"I—I didn't see a man. I saw a face! I'd finished milkin' Whitey and a'ready 'twas gettin' dark awful fast an' early. I felt the wind blowin' and I knew the back shutters was loose. So I scuttled 'crost to pull 'em to, lest they got blowed clean away, an' there—there—right in the square of window by the old box-stalls was—was—the face! I got one look, 'cause first off I couldn't somehow move hand or foot, an' I saw how white it was, how its eyes blazed, how wild and stand-uppish its hair was, an' it smiled—Oh, what a dreadful smile! An' then I knew 'twas a ghost! It's just the night for 'em, such as I used to hear the old folks talk about out to the 'Farm,' An' which of us do you suppose, oh, which has got to die? 'Cause it's a 'call,' a 'warnin',' to somebody."
The little maid's terror was so real and her mental suffering so intense that the Madam pitied her profoundly, though she smiled as she answered:
"I wish it may prove nothing more troublesome than a 'ghost,' a creature of one's imagination. Ah, my child! When you reach my age you will know that the only 'ghosts' who can really trouble us are our unhappy memories. I suspect that it is one of those 'tramps,' for which Susanna is always looking, but who have thus far avoided peaceful Marsden. Unlucky woman! whose first meeting with her expected 'tramp' should be on such a night and alone. Wind or no wind, she'll make a short journey of the long road home."
Already, safe once more in the sheltered dining-room which was on the side of the house least exposed to the storm and that did not face the outbuildings, the housemistress's confidence returned. If only Montgomery were with her, so, that she knew him also safe, she would have been content. As it was, even, she began to think kindly and pityingly of whatever poor wretch had sought shelter at her door. If he didn't smoke, and so endanger the buildings, she wished he would seek cover with old Whitey till the storm was past.
Meanwhile, one crouching in the hay-strewn bay, hugging a squirming dog for company, and one lying upon a narrow stretcher beneath the eaves,—the missing Katharine and Montgomery listened to the roar of the tempest and believed that the very day of doom had arrived. Neither had ever heard anything like that wind. Indeed, none in Marsden ever had, and the morning was to reveal many ruined buildings and uprooted trees. But thus far the darkness hid all this, and Widow Sprigg raced homeward unharmed save by the rain, which now began to fall in torrents.
Miss Maitland was watching her arrival in great anxiety. She had early secured every door and shutter, save at this one window which commanded the path from the gate. Here she had placed a brightly burning lamp to act as beacon to the wanderers, and she had also set the fire to blazing brightly. Before the fire hung warm clothing for the pair, and, having done all that she could think of for their comfort, she had passed to and fro between the sitting-room and Moses' chamber. He was almost as uneasy as the storm itself; alternately berating himself for a "fool," and speculating upon the deacon's management of affairs at the barn.
"I'll bet—I'll bet a continental he never cut the fodder for the cattle but just give it to 'em hull! He was no 'count of a farmer, the deacon wasn't. Good man, yes. I ain't sayin' he ain't that; but did it ever strike you, Eunice, that most good folks is pesky stupid? Or 'clever' ones, uther? I call it plumb equal to tellin' you you're a reg'lar tomnoddy to say a fellar's uther 'clever' or 'good.' I 'low little stutterin' Monty Sturtevant could ha' done the chores well enough till I get 'round again, an' I could ha' bossed him." Then, after a moment: "But I can't boss the deacon."
"No, you poor old grumbler! I reckon he isn't that kind. And your judgment of your neighbors is a bit extreme. Never mind. It's such a good sign to hear you scold that I'm encouraged to think you'll soon be well again. Now I'll go down and be ready to open the door for Susanna and Katharine. It's terrible to have them exposed to this storm."
But there was nobody visible, and at length Miss Eunice felt assured that she should not see them till the tempest lulled. So she returned once more to the kitchen-chamber, to comfort its occupant and herself as well. She had just remarked, for the third time:
"No! I'm sure Elinor would never let them set out in such weather as this. She has kept them to supper, and I do hope Susanna will have forethought enough to decline the ham and bread she carried for Monty, and confine herself to whatever the family was to have had by itself. Susanna is very hearty, I'm glad to say—"