FullReads

“Wal, next mornin’ Cinthy got up and went home, and she kep’ it to herself a good while. Finally, one day when she was workin’ to our house she told Hepsy about it, and Hepsy she told me.”

“Well, Sam,” we said, after a pause, in which we heard only the rustle of leaves and the ticking of branches against each other, “what do you suppose it was?”

“Wal, there ’tis: you know jest as much about it as I do. Hepsy told Cinthy it might ‘a’ ben a dream; so it might, but Cinthy she was sure it wa’n’t a dream, ’cause she remembers plain hearin’ the old clock on the stairs strike four while she had her eyes open lookin’ at the woman; and then she only shet ’em a minute, jest to say ‘Now I lay me,’ and opened ’em and she was gone.

“Wal, Cinthy told Hepsy, and Hepsy she kep’ it putty close. She didn’t tell it to nobody except Aunt Sally Dickerson and the Widder Bije Smith and your Grandma Badger and the minister’s wife; and they every one o’ ’em ‘greed it ought to be kep’ close, ’cause it would make talk. Wal, come spring, somehow or other it seemed to ‘a’ got all over Old-town. I heard on ‘t to the store and up to the tavern; and Jake Marshall he says to me one day, ‘What’s this ‘ere about the cap’n’s house?’ And the Widder Loker she says to me, ‘There’s ben a ghost seen in the cap’n’s house;’ and I heard on ‘t clear over to Needham and Sherburne.

“Some o’ the women they drew themselves up putty stiff and proper. Your Aunt Lois was one on ’em.

“‘Ghost,’ says she; ‘don’t tell me! Perhaps it would be best ef ’twas a ghost,’ says she. She didn’t think there ought to be no sich doin’s in nobody’s house; and your grandma she shet her up, and told her she didn’t oughter talk so.”

“Talk how?” said I, interrupting Sam with wonder. “What did Aunt Lois mean?”

“Why, you see,” said Sam mysteriously, “there allers is folks in every town that’s jest like the Sadducees in old times: they won’t believe in angel nor sperit, no way you can fix it; and ef things is seen and done in a house, why, they say, it’s ’cause there’s somebody there; there’s some sort o’ deviltry or trick about it.

“So the story got round that there was a woman kep’ private in Cap’n Brown’s house, and that he brought her from furrin parts; and it growed and growed, till there was all sorts o’ ways o’ tellin on ‘t.

“Some said they’d seen her a settin’ at an open winder. Some said that moonlight nights they’d seen her a walkin’ out in the back garden kind o’ in and out ‘mong the bean-poles and squash-vines.

“You see, it come on spring and summer; and the winders o’ the Cap’n Brown house stood open, and folks was all a watchin’ on ’em day and night. Aunt Sally Dickerson told the minister’s wife that she’d seen in plain daylight a woman a settin’ at the chamber winder atween four and five o’clock in the mornin’,–jist a settin’ a lookin’ out and a doin’ nothin’, like anybody else. She was very white and pale, and had black eyes.

“Some said that it was a nun the cap’n had brought away from a Roman Catholic convent in Spain, and some said he’d got her out o’ the Inquisition.

“Aunt Sally said she thought the minister ought to call and inquire why she didn’t come to meetin’, and who she was, and all about her: ’cause, you see, she said it might be all right enough ef folks only know’d jest how things was; but ef they didn’t, why, folks will talk.”

“Well, did the minister do it?”

“What, Parson Lothrop? Wal, no, he didn’t. He made a call on the cap’n in a regular way, and asked arter his health and all his family. But the cap’n he seemed jest as jolly and chipper as a spring robin, and he gin the minister some o’ his old Jamaiky; and the minister he come away and said he didn’t see nothin’; and no he didn’t. Folks never does see nothin’ when they aint’ lookin’ where ’tis. Fact is, Parson Lothrop wa’n’t fond o’ inter-ferin’; he was a master hand to slick things over. Your grandma she used to mourn about it, ’cause she said he never gin no p’int to the doctrines; but ’twas all of a piece, he kind o’ took every thing the smooth way.