The White Lady (11 page)

For just an instant his heart stood still, and his mind experienced great wonder and doubt. It seemed, in very truth, that he must be looking upon a disembodied spirit, the spirit of the woman who had lived in the old house and was walking the earth again. Then his strong New England common sense, sturdy through the years of poverty and hardship, rose. At once he rejected the feeling. There was some explanation, of course, and he would find it out. He would sift this superstition to its depth and rid the village of a troublesome tradition.

The train had already started to move and in a moment more would be past these grounds and on its way to the station. There was no time to be lost. Gripping the suitcase, he strode from the car, his eyes fixed upon the white object still visible through the car windows. The train was moving faster when he swung himself from the back platform, and without waiting to pick his way, he set out at once for the object of his coming. Over the fence, suitcase and all, he went, and through the dewy grass. Silently and swiftly he moved lest he should disturb this seeming wraith, if living it was and not some odd arrangement of tangible things upon which the moon brought a peculiar light. His speculation was at work, but he could suggest nothing that should give such lifelike form to the old story of the village. He was conscious of a satisfaction that here at last was something real to lay a foundation for so ridiculous a story that held a whole village in fear. Then he came nearer, his eyes still fixed upon the luminous white object, and out of the evening the form grew more distinct as he drew nearer, until a girl, fair and lovely, stood before him in the moonlight. He could see the perfect profile now, with a dark cedar for background, a wave of hair outlining one delicate ear, the exquisitely molded hand holding back the soft white drapery, and over all the unearthly light.

He paused and caught his breath. Almost he could believe she was a spirit, so ethereal did she seem, so motionless and beautiful, as she stood looking out over that silver sheet of water, with dewy sparkles all about her feet and an early firefly over her head, matching its little light against the moon. It did not seem as if she could be ordinary flesh and blood.

Then he came a step nearer, and she turned and faced him.

He looked at her and saw that she was a real woman, alive and lovely. What could it mean? Did some insane person secretly live in the old house and come out at night, haunting the place? Or was she a poor creature that had fled from something terrible in her life and was taking refuge here from the world? Not from sin she had committed, surely, for the face into which he was looking was pure and true. But he must know what it meant.

His voice was stern and commanding when he spoke at last.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he asked, and to himself it seemed that he had spoken almost harshly.

But the girl was not frightened, apparently, nor did she scream and turn to run away, nor fade like a wraith. Instead she turned quickly and faced him.

“I might ask the same of you,” she said coolly. “I happen to be on my own premises.”

Puzzled, wondering, abashed by her manner, John Endicott paused. She had made him feel that he was the intruder, not she. And yet what had he gained, and how could he go away without sifting the mystery further? What had she said that would not make matters more sure to the believers in the walking lady? Nothing. She talked as any reasonable ghost might be expected to talk, provided she had killed herself in this house and had chosen to return and walk within its grounds.

No, if he went away now, it would have been better that he had not come. He would not dare mention the occurrence, for it would only confirm the stories that had been going about, and the fear of the poor old house would grow. He must find out what this meant. She was a woman, of course, as real and alive as himself, and she did not look like a maniac. She must be made to explain herself and make it plain why she chose to walk these lonely grounds alone at night and frighten a whole village of harmless people. If she had a secret, he would guard it, but she must explain.

“I beg your pardon,” he said courteously but firmly. “I must understand your presence here. You have asked me who I am. I am the minister of the church, and for the good of this community, I have come here to find out this mystery. Why do you walk about in this strange way and frighten a whole community?”

“You may be a minister,” she laughed, “but I fail to understand why that gives you a right to question me on my own premises. I walk here because I choose to do so. As for frightening a whole community, there does not seem to be anybody frightened but yourself.”

She turned toward the house.

“But—” he said. “I—”

She was gone. A slight rustle; a breath of faint, almost imperceptible perfume; a bending of the grasses; that was all. He stood dismayed, worsted, humiliated, out there in the moonlight. He watched her as she went up the path and into the house. As she stood on the low porch for an instant, her hand on the door latch, he caught the gleam of a diamond flashing on her finger.

He stood still, dazed for a moment. Then he looked up at the old house and saw a candlelight flicker through the windows. Was he perhaps “seeing things,” too, like the rest of the village? Had his recent sorrow and loss of sleep unstrung his nerves?

But he could not stand there, a tall shadow in the moonlight, for some passerby to see and construct another ghostly story about. He must go home. It went strongly against the grain to leave, however, without knowing more about the matter. He was inclined to walk boldly up to the door and knock.

He had never been in quite such a situation before, chasing ghosts through property that did not belong to him, merely for the sake of proving to the community that there were no ghosts. He told himself that he should have minded his own affairs and then there would have been no trouble.

Altogether, his spirits were much depressed as he wended his way to Mrs. Bartlett’s little brown house, and a sharp pang of sorrow went through him as he thought that the person to whom he would like to have told this strange adventure was gone from the earth.

Mrs. Bartlett laid down the paper she was reading and opened the door, looking over her glasses at him speculatively. She would have liked to ask him the particulars of his mother’s death and the funeral, but he was always so brief about such things. She would rather he were a little more of a gossip. The next morning she told her neighbor that the minister looked “kind of peaked” when he came home. She “guessed he felt his ma’s death,” though she “couldn’t see why he should; he had been away from her a good many years.”

There was not much comfort for John Endicott in Mrs. Bartlett’s home. Her house was clean, however; and she gave him plenty to eat. He never complained, even when the meat was warmed over three times, nor said how tired he was of stewed prunes. She thought that what was good enough for Mr. Bartlett was good enough for the minister—“he didn’t hev to work near’s hard’s Hiram, anyway—just make a few calls and talk a little while on Sunday.” That was Mrs. Bartlett’s estimate of a minister’s labors.

Mrs. Bartlett set forth for her boarder sour bread, weak tea, strong butter, tough meat, heavy gingerbread, and sloppy prunes, remarking significantly as she did so, that the train must have been late. He made no attempt to satisfy her curiosity, however; and betook himself to his room as soon as possible.

His room was small and overcrowded with his books and papers. Mrs. Bartlett never meddled with his things, and missionary circulars lay in undisturbed confusion over table and floor and window seats, wherever he chose to lay them down. They lay so now, just as he had left them two weeks ago when he hurried off in response to the terrible telegram that lay on the top of all, there on his table. He caught sight of it and groaned as he flung himself into the cane-seat chair before the pine table that served as a study desk. The whole dreadful two weeks passed before his mind in a flash. The confusion in the room served to deepen the feeling of desolation.

He seemed to see everything in it with his eyes shut and knew just how dismal it all looked: the red-and-green carpet carefully darned in places, and a great patch wrong side out just in front of the door; the rows of dusty books on the unpainted pine shelves along the wall; the hard little lounge that was a foot too short for him; the framed picture of his theological professors, and another of his seminary class; the cracked blue paper window shades. All were as plain to him as if his eyes were open, and the yellow telegram focused itself as the center of all this desolation, even though his face was buried in his folded arms upon the table.

He went over it all again, the journey, the deathbed, the funeral, and his heart grew sick within him.

He rose quickly and went over to the cheap oak bureau. There was a white towel on the bureau for a cover and his mother’s picture stood there, the only ornament in the room. A neat and ugly strip of rag carpet lay in front of the bed. On this rag rug beside the patchwork-covered bed, the minister knelt.

He had been wont on cheery days to call his quarters pleasant ones, and himself fortunate to have got them at such a possible price; this when he wrote to his mother and made as bright a picture of his life as he could find it in his conscience to do. But on this sad night of his return, the whole place looked bare and desolate.

He buried his face in the small, lumpy pillow and cried to God for help. He felt so alone and so suddenly weak and unable to cope with the world that seemed against him sorely.

Long he knelt there and brought every burden, for he was accustomed to talking with his Lord “face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend.” Then, comforted, he lay down to rest.

W
hen Constance reached the house, she was trembling from head to foot, whether from fright or from anger, she scarcely knew. At first, when she turned around and faced the strange man in the moonlight, she was frightened, and expected to be seized by the throat and choked, perhaps, or gagged and robbed, but when she saw his suitcase and noticed that he was respectable looking, her fears were quieted. When he spoke, she recognized the tones of a gentleman, and then she began to be angry.

It was ridiculous of him to think a woman could do any harm, even if she were walking at night on land that did not belong to her near an old deserted house. So she had passed by him with a grand air, and entered the kitchen.

Norah was flying around, putting away dishes on a shelf that she had washed to receive them, and Constance felt that she must either laugh or cry at once, so she lighted another candle and went swiftly upstairs. It had suddenly come over her what the man must have meant as she remembered the story Jimmy had told her of the white lady. She had entirely forgotten it and thought the stranger most meddlesome.

But now she saw it all. The man had thought her the ghost who haunted the house, and the whole thing took on a funny aspect. She wanted to laugh aloud. But it might frighten Norah, so she must not tell her.

She stole to the window and looked out into the moonlit world. The man was just striding away through the darkness of the cedars, his head bent down, his whole tall form drooping. Something familiar in the form hovered about her memory. What was it? Where had she seen someone like this man? She turned from the window and threw herself upon the couch, and before she knew it she was fast asleep. Norah, coming up a little later, shaded the candle, threw a light shawl over her mistress, and left her so.

It was broad daylight when they both awoke to the thundering noise of men banging on the door below. The first load of furniture had arrived. The painter came also and said his paper hangers would soon be there, as they had gone after their paste and tools. Constance went about directing, too busy to stop for breakfast, though Norah made her a cup of coffee and sent Jimmy, who soon appeared, to the store for supplies. It was a busy day, and by night, confusion seemed to reign everywhere, save in the room that Constance had chosen for her own. That, Norah had attacked and made shiningly clean the first thing and had seen to it that her young mistress’s furniture was duly set up. She meant that Constance should have a quiet resting place as soon as possible. It was her loving instinct to care for one who had been good to her.

By night everybody in Rushville knew that someone was moving into the old haunted house, and many were the speculations concerning the people who would be willing to live there.

The owner of the drugstore made an errand over to see whether he had left a shovel in the house, one that had been missing ever since he moved. His coarse red face and hard blue eyes appeared at the door during the morning while Constance was alone for a moment in the kitchen, and made her start unpleasantly. She answered his questions coldly, gave him permission to search for his shovel, and withdrew at once; but the man went back to give a report of her that would have made her writhe if she could have heard it. He was much struck by her beauty, and boasted of her friendliness. And so the knowledge of her coming spread in ways of which she little dreamed.

Constance had selected for the long, high room on the right of the hall a creamy paper covered with wide-spreading palm branches that seemed to be alive in their feathery greenness. The native paper hangers shook their heads over this design, sighed, and said of course they would put it on if she said so, but they wouldn’t be responsible for the way it would look, and then stood back in amazement at the effect they had produced when their work was done. It required a wider opening of the artistic in their souls to appreciate it, yet they could but confess that the whole room was lovely. The palms spread like a grove all about. It did not seem like paper; it was like great trees growing all about the room.

The men turned to Constance, who stood looking the room over critically, well pleased with the outcome of her experiment, and with one accord they gave her their homage. Thenceforth, during the rest of their work she was “the missis,” and they spoke of her proudly, as if they had found their fit leader. They asked her advice instead of taking their own way, and they praised her at the firehouse in the evening when they lounged to smoke and talk.