Merry little Floy went dancing like a sunbeam through the dark oak
grove, and sat down to rest on the porch before she entered the house
for her night’s vigil.
She rested there while the full moon rose over the tree-tops, silvering
the scene with an unearthly light, and throwing fantastic leaf-shadows
on the short green grass. It was like an enchanted palace, so calm,
so quiet, undisturbed by any sound save the plaintive call of a
whip-poor-will away off in the dim, silent woods.
She mused a little soberly on the events of the day.
“That big coward, Otho Maury, I was beginning to fancy myself in love
with him, but--I despise him now!” curving a red, disdainful lip. “And
how I fooled them all! They really thought I was attempting suicide!
Ha, ha! But how splendid Maybelle’s _fiancé_ was; how brave, how cool,
and if only--he wasn’t engaged, I believe I should have lost my heart
to him--so there!”
Perhaps she _had_ lost her heart to him anyway, in spite of Maybelle,
for she could not get the thought of the big, handsome, brown-eyed
fellow out of her little curly head, and she recalled with a sudden
warm wave of color rushing to her face the audacious frankness of the
words he had said to her in the water, answering her saucy jest:
“I’m sure the experience would be delightful, and if you like to try it
when we are safe on land, I shall be most happy.”
Floy had thrilled with sweet ecstasy at his daring words, and now she
said, audaciously:
“Yes, I--I _should_ like to try it! I should throw my arms around
his big neck and hug him tight, and kiss his sweet, brave lips, the
beautiful hero, only----” and the words trailed off into a deep sigh at
the sudden thought of Maybelle, who stood between them.
And like a dash of cold water came the memory of Otho’s words.
Beresford was angry with her for the joke she had played, and would
like to shake her for a naughty, saucy little vixen.
“Let him try it--that’s all!” she exclaimed, shaking her bright head
defiantly, then leaning it half despondently on her arm.
Wearied by the pleasures of the long, bright day, she sunk into slumber.
Sweet dreams came to her there in the fragrant gloom of the warm spring
night.
To her fancy she was walking with St. George Beresford in a beautiful
rose garden.
Overhead there leaned a sky all darkly, beautifully blue, while little
fleecy clouds tempered the golden brightness of noon.
From afar there came to her the soft murmur of the sea blended with
low, soft music divinely sweet and tender--the music of love.
All around her were the rarest roses filling the summer air with
fragrance--roses intwining shady bowers of lattice-work, roses
wreathing triumphal arches, roses bordering long winding walks,
delicious thickets of roses so dense that the sun’s rays had not yet
dried the dew from their velvet petals.
On her head was a wreath of pink roses, at the waist of her beautiful
fleecy white gown, were white and pink ones blended in exquisite
contrast.
By her side, with his arm about her slender, supple waist, walked
handsome St. George Beresford.
They were lovers.
And in this beautiful rose garden they seemed to be as much alone as
Adam and Eve were in Eden.
No faintest sound of the great surging, wicked world intruded on the
delicious solitude--nothing came to their hearing save the low murmur
of the distant sea, that soft music breathing the soul of love, and
the song of birds mating and nesting in the rose-trees that shook down
their bloomy petals in rosy clouds over every path.
They did not miss nor want the world in this Eden. They were all in all
to each other, this beautiful pair of lovers.
They roamed here and there with their arms about each other, speaking
but little, only now and then Beresford would pause to draw her into
his arms and caress her, murmuring between ardent kisses:
“My only love, my bride!”
Beautiful, dark-eyed, jealous Maybelle Maury was forgotten just as
entirely as though she had never existed. They were blissfully happy
in this dream that Floy was dreaming there that May night in the grim
shadow of Suicide Place.
But suddenly a dark, portentous cloud overspread the sky, and a low
rumble of thunder shook the earth.
The soft voice of the sea changed to a hollow roar, as though a storm
were lashing its waves into fury, and the tender music wailed itself
into silence like the cry of a broken heart. The winds rose and lashed
the rose-trees in a furious gale, till the air was full of their flying
petals and spicy perfumes. The song-birds fled affrighted, and their
little nests were dashed upon the ground.
“Oh, I am so frightened! Save me!” sobbed pretty Floy, clinging to her
fond lover, who clasped and kissed her again, whispering that there was
no danger for her while he was by his little darling’s side.
But at that very moment a flash of lightning irradiated the gloom, and
Floy saw a woman dashing toward her in insane fury.
She had the dark, beautiful, jealous face of Maybelle Maury, and she
rushed between them and thrust Floy away.
“Go, girl, go! He is mine, mine, mine!” she was crying, madly, when all
at once Floy awoke, as we do in dreams at some moment of unbearable
grief and woe.
Her dream had been only half a dream, after all.
The moonlight was darkened by clouds, there was low, rumbling thunder,
followed by flashes of lightning, and a fitful rain was driven into the
porch by the wayward wind, wetting Floy’s face and hands and dress. It
was this that had woven itself in with her dream and awakened her to
unpleasant reality.
Dazed and wondering, she sprung to her feet, and it was several minutes
before she could realize her position.
Then it came to her that Maybelle had dared her to spend a night alone
at Suicide Place, and she had vowed she would do it.
She had come and fallen asleep on the porch and dreamed that exquisite
dream that was so lovely until--Maybelle came.
“How strange that I should dream of Maybelle’s lover--and dream that he
was _mine_!” she murmured, wonderingly, as she hurried into the house
out of the muttering storm.
Fortunately she had brought some matches, and she knew that there was
a lamp in the parlor, so letting herself in, she hurriedly lighted the
lamp, throwing its feeble glare on the dark oak furniture of the long
apartment.
“Whew! what a musty old place!” she ejaculated, throwing open a
window, heedless of the fine mist of rain that came blowing in, mixed
with delicious fresh air and gusts of delicate perfume from great
lilac-trees outside loaded with white and purple blooms.
Then she uttered a cry of dismay and looked back half fearfully over
her shoulder at a piano in a dark corner.
The lid was closed, but from the keys were coming low, discordant
sounds, as of music played by childish hands all ignorant of time or
tune. It was terrible, that sound, and Floy, who had never known fear
before, felt as if ice-cold water were trickling down her spine.
Then a quick suspicion came to her, and running straight to the
instrument, she threw back the lid.
Several mice that, alarmed by her entrance, had been running up and
down the keys, producing discordant notes, jumped out upon the floor
and ran away into the dark corners with little frightened squeaks.
Floy laughed aloud merrily:
“Just as I suspected, after my first moment of terror at that sudden
sound. But a cowardly person would have sworn it was a ghost playing
the piano. I wonder if that discord was the sweet music I heard in my
dream?”
She threw herself into a large easy-chair cushioned in leather, and
closed her eyes.
“I am not the least bit afraid--not the least,” she declared aloud.
“But I wish I could go to sleep again and dream the first half of that
lovely dream.”
But slumber refused to visit her eyes again. She felt preternaturally
wide awake.
Rising, she paced up and down the room, listening to the muttering of
the storm outside, and the wild rain driving against the creaking old
windows.
Several old family portraits hung against the walls, and the eyes of
those buried ancestors seemed to follow her up and down with grim
curiosity as she moved to and fro.
Such a thing will seriously annoy one sometimes. The eyes of a portrait
may take on a living look, and render one horribly nervous when alone
at midnight.
Those following eyes, so persistent in their stare, annoyed Floy, and
gave her the same creepy chill down her back that she had felt when the
mice scurried over the piano keys.
She could not resist a sudden longing to escape from the room, and from
the grim scrutiny of her pictured ancestors.
Taking the lamp in her hand, she started out to explore the house.
Hurrying along the draughty hall, and in and out of the musty old rooms
familiar to her childhood, the girl tried to dispel the shadow that
began to fall on her spirits like an ominous cloud.
Presently, over the roar of the storm outside, her voice rang out in a
loud, wild, terrified shriek thrice repeated--then awful silence.