It was a pleasant June afternoon that Miss Milly Arnot, principal of the primary department of one of the public schools of San Francisco, having evaded her companions, resolved to put into operation a plan which had lately sprung up in her courageous and mischief-loving fancy.With that wonderful and mysterious instinct of her ***, from whom no secrets of the affections are hid, and to whom all hearts are laid open, she had heard the story of Hawkins's folly, and the existence of the "Idiot Asylum." Alone, on Hawkins Hill, she had determined to penetrate its seclusion.Skirting the underbrush at the foot of the hill, she managed to keep the heaviest timber between herself and the "Blazing Star" tunnel at its base, as well as the cabin of Hawkins, half-way up the ascent, until, by a circuitous route, at last she reached, unobserved, the summit.Before her rose, silent, darkened, and motionless, the object of her search.Here her courage failed her, with all the characteristic inconsequence of her ***.A sudden fear of all the dangers she had safely passed--bears, tarantulas, drunken men, and lizards--came upon her.For a moment, as she afterward expressed it, "she thought she should die." With this belief, probably, she gathered three large stones, which she could hardly lift, for the purpose of throwing a great distance; put two hair-pins in her mouth; and carefully re-adjusted with both hands two stray braids of her lovely blue-black mane, which had fallen in gathering the stones.Then she felt in the pockets of her linen duster for her card-case, handkerchief, pocketbook, and smelling-bottle, and, finding them intact, suddenly assumed an air of easy, ladylike unconcern, went up the steps of the veranda, and demurely pulled the front doorbell, which she knew would not be answered.After a decent pause, she walked around the encompassing veranda, examining the closed shutters of the French windows until she found one that yielded to her touch.Here she paused again to adjust her coquettish hat by the mirror-like surface of the long sash-window, that reflected the full length of her pretty figure.And then she opened the window, and entered the room.
Although long closed, the house had a smell of newness and of fresh paint, that was quite unlike the mouldiness of the conventional haunted house.The bright carpets, the cheerful walls, the glistening oil-cloths, were quite inconsistent with the idea of a ghost.With childish curiosity, she began to explore the silent house, at first timidly,--opening the doors with a violent push, and then stepping back from the threshold to make good a possible retreat,--and then more boldly, as she became convinced of her security and absolute loneliness.In one of the chambers--the largest--there were fresh flowers in a vase, evidently gathered that morning; and, what seemed still more remarkable, the pitchers and ewers were freshly filled with water.This obliged Miss Milly to notice another singular fact, namely, that the house was free from dust, the one most obtrusive and penetrating visitor of Five Forks.The floors and carpets had been recently swept, the chairs and furniture carefully wiped and dusted.If the house WAShaunted, it was possessed by a spirit who had none of the usual indifference to decay and mould.And yet the beds had evidently never been slept in, the very springs of the chair in which she sat creaked stiffly at the novelty; the closet-doors opened with the reluctance of fresh paint and varnish; and in spite of the warmth, cleanliness, and cheerfulness of furniture and decoration, there was none of the ease of tenancy and occupation.As Miss Milly afterward confessed, she longed to "tumble things around;" and, when she reached the parlor or drawing-room again, she could hardly resist the desire.Particularly was she tempted by a closed piano, that stood mutely against the wall.She thought she would open it just to see who was the maker.That done, it would be no harm to try its tone.She did so, with one little foot on the soft pedal.
But Miss Milly was too good a player, and too enthusiastic a musician, to stop at half-measures.She tried it again, this time so sincerely, that the whole house seemed to spring into voice.
Then she stopped and listened.There was no response: the empty rooms seemed to have relapsed into their old stillness.She stepped out on the veranda.A woodpecker recommenced his tapping on an adjacent tree: the rattle of a cart in the rocky gulch below the hill came faintly up.No one was to be seen far or near.Miss Milly, re-assured, returned.She again ran her fingers over the keys, stopped, caught at a melody running in her mind, half played it, and then threw away all caution.Before five minutes had elapsed, she had entirely forgotten herself, and with her linen duster thrown aside, her straw hat flung on the piano, her white hands bared, and a black loop of her braided hair hanging upon her shoulder, was fairly embarked upon a flowing sea of musical recollection.
She had played, perhaps, half an hour, when having just finished an elaborate symphony, and resting her hands on the keys, she heard very distinctly and unmistakably the sound of applause from without.In an instant the fires of shame and indignation leaped into her cheeks; and she rose from the instrument, and ran to the window, only in time to catch sight of a dozen figures in blue and red flannel shirts vanishing hurriedly through the trees below.
