“Think of our dear little children,” she kept saying, “sentenced to have a stepmother; I would come back and haunt you if you perpetrate such a cruelty to me and mine.”
Adam had little faith in a hereafter, and less in ghosts, so he readily promised anything, vowing eternal celebacy cheerfully and profoundly.
When Yolande did finally fade away, she died reasonably happy, and at least died bravely. She never shed a tear, for it is against the code of the Pennsylvania Mountain people to do so–perhaps a survival of the Indian blood possessed by so many of them.
Three days after the funeral Adam hied himself to Ebensburg to “settle up the estate,” but also to look up Alvira Hamel, who was now living there. She seemed glad to see him, and when he broached a possible union she acted as if pleased at everything except to go on to that lonely farm on the polluted Clearfield Creek.
By promising to sell out when he could and move to Barnesboro or Spangler, a light came in her dark eyes, and though he did not visit the lawyer in charge of his late wife’s affairs, his day in town was successful in arranging for the new alliance with his sweetheart of other days.
In due course of time it was discovered that the equivalent of Yolande’s share of the pot of gold left by old Jacob Loy was not to be found. “She may have kept it in coin and buried it in the orchard,” was some of the very consoling advice that the lawyer gave.
At any rate it was not located by the time that Adam and Alvira were married, but the bridegroom[bridegroom] was well to do and could afford to wait. After a short trip to Pittsburg and Wheeling the newly married couple took up housekeeping in the big brick farmstead above the creek.
The first night that they were back from the honeymoon–it was just about midnight and Alvira was sleeping peacefully–Adam thought that he heard footsteps on the stairs. He could not be mistaken. Noiselessly the door opened, and the form of Yolande glided into the room; she was in her shroud, all white, and her face was whiter than the shroud, and her long hair never looked blacker.
Along the whitewashed wall by the bedside was a long row of hooks on which hung the dead woman’s wardrobe. It had never been disturbed; Alvira was going to cut the things up and make new garments out of them in the Spring. Adam watched the apparition while she moved over to the clothing, counting them, and smoothed and caressed each skirt or waist, as if she regretted having had to abandon them for the steady raiment of the shroud.
Then she came over to the bed and sat on it close to Adam, eyeing him intently and silently. Just then Alvira got awake, but apparently could see nothing of the ghost, although the room was bright as day, bathed in the full moon’s light.