Dead Letter — The Anniversary, part 2

True to my promise, I went the next day to the villa.

Mrs. Scott brought the keys, I unlocked the doors, and together we entered the long-vacant place.

There is always something impressive, one might say, "ghostly," about a deserted building.

When you enter into it, you feel the influence of those who were last within it, as if some portion of them lingered in the old locality.

I confess that I felt an almost superstitious awe and dread, as I stepped over the threshold which I had last crossed with _him_.

How joyful, how full of young and princely life, he had then been, his face lit up, as a man's face lights up when he attends upon the woman he loves and expects soon to make his own!

He was leading Eleanor to a carriage; they had been talking about the improvements they were going to make in the house.

How every look and tone came back to me!

With a silent shudder, I stepped into the hall, which had that moldy smell of confined air belonging to a closed dwelling.

I hastened to throw open the shutters.

When I unclosed a door, I flung it wide, stepping quickly in, and raising the windows, so as to have the sunlight before looking much about.

I had to do it all, for my companion kept close to me, never stirring from my elbow.

I went into every room on every floor, from the kitchen to the garret.

Into the latter I only glanced, as Mrs. Scott said there was nothing up there which she wanted, or which required attention.

It was a loft, rough-floored, of comfortable hight, with a window at the gable end.

The roof ran up sharply in the center, the villa being built in the Gothic style.

There was such a collection of rubbish in it as is usual to such places--broken-down furniture, worn-out trunks, a pile of mattresses in a corner, over which a blanket had been thrown to keep them from the dust, some clothing depending from a line, and three or four barrels.

Mrs. Scott was standing at the foot of the ladder, which led up into the attic out of a small room, or closet, used for storing purposes.

I saw she was uneasy at having me even that far from her, and after a brief survey of the garret, I assured her there were no ghosts there, and descended.

"Help yourself to some of them apples," said the woman, pointing to some boxes and barrels in the room where we now stood.

"They're winter pippins.

John's going to send them into the city, to the family, in a week or two.

We've permission to keep 'em here, because it's dry and cool, and the closet being in the middle of the house, it don't freeze.

It's a good place for fruit.

Hark!

What was that?"

"It was a cat," said I, as I put a couple of the apples in my overcoat pocket.

"It sounded like a cat--in the garret.

If we shut it up there, it'll starve."

I went up the ladder again, looking carefully about the attic, and calling coaxingly to the animal, but no cat showed itself, and I came down, saying it must have been in one of the lower rooms, and had probably run in since we opened the doors.

"It sartingly sounded overhead," persisted my companion, looking nervous, and keeping closer to me than ever.

I had heard the noise, but would not have undertaken to say whether it came from above or below.

"If that is the material she makes ghosts of, I'm not surprised that she has a full supply," I thought.

In going out, the woman was careful to close the door, and I could see her stealing covert glances into every corner, as we passed on, as if she expected, momently, to be confronted by some unwelcome apparition, there in the broad light of day.

There were no traces of any intruders having made free with the house.

The clothes and china closets were undisturbed, and the bureaus the same.

"This was Harry's room; he liked it because it had the best view of the river," said Mrs. Scott, as we paused before a chamber on the second floor.

We both hesitated; her apron was at her eyes, and my own throat swelled suddenly: reverently I opened the door, and stepped within, followed by the housekeeper.

As I raised the window, and flung back the shutter, she gave a scream.

I was really startled.

Turning quickly, I saw her with her hands thrown up, an expression of terror upon her face.

"I told you the house was haunted," she murmured, retreating backward toward the door.

"What do you see?"

I asked, glancing about for the cause of her alarm.

"This room," she gasped--"it was his--and he comes here still.

I know it!"

"What makes you think so?

Has it been disturbed?

If it has, rest assured it has been by the living, not the dead."

"I wish I thought so," she said, solemnly.

"It can not be.

No other part of the house is in the least disturbed.

No one has had admission to it--it is impossible; not a crack, not a cranny, by which any thing but a spirit could have got in.

Harry's been here, Mr. Redfield; you can't convince me different."

"And if he has," I said, calmly, for I saw that she was much agitated, "are you any more afraid of him now than you were when he was in the body?

You loved him then; think you he will harm you now?

Rather you ought to be glad, since you believe in ghosts, that it is a good spirit which haunts these premises--the innocent spirit of the murdered, not the guilty one of the murderer."

"I know it," she said.

"I'm not afraid--I don't think I could be really afraid of Henry's ghost, even if I should see it; but it's so--awful, isn't it?"

"Not to me, at all.

If such things were permitted, I should like to meet this spiritual visitant, and ask him the one question--if, indeed, he could answer it.

I should like to have him point out the guilty.

If his hand could reach out from the spiritual world, and stretch a blasting finger toward his murderer, that would be awful to the accursed one, but it would be welcome to me.

But what makes you think Henry has been here?"

She pointed to the bed; there was a pressure upon it, as if some light shape had lain there--just the faintest indentation of a head on one of the pillows; from thence she pointed to a little writing-table, between the windows, on which a book lay open, and where there were some papers and engravings; then to a pair of slippers standing on the carpet at the head of the bed.

The room was a delightful one, furnished with blue and white--Henry's favorite colors.

Two or three exquisite little pictures hung on the walls, and not the slightest toy occupied a niche in any place but spoke of the taste and refinement which had chosen it.

From the two windows, the view of the river flowing amidst the hills, and the lovely country spreading far away, was such as would satisfy the eye of a poet, turned from the page before him on the little writing-table, to rest upon the fairer page of nature.

"I came into this room the day of the funeral," said the housekeeper, with a trembling voice, "and I sot all to rights, as if the master was coming back the next day.

But little I thought he would really come!

I

spread that bed as smooth as paper; I put on fresh slips on the pillows, and sot 'em up without a dent or wrinkle in 'em; I put his slippers with their toes to the wall, and now they're standin' as he always left 'em when he took 'em off.

Them papers has been stirred, and he's been readin' in that book.

_She_ gave him that, and it was a favorite with him; I've often seen him with it in his hand.

You may shake your head, Mr. Redfield, but _I know_ Henry's been back here in his room."

"If any thing in this room has been disturbed, rest assured there's been some living intruder here.

A spirit would have had no need of slippers, and would have made no impression on your smooth bed."

"You can talk your big words, for you are an edicated man, Mr. Redfield, but you can't convince me against my own persuasion.

It's been no human being has mussed that spread--why, it's hardly wrinkled--you can just see it's been laid on, and that's all.

Besides, how did they get in?

Can you tell me that?

Through the keyhole, mebbe, and went out the same way!"

Her voice was growing sharp and a little sarcastic.

I saw that it was in vain to try to disabuse her mind of its impression while she was in her present excited state.

And, indeed, I had no worthy argument to offer.

To all appearance the rest of the house had been undisturbed;

there was not a broken fastening, a displaced bar of any kind, and nothing missing.

It would seem as if nothing weightier than a shadow had stirred the pillow, and moved about the room.

As long as I could not tell what it _was_, I could not positively assert what it was _not_.

I sat by the open window, while she smoothed the pillow, and placed every article with an exactness which would inevitably betray the slightest disturbance.

"You shall see for yourself, sir, the next time you come here," she muttered.

As I waited, I lifted a little volume, which lay, with others, on the table before me.

It was Mrs. Browning's, and it opened at a page where a book-mark had been left--once I had seen Eleanor embroidering that very mark, I was sure.

The first lines which caught my eye were these: "_It_ trembled on the grass With a low, shadowy laughter;

The sounding river, which rolled forever, Stood dumb and stagnant after."

Just then a cloud swept over the noonday sun; a chill struck through the open window; the wind which blew in, fluttering the page, could not have been more dreary had it blown across a churchyard.

Shivering, I continued to read: "_It_ trembled on the grass With a low, shadowy laughter;

And the wind did toll, as a passing soul Were sped by church-bell after;

And shadows 'stead of light, Fell from the stars above, In flakes of darkness on her face Still bright with trusting love.

Margret!

Margret!

He _loved_ but only thee!

_That_ love is transient, too;

The wild hawk's bill doth dabble still In the mouth that vowed thee true.

Will he open his dull eyes, When tears fall on his brow?

Behold the death-worm in his heart Is a nearer thing than _thou_, Margret!

Margret!"

I know not if the housekeeper spoke to me.

The clouds thickened about the sun; a dampness came in from the air.

I held the book, staring at it, like one in a trance, and pondering the strange coincidence.

Evidently, Henry had read these verses when he last opened the book--perhaps the lovers had read them together, with a soft sigh for the fate of Margret, and a smile in each other's faces to think how safe _their_ happiness was--how far removed from this doleful "Romaunt."

Now would he "open his dull eyes," for Eleanor's tears?

I

seemed to hear the low laugh of the mocking fiend; a more than wintry sereness settled upon the landscape: "_It_ trembled on the floor!"

Yes!

I was fast getting into the mood for believing any thing which Mrs. Scott might assert about the occupant of this chamber.

Emotions which I had never before experienced chilled my heart; shapes began to gather in every obscure corner; when the rising wind suddenly blew a door shut, in the hall beneath, I started to my feet.

"We're goin' to have a stormy Christmas," said my companion.

"It'll suit our feelin's better'n a sunny one, I'm sure.

Hark!

there's my Johnny cryin', I do believe!

I should think his father could keep him quiet a bit, till I get the house shut up again."

"It was that cat, I thought."

"Never mind.

I'm through now, if you please, sir.

Take a look at this room, and fix it on your mind, if you will; and the next time you're out here, we'll open it together."

We reclosed and barred the shutters throughout the house, carefully fastened the doors, once more leaving it to its desolation.

We had seen no ghosts; I do not suppose the woman expected to _see_ any, but I felt certain that her fears were in no manner dispelled.

"You see the place is all right," I said, when I handed her the keys.

"There is nothing in the world to make you uneasy.

I would as soon sleep alone in the villa as in my own room.

I will do it, soon, if you are not satisfied.

All I ask of you is not to write to Mr. Moreland until I have seen you again.

I shall come out before many days, to see how you get along."

"We shall wait until you come again, sir, before we say any thing.

I

feel better, now things are 'tended to.

There's Johnny crying again!

Well, Mr. Redfield, good-by.

It'll snow by the time you get home."

I had a wild walk back to the village--full of lonely magnificence and gloom, which suited my temper.

Gray mists hung over the river and swept about the bases of the hills; gray clouds whirled around their summits;

gray snow came down in blinding drifts; a savage wind seemed to be blowing the universe about my ears.

CHAPTER XI.