“Oh, Louise,” she said, “I wish you hadn’t told me to-night. You don’t mind, I know, but—”
“Celia, dearest, I’m so sorry,” said Louise, penitently. “I never knew you minded it either. I was, in a way, glad of it. I fancied it might have some effect on Winifred, even though she only mocks at it. It is curious, for it is a good while since it has been seen. And even if it is only some peculiar shadow, some atmospheric effect, as people try to make out, still—its being seen just now might make Winifred think.”
Celia shook her head.
“She would not allow it, even if it did,” she said. “It’s no good telling her about it. She only gets very cross. When,”—and again she trembled a little—“when was it seen, and by whom, and where?”
“Twice,” said Louise, “just as usual. In the yew-tree avenue. Barbara saw it the first time, and then one of the gardeners—the new one, quite a young man. It is always new-comers who see it. And none of the people about know of it, except Barbara and Horton, and one or two of the very old ones, who never speak of it. Luckily the young man told Horton of it first, and Horton bound him over not to speak of it. He told him he would be laughed at, and so he would.”
“How long ago?” asked Celia.
“Last week. She, or it, was crying quietly, Barbara said. Not violently. So Barbara took it as just a gentle warning—not any very dreadful thing. She is quite satisfied that it was for Winifred.”
“I wish Winifred could see it for herself,” said Celia, with a little not unnatural irritation. She was feeling both tired and frightened. “Louise, you will leave the door wide open between our rooms. I can’t understand your not being frightened.”
“Well, anyway, dear, you know it never comes into the house,” said Louise, reassuringly.
“It never has, that we know of,” said Celia, “but still, if it were much provoked or defied. No, no, Louise, don’t tell Winifred about it. I should be afraid what she might say or do, for she is never frightened of anything.”