“Well, tell me all, at once, then, and let me judge.”
Again she gave a cautious look about, as if invisible guests might hear and not relish her revelation, drew her chair a little nearer mine, and said, impressively,
“The house is haunted!”
“Is that all?” I asked, feeling quite relieved, for her manner had startled me in spite of myself.
“It’s enough!” was the significant response. “To tell you flatly, sir, John’s about concluded to write to Mr. Moreland, and give up the situation.”
“Your husband! is he so foolish, too? There are no such things as haunted houses, Mrs. Scott; and to give up a permanent and excellent home like this, upon any such idle fancy, seems to me very unwise.”
“Goodness knows I’ve liked the place,” she cried, bursting into tears, “and that we don’t know what to turn to when we leave this. But I’m worn out with it—I can’t stand it no longer! You see how unsettled I am now.”
Unsettled enough, certainly, from the usually composed and self-reliant woman in whose judgment I had placed considerable confidence.
“You haven’t told me any thing to prove your assertion. I don’t believe in ghosts, I warn you; but I’d like to hear your reasons for thinking the villa has got one.”
“I always made fun of ghosts, myself, and so did John, until this happened. He won’t own up now, ’cept that he’s ready to leave the place, and won’t go in with me in broad daylight, to ’tend to the rooms. So I know he’s just as scairt as I am. And you know John’s no coward with any thing he can see or handle, and it’s no disgrace to a body to be shy of onearthly things. I’m a bold woman myself, but I ain’t ready to face a spook.”