Wives and Widows; or, The Broken Life

by Ann S. Stephens

"That was a falsehood," I retorted. "Cora told her—I knew she was listening yesterday."

Jessie was as much shocked with me as her father had been. With their exaggerated ideas of hospitality, they considered it little less than a crime to acknowledge that a guest could have any fault.

"Oh, Aunt Matty!" she said, "I never knew you unjust before."

I was forced to go out of the room; my anger was over, and I felt the tears rushing to my eyes. I passed a very uncomfortable day. Jessie and her father came to an understanding; Mrs. Dennison soon had them both under her spell again, and I knew they blamed me exceedingly.

I loved them too well for real indignation; but I was broken-hearted at the idea that this woman could come between Jessie and her love for me.

There was company at dinner. I spent the evening in Mrs. Lee's room—the first comfortable hour I had passed since morning. She did not know that anything had gone wrong, pitied my head, which she was sure ached terribly, and by her sweet and tender kindness made me somewhat more reconciled to life.

I sat in my own room after I left her, but did not retire until very late. I heard the guests go away—heard the different members of the family pass up to their rooms; but still I sat by the window, sad and lonely. At last the clock struck one. I rose, startled into common-sense again, stopped star-gazing, and closing my window, prepared for rest.

Suddenly I heard a noise—very faint, but my nerves were wonderfully acute that night. I opened the door and looked into the hall; as I did so, I saw a figure clad in white glide out of Lottie's chamber, and disappear down the passage.

I fairly thought it something supernatural at first, then I ran out, but there was nothing to be seen. I stole to Lottie's room and looked in; she was sleeping soundly, so I went back to my own apartment. That incident, added to the excitement of the day, kept me awake for hours. I tried to convince myself that it was only one of my ridiculous fancies: but the effort was in vain; I knew that I had seen that white shape steal by—it was no delusion. Who was it? What was it?

I determined to say nothing, feeling certain that everybody would laugh at me. I knew that it was silly, but I could not drive away the terror that chilled my heart. Everything had gone so wrong of late, that quiet house was so changed, that the least thing disturbed me more than events of importance would once have done.