembered that an aunt of her mother's had been +insane. A sort of fury with herself possessed her. She stared at +the brooch in the glass with eyes at once angry and terrified. +Then she removed it again and there was her own old brooch. +Finally she thrust the gold pin through the lace again, fastened it +and turning a defiant back on the glass, went down to supper. + +At the supper table she met the other boarders--the elderly widow, +the young clergyman and the middle-aged librarian. She viewed the +elderly widow with reserve, the clergyman with respect, the middle- +aged librarian with suspicion. The latter wore a very youthful +shirt-waist, and her hair in a girlish fashion which the school- +teacher, who twisted hers severely from the straining roots at the +nape of her neck to the small, smooth coil at the top, condemned as +straining after effects no longer hers by right. + +The librarian, who had a quick acridness of manner, addressed her, +asking what room she had, and asked the second time in spite of the +school-teacher's evident reluctance to hear her. She even, since +she sat next to her, nudged her familiarly in her rigid black silk +side. + +"What room are you in, Miss Stark?" said she. + +"I am at a loss how to designate the room," replied Miss Stark +stiffly. + +"Is it the big southwest room?" + +"It evidently faces in that direction," said Miss Stark. + +The librarian, whose name was Eliza Lippincott, turned abruptly to +Miss Amanda Gill, over whose delicate face a curious colour +compounded of flush and pallour was stealing. + +"What room did your aunt die in, Miss Amanda?" asked she abruptly. + +Amanda cast a terrified glance at her sister, who was serving a +second plate of pudding for the minister. + +"That room," she replied feebly. + +"That's what I thought," said the librarian with a certain triumph. +"I calculated that must be the room she died in, for it's the best +room in the house, and you haven't put anybody in it before. +Somehow the room that anybody has died in lately is generally the +last room that anybody is put in. I suppose YOU are so strong- +minded you don't object to sleeping in a room where anybody died a +few weeks ago?" she inquired of Louisa Stark with sharp eyes on her +face. + +"No, I do not," replied Miss stark with emphasis. + +"Nor in the same bed?" persisted Eliza Lippincott with a kittenish +reflection. + +The young minister looked up from his pudding. He was very +spiritual, but he had had poor pickings in his previous boarding +place, and he could not help a certain abstract enjoyment over Miss +Gill's cooking. + +"You would certainly not be afraid, Miss Lippincott?" he remarked, +with his gentle, almost caressing inflection of tone. "You do not +for a minute believe that a higher power would allow any +manifestation on the part of a disembodied spirit--who we trust is +in her heavenly home--to harm one of His servants?" + +"Oh, Mr. Dunn, of course not," replied Eliza Lippincott with a +blush. "Of course not. I never meant to imply--" + +"I could not believe you did," said the minister gently. He was +very young, but he already had a wrinkle of permanent anxiety +between his eyes and a smile of permanent ingratiation on his lips. +The lines of the smile were as deeply marked as the wrinkle. + +"Of course dear Miss Harriet Gill was a professing Christian," +remarked the widow, "and I don't suppose a professing Christian +would come back and scare folks if she could. I wouldn't be a mite +afraid to sleep in that room; I'd rather have it than the one I've +got. If I was afraid to sleep in a room where a good woman died, I +wouldn't tell of it. If I saw things or heard things I'd think the +fault must be with my own guilty conscience." Then she turned to +Miss Stark. "Any time you feel timid in that room I'm ready and +willing to change with you," said she. + +"Thank you; I have no desire to change. I am perfectly satisfied +with my room," replied Miss Stark with freezing dignity, which was +thrown away upon the widow. + +"Well," said she, "any time, if you should feel timid, you know +what to do. I've got a real nice room; it faces east and gets the +morning sun, but it isn't so nice as yours, according to my way of +thinking. I'd rather take my chances any day in a room anybody had +died in than in one that was hot in summer. I'm more afraid of a +sunstroke than of spooks, for my part." + +Miss Sophia Gill, who had not spoken one word, but whose mouth had +become more and more rigidly compressed, suddenly rose from the +table, forcing the minister to leave a little pudding, at which he +glanced regretfully. + +Miss Louisa Stark did not sit down in the parlour with the other +boarders. She went straight to her room. She felt tired after her +journey, and meditated a loose wrapper and writing a few letters +quietly before she went to bed. Then, too, she was conscious of a +feeling that if she delayed, the going there at all might assume +more terrifying proportions. She was full of defiance against +herself and her own lurking weakness. + +So she went resolutely and entered the southwest chamber. There +was through the room a soft twilight. She could dimly discern +everything, the white satin scroll-work on the wall paper and the +white counterpane on the bed being most evident. Consequently both +arrested her attention first. She saw against the wall-paper +directly facing the door the waist of her best black satin dress +hung over a picture. + +"That is very strange," she said to herself, and again a thrill of +vague horror came over her. + +She knew, or thought she knew, that she had put that black satin +dress waist away nicely folded between towels in her trunk. She +was very choice of her black satin dress. + +She took down the black waist and laid it on the bed preparatory to +folding it, but when she attempted to do so she discovered that the +two sleeves were firmly sewed together. Louisa Stark stared at the +sewed sleeves. "What does this mean?" she asked herself. She +examined the sewing carefully; the stitches were small, and even, +and firm, of black silk. + +She looked around the room. On the stand beside the bed was +something which she had not noticed before: a little old-fashioned +work-box with a picture of a little boy in a pinafore on the top. +Beside this work-box lay, as if just laid down by the user, a spool +of black silk, a pair of scissors, and a large steel thimble with a +hole in the top, after an old style. Louisa stared at these, then +at the sleeves of her dress. She moved toward the door. For a +moment she thought that this was something legitimate about which +she might demand information; then she became doubtful. Suppose +that work-box had been there all the time; suppose she had +forgotten; suppose she herself had done this absurd thing, or +suppose that she had not, what was to hinder the others from +thinking so; what was to hinder a doubt being cast upon her own +memory and reasoning powers? + +Louisa Stark had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown in spite +of her iron constitution and her great will power. No woman can +teach school for forty years with absolute impunity. She was more +credulous as to her own possible failings than she had ever been in +her whole life. She was cold with horror and terror, and yet not +so much horror and terror of the supernatural as of her own self. +The weakness of belief in the supernatural was nearly impossible +for this strong nature. She could more easily believe in her own +failing powers. + +"I don't know but I'm going to be like Aunt Marcia," she said to +herself, and her fat face took on a long rigidity of fear. + +She started toward the mirror to unfasten her dress, then she +remembered the strange circumstance of the brooch and stopped +short. Then she straightened herself defiantly and marched up to +the bureau and looked in the glass. She saw reflected therein, +fastening the lace at her throat, the old-fashioned thing of a +large oval, a knot of fair and black hair under glass, set in a rim +of twisted gold. She unfastened it with trembling fingers and +looked at it. It was her own brooch, the cluster of pearl grapes +on black onyx. Louisa Stark placed the trinket in its little box +on the nest of pink cotton and put it away in the bureau drawer. +Only death could disturb her habit of order. + +Her fingers were so cold they felt fairly numb as she unfastened +her dress; she staggered when she slipped it over her head. She +went to the closet to hang it up and recoiled. A strong smell of +lovage came in her nostrils; a purple gown near the door swung +softly against her face as if impelled by some wind from within. +All the pegs were filled with garments not her own, mostly of +somber black, but there were some strange-patterned silk things and +satins. + +Suddenly Louisa Stark recovered her nerve. This, she told herself, +was something distinctly tangible. Somebody had been taking +liberties with her wardrobe. Somebody had been hanging some one +else's clothes in her closet. She hastily slipped on her dress +again and marched straight down to the parlour. The people were +seated there; the widow and the minister were playing backgammon. +The librarian was watching them. Miss Amanda Gill was mending +beside the large lamp on the centre table. They all looked up with +amazement as Louisa Stark entered. There was something strange in +her expression. She noticed none of them except Amanda. + +"Where is your sister?" she asked peremptorily of her. + +"She's in the kitchen mixing up bread," Amanda quavered; "is there +anything--" But the school-teacher was gone. + +She found Sophia Gill standing by the kitchen table kneading dough +with dignity. The young girl Flora was bringing some flour from +the pantry. She stopped and stared at Miss Stark, and her pretty, +delicate young face took on an expression of alarm. + +Miss Stark opened at once upon the subject in her mind. + +"Miss Gill," said she, with her utmost school-teacher manner, "I +wish to inquire why you have had my own clothes removed from the +closet in my room and others substituted?" + +Sophia Gill stood with her hands fast in the dough, regarding her. +Her own face paled slowly and reluctantly, her mouth stiffened. + +"What? I don't quite understand what you mean, Miss Stark," said +she. + +"My clothes are not in the closet in my room and it is full of +things which do not belong to me," said Louisa Stark. + +"Bring me that flour," said Sophia sharply to the young girl, who +obeyed, casting timid, startled glances at Miss Stark as she passed +her. Sophia Gill began rubbing her hands clear of the dough. "I +am sure I know nothing about it," she said with a certain tempered +asperity. "Do you know anything about it, Flora?" + +"Oh, no, I don't know anything about it, Aunt Sophia," answered the +young girl, fluttering. + +Then Sophia turned to Miss Stark. "I'll go upstairs with you, Miss +Stark," said she, "and see what the trouble is. There must be some +mistake." She spoke stiffly with constrained civility. + +"Very well," said Miss Stark with dignity. Then she and Miss +Sophia went upstairs. Flora stood staring after them. + +Sophia and Louisa Stark went up to the southwest chamber. The +closet door was shut. Sophia threw it open, then she looked at +Miss Stark. On the pegs hung the schoolteacher's own garments in +ordinary array. + +"I can't see that there is anything wrong," remarked Sophia grimly. + +Miss Stark strove to speak but she could not. She sank down on the +nearest chair. She did not even attempt to defend herself. She +saw her own clothes in the closet. She knew there had been no time +for any human being to remove those which she thought she had seen +and put hers in their places. She knew it was impossible. Again +the awful horror of herself overwhelmed her. + +"You must have been mistaken," she heard Sophia say. + +She muttered something, she scarcely knew what. Sophia then went +out of the room. Presently she undressed and went to bed. In the +morning she did not go down to breakfast, and when Sophia came to +inquire, requested that the stage be ordered for the noon train. +She said that she was sorry, but was ill, and feared lest she might +be worse, and she felt that she must return home at once. She +looked ill, and could not take even the toast and tea which Sophia +had prepared for her. Sophia felt a certain pity for her, but it +was largely mixed with indignation. She felt that she knew the +true reason for the school-teacher's illness and sudden departure, +and it incensed her. + +"If folks are going to act like fools we shall never be able to +keep this house," she said to Amanda after Miss Stark had gone; and +Amanda knew what she meant. + +Directly the widow, Mrs. Elvira Simmons, knew that the school- +teacher had gone and the southwest room was vacant, she begged to +have it in exchange for her own. Sophia hesitated a moment; she +eyed the widow sharply. There was something about the large, +roseate face worn in firm lines of humour and decision which +reassured her. + +"I have no objection, Mrs. Simmons," said she, "if--" + +"If what?" asked the widow. + +"If you have common sense enough not to keep fussing because the +room happens to be the one my aunt died in," said Sophia bluntly. + +"Fiddlesticks!" said the widow, Mrs. Elvira Simmons. + +That very afternoon she moved into the southwest chamber. The +young girl Flora assisted her, though much against her will. + +"Now I want you to carry Mrs. Simmons' dresses into the closet in +that room and hang them up nicely, and see that she has everything +she wants," said Sophia Gill. "And you can change the bed and put +on fresh sheets. What are you looking at me that way for?" + +"Oh, Aunt Sophia, can't I do something else?" + +"What do you want to do something else for?" + +"I am afraid." + +"Afraid of what? I should think you'd hang your head. No; you go +right in there and do what I tell you." + +Pretty soon Flora came running into the sitting-room where Sophia +was, as pale as death, and in her hand she held a queer, old- +fashioned frilled nightcap. + +"What's that?" demanded Sophia. + +"I found it under the pillow." + +"What pillow?" + +"In the southwest room." + +Sophia took it and looked at it sternly. + +"It's Great-aunt Harriet's," said Flora faintly. + +"You run down street and do that errand at the grocer's for me and +I'll see that room," said Sophia with dignity. She carried the +nightcap away and put it in the trunk in the garret where she had +supposed it stored with the rest of the dead woman's belongings. +Then she went into the southwest chamber and made the bed and +assisted Mrs. Simmons to move, and there was no further incident. + +The widow was openly triumphant over her new room. She talked a +deal about it at the dinner-table. + +"It is the best room in the house, and I expect you all to be +envious of me," said she. + +"And you are sure you don't feel afraid of ghosts?" said the +librarian. + +"Ghosts!" repeated the widow with scorn. "If a ghost comes I'll +send her over to you. You are just across the hall from the +southwest room." + +"You needn't," returned Eliza Lippincott with a shudder. "I +wouldn't sleep in that room, after--" she checked herself with an +eye on the minister. + +"After what?" asked the widow. + +"Nothing," replied Eliza Lippincott in an embarrassed fashion. + +"I trust Miss Lippincott has too good sense and too great faith to +believe in anything of that sort," said the minister. + +"I trust so, too," replied Eliza hurriedly. + +"You did see or hear something--now what was it, I want to know?" +said the widow that evening when they were alone in the parlour. +The minister had gone to make a call. + +Eliza hesitated. + +"What was it?" insisted the widow. + +"Well," said Eliza hesitatingly, "if you'll promise not to tell." + +"Yes, I promise; what was it?" + +"Well, one day last week, just before the school-teacher came, I +went in that room to see if there were any clouds. I wanted to +wear my gray dress, and I was afraid it was going to rain, so I +wanted to look at the sky at all points, so I went in there, and--" + +"And what?" + +"Well, you know that chintz over the bed, and the valance, and the +easy chair; what pattern should you say it was?" + +"Why, peacocks on a blue ground. Good land, I shouldn't think any +one who had ever seen that would forget it." + +"Peacocks on a blue ground, you are sure?" + +"Of course I am. Why?" + +"Only when I went in there that afternoon it was not peacocks on a +blue ground; it was great red roses on a yellow ground." + +"Why, what do you mean?" + +"What I say." + +"Did Miss Sophia have it changed?" + +"No. I went in there again an hour later and the peacocks were +there." + +"You didn't see straight the first time." + +"I expected you would say that." + +"The peacocks are there now; I saw them just now." + +"Yes, I suppose so; I suppose they flew back." + +"But they couldn't." + +"Looks as if they did." + +"Why, how could such a thing be? It couldn't be." + +"Well, all I know is those peacocks were gone for an hour that +afternoon and the red roses on the yellow ground were there +instead." + +The widow stared at her a moment, then she began to laugh rather +hysterically. + +"Well," said she, "I guess I sha'n't give up my nice room for any +such tomfoolery as that. I guess I would just as soon have red +roses on a yellow ground as peacocks on a blue; but there's no use +talking, you couldn't have seen straight. How could such a thing +have happened?" + +"I don't know," said Eliza Lippincott; "but I know I wouldn't sleep +in that room if you'd give me a thousand dollars." + +"Well, I would," said the widow, "and I'm going to." + +When Mrs. Simmons went to the southwest chamber that night she cast +a glance at the bed-hanging and the easy chair. There were the +peacocks on the blue ground. She gave a contemptuous thought to +Eliza Lippincott. + +"I don't believe but she's getting nervous," she thought. "I +wonder if any of her family have been out at all." + +But just before Mrs. Simmons was ready to get into bed she looked +again at the hangings and the easy chair, and there were the red +roses on the yellow ground instead of the peacocks on the blue. +She looked long and sharply. Then she shut her eyes, and then +opened them and looked. She still saw the red roses. Then she +crossed the room, turned her back to the bed, and looked out at the +night from the south window. It was clear and the full moon was +shining. She watched it a moment sailing over the dark blue in its +nimbus of gold. Then she looked around at the bed hangings. She +still saw the red roses on the yellow ground. + +Mrs. Simmons was struck in her most vulnerable point. This apparent +contradiction of the reasonable as manifested in such a commonplace +thing as chintz of a bed-hanging affected this ordinarily +unimaginative woman as no ghostly appearance could have done. +Those red roses on the yellow ground were to her much more ghostly +than any strange figure clad in the white robes of the grave +entering the room. + +She took a step toward the door, then she turned with a resolute +air. "As for going downstairs and owning up I'm scared and having +that Lippincott girl crowing over me, I won't for any red roses +instead of peacocks. I guess they can't hurt me, and as long as +we've both of us seen 'em I guess we can't both be getting loony," +she said. + +Mrs. Elvira Simmons blew out her light and got into bed and lay +staring out between the chintz hangings at the moonlit room. She +said her prayers in bed always as being more comfortable, and +presumably just as acceptable in the case of a faithful servant +with a stout habit of body. Then after a little she fell asleep; +she was of too practical a nature to be kept long awake by anything +which had no power of actual bodily effect upon her. No stress of +the spirit had ever disturbed her slumbers. So she slumbered +between the red roses, or the peacocks, she did not know which. + +But she was awakened about midnight by a strange sensation in her +throat. She had dreamed that some one with long white fingers was +strangling her, and she saw bending over her the face of an old +woman in a white cap. When she waked there was no old woman, the +room was almost as light as day in the full moonlight, and looked +very peaceful; but the strangling sensation at her throat +continued, and besides that, her face and ears felt muffled. She +put up her hand and felt that her head was covered with a ruffled +nightcap tied under her chin so tightly that it was exceedingly +uncomfortable. A great qualm of horror shot over her. She tore +the thing off frantically and flung it from her with a convulsive +effort as if it had been a spider. She gave, as she did so, a +quick, short scream of terror. She sprang out of bed and was going +toward the door, when she stopped. + +It had suddenly occurred to her that Eliza Lippincott might have +entered the room and tied on the cap while she was asleep. She had +not locked her door. She looked in the closet, under the bed; +there was no one there. Then she tried to open the door, but to +her astonishment found that it was locked--bolted on the inside. +"I must have locked it, after all," she reflected with wonder, for +she never locked her door. Then she could scarcely conceal from +herself that there was something out of the usual about it all. +Certainly no one could have entered the room and departed locking +the door on the inside. She could not control the long shiver of +horror that crept over her, but she was still resolute. She +resolved that she would throw the cap out of the window. "I'll see +if I have tricks like that played on me, I don't care who does it," +said she quite aloud. She was still unable to believe wholly in +the supernatural. The idea of some human agency was still in her +mind, filling her with anger. + +She went toward the spot where she had thrown the cap--she had +stepped over it on her way to the door--but it was not there. She +searched the whole room, lighting her lamp, but she could not find +the cap. Finally she gave it up. She extinguished her lamp and +went back to bed. She fell asleep again, to be again awakened in +the same fashion. That time she tore off the cap as before, but +she did not fling it on the floor as before. Instead she held to +it with a fierce grip. Her blood was up. + +Holding fast to the white flimsy thing, she sprang out of bed, ran +to the window which was open, slipped the screen, and flung it out; +but a sudden gust of wind, though the night was calm, arose and it +floated back in her face. She brushed it aside like a cobweb and +she clutched at it. She was actually furious. It eluded her +clutching fingers. Then she did not see it at all. She examined +the floor, she lighted her lamp again and searched, but there was +no sign of it. + +Mrs. Simmons was then in such a rage that all terror had +disappeared for the time. She did not know with what she was +angry, but she had a sense of some mocking presence which was +silently proving too strong against her weakness, and she was +aroused to the utmost power of resistance. To be baffled like this +and resisted by something which was as nothing to her straining +senses filled her with intensest resentment. + +Finally she got back into bed again; she did not go to sleep. She +felt strangely drowsy, but she fought against it. She was wide +awake, staring at the moonlight, when she suddenly felt the soft +white strings of the thing tighten around her throat and realized +that her enemy was again upon her. She seized the strings, untied +them, twitched off the cap, ran with it to the table where her +scissors lay and furiously cut it into small bits. She cut and +tore, feeling an insane fury of gratification. + +"There!" said she quite aloud. "I guess I sha'n't have any more +trouble with this old cap." + +She tossed the bits of muslin into a basket and went back to bed. +Almost immediately she felt the soft strings tighten around her +throat. Then at last she yielded, vanquished. This new refutal of +all laws of reason by which she had learned, as it were, to spell +her theory of life, was too much for her equilibrium. She pulled +off the clinging strings feebly, drew the thing from her head, slid +weakly out of bed, caught up her wrapper and hastened out of the +room. She went noiselessly along the hall to her own old room: she +entered, got into her familiar bed, and lay there the rest of the +night shuddering and listening, and if she dozed, waking with a +start at the feeling of the pressure upon her throat to find that +it was not there, yet still to be unable to shake off entirely the +horror. + +When daylight came she crept back to the southwest chamber and +hurriedly got some clothes in which to dress herself. It took all +her resolution to enter the room, but nothing unusual happened +while she was there. She hastened back to her old chamber, dressed +herself and went down to breakfast with an imperturbable face. Her +colour had not faded. When asked by Eliza Lippincott how she had +slept, she replied with an appearance of calmness which was +bewildering that she had not slept very well. She never did sleep +very well in a new bed, and she thought she would go back to her +old room. + +Eliza Lippincott was not deceived, however, neither were the Gill +sisters, nor the young girl, Flora. Eliza Lippineott spoke out +bluntly. + +"You needn't talk to me about sleeping well," said she. "I know +something queer happened in that room last night by the way you +act." + +They all looked at Mrs. Simmons, inquiringly--the librarian with +malicious curiosity and triumph, the minister with sad incredulity, +Sophia Gill with fear and indignation, Amanda and the young girl +with unmixed terror. The widow bore herself with dignity. + +"I saw nothing nor heard nothing which I trust could not have been +accounted for in some rational manner," said she. + +"What was it?" persisted Eliza Lippincott. + +"I do not wish to discuss the matter any further," replied Mrs. +Simmons shortly. Then she passed her plate for more creamed +potato. She felt that she would die before she confessed to the +ghastly absurdity of that nightcap, or to having been disturbed by +the flight of peacocks off a blue field of chintz after she had +scoffed at the possibility of such a thing. She left the whole +matter so vague that in a fashion she came off the mistress of the +situation. She at all events impressed everybody by her coolness +in the face of no one knew what nightly terror. + +After breakfast, with the assistance of Amanda and Flora, she moved +back into her old room. Scarcely a word was spoken during the +process of moving, but they all worked with trembling haste and +looked guilty when they met one another's eyes, as if conscious of +betraying a common fear. + +That afternoon the young minister, John Dunn, went to Sophia Gill +and requested permission to occupy the southwest chamber that +night. + +"I don't ask to have my effects moved there," said he, "for I could +scarcely afford a room so much superior to the one I now occupy, +but I would like, if you please, to sleep there to-night for the +purpose of refuting in my own person any unfortunate superstition +which may have obtained root here." + +Sophia Gill thanked the minister gratefully and eagerly accepted +his offer. + +"How anybody with common sense can believe for a minute in any such +nonsense passes my comprehension," said she. + +"It certainly passes mine how anybody with Christian faith can +believe in ghosts," said the minister gently, and Sophia Gill felt +a certain feminine contentment in hearing him. The minister was a +child to her; she regarded him with no tincture of sentiment, and +yet she loved to hear two other women covertly condemned by him and +she herself thereby exalted. + +That night about twelve o'clock the Reverend John Dunn essayed to +go to his nightly slumber in the southwest chamber. He had been +sitting up until that hour preparing his sermon. + +He traversed the hall with a little night-lamp in his hand, opened +the door of the southwest chamber, and essayed to enter. He might +as well have essayed to enter the solid side of a house. He could +not believe his senses. The door was certainly open; he could look +into the room full of soft lights and shadows under the moonlight +which streamed into the windows. He could see the bed in which he +had expected to pass the night, but he could not enter. Whenever +he strove to do so he had a curious sensation as if he were trying +to press against an invisible person who met him with a force of +opposition impossible to overcome. The minister was not an +athletic man, yet he had considerable strength. He squared his +elbows, set his mouth hard, and strove to push his way through into +the room. The opposition which he met was as sternly and mutely +terrible as the rocky fastness of a mountain in his way. + +For a half hour John Dunn, doubting, raging, overwhelmed with +spiritual agony as to the state of his own soul rather than fear, +strove to enter that southwest chamber. He was simply powerless +against this uncanny obstacle. Finally a great horror as of evil +itself came over him. He was a nervous man and very young. He +fairly fled to his own chamber and locked himself in like a terror- +stricken girl. + +The next morning he went to Miss Gill and told her frankly what had +happened, and begged her to say nothing about it lest he should +have injured the cause by the betrayal of such weakness, for he +actually had come to believe that there was something wrong with +the room. + +"What it is I know not, Miss Sophia," said he, "but I firmly +believe, against my will, that there is in that room some accursed +evil power at work, of which modern faith and modern science know +nothing." + +Miss Sophia Gill listened with grimly lowering face. She had an +inborn respect for the clergy, but she was bound to hold that +southwest chamber in the dearly beloved old house of her fathers +free of blame. + +"I think I will sleep in that room myself to-night," she said, when +the minister had finished. + +He looked at her in doubt and dismay. + +"I have great admiration for your faith and courage, Miss Sophia," +he said, "but are you wise?" + +"I am fully resolved to sleep in that room to-night," said she +conclusively. There were occasions when Miss Sophia Gill could put +on a manner of majesty, and she did now. + +It was ten o'clock that night when Sophia Gill entered the +southwest chamber. She had told her sister what she intended doing +and had been proof against her tearful entreaties. Amanda was +charged not to tell the young girl, Flora. + +"There is no use in frightening that child over nothing," said +Sophia. + +Sophia, when she entered the southwest chamber, set the lamp which +she carried on the bureau, and began moving about the rooms pulling +down the curtains, taking off the nice white counterpane of the +bed, and preparing generally for the night. + +As she did so, moving with great coolness and deliberation, she +became conscious that she was thinking some thoughts that were +foreign to her. She began remembering what she could not have +remembered, since she was not then born: the trouble over her +mother's marriage, the bitter opposition, the shutting the door +upon her, the ostracizing her from heart and home. She became +aware of a most singular sensation as of bitter resentment herself, +and not against the mother and sister who had so treated her own +mother, but against her own mother, and then she became aware of a +like bitterness extended to her own self. She felt malignant +toward her mother as a young girl whom she remembered, though she +could not have remembered, and she felt malignant toward her own +self, and her sister Amanda, and Flora. Evil suggestions surged in +her brain--suggestions which turned her heart to stone and which +still fascinated her. And all the time by a sort of double +consciousness she knew that what she thought was strange and not +due to her own volition. She knew that she was thinking the +thoughts of some other person, and she knew who. She felt herself +possessed. + +But there was tremendous strength in the woman's nature. She had +inherited strength for good and righteous self-assertion, from the +evil strength of her ancestors. They had turned their own weapons +against themselves. She made an effort which seemed almost mortal, +but was conscious that the hideous thing was gone from her. She +thought her own thoughts. Then she scouted to herself the idea of +anything supernatural about the terrific experience. "I am +imagining everything," she told herself. She went on with her +preparations; she went to the bureau to take down her hair. She +looked in the glass and saw, instead of her softly parted waves of +hair, harsh lines of iron-gray under the black borders of an old- +fashioned head-dress. She saw instead of her smooth, broad +forehead, a high one wrinkled with the intensest concentration of +selfish reflections of a long life; she saw instead of her steady +blue eyes, black ones with depths of malignant reserve, behind a +broad meaning of ill will; she saw instead of her firm, benevolent +mouth one with a hard, thin line, a network of melancholic +wrinkles. She saw instead of her own face, middle-aged and good to +see, the expression of a life of honesty and good will to others +and patience under trials, the face of a very old woman scowling +forever with unceasing hatred and misery at herself and all others, +at life, and death, at that which had been and that which was to +come. She saw instead of her own face in the glass, the face of +her dead Aunt Harriet, topping her own shoulders in her own well- +known dress! + +Sophia Gill left the room. She went into the one which she shared +with her sister Amanda. Amanda looked up and saw her standing +there. She had set the lamp on a table, and she stood holding a +handkerchief over her face. Amanda looked at her with terror. + +"What is it? What is it, Sophia?" she gasped. + +Sophia still stood with the handkerchief pressed to her face. + +"Oh, Sophia, let me call somebody. Is your face hurt? Sophia, +what is the matter with your face?" fairly shrieked Amanda. + +Suddenly Sophia took the handkerchief from her face. + +"Look at me, Amanda Gill," she said in an awful voice. + +Amanda looked, shrinking. + +"What is it? Oh, what is it? You don't look hurt. What is it, +Sophia?" + +"What do you see?" + +"Why, I see you." + +"Me?" + +"Yes, you. What did you think I would see?" + +Sophia Gill looked at her sister. "Never as long as I live will I +tell you what I thought you would see, and you must never ask me," +said she. + +"Well, I never will, Sophia," replied Amanda, half weeping with +terror. + +"You won't try to sleep in that room again, Sophia?" + +"No," said Sophia; "and I am going to sell this house." + + + +THE VACANT LOT + + +When it became generally known in Townsend Centre that the +Townsends were going to move to the city, there was great +excitement and dismay. For the Townsends to move was about +equivalent to the town's moving. The Townsend ancestors had +founded the village a hundred years ago. The first Townsend had +kept a wayside hostelry for man and beast, known as the "Sign of +the Leopard." The sign-board, on which the leopard was painted a +bright blue, was still extant, and prominently so, being nailed +over the present Townsend's front door. This Townsend, by name +David, kept the village store. There had been no tavern since the +railroad was built through Townsend Centre in his father's day. +Therefore the family, being ousted by the march of progress from +their chosen employment, took up with a general country store as +being the next thing to a country tavern, the principal difference +consisting in the fact that all the guests were transients, never +requiring bedchambers, securing their rest on the tops of sugar and +flour barrels and codfish boxes, and their refreshment from stray +nibblings at the stock in trade, to the profitless deplenishment of +raisins and loaf sugar and crackers and cheese. + +The flitting of the Townsends from the home of their ancestors was +due to a sudden access of wealth from the death of a relative and +the desire of Mrs. Townsend to secure better advantages for her son +George, sixteen years old, in the way of education, and for her +daughter Adrianna, ten years older, better matrimonial +opportunities. However, this last inducement for leaving Townsend +Centre was not openly stated, only ingeniously surmised by the +neighbours. + +"Sarah Townsend don't think there's anybody in Townsend Centre fit +for her Adrianna to marry, and so she's goin' to take her to Boston +to see if she can't pick up somebody there," they said. Then they +wondered what Abel Lyons would do. He had been a humble suitor for +Adrianna for years, but her mother had not approved, and Adrianna, +who was dutiful, had repulsed him delicately and rather sadly. He +was the only lover whom she had ever had, and she felt sorry and +grateful; she was a plain, awkward girl, and had a patient +recognition of the fact. + +But her mother was ambitious, more so than her father, who was +rather pugnaciously satisfied with what he had, and not easily +disposed to change. However, he yielded to his wife and consented +to sell out his business and purchase a house in Boston and move +there. + +David Townsend was curiously unlike the line of ancestors from whom +he had come. He had either retrograded or advanced, as one might +look at it. His moral character was certainly better, but he had +not the fiery spirit and eager grasp at advantage which had +distinguished them. Indeed, the old Townsends, though prominent +and respected as men of property and influence, had reputations not +above suspicions. There was more than one dark whisper regarding +them handed down from mother to son in the village, and especially +was this true of the first Townsend, he who built the tavern +bearing the Sign of the Blue Leopard. His portrait, a hideous +effort of contemporary art, hung in the garret of David Townsend's +home. There was many a tale of wild roistering, if no worse, in +that old roadhouse, and high stakes, and quarreling in cups, and +blows, and money gotten in evil fashion, and the matter hushed up +with a high hand for inquirers by the imperious Townsends who +terrorized everybody. David Townsend terrorized nobody. He had +gotten his little competence from his store by honest methods--the +exchanging of sterling goods and true weights for country produce +and country shillings. He was sober and reliable, with intense +self-respect and a decided talent for the management of money. It +was principally for this reason that he took great delight in his +sudden wealth by legacy. He had thereby greater opportunities for +the exercise of his native shrewdness in a bargain. This he +evinced in his purchase of a house in Boston. + +One day in spring the old Townsend house was shut up, the Blue +Leopard was taken carefully down from his lair over the front door, +the family chattels were loaded on the train, and the Townsends +departed. It was a sad and eventful day for Townsend Centre. A +man from Barre had rented the store--David had decided at the last +not to sell--and the old familiars congregated in melancholy +fashion and talked over the situation. An enormous pride over +their departed townsman became evident. They paraded him, +flaunting him like a banner in the eyes of the new man. "David is +awful smart," they said; "there won't nobody get the better of him +in the city if he has lived in Townsend Centre all his life. He's +got his eyes open. Know what he paid for his house in Boston? +Well, sir, that house cost twenty-five thousand dollars, and David +he bought it for five. Yes, sir, he did." + +"Must have been some out about it," remarked the new man, scowling +over his counter. He was beginning to feel his disparaging +situation. + +"Not an out, sir. David he made sure on't. Catch him gettin' bit. +Everythin' was in apple-pie order, hot an' cold water and all, and +in one of the best locations of the city--real high-up street. +David he said the rent in that street was never under a thousand. +Yes, sir, David he got a bargain--five thousand dollars for a +twenty-five-thousand-dollar house." + +"Some out about it!" growled the new man over the counter. + +However, as his fellow townsmen and allies stated, there seemed to +be no doubt about the desirableness of the city house which David +Townsend had purchased and the fact that he had secured it for an +absurdly low price. The whole family were at first suspicious. It +was ascertained that the house had cost a round sum only a few +years ago; it was in perfect repair; nothing whatever was amiss +with plumbing, furnace, anything. There was not even a soap +factory within smelling distance, as Mrs. Townsend had vaguely +surmised. She was sure that she had heard of houses being +undesirable for such reasons, but there was no soap factory. They +all sniffed and peeked; when the first rainfall came they looked at +the ceiling, confidently expecting to see dark spots where the +leaks had commenced, but there were none. They were forced to +confess that their suspicions were allayed, that the house was +perfect, even overshadowed with the mystery of a lower price than +it was worth. That, however, was an additional perfection in the +opinion of the Townsends, who had their share of New England +thrift. They had lived just one month in their new house, and were +happy, although at times somewhat lonely from missing the society +of Townsend Centre, when the trouble began. The Townsends, +although they lived in a fine house in a genteel, almost +fashionable, part of the city, were true to their antecedents and +kept, as they had been accustomed, only one maid. She was the +daughter of a farmer on the outskirts of their native village, was +middle-aged, and had lived with them for the last ten years. One +pleasant Monday morning she rose early and did the family washing +before breakfast, which had been prepared by Mrs. Townsend and +Adrianna, as was their habit on washing-days. The family were +seated at the breakfast table in their basement dining-room, and +this maid, whose name was Cordelia, was hanging out the clothes in +the vacant lot. This vacant lot seemed a valuable one, being on a +corner. It was rather singular that it had not been built upon. +The Townsends had wondered at it and agreed that they would have +preferred their own house to be there. They had, however, utilized +it as far as possible with their innocent, rural disregard of +property rights in unoccupied land. + +"We might just as well hang out our washing in that vacant lot," +Mrs. Townsend had told Cordelia the first Monday of their stay in +the house. "Our little yard ain't half big enough for all our +clothes, and it is sunnier there, too." + +So Cordelia had hung out the wash there for four Mondays, and this +was the fifth. The breakfast was about half finished--they had +reached the buckwheat cakes--when this maid came rushing into the +dining-room and stood regarding them, speechless, with a +countenance indicative of the utmost horror. She was deadly pale. +Her hands, sodden with soapsuds, hung twitching at her sides in the +folds of her calico gown; her very hair, which was light and +sparse, seemed to bristle with fear. All the Townsends turned and +looked at her. David and George rose with a half-defined idea of +burglars. + +"Cordelia Battles, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Townsend. +Adrianna gasped for breath and turned as white as the maid. "What +is the matter?" repeated Mrs. Townsend, but the maid was unable to +speak. Mrs. Townsend, who could be peremptory, sprang up, ran to +the frightened woman and shook her violently. "Cordelia Battles, +you speak," said she, "and not stand there staring that way, as if +you were struck dumb! What is the matter with you?" + +Then Cordelia spoke in a fainting voice. + +"There's--somebody else--hanging out clothes--in the vacant lot," +she gasped, and clutched at a chair for support. + +"Who?" cried Mrs. Townsend, rousing to indignation, for already she +had assumed a proprietorship in the vacant lot. "Is it the folks +in the next house? I'd like to know what right they have! We are +next to that vacant lot." + +"I--dunno--who it is," gasped Cordelia. "Why, we've seen that girl +next door go to mass every morning," said Mrs. Townsend. "She's +got a fiery red head. Seems as if you might know her by this time, +Cordelia." + +"It ain't that girl," gasped Cordelia. Then she added in a horror- +stricken voice, "I couldn't see who 'twas." + +They all stared. + +"Why couldn't you see?" demanded her mistress. "Are you struck +blind?" + +"No, ma'am." + +"Then why couldn't you see?" + +"All I could see was--" Cordelia hesitated, with an expression of +the utmost horror. + +"Go on," said Mrs. Townsend, impatiently. + +"All I could see was the shadow of somebody, very slim, hanging out +the clothes, and--" + +"What?" + +"I could see the shadows of the things flappin' on their line." + +"You couldn't see the clothes?" + +"Only the shadow on the ground." + +"What kind of clothes were they?" + +"Queer," replied Cordelia, with a shudder. + +"If I didn't know you so well, I should think you had been +drinking," said Mrs. Townsend. "Now, Cordelia Battles, I'm going +out in that vacant lot and see myself what you're talking about." + +"I can't go," gasped the woman. + +With that Mrs. Townsend and all the others, except Adrianna, who +remained to tremble with the maid, sallied forth into the vacant +lot. They had to go out the area gate into the street to reach it. +It was nothing unusual in the way of vacant lots. One large poplar +tree, the relic of the old forest which had once flourished there, +twinkled in one corner; for the rest, it was overgrown with coarse +weeds and a few dusty flowers. The Townsends stood just inside the +rude board fence which divided the lot from the street and stared +with wonder and horror, for Cordelia had told the truth. They all +saw what she had described--the shadow of an exceedingly slim woman +moving along the ground with up-stretched arms, the shadows of +strange, nondescript garments flapping from a shadowy line, but +when they looked up for the substance of the shadows nothing was to +be seen except the clear, blue October air. + +"My goodness!" gasped Mrs. Townsend. Her face assumed a strange +gathering of wrath in the midst of her terror. Suddenly she made a +determined move forward, although her husband strove to hold her +back. + +"You let me be," said she. She moved forward. Then she recoiled +and gave a loud shriek. "The wet sheet flapped in my face," she +cried. "Take me away, take me away!" Then she fainted. Between +them they got her back to the house. "It was awful," she moaned +when she came to herself, with the family all around her where she +lay on the dining-room floor. "Oh, David, what do you suppose it +is?" + +"Nothing at all," replied David Townsend stoutly. He was +remarkable for courage and staunch belief in actualities. He was +now denying to himself that he had seen anything unusual. + +"Oh, there was," moaned his wife. + +"I saw something," said George, in a sullen, boyish bass. + +The maid sobbed convulsively and so did Adrianna for sympathy. + +"We won't talk any about it," said David. "Here, Jane, you drink +this hot tea--it will do you good; and Cordelia, you hang out the +clothes in our own yard. George, you go and put up the line for +her." + +"The line is out there," said George, with a jerk of his shoulder. + +"Are you afraid?" + +"No, I ain't," replied the boy resentfully, and went out with a +pale face. + +After that Cordelia hung the Townsend wash in the yard of their own +house, standing always with her back to the vacant lot. As for +David Townsend, he spent a good deal of his time in the lot +watching the shadows, but he came to no explanation, although he +strove to satisfy himself with many. + +"I guess the shadows come from the smoke from our chimneys, or else +the poplar tree," he said. + +"Why do the shadows come on Monday mornings, and no other?" +demanded his wife. + +David was silent. + +Very soon new mysteries arose. One day Cordelia rang the dinner- +bell at their usual dinner hour, the same as in Townsend Centre, +high noon, and the family assembled. With amazement Adrianna +looked at the dishes on the table. + +"Why, that's queer!" she said. + +"What's queer?" asked her mother. + +Cordelia stopped short as she was about setting a tumbler of water +beside a plate, and the water slopped over. + +"Why," said Adrianna, her face paling, "I--thought there was boiled +dinner. I--smelt cabbage cooking." + +"I knew there would something else come up," gasped Cordelia, +leaning hard on the back of Adrianna's chair. + +"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Townsend sharply, but her own face +began to assume the shocked pallour which it was so easy nowadays +for all their faces to assume at the merest suggestion of anything +out of the common. + +"I smelt cabbage cooking all the morning up in my room," Adrianna +said faintly, "and here's codfish and potatoes for dinner." + +The Townsends all looked at one another. David rose with an +exclamation and rushed out of the room. The others waited +tremblingly. When he came back his face was lowering. + +"What did you--" Mrs. Townsend asked hesitatingly. + +"There's some smell of cabbage out there," he admitted reluctantly. +Then he looked at her with a challenge. "It comes from the next +house," he said. "Blows over our house." + +"Our house is higher." + +"I don't care; you can never account for such things." + +"Cordelia," said Mrs. Townsend, "you go over to the next house and +you ask if they've got cabbage for dinner." + +Cordelia switched out of the room, her mouth set hard. She came +back promptly. + +"Says they never have cabbage," she announced with gloomy triumph +and a conclusive glance at Mr. Townsend. "Their girl was real +sassy." + +"Oh, father, let's move away; let's sell the house," cried Adrianna +in a panic-stricken tone. + +"If you think I'm going to sell a house that I got as cheap as this +one because we smell cabbage in a vacant lot, you're mistaken," +replied David firmly. + +"It isn't the cabbage alone," said Mrs. Townsend. + +"And a few shadows," added David. "I am tired of such nonsense. I +thought you had more sense, Jane." + +"One of the boys at school asked me if we lived in the house next +to the vacant lot on Wells Street and whistled when I said 'Yes,'" +remarked George. + +"Let him whistle," said Mr. Townsend. + +After a few hours the family, stimulated by Mr. Townsend's calm, +common sense, agreed that it was exceedingly foolish to be +disturbed by a mysterious odour of cabbage. They even laughed at +themselves. + +"I suppose we have got so nervous over those shadows hanging out +clothes that we notice every little thing," conceded Mrs. Townsend. + +"You will find out some day that that is no more to be regarded +than the cabbage," said her husband. + +"You can't account for that wet sheet hitting my face," said Mrs. +Townsend, doubtfully. + +"You imagined it." + +"I FELT it." + +That afternoon things went on as usual in the household until +nearly four o'clock. Adrianna went downtown to do some shopping. +Mrs. Townsend sat sewing beside the bay window in her room, which +was a front one in the third story. George had not got home. Mr. +Townsend was writing a letter in the library. Cordelia was busy in +the basement; the twilight, which was coming earlier and earlier +every night, was beginning to gather, when suddenly there was a +loud crash which shook the house from its foundations. Even the +dishes on the sideboard rattled, and the glasses rang like bells. +The pictures on the walls of Mrs. Townsend's room swung out from +the walls. But that was not all: every looking-glass in the house +cracked simultaneously--as nearly as they could judge--from top to +bottom, then shivered into fragments over the floors. Mrs. +Townsend was too frightened to scream. She sat huddled in her +chair, gasping for breath, her eyes, rolling from side to side in +incredulous terror, turned toward the street. She saw a great +black group of people crossing it just in front of the vacant lot. +There was something inexpressibly strange and gloomy about this +moving group; there was an effect of sweeping, wavings and foldings +of sable draperies and gleams of deadly white faces; then they +passed. She twisted her head to see, and they disappeared in the +vacant lot. Mr. Townsend came hurrying into the room; he was pale, +and looked at once angry and alarmed. + +"Did you fall?" he asked inconsequently, as if his wife, who was +small, could have produced such a manifestation by a fall. + +"Oh, David, what is it?" whispered Mrs. Townsend. + +"Darned if I know!" said David. + +"Don't swear. It's too awful. Oh, see the looking-glass, David!" + +"I see it. The one over the library mantel is broken, too." + +"Oh, it is a sign of death!" + +Cordelia's feet were heard as she staggered on the stairs. She +almost fell into the room. She reeled over to Mr. Townsend and +clutched his arm. He cast a sidewise glance, half furious, half +commiserating at her. + +"Well, what is it all about?" he asked. + +"I don't know. What is it? Oh, what is it? The looking-glass in +the kitchen is broken. All over the floor. Oh, oh! What is it?" + +"I don't know any more than you do. I didn't do it." + +"Lookin'-glasses broken is a sign of death in the house," said +Cordelia. "If it's me, I hope I'm ready; but I'd rather die than +be so scared as I've been lately." + +Mr. Townsend shook himself loose and eyed the two trembling women +with gathering resolution. + +"Now, look here, both of you," he said. "This is nonsense. You'll +die sure enough of fright if you keep on this way. I was a fool +myself to be startled. Everything it is is an earthquake." + +"Oh, David!" gasped his wife, not much reassured. + +"It is nothing but an earthquake," persisted Mr. Townsend. "It +acted just like that. Things always are broken on the walls, and +the middle of the room isn't affected. I've read about it." + +Suddenly Mrs. Townsend gave a loud shriek and pointed. + +"How do you account for that," she cried, "if it's an earthquake? +Oh, oh, oh!" + +She was on the verge of hysterics. Her husband held her firmly by +the arm as his eyes followed the direction of her rigid pointing +finger. Cordelia looked also, her eyes seeming converged to a +bright point of fear. On the floor in front of the broken looking- +glass lay a mass of black stuff in a grewsome long ridge. + +"It's something you dropped there," almost shouted Mr. Townsend. + +"It ain't. Oh!" + +Mr. Townsend dropped his wife's arm and took one stride toward the +object. It was a very long crape veil. He lifted it, and it +floated out from his arm as if imbued with electricity. + +"It's yours," he said to his wife. + +"Oh, David, I never had one. You know, oh, you know I--shouldn't-- +unless you died. How came it there?" + +"I'm darned if I know," said David, regarding it. He was deadly +pale, but still resentful rather than afraid. + +"Don't hold it; don't!" + +"I'd like to know what in thunder all this means?" said David. He +gave the thing an angry toss and it fell on the floor in exactly +the same long heap as before. + +Cordelia began to weep with racking sobs. Mrs. Townsend reached +out and caught her husband's hand, clutching it hard with ice-cold +fingers. + +"What's got into this house, anyhow?" he growled. + +"You'll have to sell it. Oh, David, we can't live here." + +"As for my selling a house I paid only five thousand for when it's +worth twenty-five, for any such nonsense as this, I won't!" + +David gave one stride toward the black veil, but it rose from the +floor and moved away before him across the room at exactly the same +height as if suspended from a woman's head. He pursued it, +clutching vainly, all around the room, then he swung himself on his +heel with an exclamation and the thing fell to the floor again in +the long heap. Then were heard hurrying feet on the stairs and +Adrianna burst into the room. She ran straight to her father and +clutched his arm; she tried to speak, but she chattered +unintelligibly; her face was blue. Her father shook her violently. + +"Adrianna, do have more sense!" he cried. + +"Oh, David, how can you talk so?" sobbed her mother. + +"I can't help it. I'm mad!" said he with emphasis. "What has got +into this house and you all, anyhow?" + +"What is it, Adrianna, poor child," asked her mother. "Only look +what has happened here." + +"It's an earthquake," said her father staunchly; "nothing to be +afraid of." + +"How do you account for THAT?" said Mrs. Townsend in an awful +voice, pointing to the veil. + +Adrianna did not look--she was too engrossed with her own terrors. +She began to speak in a breathless voice. + +"I--was--coming--by the vacant lot," she panted, "and--I--I--had my +new hat in a paper bag and--a parcel of blue ribbon, and--I saw a +crowd, an awful--oh! a whole crowd of people with white faces, as +if--they were dressed all in black." + +"Where are they now?" + +"I don't know. Oh!" Adrianna sank gasping feebly into a chair. + +"Get her some water, David," sobbed her mother. + +David rushed with an impatient exclamation out of the room and +returned with a glass of water which he held to his daughter's +lips. + +"Here, drink this!" he said roughly. + +"Oh, David, how can you speak so?" sobbed his wife. + +"I can't help it. I'm mad clean through," said David. + +Then there was a hard bound upstairs, and George entered. He was +very white, but he grinned at them with an appearance of unconcern. + +"Hullo!" he said in a shaking voice, which he tried to control. +"What on earth's to pay in that vacant lot now?" + +"Well, what is it?" demanded his father. + +"Oh, nothing, only--well, there are lights over it exactly as if +there was a house there, just about where the windows would be. It +looked as if you could walk right in, but when you look close there +are those old dried-up weeds rattling away on the ground the same +as ever. I looked at it and couldn't believe my eyes. A woman saw +it, too. She came along just as I did. She gave one look, then +she screeched and ran. I waited for some one else, but nobody +came." + +Mr. Townsend rushed out of the room. + +"I daresay it'll be gone when he gets there," began George, then he +stared round the room. "What's to pay here?" he cried. + +"Oh, George, the whole house shook all at once, and all the +looking-glasses broke," wailed his mother, and Adrianna and +Cordelia joined. + +George whistled with pale lips. Then Mr. Townsend entered. + +"Well," asked George, "see anything?" + +"I don't want to talk," said his father. "I've stood just about +enough." + +"We've got to sell out and go back to Townsend Centre," cried his +wife in a wild voice. "Oh, David, say you'll go back." + +"I won't go back for any such nonsense as this, and sell a twenty- +five thousand dollar house for five thousand," said he firmly. + +But that very night his resolution was shaken. The whole family +watched together in the dining-room. They were all afraid to go to +bed--that is, all except possibly Mr. Townsend. Mrs. Townsend +declared firmly that she for one would leave that awful house and +go back to Townsend Centre whether he came or not, unless they all +stayed together and watched, and Mr. Townsend yielded. They chose +the dining-room for the reason that it was nearer the street should +they wish to make their egress hurriedly, and they took up their +station around the dining-table on which Cordelia had placed a +luncheon. + +"It looks exactly as if we were watching with a corpse," she said +in a horror-stricken whisper. + +"Hold your tongue if you can't talk sense," said Mr. Townsend. + +The dining-room was very large, finished in oak, with a dark blue +paper above the wainscotting. The old sign of the tavern, the Blue +Leopard, hung over the mantel-shelf. Mr. Townsend had insisted on +hanging it there. He had a curious pride in it. The family sat +together until after midnight and nothing unusual happened. Mrs. +Townsend began to nod; Mr. Townsend read the paper ostentatiously. +Adrianna and Cordelia stared with roving eyes about the room, then +at each other as if comparing notes on terror. George had a book +which he studied furtively. All at once Adrianna gave a startled +exclamation and Cordelia echoed her. George whistled faintly. +Mrs. Townsend awoke with a start and Mr. Townsend's paper rattled +to the floor. + +"Look!" gasped Adrianna. + +The sign of the Blue Leopard over the shelf glowed as if a lantern +hung over it. The radiance was thrown from above. It grew +brighter and brighter as they watched. The Blue Leopard seemed to +crouch and spring with life. Then the door into the front hall +opened--the outer door, which had been carefully locked. It +squeaked and they all recognized it. They sat staring. Mr. +Townsend was as transfixed as the rest. They heard the outer door +shut, then the door into the room swung open and slowly that awful +black group of people which they had seen in the afternoon entered. +The Townsends with one accord rose and huddled together in a far +corner; they all held to each other and stared. The people, their +faces gleaming with a whiteness of death, their black robes waving +and folding, crossed the room. They were a trifle above mortal +height, or seemed so to the terrified eyes which saw them. They +reached the mantel-shelf where the sign-board hung, then a black- +draped long arm was seen to rise and make a motion, as if plying a +knocker. Then the whole company passed out of sight, as if through +the wall, and the room was as before. Mrs. Townsend was shaking in +a nervous chill, Adrianna was almost fainting, Cordelia was in +hysterics. David Townsend stood glaring in a curious way at the +sign of the Blue Leopard. George stared at him with a look of +horror. There was something in his father's face which made him +forget everything else. At last he touched his arm timidly. + +"Father," he whispered. + +David turned and regarded him with a look of rage and fury, then +his face cleared; he passed his hand over his forehead. + +"Good Lord! What DID come to me?" he muttered. + +"You looked like that awful picture of old Tom Townsend in the +garret in Townsend Centre, father," whimpered the boy, shuddering. + +"Should think I might look like 'most any old cuss after such +darned work as this," growled David, but his face was white. "Go +and pour out some hot tea for your mother," he ordered the boy +sharply. He himself shook Cordelia violently. "Stop such +actions!" he shouted in her ears, and shook her again. "Ain't you +a church member?" he demanded; "what be you afraid of? You ain't +done nothin' wrong, have ye?" + +Then Cordelia quoted Scripture in a burst of sobs and laughter. + +"Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother +conceive me," she cried out. "If I ain't done wrong, mebbe them +that's come before me did, and when the Evil One and the Powers of +Darkness is abroad I'm liable, I'm liable!" Then she laughed loud +and long and shrill. + +"If you don't hush up," said David, but still with that white +terror and horror on his own face, "I'll bundle you out in that +vacant lot whether or no. I mean it." + +Then Cordelia was quiet, after one wild roll of her eyes at him. +The colour was returning to Adrianna's cheeks; her mother was +drinking hot tea in spasmodic gulps. + +"It's after midnight," she gasped, "and I don't believe they'll +come again to-night. Do you, David?" + +"No, I don't," said David conclusively. + +"Oh, David, we mustn't stay another night in this awful house." + +"We won't. To-morrow we'll pack off bag and baggage to Townsend +Centre, if it takes all the fire department to move us," said +David. + +Adrianna smiled in the midst of her terror. She thought of Abel +Lyons. + +The next day Mr. Townsend went to the real estate agent who had +sold him the house. + +"It's no use," he said, "I can't stand it. Sell the house for what +you can get. I'll give it away rather than keep it." + +Then he added a few strong words as to his opinion of parties who +sold him such an establishment. But the agent pleaded innocent for +the most part. + +"I'll own I suspected something wrong when the owner, who pledged +me to secrecy as to his name, told me to sell that place for what I +could get, and did not limit me. I had never heard anything, but I +began to suspect something was wrong. Then I made a few inquiries +and found out that there was a rumour in the neighbourhood that +there was something out of the usual about that vacant lot. I had +wondered myself why it wasn't built upon. There was a story about +it's being undertaken once, and the contract made, and the +contractor dying; then another man took it and one of the workmen +was killed on his way to dig the cellar, and the others struck. I +didn't pay much attention to it. I never believed much in that +sort of thing anyhow, and then, too, I couldn't find out that there +had ever been anything wrong about the house itself, except as the +people who had lived there were said to have seen and heard queer +things in the vacant lot, so I thought you might be able to get +along, especially as you didn't look like a man who was timid, and +the house was such a bargain as I never handled before. But this +you tell me is beyond belief." + +"Do you know the names of the people who formerly owned the vacant +lot?" asked Mr. Townsend. + +"I don't know for certain," replied the agent, "for the original +owners flourished long before your or my day, but I do know that +the lot goes by the name of the old Gaston lot. What's the matter? +Are you ill?" + +"No; it is nothing," replied Mr. Townsend. "Get what you can for +the house; perhaps another family might not be as troubled as we +have been." + +"I hope you are not going to leave the city?" said the agent, +urbanely. + +"I am going back to Townsend Centre as fast as steam can carry me +after we get packed up and out of that cursed house," replied Mr. +David Townsend. + +He did not tell the agent nor any of his family what had caused him +to start when told the name of the former owners of the lot. He +remembered all at once the story of a ghastly murder which had +taken place in the Blue Leopard. The victim's name was Gaston and +the murderer had never been discovered. + + + +THE LOST GHOST + + +Mrs. John Emerson, sitting with her needlework beside the window, +looked out and saw Mrs. Rhoda Meserve coming down the street, and +knew at once by the trend of her steps and the cant of her head +that she meditated turning in at her gate. She also knew by a +certain something about her general carriage--a thrusting forward +of the neck, a bustling hitch of the shoulders--that she had +important news. Rhoda Meserve always had the news as soon as the +news was in being, and generally Mrs. John Emerson was the first to +whom she imparted it. The two women had been friends ever since +Mrs. Meserve had married Simon Meserve and come to the village to +live. + +Mrs. Meserve was a pretty woman, moving with graceful flirts of +ruffling skirts; her clear-cut, nervous face, as delicately tinted +as a shell, looked brightly from the plumy brim of a black hat at +Mrs. Emerson in the window. Mrs. Emerson was glad to see her +coming. She returned the greeting with enthusiasm, then rose +hurriedly, ran into the cold parlour and brought out one of the +best rocking-chairs. She was just in time, after drawing it up +beside the opposite window, to greet her friend at the door. + +"Good-afternoon," said she. "I declare, I'm real glad to see you. +I've been alone all day. John went to the city this morning. I +thought of coming over to your house this afternoon, but I couldn't +bring my sewing very well. I am putting the ruffles on my new +black dress skirt." + +"Well, I didn't have a thing on hand except my crochet work," +responded Mrs. Meserve, "and I thought I'd just run over a few +minutes." + +"I'm real glad you did," repeated Mrs. Emerson. "Take your things +right off. Here, I'll put them on my bed in the bedroom. Take the +rocking-chair." + +Mrs. Meserve settled herself in the parlour rocking-chair, while +Mrs. Emerson carried her shawl and hat into the little adjoining +bedroom. When she returned Mrs. Meserve was rocking peacefully and +was already at work hooking blue wool in and out. + +"That's real pretty," said Mrs. Emerson. + +"Yes, I think it's pretty," replied Mrs. Meserve. + +"I suppose it's for the church fair?" + +"Yes. I don't suppose it'll bring enough to pay for the worsted, +let alone the work, but I suppose I've got to make something." + +"How much did that one you made for the fair last year bring?" + +"Twenty-five cents." + +"It's wicked, ain't it?" + +"I rather guess it is. It takes me a week every minute I can get +to make one. I wish those that bought such things for twenty-five +cents had to make them. Guess they'd sing another song. Well, I +suppose I oughtn't to complain as long as it is for the Lord, but +sometimes it does seem as if the Lord didn't get much out of it." + +"Well, it's pretty work," said Mrs. Emerson, sitting down at the +opposite window and taking up her dress skirt. + +"Yes, it is real pretty work. I just LOVE to crochet." + +The two women rocked and sewed and crocheted in silence for two or +three minutes. They were both waiting. Mrs. Meserve waited for +the other's curiosity to develop in order that her news might have, +as it were, a befitting stage entrance. Mrs. Emerson waited for +the news. Finally she could wait no longer. + +"Well, what's the news?" said she. + +"Well, I don't know as there's anything very particular," hedged +the other woman, prolonging the situation. + +"Yes, there is; you can't cheat me," replied Mrs. Emerson. + +"Now, how do you know?" + +"By the way you look." + +Mrs. Meserve laughed consciously and rather vainly. + +"Well, Simon says my face is so expressive I can't hide anything +more than five minutes no matter how hard I try," said she. "Well, +there is some news. Simon came home with it this noon. He heard +it in South Dayton. He had some business over there this morning. +The old Sargent place is let." + +Mrs. Emerson dropped her sewing and stared. + +"You don't say so!" + +"Yes, it is." + +"Who to?" + +"Why, some folks from Boston that moved to South Dayton last year. +They haven't been satisfied with the house they had there--it +wasn't large enough. The man has got considerable property and can +afford to live pretty well. He's got a wife and his unmarried +sister in the family. The sister's got money, too. He does +business in Boston and it's just as easy to get to Boston from here +as from South Dayton, and so they're coming here. You know the old +Sargent house is a splendid place." + +"Yes, it's the handsomest house in town, but--" + +"Oh, Simon said they told him about that and he just laughed. Said +he wasn't afraid and neither was his wife and sister. Said he'd +risk ghosts rather than little tucked-up sleeping-rooms without any +sun, like they've had in the Dayton house. Said he'd rather risk +SEEING ghosts, than risk being ghosts themselves. Simon said they +said he was a great hand to joke." + +"Oh, well," said Mrs. Emerson, "it is a beautiful house, and maybe +there isn't anything in those stories. It never seemed to me they +came very straight anyway. I never took much stock in them. All I +thought was--if his wife was nervous." + +"Nothing in creation would hire me to go into a house that I'd ever +heard a word against of that kind," declared Mrs. Meserve with +emphasis. "I wouldn't go into that house if they would give me the +rent. I've seen enough of haunted houses to last me as long as I +live." + +Mrs. Emerson's face acquired the expression of a hunting hound. + +"Have you?" she asked in an intense whisper. + +"Yes, I have. I don't want any more of it." + +"Before you came here?" + +"Yes; before I was married--when I was quite a girl." + +Mrs. Meserve had not married young. Mrs. Emerson had mental +calculations when she heard that. + +"Did you really live in a house that was--" she whispered +fearfully. + +Mrs. Meserve nodded solemnly. + +"Did you really ever--see--anything--" + +Mrs. Meserve nodded. + +"You didn't see anything that did you any harm?" + +"No, I didn't see anything that did me harm looking at it in one +way, but it don't do anybody in this world any good to see things +that haven't any business to be seen in it. You never get over +it." + +There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Emerson's features seemed to +sharpen. + +"Well, of course I don't want to urge you," said she, "if you don't +feel like talking about it; but maybe it might do you good to tell +it out, if it's on your mind, worrying you." + +"I try to put it out of my mind," said Mrs. Meserve. + +"Well, it's just as you feel." + +"I never told anybody but Simon," said Mrs. Meserve. "I never felt +as if it was wise perhaps. I didn't know what folks might think. +So many don't believe in anything they can't understand, that they +might think my mind wasn't right. Simon advised me not to talk +about it. He said he didn't believe it was anything supernatural, +but he had to own up that he couldn't give any explanation for it +to save his life. He had to own up that he didn't believe anybody +could. Then he said he wouldn't talk about it. He said lots of +folks would sooner tell folks my head wasn't right than to own up +they couldn't see through it." + +"I'm sure I wouldn't say so," returned Mrs. Emerson reproachfully. +"You know better than that, I hope." + +"Yes, I do," replied Mrs. Meserve. "I know you wouldn't say so." + +"And I wouldn't tell it to a soul if you didn't want me to." + +"Well, I'd rather you wouldn't." + +"I won't speak of it even to Mr. Emerson." + +"I'd rather you wouldn't even to him." + +"I won't." + +Mrs. Emerson took up her dress skirt again; Mrs. Meserve hooked up +another loop of blue wool. Then she begun: + +"Of course," said she, "I ain't going to say positively that I +believe or disbelieve in ghosts, but all I tell you is what I saw. +I can't explain it. I don't pretend I can, for I can't. If you +can, well and good; I shall be glad, for it will stop tormenting me +as it has done and always will otherwise. There hasn't been a day +nor a night since it happened that I haven't thought of it, and +always I have felt the shivers go down my back when I did." + +"That's an awful feeling," Mrs. Emerson said. + +"Ain't it? Well, it happened before I was married, when I was a +girl and lived in East Wilmington. It was the first year I lived +there. You know my family all died five years before that. I told +you." + +Mrs. Emerson nodded. + +"Well, I went there to teach school, and I went to board with a +Mrs. Amelia Dennison and her sister, Mrs. Bird. Abby, her name +was--Abby Bird. She was a widow; she had never had any children. +She had a little money--Mrs. Dennison didn't have any--and she had +come to East Wilmington and bought the house they lived in. It was +a real pretty house, though it was very old and run down. It had +cost Mrs. Bird a good deal to put it in order. I guess that was +the reason they took me to board. I guess they thought it would +help along a little. I guess what I paid for my board about kept +us all in victuals. Mrs. Bird had enough to live on if they were +careful, but she had spent so much fixing up the old house that +they must have been a little pinched for awhile. + +"Anyhow, they took me to board, and I thought I was pretty lucky to +get in there. I had a nice room, big and sunny and furnished +pretty, the paper and paint all new, and everything as neat as wax. +Mrs. Dennison was one of the best cooks I ever saw, and I had a +little stove in my room, and there was always a nice fire there +when I got home from school. I thought I hadn't been in such a +nice place since I lost my own home, until I had been there about +three weeks. + +"I had been there about three weeks before I found it out, though I +guess it had been going on ever since they had been in the house, +and that was most four months. They hadn't said anything about it, +and I didn't wonder, for there they had just bought the house and +been to so much expense and trouble fixing it up. + +"Well, I went there in September. I begun my school the first +Monday. I remember it was a real cold fall, there was a frost the +middle of September, and I had to put on my winter coat. I +remember when I came home that night (let me see, I began school on +a Monday, and that was two weeks from the next Thursday), I took +off my coat downstairs and laid it on the table in the front entry. +It was a real nice coat--heavy black broadcloth trimmed with fur; I +had had it the winter before. Mrs. Bird called after me as I went +upstairs that I ought not to leave it in the front entry for fear +somebody might come in and take it, but I only laughed and called +back to her that I wasn't afraid. I never was much afraid of +burglars. + +"Well, though it was hardly the middle of September, it was a real +cold night. I remember my room faced west, and the sun was getting +low, and the sky was a pale yellow and purple, just as you see it +sometimes in the winter when there is going to be a cold snap. I +rather think that was the night the frost came the first time. I +know Mrs. Dennison covered up some flowers she had in the front +yard, anyhow. I remember looking out and seeing an old green plaid +shawl of hers over the verbena bed. There was a fire in my little +wood-stove. Mrs. Bird made it, I know. She was a real motherly +sort of woman; she always seemed to be the happiest when she was +doing something to make other folks happy and comfortable. Mrs. +Dennison told me she had always been so. She said she had coddled +her husband within an inch of his life. 'It's lucky Abby never had +any children,' she said, 'for she would have spoilt them.' + +"Well, that night I sat down beside my nice little fire and ate an +apple. There was a plate of nice apples on my table. Mrs. Bird +put them there. I was always very fond of apples. Well, I sat +down and ate an apple, and was having a beautiful time, and +thinking how lucky I was to have got board in such a place with +such nice folks, when I heard a queer little sound at my door. It +was such a little hesitating sort of sound that it sounded more +like a fumble than a knock, as if some one very timid, with very +little hands, was feeling along the door, not quite daring to +knock. For a minute I thought it was a mouse. But I waited and it +came again, and then I made up my mind it was a knock, but a very +little scared one, so I said, 'Come in.' + +"But nobody came in, and then presently I heard the knock again. +Then I got up and opened the door, thinking it was very queer, and +I had a frightened feeling without knowing why. + +"Well, I opened the door, and the first thing I noticed was a +draught of cold air, as if the front door downstairs was open, but +there was a strange close smell about the cold draught. It smelled +more like a cellar that had been shut up for years, than out-of- +doors. Then I saw something. I saw my coat first. The thing that +held it was so small that I couldn't see much of anything else. +Then I saw a little white face with eyes so scared and wishful that +they seemed as if they might eat a hole in anybody's heart. It was +a dreadful little face, with something about it which made it +different from any other face on earth, but it was so pitiful that +somehow it did away a good deal with the dreadfulness. And there +were two little hands spotted purple with the cold, holding up my +winter coat, and a strange little far-away voice said: 'I can't +find my mother.' + +"'For Heaven's sake,' I said, 'who are you?' + +"Then the little voice said again: 'I can't find my mother.' + +"All the time I could smell the cold and I saw that it was about +the child; that cold was clinging to her as if she had come out of +some deadly cold place. Well, I took my coat, I did not know what +else to do, and the cold was clinging to that. It was as cold as +if it had come off ice. When I had the coat I could see the child +more plainly. She was dressed in one little white garment made +very simply. It was a nightgown, only very long, quite covering +her feet, and I could see dimly through it her little thin body +mottled purple with the cold. Her face did not look so cold; that +was a clear waxen white. Her hair was dark, but it looked as if it +might be dark only because it was so damp, almost wet, and might +really be light hair. It clung very close to her forehead, which +was round and white. She would have been very beautiful if she had +not been so dreadful. + +"'Who are you?' says I again, looking at her. + +"She looked at me with her terrible pleading eyes and did not say +anything. + +"'What are you?' says I. Then she went away. She did not seem to +run or walk like other children. She flitted, like one of those +little filmy white butterflies, that don't seem like real ones they +are so light, and move as if they had no weight. But she looked +back from the head of the stairs. 'I can't find my mother,' said +she, and I never heard such a voice. + +"'Who is your mother?' says I, but she was gone. + +"Well, I thought for a moment I should faint away. The room got +dark and I heard a singing in my ears. Then I flung my coat onto +the bed. My hands were as cold as ice from holding it, and I stood +in my door, and called first Mrs. Bird and then Mrs. Dennison. I +didn't dare go down over the stairs where that had gone. It seemed +to me I should go mad if I didn't see somebody or something like +other folks on the face of the earth. I thought I should never +make anybody hear, but I could hear them stepping about downstairs, +and I could smell biscuits baking for supper. Somehow the smell of +those biscuits seemed the only natural thing left to keep me in my +right mind. I didn't dare go over those stairs. I just stood +there and called, and finally I heard the entry door open and Mrs. +Bird called back: + +"'What is it? Did you call, Miss Arms?' + +"'Come up here; come up here as quick as you can, both of you,' I +screamed out; 'quick, quick, quick!' + +"I heard Mrs. Bird tell Mrs. Dennison: 'Come quick, Amelia, +something is the matter in Miss Arms' room.' It struck me even +then that she expressed herself rather queerly, and it struck me as +very queer, indeed, when they both got upstairs and I saw that they +knew what had happened, or that they knew of what nature the +happening was. + +"'What is it, dear?' asked Mrs. Bird, and her pretty, loving voice +had a strained sound. I saw her look at Mrs. Dennison and I saw +Mrs. Dennison look back at her. + +"'For God's sake,' says I, and I never spoke so before--'for God's +sake, what was it brought my coat upstairs?' + +"'What was it like?' asked Mrs. Dennison in a sort of failing +voice, and she looked at her sister again and her sister looked +back at her. + +"'It was a child I have never seen here before. It looked like a +child,' says I, 'but I never saw a child so dreadful, and it had on +a nightgown, and said she couldn't find her mother. Who was it? +What was it?' + +"I thought for a minute Mrs. Dennison was going to faint, but Mrs. +Bird hung onto her and rubbed her hands, and whispered in her ear +(she had the cooingest kind of voice), and I ran and got her a +glass of cold water. I tell you it took considerable courage to go +downstairs alone, but they had set a lamp on the entry table so I +could see. I don't believe I could have spunked up enough to have +gone downstairs in the dark, thinking every second that child might +be close to me. The lamp and the smell of the biscuits baking +seemed to sort of keep my courage up, but I tell you I didn't waste +much time going down those stairs and out into the kitchen for a +glass of water. I pumped as if the house was afire, and I grabbed +the first thing I came across in the shape of a tumbler: it was a +painted one that Mrs. Dennison's Sunday school class gave her, and +it was meant for a flower vase. + +"Well, I filled it and then ran upstairs. I felt every minute as +if something would catch my feet, and I held the glass to Mrs. +Dennison's lips, while Mrs. Bird held her head up, and she took a +good long swallow, then she looked hard at the tumbler. + +"'Yes,' says I, 'I know I got this one, but I took the first I came +across, and it isn't hurt a mite.' + +"'Don't get the painted flowers wet,' says Mrs. Dennison very +feebly, 'they'll wash off if you do.' + +"'I'll be real careful,' says I. I knew she set a sight by that +painted tumbler. + +"The water seemed to do Mrs. Dennison good, for presently she +pushed Mrs. Bird away and sat up. She had been laying down on my +bed. + +"'I'm all over it now,' says she, but she was terribly white, and +her eyes looked as if they saw something outside things. Mrs. Bird +wasn't much better, but she always had a sort of settled sweet, +good look that nothing could disturb to any great extent. I knew I +looked dreadful, for I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass, and +I would hardly have known who it was. + +"Mrs. Dennison, she slid off the bed and walked sort of tottery to +a chair. 'I was silly to give way so,' says she. + +"'No, you wasn't silly, sister,' says Mrs. Bird. 'I don't know +what this means any more than you do, but whatever it is, no one +ought to be called silly for being overcome by anything so +different from other things which we have known all our lives.' + +"Mrs. Dennison looked at her sister, then she looked at me, then +back at her sister again, and Mrs. Bird spoke as if she had been +asked a question. + +"'Yes,' says she, 'I do think Miss Arms ought to be told--that is, +I think she ought to be told all we know ourselves.' + +"'That isn't much,' said Mrs. Dennison with a dying-away sort of +sigh. She looked as if she might faint away again any minute. She +was a real delicate-looking woman, but it turned out she was a good +deal stronger than poor Mrs. Bird. + +"'No, there isn't much we do know,' says Mrs. Bird, 'but what +little there is she ought to know. I felt as if she ought to when +she first came here.' + +"'Well, I didn't feel quite right about it,' said Mrs. Dennison, +'but I kept hoping it might stop, and any way, that it might never +trouble her, and you had put so much in the house, and we needed +the money, and I didn't know but she might be nervous and think she +couldn't come, and I didn't want to take a man boarder.' + +"'And aside from the money, we were very anxious to have you come, +my dear,' says Mrs. Bird. + +"'Yes,' says Mrs. Dennison, 'we wanted the young company in the +house; we were lonesome, and we both of us took a great liking to +you the minute we set eyes on you.' + +"And I guess they meant what they said, both of them. They were +beautiful women, and nobody could be any kinder to me than they +were, and I never blamed them for not telling me before, and, as +they said, there wasn't really much to tell. + +"They hadn't any sooner fairly bought the house, and moved into it, +than they began to see and hear things. Mrs. Bird said they were +sitting together in the sitting-room one evening when they heard it +the first time. She said her sister was knitting lace (Mrs. +Dennison made beautiful knitted lace) and she was reading the +Missionary Herald (Mrs. Bird was very much interested in mission +work), when all of a sudden they heard something. She heard it +first and she laid down her Missionary Herald and listened, and +then Mrs. Dennison she saw her listening and she drops her lace. +'What is it you are listening to, Abby?' says she. Then it came +again and they both heard, and the cold shivers went down their +backs to hear it, though they didn't know why. 'It's the cat, +isn't it?' says Mrs. Bird. + +"'It isn't any cat,' says Mrs. Dennison. + +"'Oh, I guess it MUST be the cat; maybe she's got a mouse,' says +Mrs. Bird, real cheerful, to calm down Mrs. Dennison, for she saw +she was 'most scared to death, and she was always afraid of her +fainting away. Then she opens the door and calls, 'Kitty, kitty, +kitty!' They had brought their cat with them in a basket when they +came to East Wilmington to live. It was a real handsome tiger cat, +a tommy, and he knew a lot. + +"Well, she called 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' and sure enough the kitty +came, and when he came in the door he gave a big yawl that didn't +sound unlike what they had heard. + +"'There, sister, here he is; you see it was the cat,' says Mrs. +Bird. 'Poor kitty!' + +"But Mrs. Dennison she eyed the cat, and she give a great screech. + +"'What's that? What's that?' says she. + +"'What's what?' says Mrs. Bird, pretending to herself that she +didn't see what her sister meant. + +"'Somethin's got hold of that cat's tail,' says Mrs. Dennison. +'Somethin's got hold of his tail. It's pulled straight out, an' he +can't get away. Just hear him yawl!' + +"'It isn't anything,' says Mrs. Bird, but even as she said that she +could see a little hand holding fast to that cat's tail, and then +the child seemed to sort of clear out of the dimness behind the +hand, and the child was sort of laughing then, instead of looking +sad, and she said that was a great deal worse. She said that laugh +was the most awful and the saddest thing she ever heard. + +"Well, she was so dumfounded that she didn't know what to do, and +she couldn't sense at first that it was anything supernatural. She +thought it must be one of the neighbour's children who had run away +and was making free of their house, and was teasing their cat, and +that they must be just nervous to feel so upset by it. So she +speaks up sort of sharp. + +"'Don't you know that you mustn't pull the kitty's tail?' says she. +'Don't you know you hurt the poor kitty, and she'll scratch you if +you don't take care. Poor kitty, you mustn't hurt her.' + +"And with that she said the child stopped pulling that cat's tail +and went to stroking her just as soft and pitiful, and the cat put +his back up and rubbed and purred as if he liked it. The cat never +seemed a mite afraid, and that seemed queer, for I had always heard +that animals were dreadfully afraid of ghosts; but then, that was a +pretty harmless little sort of ghost. + +"Well, Mrs. Bird said the child stroked that cat, while she and +Mrs. Dennison stood watching it, and holding onto each other, for, +no matter how hard they tried to think it was all right, it didn't +look right. Finally Mrs. Dennison she spoke. + +"'What's your name, little girl?' says she. + +"Then the child looks up and stops stroking the cat, and says she +can't find her mother, just the way she said it to me. Then Mrs. +Dennison she gave such a gasp that Mrs. Bird thought she was going +to faint away, but she didn't. 'Well, who is your mother?' says +she. But the child just says again 'I can't find my mother--I +can't find my mother.' + +"'Where do you live, dear?' says Mrs. Bird. + +"'I can't find my mother,' says the child. + +"Well, that was the way it was. Nothing happened. Those two women +stood there hanging onto each other, and the child stood in front +of them, and they asked her questions, and everything she would say +was: 'I can't find my mother.' + +"Then Mrs. Bird tried to catch hold of the child, for she thought +in spite of what she saw that perhaps she was nervous and it was a +real child, only perhaps not quite right in its head, that had run +away in her little nightgown after she had been put to bed. + +"She tried to catch the child. She had an idea of putting a shawl +around it and going out--she was such a little thing she could have +carried her easy enough--and trying to find out to which of the +neighbours she belonged. But the minute she moved toward the child +there wasn't any child there; there was only that little voice +seeming to come from nothing, saying 'I can't find my mother,' and +presently that died away. + +"Well, that same thing kept happening, or something very much the +same. Once in awhile Mrs. Bird would be washing dishes, and all at +once the child would be standing beside her with the dish-towel, +wiping them. Of course, that was terrible. Mrs. Bird would wash +the dishes all over. Sometimes she didn't tell Mrs. Dennison, it +made her so nervous. Sometimes when they were making cake they +would find the raisins all picked over, and sometimes little sticks +of kindling-wood would be found laying beside the kitchen stove. +They never knew when they would come across that child, and always +she kept saying over and over that she couldn't find her mother. +They never tried talking to her, except once in awhile Mrs. Bird +would get desperate and ask her something, but the child never +seemed to hear it; she always kept right on saying that she +couldn't find her mother. + +"After they had told me all they had to tell about their experience +with the child, they told me about the house and the people that +had lived there before they did. It seemed something dreadful had +happened in that house. And the land agent had never let on to +them. I don't think they would have bought it if he had, no matter +how cheap it was, for even if folks aren't really afraid of +anything, they don't want to live in houses where such dreadful +things have happened that you keep thinking about them. I know +after they told me I should never have stayed there another night, +if I hadn't thought so much of them, no matter how comfortable I +was made; and I never was nervous, either. But I stayed. Of +course, it didn't happen in my room. If it had I could not have +stayed." + +"What was it?" asked Mrs. Emerson in an awed voice. + +"It was an awful thing. That child had lived in the house with her +father and mother two years before. They had come--or the father +had--from a real good family. He had a good situation: he was a +drummer for a big leather house in the city, and they lived real +pretty, with plenty to do with. But the mother was a real wicked +woman. She was as handsome as a picture, and they said she came +from good sort of people enough in Boston, but she was bad clean +through, though she was real pretty spoken and most everybody liked +her. She used to dress out and make a great show, and she never +seemed to take much interest in the child, and folks began to say +she wasn't treated right. + +"The woman had a hard time keeping a girl. For some reason one +wouldn't stay. They would leave and then talk about her awfully, +telling all kinds of things. People didn't believe it at first; +then they began to. They said that the woman made that little +thing, though she wasn't much over five years old, and small and +babyish for her age, do most of the work, what there was done; they +said the house used to look like a pig-sty when she didn't have +help. They said the little thing used to stand on a chair and wash +dishes, and they'd seen her carrying in sticks of wood most as big +as she was many a time, and they'd heard her mother scolding her. +The woman was a fine singer, and had a voice like a screech-owl +when she scolded. + +"The father was away most of the time, and when that happened he +had been away out West for some weeks. There had been a married +man hanging about the mother for some time, and folks had talked +some; but they weren't sure there was anything wrong, and he was a +man very high up, with money, so they kept pretty still for fear he +would hear of it and make trouble for them, and of course nobody +was sure, though folks did say afterward that the father of the +child had ought to have been told. + +"But that was very easy to say; it wouldn't have been so easy to +find anybody who would have been willing to tell him such a thing +as that, especially when they weren't any too sure. He set his +eyes by his wife, too. They said all he seemed to think of was to +earn money to buy things to deck her out in. And he about +worshiped the child, too. They said he was a real nice man. The +men that are treated so bad mostly are real nice men. I've always +noticed that. + +"Well, one morning that man that there had been whispers about was +missing. He had been gone quite a while, though, before they +really knew that he was missing, because he had gone away and told +his wife that he had to go to New York on business and might be +gone a week, and not to worry if he didn't get home, and not to +worry if he didn't write, because he should be thinking from day to +day that he might take the next train home and there would be no +use in writing. So the wife waited, and she tried not to worry +until it was two days over the week, then she run into a +neighbour's and fainted dead away on the floor; and then they made +inquiries and found out that he had skipped--with some money that +didn't belong to him, too. + +"Then folks began to ask where was that woman, and they found out +by comparing notes that nobody had seen her since the man went +away; but three or four women remembered that she had told them +that she thought of taking the child and going to Boston to visit +her folks, so when they hadn't seen her around, and the house shut, +they jumped to the conclusion that was where she was. They were +the neighbours that lived right around her, but they didn't have +much to do with her, and she'd gone out of her way to tell them +about her Boston plan, and they didn't make much reply when she +did. + +"Well, there was this house shut up, and the man and woman missing +and the child. Then all of a sudden one of the women that lived +the nearest remembered something. She remembered that she had +waked up three nights running, thinking she heard a child crying +somewhere, and once she waked up her husband, but he said it must +be the Bisbees' little girl, and she thought it must be. The child +wasn't well and was always crying. It used to have colic spells, +especially at night. So she didn't think any more about it until +this came up, then all of a sudden she did think of it. She told +what she had heard, and finally folks began to think they had +better enter that house and see if there was anything wrong. + +"Well, they did enter it, and they found that child dead, locked in +one of the rooms. (Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Bird never used that +room; it was a back bedroom on the second floor.) + +"Yes, they found that poor child there, starved to death, and +frozen, though they weren't sure she had frozen to death, for she +was in bed with clothes enough to keep her pretty warm when she was +alive. But she had been there a week, and she was nothing but skin +and bone. It looked as if the mother had locked her into the house +when she went away, and told her not to make any noise for fear the +neighbours would hear her and find out that she herself had gone. + +"Mrs. Dennison said she couldn't really believe that the woman had +meant to have her own child starved to death. Probably she thought +the little thing would raise somebody, or folks would try to get in +the house and find her. Well, whatever she thought, there the +child was, dead. + +"But that wasn't all. The father came home, right in the midst of +it; the child was just buried, and he was beside himself. And--he +went on the track of his wife, and he found her, and he shot her +dead; it was in all the papers at the time; then he disappeared. +Nothing had been seen of him since. Mrs. Dennison said that she +thought he had either made way with himself or got out of the +country, nobody knew, but they did know there was something wrong +with the house. + +"'I knew folks acted queer when they asked me how I liked it when +we first came here,' says Mrs. Dennison, 'but I never dreamed why +till we saw the child that night.' + +"I never heard anything like it in my life," said Mrs. Emerson, +staring at the other woman with awestruck eyes. + +"I thought you'd say so," said Mrs. Meserve. "You don't wonder +that I ain't disposed to speak light when I hear there is anything +queer about a house, do you?" + +"No, I don't, after that," Mrs. Emerson said. + +"But that ain't all," said Mrs. Meserve. + +"Did you see it again?" Mrs. Emerson asked. + +"Yes, I saw it a number of times before the last time. It was +lucky I wasn't nervous, or I never could have stayed there, much as +I liked the place and much as I thought of those two women; they +were beautiful women, and no mistake. I loved those women. I hope +Mrs. Dennison will come and see me sometime. + +"Well, I stayed, and I never knew when I'd see that child. I got +so I was very careful to bring everything of mine upstairs, and not +leave any little thing in my room that needed doing, for fear she +would come lugging up my coat or hat or gloves or I'd find things +done when there'd been no live being in the room to do them. I +can't tell you how I dreaded seeing her; and worse than the seeing +her was the hearing her say, 'I can't find my mother.' It was +enough to make your blood run cold. I never heard a living child +cry for its mother that was anything so pitiful as that dead one. +It was enough to break your heart. + +"She used to come and say that to Mrs. Bird oftener than to any one +else. Once I heard Mrs. Bird say she wondered if it was possible +that the poor little thing couldn't really find her mother in the +other world, she had been such a wicked woman. + +"But Mrs. Dennison told her she didn't think she ought to speak so +nor even think so, and Mrs. Bird said she shouldn't wonder if she +was right. Mrs. Bird was always very easy to put in the wrong. +She was a good woman, and one that couldn't do things enough for +other folks. It seemed as if that was what she lived on. I don't +think she was ever so scared by that poor little ghost, as much as +she pitied it, and she was 'most heartbroken because she couldn't +do anything for it, as she could have done for a live child. + +"'It seems to me sometimes as if I should die if I can't get that +awful little white robe off that child and get her in some clothes +and feed her and stop her looking for her mother,' I heard her say +once, and she was in earnest. She cried when she said it. That +wasn't long before she died. + +"Now I am coming to the strangest part of it all. Mrs. Bird died +very sudden. One morning--it was Saturday, and there wasn't any +school--I went downstairs to breakfast, and Mrs. Bird wasn't there; +there was nobody but Mrs. Dennison. She was pouring out the coffee +when I came in. 'Why, where's Mrs. Bird?' says I. + +"'Abby ain't feeling very well this morning,' says she; 'there +isn't much the matter, I guess, but she didn't sleep very well, and +her head aches, and she's sort of chilly, and I told her I thought +she'd better stay in bed till the house gets warm.' It was a very +cold morning. + +"'Maybe she's got cold,' says I. + +"'Yes, I guess she has,' says Mrs. Dennison. 'I guess she's got +cold. She'll be up before long. Abby ain't one to stay in bed a +minute longer than she can help.' + +"Well, we went on eating our breakfast, and all at once a shadow +flickered across one wall of the room and over the ceiling the way +a shadow will sometimes when somebody passes the window outside. +Mrs. Dennison and I both looked up, then out of the window; then +Mrs. Dennison she gives a scream. + +"'Why, Abby's crazy!' says she. 'There she is out this bitter cold +morning, and--and--' She didn't finish, but she meant the child. +For we were both looking out, and we saw, as plain as we ever saw +anything in our lives, Mrs. Abby Bird walking off over the white +snow-path with that child holding fast to her hand, nestling close +to her as if she had found her own mother. + +"'She's dead,' says Mrs. Dennison, clutching hold of me hard. +'She's dead; my sister is dead!' + +"She was. We hurried upstairs as fast as we could go, and she was +dead in her bed, and smiling as if she was dreaming, and one arm +and hand was stretched out as if something had hold of it; and it +couldn't be straightened even at the last--it lay out over her +casket at the funeral." + +"Was the child ever seen again?" asked Mrs. Emerson in a shaking +voice. + +"No," replied Mrs. Meserve; "that child was never seen again after +she went out of the yard with Mrs. Bird." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Stories Of The Supernatural by Wilkins + diff --git a/old/sotsn10.zip b/old/sotsn10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3385125 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/sotsn10.zip |