John Endicott’s train was nearing the station, and familiar objects presented themselves. He could see the old lumberyard, the icehouse off at the side, and one corner of the supply store steps, but a freight car hid the rest. He turned to the other side of the track, marveling at the advance of spring during his absence. It was growing dusk, but the moon had risen and was shining in glory over everything. It bathed the little pond and island behind the old haunted house and made the dark cedars stand out primly, like sentinels set to guard the place. He placed his face close to the windowpane and peered out to see whether he could tell if the grass was green. He lifted his suitcase, ready to get out. He had no need for such haste, save that he wished to get away from the loneliness that seemed to be threatening to overwhelm him. To come back to Rushville and to know that there would be no mother a hundred miles away praying for him, to whom he could write and who would write him long cheering letters asking about his work and planning for the time that would never come now, when she could be spared to leave her daughter and the baby and would come to make a real home for him, it was all hard. It was no wonder that John Endicott looked out of the window and tried to take an interest in the spring growth of grass. But now, as he looked, a strange object met his gaze. Out of the moonlit slope of grass, glistening with diamond drops, there appeared a patch of light. It seemed a kind of focusing of the white mist that was rising from the silvery pond, and it took the form of a girl, slender and white-robed.
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.