“WELL, HOW DO YOU LIKE MY LOOKS, RICHARD?”
I was interested in watching two things—first, the attachment between Miss Argyll and Lenore; secondly, the persistent effort of James to overcome his first aversion, and his ultimate success. By the second day he had mastered his chagrin at the evident dislike of the child, who could hardly compel herself to be polite to him, and who grew constrained and pale whenever he was near her. James Argyll was not the man to allow a child to slight him with impunity. His indolence was a repugnance to business and study; it was no weakness of the will, for when he set his resolves upon an object, he usually accomplished it. I saw that he had resolved to conquer Lenore. He paid court to her as if she were a “lady of the land,” instead of a little girl; on New Year’s he overwhelmed her with splendid presents; he took her out sleigh-riding with him, in a fancy cutter, which he declared was only just large enough for those two, with chimes of silver bells and a spirited horse. I ought not to have felt grieved that Lenore, also, like the rest of the world, proved faithless to me. But I did. I was more hurt by her growing indifference to me and her increasing fascination for James than the subject warranted. I should have known that rides and dolls, flowers and flatteries, and a dainty little ring for her forefinger, would win any little maiden of eleven; but I had estimated Lenore’s character higher. I had noticed her attractions and repulsions, the former always toward noble and true persons—the latter toward the unworthy. Now, however, my little bird was charmed by the serpent’s eye; she was under the influence of James’ will, and I resigned her.
About ten days after my visit to Mrs. Scott, I kept my promise to her, by returning to inquire about the present condition of Moreland villa. I saw, as soon as I entered the cottage, that her mind was preyed on by the same convictions which had troubled her on the former occasion.
“If there ain’t at least one ghost in that house, then there never was such a thing, and there never will be—now! You’ve seen for yourself there ain’t a human being in it—and there is something! I’ve seen it and heard it, and you can’t convince a person against them two senses, I reckon.”
“I don’t want to convince you, Mrs. Scott; I only want to convince myself what this thing is which you have seen and heard. Have you had any new revelations?”
“I’ve seen the death-light once since, standing over the house; we saw it, too, shinin’ out of that room—John and I saw that together. We was so set on findin’ out whether it was spirits or not, we mustered up courage to go through the house ag’in the next day, and as sure as you’re settin’ there, something had been back and laid down on that bed ag’in—something light, that scarcely made a dent—you needn’t tell me’t was any human mortal, which it wasn’t. We’ve heard children cryin’, too, which is an evil omen, the dream-book says; an’ to clap the climax, Mr. Redfield, there’s no use keepin’ it back—we’ve seen the ghost!”
I was now as interested as the woman could desire; she had stopped, mysteriously, after making this grave declaration, and sat looking me in the eyes. I returned her gaze with one of silent inquiry, leaning a little forward in my chair. Mrs. Scott smoothed her apron absently, with her large hands, still looking into my eyes, as if she saw the ghost in their distending pupils. I made up my mind that I was going to hear either something of ridiculous shadowyness magnified into an apparition, or something which would give some tangible clue to the mystery, if there was a mystery, of Moreland villa.
“You have been fortunate,” said I. “What was it like, pray?”
“You’ve noticed there was a little balcony under the windows of Henry’s room?”