It worried her to think I was so skeptical when she had given such absolute proofs; the idea of the haunted villa was making her really sick, yet she would not give up her cherished belief in its being haunted. I think she would have been disappointed if any one had come forward and sworn himself the ghost.
I sat a little while pondering her statements. There had been nothing, on the former occasion, to convince me that any intruder, human or spiritual, had been in the villa—except the shadowy imprint of a form on Henry’s bed, and for the proof that it had not been made before the house was cleaned up, I had nothing but her word. As for the death-light and the wailing sounds, I conceived that, in that lonesome, solitary place, two persons of the class to which these belonged, with their excited imaginations reäcting upon each other, might easily persuade themselves of such marvels. Even in this last statement, that both of them had clearly and distinctly seen a white form on the balcony of the room, I did not find much to disturb me. There is nothing better for producing all kinds of shapes and phantoms to a frightened or superstitious eye, than a bright, moonlight night. It is far better than the deepest darkness. The earth is full of weird shadows; the most familiar objects take on an unnatural appearance in the gleaming rays, enhanced in their strange effect by the black, fantastic shadows which stretch away from them. Add to this, a garment of snow spread over every thing. The landscape on which we have rested our gaze, every day, for years, under these circumstances will be as novel to us, as if it were a bit of scenery transplanted from some strange and far country. A vivid fancy, predisposed to the work, can make an excellent ghost out of a rose-bush or a fence-post—a fearful apparition out of the shadow of a cornice heaped with snow. In the present case, not only were the man and his wife in that feverish state in which the eye makes visions for itself, but they were quite ready to link such phantoms with Henry’s room, which they had previously decreed to be the favorite abode of the ghost. A review of the whole case led me rather to be vexed with them, than satisfied there was any reason for the mental “stew” into which they had heated themselves. The only tangible things of the whole medley were—the footprints. If there were actually traces of feet walking about the premises, that was enough to satisfy me—not of a ghost, but of a person, engaged in prying about the villa for some unlawful purpose. I made up my mind to watch for this person, and entrap him. It occurred to me, at once, that one of those dare-devil spirits, to be found in every community, was purposely getting up scenic effects on the premises, for the amusement of spreading the report that the villa was haunted, and exciting the gossip and credulity of the village. I was indignant at the heartlessness of the plan, and resolved, should I catch the perpetrator, to inflict such summary chastisement, as would cure him of his taste for practical joking. The assertion of the woman that the tracks began and ended nowhere—that no one had approached the house, because there were no footsteps coming in from any direction—did not receive entire credit from me. Were that actually the case, then, it was positive evidence that the person was secreted in the dwelling—an idea foolish and incredible on the face of it, for many reasons.
However, I was in earnest, now, about the matter; I would ascertain the truth or explode the falsehood, and make an end of it, before painful reports should reach the ears of friends, or every idle ragamuffin in the country make that hallowed place, consecrated by the ties and memories of the one now gone, the focus of his vulgar curiosity.
“Where is your husband?”
“He’s sortin’ pertaters, or tyin’ up seeds, in the loft.”
“Please call him down, and give me the keys of the house.”
The gardener came, following very reluctantly, at my bidding, while I again entered the villa, and went over every room, stationing him in the hall, so that no one could possibly escape during my visit to the lower and upper floors. I searched from cellar to garret, while Mrs. Scott, with her pale-blue eyes wide open, and affecting a bustling bravery which her looks belied, accompanied me. Once, at a sudden noise, she seized the skirts of my overcoat, but resigned them when I told her it was caused by John’s shutting the front hall-door.
“Dear! dear! there’s rats in the villa, at last!” she exclaimed, removing the cover of a flour-barrel which stood in the store-room. “They’ve been in this flour! I’m sorry, for they’re an awful pest. They’ll make trouble if I don’t watch ’em clost. I believe I’ll pizen ’em. Mrs. Moreland told me to take this flour home and use it up; but we haven’t needed it yet, and I’ve left it here, and now they’ve made pretty work with it.”
“If there are rats here, I shan’t be surprised at all kinds of noises,” I remarked. “Rats are equal to almost any thing. They will tramp like an army of men, or stalk like a solitary burglar. They will throw down plates and cups—like this one, broken on the floor here, since we came here last; muss pillows and drag books out of place. You really will have to keep a sharp lookout.”
“They won’t cry like a child, nor moan like a sick person, nor stand on balconies dressed in shrouds!” observed the housekeeper.