AT GOBLIN HALL
Little Owlet, though a young child, was an old traveler. Before she met
her benefactress the days of her life that had not been spent in hotels
and theaters had been passed in steamboats and railway trains. So to her
there was none of the novelty that so much delights children. Yet she
could not but enjoy the rapid motion through a beautiful country just
bursting into leaf and blossom all over the land.
Mr. Merritt’s friendly care had supplied Roma with all the new
magazines, and for Owlet a basket of fruit and confectionery.
But Roma refrained from cutting the attractive pages, and gave herself
up to the entertainment of her little traveling companion, and she was,
in her turn, amused with the quaint remarks of the little owl.
The day passed without incidents other than the usual events of railway
travel. This was an express train, and stopped only at the most
important stations.
At two o’clock in the afternoon they had luncheon brought in from the
restaurant car, and served on a little side table laid between Roma and
Owlet’s seat. Even this manner of meal, so new and delightful to most
children, had no charm of novelty for this little theatrical waif. She
ate and drank with the solemnity of “an old stager,” and afterward took
George Thomas from his basket and fed him. Then she settled herself back
in her big chair to take an after-dinner nap, like the proverbial and
plethoric alderman.
Roma cut the pages of a magazine, and read.
The child slept on, lulled by the motion of the cars, until the sun set,
when she opened her eyes to find her benefactress absorbed in the pages
of her magazine.
“Don’t you know you ought not to read when the train is in motion?” she
gravely demanded.
“Why not, ma’am?” inquired Roma.
“If anybody but you had asked such a question I should think they were
not possessed of common sense.”
“But you have not answered my question, and really I would like to be
informed why I ought not to read when the cars are in motion.”
“Why, because it will ruin your eyes.”
“Oh, but how do you know that, ma’am?”
“Because mamma always said so, and eyes were business with her. She had
to take care of her eyes and keep them beautiful, to please people who
came to see her dance in pantomime.”
“I understand, and am convinced.”
“Why, mamma would never read in the cars, or by gaslight, or even when
she was lying down; she was so careful of her eyes. She used to——”
Here the child’s voice, that had been quivering, suddenly broke down,
and she sank on the floor, hid her face in the cushions of the chair,
and broke into sobs and tears.
Roma gently lifted and gathered little Owlet to her bosom, bent tenderly
over her, but spoke no word, for she felt it was best not to do so.
Presently Owlet’s paroxysm of emotion exhausted itself, and she got off
Roma’s lap, went back to her chair, wiped her eyes, and said,
penitently:
“Anybody might think I was not possessed of common sense, to behave so
before the whole carload of people, and set them all to staring.”
The men and women, and even the children among their fellow passengers,
had been looking at the tempestuous passion of grief in the little girl,
but when they saw her black dress trimmed with crape they looked in
compassion, not in curiosity.
Roma really did not know what to say to this unique child, but only
gazed on her with eyes full of love and sympathy.
The sun went down behind the line of mountains toward which they were
being rapidly whirled.
The porter came into the car to light the lamps, and the illumination
within prevented them from seeing the beauty and brilliancy of the
starlight night around them.
They crossed a spur of the Alleghany Mountains without getting a view of
their grandeur, and rushed westward into the high-hilled and deep-valed
and heavily wooded country in which Goblin Hall is situated.
Owlet went to sleep again.
Many of their fellow passengers dozed in their chairs.
In the sleeping car ahead of them people were going to bed.
Roma felt too anxious to think of sleeping. The nearer she approached
the house where she was to meet Will Harcourt, and hear his
vindication—for she was sure that his statement would be a perfect
vindication of himself—the more restless and impatient she became. She
had only written her letter to him on the day before her journey. She
knew that he could scarcely yet have received it, and that if he should
start for Goblin Hall immediately on the receipt of her summons it must
be from twelve to eighteen hours yet before he could arrive there. Yet,
still, she was impatient to get to the end of her journey, as if she
expected to meet him then and there.
It was nine o’clock when they reached Pine Hill Junction, where they
left the main line for the little train that passed Goeberlin in its
course.
Owlet woke up to change cars, but went to sleep again as soon as they
were settled in their new seats, and slept until they reached Goeberlin,
at ten o’clock.
There she woke up, bright and alert, and seized the dog basket, with her
precious bull pup.
It was very dark at the little station, only one light showing itself
from the front of the small ticket office and waiting-room.
“Pompous Pirate” was there with the old family carriage, and “Puck” with
a farm wagon.
He left his steady horses and came up to the train as it stopped.
“All well, Pompous?” inquired Roma, as she handed Owlet down to the
astonished negro, and then stepped to the platform.
“Perfec’ly well, mist’ess. Who’ chile dis yere?”
“A little friend of mine. Here, take these checks, and get our baggage,”
said Roma, who had loaded herself with two bags, an umbrella and a
shawl.
“Dere, gimme dem fings, too, an’ yo’ go inter de station, mist’ess. I’ll
’ten’ to all dese.”
Roma gave up her burdens, including Owlet’s dog basket, and led Owlet up
and down the platform to benefit by the balmy evening air.
The train moved off on its westward journey and left them there.
So prompt was Pompous that in less than fifteen minutes he came up and
said:
“All yeady to go now, mist’ess.”
Roma followed him to the end of the platform at which the carriage
stood—because it could come no nearer—and entered it.
Pompous lifted the child in, shut the door, mounted to his seat on the
box, and started his horse.
Puck followed with all their baggage, in the wagon, and so they drove on
under the starlit sky, along the five-mile road, up and down the heavily
wooded hills and dales that lay between Goeberlin and Goblin Hall.
Roma looked out as they approached the house, but she could only see the
dim outline of the roof and walls and three or four bright lights
gleaming through the windows, upstairs and down.
When the carriage stopped before the front the door was opened, showing
the interior of the lighted hall and the tall, solemn figure of
“Serious,” standing on the threshold.
Owlet was now so sound asleep that she had to be lifted from the
carriage and carried into the house, in the arms of Pompous.
“Do not wake the child, if you can possibly help it. Lay her on the
broad lounge in the parlor,” said Roma as she stepped from the carriage.
“How do you do, Ceres?” she cheerfully inquired of the kill-joy who
stood there to receive her.
“Fanky, miss, I do as well as I kin in sich a mis’able worl’ as dis. An’
how do yo’ do yo’se’f? An’ so yo’s got home sabe, w’ich is mo’ dan I
looked fo’. An’ did Mis’er and Missis Gray an’ de chillun get drowned at
sea, goin’ to furrin countries?”
“Oh, no. They arrived safe, and were all quite well when I heard from
them, a week ago.”
“Well, dat’s mo’ dan I ’spected, too,” said Serious, in the tone of
saying, “And more than they deserved.”
“Well, come in, young mist’ess, or yo’ll be gettin’ ob yo’ deaf ob
col’.”
“What! On this fine April night?”
“Ap’il weader is ’ceitful, young mist’ess—moughty ’ceitful,” said the
sorrowful philosopher, as she opened the door of the oak parlor, where a
pleasant fire was burning and a neat supper table was set.
An armchair was placed near the hearth. A broad lounge stood against the
wall, and on it lay Owlet, fast asleep.
Pompous had left the room to help Puck to bring in the baggage and to
stable the horses.
“I do not think I want supper, Ceres,” said Roma, as she drew off her
gloves, took off her bonnet, and sank down into the armchair.
“An’ now who de name ob de Lor’ is dis chile?” demanded Serious, for the
first time noticing Owlet.
“A little girl whom I’m going to take care of for a while,” answered
Roma.
“Whose chile is she, den, shove off on to yo’ mist’ess?”
“She is an orphan.”
“Oh, Lor’! I hope yo’ ain’t gwine to ’dop’ her, young mist’ess.”
“Unless her grandmother, who is a wealthy English woman, should claim
her, I certainly shall.”
“Oh, Lor’ young mist’ess! Yo’ doane know wot yo’s a-doin’ ob! Raisin’
udder people’s chillun! Oh, Lor’! She gwine be a heap o’ trouble, ’deed
she is. Heap o’ trouble. She gwine to hab de measles, an’ de scarlet
feber, an’ de whoopin’ cough, an’—an’—an’—all dem dere. Oh, young
mist’ess, sen’ her to de ’sylum.”
“I must put her to bed. Is there a fire in my bedroom?”
“Sartin, ma’am. But yo’ gwine to put dat chile inter yo’ own bedroom?”
“Yes, and into my bed. She has slept with me ever since her poor mother
died. Now take a candle and light me upstairs,” said Roma, as she
tenderly lifted the child from the lounge and carried her out.
Serious, moaning and groaning, and predicting all sorts of calamities
from the presence of the unconscious child, went up before her mistress
and opened the bedroom door.
Roma laid the child on the outside of the bed and began to undress her
so softly and deftly that Owlet never fully waked up, but only sighed
with relief at being able to stretch out her tired limbs.
“Open that bag on the floor and give me the little nightdress out of
it,” said the lady.
Serious groaned, and obeyed.
And Roma, having gently slipped the dainty white cambric gown on the
small sleeper, turned down the bed and tenderly laid the little one
within it.
Then she dismissed Serious for the night, and disrobed, and retired to
rest, and—thanks to the day’s fatiguing journey—she also,
notwithstanding her anxiety, sank to sleep.
“Oh! oh! oh!”
These words were the first sounds heard by Roma when she awoke on the
morning after her arrival at Goblin Hall.
She looked up, and saw little Owlet standing, in her white nightgown, at
the front window, which, with her usual innocent assurance, she had
taken the liberty to open.
“Well, little one, up so early?” said Roma cheerfully.
“Oh, look! look! look! Did you ever? Did you ever? Did you ever?”
exclaimed Owlet, in a rapture of delight, not once turning her eyes from
the something that entranced her.
Surprised at this outburst of wild enthusiasm from the usually grave and
non-admiring child, Roma stepped out of bed and went to the window.
She saw nothing unusual there, only the sunlit heavens and earth, the
deep blue sky, with a few soft white clouds, the green, wooded hills and
vales, and, nearer the house, gently sloping uplands covered with
orchards of apple, peach and cherry trees in full blossom, making a
forest of pink and white and red bloom; and just under the window the
newly set flower beds, with the early spring crocuses, pansies, violets,
tulips, jonquils, daffodils and hyacinths, just breaking into bloom.
Yet Roma understood that to the city child all this must seem
enchanting.
“Oh, it’s like heaven! Isn’t it like heaven? Isn’t it the Garden of
Eden, where Adam and Eve used to live? Oh! I could just jump out of the
window into it all! Oh! I must put on my clothes and run out into it
all! I must! I must! I must! George Thomas is asleep in his basket.”
And she dressed herself more quickly than she had ever done in her life,
and, without thinking of asking leave, she darted downstairs and out of
the front door.
For a few minutes Roma watched her from the window, doubtful lest the
little savage might not, in her eagerness to possess herself of some of
these marvelous treasures, root up and trample down Pompous Pirate’s
parterres.
But, no. Roma was surprised and pleased to see the effect their beauty
had upon the child, how she suddenly stood still and looked down on the
budding daffodils, how tenderly she touched them with the tips of her
lingers.
Roma called to her:
“Catherine!”
She looked up, her face full of light.
“Do you want to pull some of those flowers?”
“Oh, no! no! no! I wouldn’t hurt the darling things for the whole world!
Oh, do put on your clothes and come down and see the sweet things close
by!” she exclaimed.
But now another figure appeared upon the scene—Pompous Pirate, with a
large watering-pot. Seeing the child on the edge of his parterre, he
naturally enough feared damage to his treasures.
“Wot yo’ doin’ yere, long o’ my f’owers, little missis?” he demanded,
rather crossly.
“Looking at them,” answered Owlet, with the light of joy fading from her
face.
“Well, min’, now, doane yo’ pull none o’ dem! Doane yo’ do it! I woane
’low no chillun to ’buse my f’owers. Year me good, doane yo’?”
“If you think I would hurt the dear things you are not possessed of
common sense,” said Owlet indignantly, as she turned and entered the
house.
Roma soon joined her in the oak parlor, where the breakfast table was
set. Roma had not witnessed the scene between the child and the
gardener, for she had turned away from the window at the moment the man
had appeared with his watering-pot; and now she was too much occupied
with thoughts of an impending interview with Will Harcourt to think of
asking Owlet why she had left the flowers so soon.
Owlet, on her part, was no telltale, and so Roma never knew how the
child had been offended by the servant.
Will Harcourt might be expected some time to-day. If there had been no
delay in the mail, if her letter had reached him on time, and if he had
acted promptly on it, and started on the journey to Goblin Hall, he
might reach Goeberlin by the eleven o’clock train.
When Ceres came in with the breakfast tray Roma said:
“I wish you to send Pontius to me.”
A few minutes later, while the lady and the child were seated at
breakfast, the man came in.
“I wish you to go with the carriage to meet the eleven o’clock train at
Goeberlin. I expect a visitor,” she said.
“An’ ef de wisitor doane come by dat train, mus’ I wait fo’ de fo’
train?” inquired the man.
“No, you must come back; and in that case I will send Puck to meet the
four,” said Roma, who knew one weakness of her factotum, and did not
wish to expose him to temptation by allowing him to remain in reach of
strong drink for five idle hours in the village.
That morning Roma could settle herself to nothing. So she gave herself
up to the pleasure of the child, and walked with her through the
old-fashioned garden, with its affluence of rose bushes, shrubs, vines,
and flowers of every description, though only the earliest were now in
bloom, with its many sorts of sweet herbs and its many small fruits, the
whole garden fenced in by a thick hedge of raspberry bushes, now in full
blossom.
Owlet looked at them with amazed delight, turning her enchanted eyes
from the white blooming hedge of raspberry bushes to the white
blossoming bed of strawberry vines, and murmuring softly to herself:
“Oh, what glory! what glory! what glory!”
Roma could walk beside her and take care of her, but could scarcely
enter into sympathy with her. Her anxiety grew more and more intense and
absorbing as the morning wore on toward the hour at which she might
expect the return of the carriage with Will Harcourt. That would, at the
latest, be at half-past twelve.
She had ordered dinner to be ready as early as two o’clock, thinking
that would be better than a luncheon for the tired traveler.
At twelve o’clock she led little Owlet back to the house, and leaving
the child to amuse herself with her pup, sat down at one of the front
windows that commanded a view of the avenue leading to the house, to
watch for the approach of the carriage.
Presently she saw the carriage coming. All her powers of self-control
could not lessen the violent beating of heart and brain, or dispel the
cloud that came over her sight, or still the tremor of her whole frame.
She left the window and hurried to the door.
The carriage drove up the avenue and drew up before the house.
There was no one in it!
For a moment the strong woman grew faint with disappointment and dark
foreboding, but with an effort she recovered herself, and recollected
that he might yet come by the 4 P.M. train, or even by the 10 P.M. The
coachman got down from his box and said:
“Dere wasn’t nobody at all got out’n de keers at Goeberlin, mist’ess.”
“Did you remember to call at the post office?” inquired the lady.
“Sartin, mist’ess, an’ fetched dis letter—on’y one letter, an’ no papers
nor pamfits. W’ere did I put dat letter ag’in?” inquired the man, in
perplexity, as he searched pocket after pocket in vain, while Roma stood
waiting—consuming with anxiety.
“Oh, yere it is, arter all, in de linin’ ob my hat!” exclaimed Pompous,
finding the letter and handing it to his mistress.
She knew the handwriting. It was Will Harcourt’s. It was the first
communication he had made to her since that night of their wedding day,
when he had left her on the threshold of their home at Guyon Manor House
to attend Hanson to the boat, as she thought, but after which he was
mysteriously lost to her and to all her friends, until he had suddenly
appeared at Lone Lodge. And even this communication had only been made
on her own demand.
What would it be? Was he coming to her, and when? What would he say?
Would she get to the root of the mystery which had separated them, and
thrown her, bound and captive, into the hands of Hanson?
These thoughts rushed tumultuously through her mind as she seized the
letter, hurried upstairs to her own room, locked the door, threw herself
into a chair, tore open the envelope, and read:
“LADY: I cannot come. I cannot explain. I am accursed from your presence
forever, into the outer darkness of absence and silence.
W. H.”
Roma gazed at these lines in a trance of amazement.
What could they mean? What was the mystery?
Still she could think no evil of him. It seemed impossible for her to do
so.
“This is the worst of all,” she said; “this is the very worst of all. My
poor Will is insane. I can no longer hide the truth from myself. Insane,
and under some strange delusion of which that villain Hanson took
advantage. Oh, Heavenly Father!” she moaned, as a dark cloud of despair
gathered over her spirit, “help him in his great need, and help me! I
must not break down now. I must be strong. Yes, I must be strong,
and—patient.”