“Oh, nothing. Just nonsense, sir; girls will talk, you know, and they told me some queer stories about—about—Will you excuse me, sir; I feel like a fool talking to a man of—”
“Of what? Speak it.”
He looked behind him, and very carefully in the direction of the short passage-way leading to Uncle’s room; then whispered:
“Ask the girls, Mr. Bartholomew, or—or—Miss Wealthy. They’ll tell you.” And was gone before I could hold him back for another word.
And that night I did ask Miss Wealthy, as he called her; and she, probably thinking that since I knew a little of this matter I might better know more, told me all there was to tell about this childish superstition. She had never had any experience herself with the thing—this is the way she spoke of it,—but others had and so the gossip had got about. It did no harm. It never kept any capable girl or man from working in the house or from staying in it year after year, and it need not bother me.
It was then I smiled.
XII
I had some intention at the time of speaking to Uncle about this matter, but I did not until the day he himself broached the subject. But that comes later. I must first relate an occurrence of much more importance which took place very soon after this interchange of words with Wealthy.
I was still in C——. Everything had been going on as usual and I thought nothing of being summoned to my Uncle’s room one morning at an earlier hour than usual. Nor did I especially notice any decided change in him though he certainly looked a little brighter than he had the day before.
Orpha was with him. She was sitting in the great bay window which opened upon the lawn; he by the fireside where a few logs were smouldering, the day being damp rather than cold.