“I quite agree with you, Frances,” he said: “though certainly nobody would accuse the good folk about here of too much imagination or nerves. Hard work have I to impress them in any way, yet it is an undoubted fact that stolid souls of this kind are often absurdly superstitious. They are too conservative, perhaps, or too stupid, to invent new ideas. If they would hark back a little further still, one would have better ground to work upon.”
“Mr Ferraby,” said Betty, “you’re becoming quite a Radical.”
“No, no, my dear,” he replied, “have I not just said that I wish they would retain some of the belief in the supernatural, even if mingled with some superstition, which the last century did so much to destroy? That is what I meant to imply, though I did not express it clearly. Yes,” he went on, replying to her former remark, “I have of course heard the talk about old Miss Morion’s unrestful condition. But,”—and, had it been light enough to see his faded blue eyes more clearly, a gleam of mischief, akin somewhat to the recent sparkle in Betty’s own orbs, might have been discovered—“you are not quite on the right tack. It is not the house, but this church which the poor lady is said to frequent. Indeed, the very spot where we are seated is said to be her favourite resort.”
Betty almost screamed, and even Frances and Eira involuntarily drew closer together, for there was no denying the creepiness of their old friend’s information under present circumstances.
“No,” said Eira eagerly, “I never heard that. Have you any theory to account for her coming here? Can it be that she wants to be shriven for her misdeeds, and that she chooses the spot where, Sunday after Sunday, she accused herself of being a miserable sinner?”
“Come now, my dear,” said the old man, “don’t be too severe upon your dead kinswoman.”
“No,” said Frances, “it isn’t kind, for, after all, we don’t know that she did break her word. The will may have been stolen or suppressed.”
“I beg her pardon, then,” said Eira. “I wonder if she can hear me! Can’t you tell us something more, Mr Ferraby? Does she suddenly appear here, or is she seen coming from the house?”
“I believe,” the vicar replied, “she is supposed to come along the path they call the Laurel Walk, that leads from the side-entrance. A safe place to choose, as it is always dark and shadowy there; and her visits are not restricted to the night, though I forget what is supposed to be her favourite time.”
“Late on a winter’s afternoon, I should say,” remarked Eira. “Just such a time as this, don’t you think?”