The White Lady by Grace Livingston Hill Page B

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,