“You just acknowledged that there was no reason—that it was fancy, Mrs. Scott.”
“You’re goin’ to trip me over my own words, Mr. Redfield. It was fancy, at first, just nervousness; but lately—lately, as I said, there’s been things—”
“What things?”
“I know you’ll laugh at me, sir; and you won’t half believe me, neither—so I guess I’d better not make a fool of myself before you. But if you, or any other livin’ person, had seen what I seen, and heard what I heard, then you’d know what I know—that’s all!”
She spoke with such evident earnestness, and I had hitherto felt so much respect for the sturdy strength and integrity of her New England character, that my curiosity was somewhat aroused. I thought best to let her quiet herself, however, before leading her to converse about the subject most on her mind, as I saw that she still trembled from the fright I had given her by my sudden knock at the door.
“How’s the place getting on since the winter weather set in? I suppose your husband had the plants housed long ago. Has he been making any changes with the grounds? I suppose not, since the family has so completely deserted the villa. I came out to-night to take a look at it. This is the twenty-third of December, do you remember?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ of it all day, Mr. Redfield.”
“It’s terrible to see the house standing there in silence and darkness, to-night. There seemed to me something ghostly about it—I could not endure it. Have you been through the rooms lately?”
This last question I asked without any other object than to keep up the conversation; she had started and looked curiously at me, when I casually used the figurative expression of “ghostly,” and now she shook her head.
“I’ve not been through the house lately,” she said. “I ought to go, I know—it wants airin’, and there’s bedclothes and things in the closet wants lookin’ after.”