HOW MONA, GHOST-LIKE, FLITS THROUGH THE OLD TOWERS AT MIDNIGHT--HOW THE
MOON LIGHTS HER WAY--AND HOW SHE MEETS ANOTHER GHOST MORE FORMIDABLE
THAN HERSELF.
Jenkins, the antediluvian butler, proves himself a man of his word.
There are, evidently, "no two ways" about Jenkins. "Seeking the
seclusion that her chamber grants" about ten o'clock to-night, after a
somewhat breezy evening with her mother-in-law, Mona descries upon her
hearthrug, dozing blissfully, two huge hounds, that raise their sleepy
tails and heads to welcome her, with the utmost condescension, as she
enters her room.
Spice and Allspice are having a real good time opposite her bedroom
fire, and, though perhaps inwardly astonished at their promotion from a
distant kennel to the sleeping-apartment of their fair mistress, are far
too well-bred to betray any vulgar exaltation at the fact.
Indeed, it is probably a fear lest she shall deem them unduly elated
that causes them to hesitate before running to greet her with their
usual demonstrative joy. Then politeness gets the better of pride, and,
rising with a mighty effort, they stretch themselves, yawn, and, going
up to her, thrust their soft muzzles into her hands and look up at her
with their great, liquid, loving eyes. They rub themselves against her
skirts, and wag their tails, and give all other signs of loyalty and
devotion.
Mona, stooping, caresses them fondly. They are a part of her old life,
and dear, therefore, to her own faithful heart. Having partly undressed,
she sits down upon the hearthrug with them, and, with both their big
heads upon her lap, sits staring into the fire, trying to while away
with thought the hours that must elapse before Geoffrey can return to
her again.
It is dreary waiting. No sleep comes to her eyes; she barely moves; the
dogs slumber drowsily, and moan and start in their sleep, "fighting
their battles o'er again," it may be, or anticipating future warfare.
Slowly, ominously, the clock strikes twelve. Two hours have slipped into
eternity; midnight is at hand!
At the sound of the twelfth stroke the hounds stir uneasily, and sigh,
and, opening wide their huge jaws, yawn again. Mona pats them
reassuringly: and, flinging some fresh logs upon the fire, goes back
once more to her old position, with her chin in the palm of one hand,
whilst the other rests on the sleek head of Spice.
Castles within the fire grow grand and tall, and then crumble into dust;
castles in Mona's brain fare likewise. The shadows dance upon the walls;
silently imperceptibly, the minutes flit away.
One o'clock chimes the tiny timepiece on the mantelshelf; outside the
sound is repeated somewhere in the distance in graver, deeper tones.
Mona shivers. Getting up from her lowly position, she draws back the
curtains of her window and looks out upon the night. It is brilliant
with moonlight, clear as day, full of that hallowed softness, that
peaceful serenity, that belongs alone to night.
She is enchanted, and stands there for a minute or two spellbound by the
glory of the scene before her. Then a desire to see her beloved lake
from the great windows in the northern gallery takes possession of her.
She will go and look at it, and afterwards creep on tiptoe to the
library, seize the book she had been reading before dinner, and make her
way back again to her room without any one being in the least the wiser.
Anything will be better than sitting here any longer, dreaming dismal
day-dreams.
She beckons to the dogs, and they, coming up to her, follow her out of
the room and along the corridor outside their soft velvet paws making no
sound upon the polished floor. She has brought with her no lamp. Just
now, indeed, it would be useless, such "a wide and tender light," does
heaven's lamp fling upon floor and ceiling, chamber and corridor.
The whole of the long north gallery is flooded with its splendor. The
oriel window at its farther end is lighted up, and from it can be seen a
picture, living, real, that resembles fairy-land.
Sinking into the cushioned embrasure of the window, Mona sits entranced,
drinking in the beauty that is balm to her imaginative mind. The two
dogs, with a heavy sigh, shake themselves, and then drop with a soft
thud upon the ground at her feet,--her pretty arched feet that are half
naked and white as snow: their blue slippers being all too loose for
them.
Below is the lake, bathed in moonshine. A gentle wind has arisen, and
little wavelets silver-tinged are rolling inward, breaking themselves
with tender sobs upon the shore.
"The floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."
The floor itself is pale, nay, almost blue. A little snow is sifted
lightly on branch, and grass, and ivied wall. Each object in the
sleeping world is quite distinct.
"All things are calm, and fair, and passive; earth
Looks as if lulled upon an angel's lap
Into a breathless, dewy sleep; so still
That we can only say of things, they be."
The cold seems hardly to touch Mona, so wrapped she is in the beauties
of the night. There is at times a solemn indefinable pleasure in the
thought that we are awake whilst all the world sleepeth; that we alone
are thinking, feeling, holding high communion with our own hearts and
our God.
The breeze is so light that hardly a trembling of the leafless branches
breaks the deadly silence that reigns all round:
"A lone owl's hoot,
The waterfall's faint drip,
Alone disturb the stillness of the scene,"
Tired at length, and feeling somewhat chilled, Mona rouses herself from
her reverie, and, followed by her two faithful guardians, moves towards
the staircase. Passing the armored men that stand in niches along the
walls, a little sensation of fear, a certain belief in the uncanny, runs
through her. She looks in a terrified fashion over her left shoulder,
and shudders perceptibly. Do dark fiery eyes look upon her in very truth
from those ghastly visors?--surely a clank of supernatural armor smote
upon her ear just then!
She hastens her steps, and runs down hurriedly into the hall below,
which is almost as light as day. Turning aside, she makes for the
library, and now (and not till now) remembers she has no light, and that
the library, its shutters carefully closed every night by the invaluable
Jenkins himself, is of necessity in perfect darkness.
Must she go back for a candle? Must she pass again all those belted
knights upon the staircase and in the upper gallery? No! rather will she
brave the darkness of the more congenial library, and--but soft--what is
that? Surely a tiny gleam of light is creeping to her feet from beneath
the door of the room towards which she wends her way.
It is a light, not of stars or of moonbeams, but of a _bona fide_ lamp,
and as such is hailed by Mona, with joy. Evidently the thoughtful
Jenkins has left it lighted there for Geoffrey's benefit when he
returns. And very thoughtful, too, it is of him.
All the servants have received orders to go to bed, and on no account to
sit up for Mr. Rodney, as he can let himself in in his own way,--a habit
of his for many years. Doubtless, then, one of them had placed this lamp
in the library with some refreshments for him, should he require them.
So thinks Mona, and goes steadily on to the library, dreading nothing,
and inexpressibly cheered by the thought that gloom at least does not
await her there.
Pushing open the door very gently, she enters the room, the two dogs at
her heels.
At first the light of the lamp--so unlike the pale transparent purity of
the moonbeams--puzzles her sight; she advances a few steps
unconsciously, treading lightly, as she has done all along, lest she
shall wake some member of the household, and then, passing her hand over
her eyes, looks leisurely up. The fire is nearly out. She turns her head
to the right, and then--_then_--she utters a faint scream, and grasps
the back of a chair to steady herself.
Standing with his back to her (being unaware of her entrance), looking
at the wall with the smaller panels that had so attracted him the night
of the dance, is Paul Rodney!
Starting convulsively at the sound of her cry, he turns, and, drawing
with lightning rapidity a tiny pistol from his pocket, raises his arm,
and deliberately covers her.