GHOST HALL
There is so foul a rumor in the air,
The shadow of a presence so atrocious,
How could a human creature enter there,
Even the most ferocious?
THOMAS HOOD.
“Well, young marster, the road turns right here,” said the driver,
drawing up his mules.
David Lindsay looked out of the wagon.
On his left lay the dark river, with the snow-covered valley beyond it.
On his right towered the stupendous precipice of the Iron Mountain,
cleft down from summit to base, showing a ravine of wildly shattered
rocks, bristling with clumps of stunted cedar trees, all dimly seen in
the darkness of the winter night.
“You don’t call that a pass, do you?” inquired David Lindsay,
incredulously, peering out into the gloom.
“Dat’s de road, young marster, sure’s yer born. Yer better look at it
good, ’fore yer make up yer mind to try it.”
David Lindsay drew in his head and spoke to his companion.
“Look out and tell me if you still persist in going on,” he said.
“I will look out just to please you, but I am bent on going on!” she
replied, as she came forward and gazed up the ravine.
“Well?” inquired young Lindsay.
“Well, it looks threatening—very! But I said that I was bent to go on!
Where the mules can go, I can go,” she persisted.
“Drive on!” exclaimed the young man to the driver.
Tubal did not “drive,” however. He slowly descended from his seat and
came to the mules’ heads and led them on.
It was well, perhaps, that the heavy wagon-cover concealed the terrors
of the road that otherwise must have been discovered even through the
darkness of the night, and daunted Gloria’s unconquered spirit.
After a precipitous descent and the crossing of the stream, the young
travelers in the wagon became conscious that the road was rising
diagonally up the mountain side.
When they had ascended some considerable distance, David Lindsay put his
head out to peer through the shadows and survey the scene.
He found that they were climbing a steep, narrow road on the face of the
mountain, with a towering precipice on their right and a falling one on
their left, and no room for any vehicle to pass that should chance to
meet the wagon.
He drew in his head and was careful to say nothing to his companion of
what he had seen. A single start of the mules—a misstep—a balk—would be
destruction to man and beast—for over and down the face of the precipice
they would go.
Higher and higher they climbed, and climbed for hours and hours.
Then they began to descend—slowly and heavily for perhaps an hour
longer.
Finally old Tubal pulled up his mules, stood to recover his breath, and
then came to the front opening in the cover of the wagon, and said:
“Well, young marster, here we is at the gate lodge o’ Ghost Hall, or
Debbil’s Den, whichebber yer likes for to call it. I’ll let yer out
here, young marster, for I tell yer good, no money yer could pay down to
me would ’duce me to pass t’rough dem dere gates ob hell!”
“Come, come, Tubal, don’t use such strong language before a young lady,”
said David Lindsay, as he descended from the wagon and helped his
companion to alight.
“I don’t use no stronger language than what de good book uses anyways.
Help me to lift de trunk out, young marster.”
“Let us see first whether there is any one up in the gate-house,” said
David Lindsay, as he left the side of the wagon.
Then he suddenly stood still gazing.
The sombre scene around them had a weird glamour that spell-bound him to
the spot.
“What place is this?” he muttered to himself. “It is like a place seen
in a dream. It might be a place in some other planet, in some dead
earth, or extinct sun!”
It was an awful scene! Mountains rose on every side, their bases clothed
with dark forest.
Nearer and dimly visible under the overclouded night sky, towered
hideous black rocks, and dark, spectral pine trees that seemed to take
goblin shapes in the obscurity. Far back on the right hand, from the
midst of these, and scarcely to be distinguished from them, loomed the
roof and chimneys of Gryphynshold.
The utter silence as of death that reigned over all, added to the gloom,
approaching horror, of this stupendous scene.
David Lindsay turned from it with a feeling of superstitious awe, to the
formidable iron gate in the stone wall that ran along the old park on
the right hand of the road.
The gate was not locked, but hung heavily upon its strong, rusty hinges,
shut by its own weight.
On the right of this gate some outlines of an old lodge could be dimly
seen among clustering cedar trees.
But no light appeared to indicate where door or window might be.
“De old ’oman has gone to bed hours ago, most like,” pleasantly remarked
the wagoner, as David Lindsay passed through the iron gate and the wild
thicket of cedar bushes and rapped at the door of the dark house.
“Who is there?” almost immediately inquired a voice from within.
“Nobody to hurt yer, ole mist’ess!” shouted Tubal, who was leaning up
against a post of the gate, utterly refusing to enter the haunted
grounds. “Nobody to hurt yer, ole mist’ess! Yer knows me—Tubal Cummings,
from Wolf’s Gap Ferry. I done fotch a young lady and gempleman here
what’s come to wisit yer.”
There was a sound of movement in the dark house, and presently a light
gleamed through the joints of the windows, and soon afterward the door
was opened by an elderly woman, who stood on the threshold, bearing a
flaming tallow candle high above her head, and exclaiming:
“Uncle Tubal! Do you say you have brought visitors here at this place,
at this hour of the night? Who are they, and what do they want?”
“Dat’s jes’ what dey mus’ ’splain for deirselves, Mist’ess Brent. Yer
don’t catch dis ole chile comin’ in dere to tell yer!” exclaimed the
man, beating a retreat to the shelter of his wagon.
“Tell her precisely who we are, David Lindsay. Tell her the exact
truth,” said Gloria, coming to his side.
Young Lindsay went up to the housekeeper and Gloria followed closely.
They could not see the face of the woman, for the candle she held aloft
cast her into deep shadow.
“Let me introduce myself and this young lady, madam——”
“Who are you, then?” abruptly interrupted the housekeeper.
“This is the young lady of the manor. You will probably recognize her
when you look at her, though I hear you have not seen her since she was
seven years old. I have the honor to be her husband, and my name is
Lindsay,” replied the young man.
“Gra-cious Heav-ens!” cried the woman, lowering the candle, and holding
it closely under the stranger’s nose, to the great danger of his silky
beard.
“Look at me, Mrs. Brent, and see if you can remember me,” said Gloria,
with a smile.
The candle was quickly transferred from the danger of singeing David’s
mustache to that of scorching Gloria’s nose, as the old housekeeper
peered into the girl’s face.
“Ye-es. N-no. I don’t know. I see something in the eyes like, but——”
The old woman stopped and put the candle so close to the girl’s brow
that Gloria started and shrank back.
“Pray do not keep the young lady standing out here in this bitter cold.
She is already chilled and weary. Let us come in. We expected to find
you at the house yonder. But that being shut up and deserted, we must
beg shelter from you even here,” persisted David Lindsay.
“Oh, yes, to be sure. Come in. I did not get your letter, indeed I did
not, sir, or I should have been ready for you. But you see Wolf’s
Gap—that’s the nearest post-office—is a long way off, and we never send
there except four times a year, when Mr. Cummings, the overseer, sends
in his quarterly reports. I didn’t get your letter to say you were
coming. I am very sorry, ma’am, that there is nothing better than this
poor house to ask you to, but such as it is, you are welcome,” said Mrs.
Brent, as she led the young pair into a large room, in which a great
fire of hickory logs smouldered luridly in the deep, broad
chimney-place.
She lighted a second candle and placed both on the mantel-shelf, and
then took from a large deal box near the chimney corner a handful of dry
brushwood and put it under the smouldering logs, kindling them into a
ruddy blaze.
Finally she placed two chip-bottomed chairs before the fire and invited
her visitors to be seated.
“So sorry I did not get your letter, indeed, sir,” she repeated, as she
once more stirred the fire.
“We did not write. There was no time. We made up our minds rather
suddenly, one day, to come down here, and we started the same evening,”
said Gloria, as she leaned back in her chair and stretched her
half-frozen feet and hands to the genial blaze.
“Oh, indeed, then, I feel so relieved! Of course, you could not have
expected to find the house prepared for you, and are not disappointed,”
exclaimed Mrs. Brent.
“I am sorry to say that we are rather so; for we expected to find you
living up at the hall, and some rooms at least kept in readiness for
just such a contingency as this,” replied Gloria.
“Living up at the other house! Oh, young lady, you don’t know! But I’ll
say nothing about that now. I am so grieved not to have things
comfortable for you here!”
“Never mind—never mind!” exclaimed Gloria, good-naturedly. “To-morrow is
a new day, and everything can be arranged then. As for to-night, we are
both so tired with our week’s ride that I think we could rest
comfortably in any motionless place. I shall remain here with you, and
Mr. Lindsay will get our wagoner to show him the way to the overseer’s
house, where he proposes to lodge.”
“But that is such a pity, to separate you two! Though, indeed, I have
got only one bedroom—the one above this—there are two beds in it. I and
my niece sleep in one. The other is vacant and at your service, ma’am,
if you don’t object to sharing our room with us,” said Mrs. Brent,
apologetically.
“Not at all! I shall be so glad to lie down anywhere after sitting up
for a week,” answered Gloria.
“But you would like some supper, sir?” inquired the housekeeper, turning
to David Lindsay.
“No, I thank you. We had supper at Wolf’s Gap, and we only need rest.
Gloria, I will go out and speak to the wagoner, and see if he is ready
to guide me to the overseer’s house. I will also get him to help me in
with your trunk,” he whispered, as he arose and left the room.
Gloria now, for the first time since her arrival, looked at the
apartment and its occupant. It was a large, rude place, with a bare,
flagstone floor, bare, unplastered stone walls; in front a heavy oaken
door, flanked by two large windows, whose very sills were stone; a
ceiling with heavy rafters crossing it, and finally, the immense,
yawning fireplace, with its iron dogs supporting the great, smouldering
hickory logs from whence the light blaze of brushwood had already died
away.
The furniture was as rude as the room—heavy oaken chairs and tables, a
spacious dresser with broad shelves reaching from the floor to ceiling,
and furnished with all the crockery ware, cutlery, tin, pewter, and iron
utensils of the little _ménage_.
In another corner a tall, coffin-like old clock stood, with its foot on
the flagstone floor, and its head to the rafters. A rug of home-made rag
carpet lay before the fire, and mats of a similar material lay before
the front and back doors.
That was all. It was a rude, plain room.
From the contemplation of the place Gloria turned to the inhabitant.
The latter was a tall, thin, dark-skinned woman with small, deep-set
black eyes that had a watchful, sidelong, frightened glance, like those
of a person who had suffered one overwhelming terror and was continually
looking out for another. Her hair was quite white and parted smoothly
over her forehead, and confined by a close white linen cap tied under
her chin. She wore a long, narrow, black gown, without a scrap of white
about her neck or hands.
“This is a poor, rude place for you to be in, Mrs. Brent. Surely not to
be compared with the comfortable apartments that must have been assigned
you in the manor house,” said Gloria, compassionately.
“Oh, young lady, don’t mention the manor house. Don’t! You don’t know;
you can’t know. But I’ll say nothing more about that now. Here comes the
gentleman.” David Lindsay had pushed open the door, and was coming in,
holding one handle of the trunk while Tubal Cummings held the other.
They sat it down on the floor, and Tubal immediately bolted, flinging
behind him these words:
“I’ll wait for yer outside the gate, young marster. I can’t stay here,
indeed!”
David Lindsay laughed, saying:
“I had the utmost difficulty in persuading that old man to help me with
the trunk. I had at length to bribe him heavily before he would venture
to do it. And what do you suppose he means to do, after leaving me at
the overseer’s?”
“What?” inquired Gloria.
“Go all the way back to Wolf’s Gap to-night.”
“I know he declared that he would do so; but I did not think he would
keep his word,” replied Gloria.
“Now, dear, in mercy to the old fellow who has such a long way to
return, I must bid you good-night. You, also, need rest so much that you
had better go to bed as soon as possible.” So saying, David Lindsay took
her hand, pressed it and left the lodge.
The old housekeeper stared.
“Is that the way your husband takes leave of you? I never did! I really
never did!” she said.
“We understand each other,” said Gloria, smiling.
“Well, if you do, I suppose that is enough,” muttered Mrs. Brent, who
all this time was busy beating up eggs with sugar in a bowl, while
something spicy simmered in a saucepan before the fire.
Now she took the saucepan and slowly poured its contents over the beaten
eggs in the bowl, stirring thoroughly with a spoon as she poured.
Then she filled a tumbler with the pungent and fragrant compound, and
gave it to Gloria, saying kindly:
“Take this, honey. It is as nice a glass of spiced mulled cider as ever
I brewed in my life. It will warm you all through, and drive out any
cold you may have caught.”
Gloria smiled, and thanked her kind hostess, and took and sipped the
spicy beverage which she found delicious in taste and delightful in
effect.
The housekeeper filled a second glass for herself, and sat down and
sipped it for company.
“I should have offered to make some for your gentleman, honey, only as
he was going out in the cold again it would have done him more harm than
good. Besides, to tell the honest truth, I don’t think such indulgence
in drink is good for young men anyhow. They begin with cider, and are
too apt to end with rum.”
Very much revived and comforted, Gloria finished her mulled cider and
put her glass upon the mantelpiece.
“Now, then, dear, we will go up stairs to bed,” said Mrs. Brent, placing
her own glass beside the other one, and blowing out one candle and
taking the other.
“Are you not going to lock the door?” inquired the visitor.
“Law, child, why? There is no one to molest us—except those that no
locks can keep out. However, I’ll do it to please you,” said Mrs. Brent,
going to the door and turning the key.
“Thank you very much,” said the young lady.
“You’re welcome, honey. Now, then, come to bed,” she added, as she led
the way through the back door to a narrow passage from which a staircase
ascended to the upper room.
Gloria picked up her carpet-bag and followed her conductress.
The room above was of the same size with the one below—like that, the
walls were of hewn stone, unplastered, but the floor was of heavy oak
planks. There were three large windows in front, all hung with coarse
blue and white plaid cotton curtains. There was a fireplace, a size
smaller than the one below; a pine table, with a small standing
looking-glass on it, under the middle window, opposite the fire. There
were two beds in the corners of the room, with their low head-boards
immediately under the two end windows, on each side of the rude
dressing-table.
One of these beds was smoothly made up, as if waiting its occupant. The
other was tumbled and tenanted.
“Come here,” said Mrs. Brent in a whisper, going towards the latter.
Gloria followed her and beheld the sleeper, who, in some restlessness,
had thrown off the cover, revealing her head, breast and arms.
She was a very young girl, with a delicate face and fragile form, fair,
transparent complexion, blooming rosy-red on cheeks and lips, very
light, golden-red hair clustering in glittering tendrils around the
white forehead and roseate cheeks, and with petite features. She would
have been a perfect little beauty but for some irregularities that were
even more piquante and charming than any classic perfection could
possibly be. First, her dark brown eyebrows were of the fly-away
pattern, depressed towards the bridge of the nose and raised towards the
temples. Her tiny nose, no bigger than a baby’s, was the most dainty,
yet the most decided pug that ever was seen. Her upper lip was short,
and her chin pointed. The whole character and expression of the fair,
dainty, petite face, was sly, roguish, mischievous, not to say impish
and malign. One arm, the under one, as she lay upon her right side, was
drawn back with crooked elbow and clenched little fist. The other arm,
the upper one, was thrown over the pillow, also with crooked elbow and
clenched little fist. The attitude of the little sleeping beauty was a
belligerent one.
“Now that’s my niece Philly—Philippa, you know, ma’am—and that’s the way
she always sleeps. Just like a kitten or a puppy that is dreaming of a
fight. Now just you watch!”
With these words, Mrs. Brent took hold of the shoulder of the sleeper,
exclaiming:
“Phil! Phil! Wake up! Move farther! You’ll tumble out of the bed!”
The sleeper gave a little growl and a great bounce, and threw herself
over on her other side, striking another aggressive attitude, and
immediately relapsed into deep sleep. Gloria could not help laughing as
she said:
“She is very pretty and very good-humored, I am sure, notwithstanding
that she dreams of fights!”
“Oh, yes, she is a good girl enough, but an awful trial for all that!”
“Your niece, you said?”
“Yes, my niece,” repeated the housekeeper, as she covered the sleeping
girl and set the candle on the mantelpiece.
Then, while the two undressed and prepared for bed, Mrs. Brent
volunteered some further information.
“You see there’s a good many Cummingses round about here, of a good old
Scotch family, too. Did you never read of the Red Comyns and the Black
Comyns in your school books, honey?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Well these Cummingses are of the same old clan. I was a Cummings myself
before I was married. I am a lone widow now, you know.”
“Yes, I have heard so.”
“Well, I had three brothers. Alexander, who is the landlord and ferryman
and post-master down at Wolf’s Gap; and Ralph, who is your overseer
here; and last of all, poor Cuthbert, my youngest brother, who was the
father of this girl, Philly. He used to drive the stage between Wolf’s
Gap and Hill Top in North Caroliny, but he and his wife have been in
heaven this many a day. Philly used first to live with Aleck at Wolf’s
Gap. I, having no children of my own and being lonesome like, have
adopted the orphan. And a great charge she is to me! Why, ma’am, I had
rather undertake ten boys than one such girl. She rides the wildest
horses; she hunts the worst game. Yes! She rides, shoots and hunts like
a wild Indian! And even dreams of it when she sleeps.”
“I shall like Philly! I am sure I shall like Philly! There is something
in her,” exclaimed Gloria, as she got into her own bed and drew the
cover closely up around her neck, for it was keenly cold up in these
mountain regions, so that the great wood fire scarcely sufficed to warm
the room.
The housekeeper blew out the candle and laid herself down to rest.
Gloria, utterly prostrated with her week’s ride, no sooner laid her head
upon the pillow than she dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep that
lasted until far into the next morning.
When she awoke, at length, the sun was shining in through the blue and
white checked curtains.
She looked around in some confusion on the rude, unplastered walls and
ceiling, the bare oak floor, and the unpainted wooden chairs and table,
quite unable to remember where she was; but in a few moments memory
returned, and she understood the situation.
There was no one but herself in the room, which was now restored to
perfect order, the other bed being made up, the fire replenished, the
hearth swept, and fresh water and clean towels placed on the rude
dressing-table.
“They have all got up and left me to sleep my fatigue off, I suppose,”
she said, as she left the bed and began to make her plain morning
toilet.
She was soon dressed in a dark blue cashmere gown, with white linen
cuffs and collar, and a black bow.
Then she went down stairs and found Mrs. Brent in the lower room, and
seated before the fire engaged in carding wool.
“Good-morning, honey! You have had a real good sleep, and I hope it has
done you good!” she said, rising, and placing a chair to the fire for
her young guest.
“Indeed I have, Mrs. Brent; thank you. It must be very late.”
“Look at the clock, my dear. It is after ten. Well, I am glad you slept
so long. I would not have disturbed you if you had slept all day. Now
you are down I will get you a bit of breakfast in a few moments,” said
Mrs. Brent, as she took up a tea-kettle which was sitting on the hearth
before the fire, and hung it over the blaze, where it immediately began
to sing for boiling.
“Has any one—I mean has Mr. Lindsay been here this morning?” inquired
Gloria.
“Oh, yes, honey. Mr. Lindsay and my brother, the overseer, you know,
were here by seven o’clock this morning; but Mr. Lindsay wouldn’t let
you be disturbed on no account. He asked me to keep everything very
quiet, so as to let you sleep as long as possible, which I am sure I
have done, my dear,” replied the housekeeper while she was taking the
tea-pot and the cannister from the dresser to make the tea.
“Where are they now?” inquired Gloria.
“Oh, they went right off up to the old house to open and air it. Yes,
more than three hours ago,” answered the dame, as she made the tea and
set it to draw.
“When will they be back?”
“Well, when they have done the job, I guess; but I don’t know when that
will be,” replied the dame, as she took two dressed partridges from a
plate on the shelf, and laid them over the fire.
“You see,” she added, as she took a cedar board about the size of a
shingle, and plastered one side of it over with a thick corn-meal
batter, and put it before the fire, propped up by a smoothing-iron. “You
see, they will have to open all the doors and windows from cellar to
garret, and kindle fires in every fireplace—that will take them pretty
much all day.”
“Well, I think, if you will kindly direct me, I will walk up to the
house as soon as I have taken breakfast.”
“I would advise you not to go yet awhile, honey,” said the housekeeper.
And now she became so busy—laying the cloth, then turning the johnny
cake, putting the crockeryware on the table, then turning the
partridges—flying quickly from hearth to cupboard, and from cupboard to
fireplace—that Gloria could keep up no sustained conversation.
“Now, then, sit up and take your breakfast, my dear,” said Mrs. Brent,
when she had at last got the frugal morning meal upon the table.
“These partridges are delicious,” said Gloria, when, with an appetite
whetted by the keen mountain air, she had eaten a half of one.
“Yes, that’s some of Philly’s game! She shot them on Saturday. The imp
is good for something. Only you see, honey, when she goes out I am
always in a dread that she’ll never get back alive. Maybe never be heard
of again until her bones are found bleaching on some rocky ledge!”
“Oh, how dreadful! You ought not to entertain such dismal thoughts!”
“I can’t help it, honey, when that girl goes on as she does!”
“Would you have such fears for a boy?”
“Lord, no! My nephews, Ralph’s boys, go hunting almost every day and
keep the hotel down there at Wolf’s Gap supplied with game; but they are
boys.”
“Well, and she’s a girl.”
“But they know how to take care of themselves.”
“And so does she, I have no doubt, a great deal better than they do. I
like Philly. I am sure I shall like her very much. Where is she now?”
“Oh, gone out with her gun and dogs. What do I tell you? When she isn’t
about some mischief she is dreaming of it.”
“I am her debtor for a delicious breakfast. I will not hear her blamed.
I like Phil better the more I think of her. I admire her all the more
for having such a dauntless spirit in such a little, fragile body.”
Gloria had scarcely spoken these words when there was a sudden and
tumultuous entrance of a girl in a cap, jacket, short skirt, and long
boots, with a game-bag slung over her shoulders, a fowling-piece in her
hands, and a couple of dogs at her heels.
She set her gun down with a ringing clank in the corner, then pulled her
game-bag off and threw it on the floor at the feet of the old lady,
exclaiming:
“There auntie! There’s a treat for your dinner! Eight brace of birds,
and all bagged in less than two hours! Say! have you got any fresh meat
for Æneas and Dido? Good dogs! Good dogs!” she continued, patting the
heads of a fine pointer and a finer retriever.
“My dear, don’t you see a lady present?” said the housekeeper, in an
admonishing tone.
The girl seemed to see the lady for the first time. She fell back a step
or two, dropped her chin upon her chest, turned up her eyes shyly, and
put her finger in her mouth like a stupid and awkward child in the
presence of a stranger.
“Mrs. Lindsay, this young person is my naughty niece, Philippa.”
“I am glad to see you, Miss Cummings,” said Gloria, who could not help
thinking all that awkward shyness was just put on for the fun of the
thing.
“My name is Phil. I don’t know myself by any other name,” replied the
girl, giving her hat a push that cocked it on one side of her curling,
salmon-colored hair, and gave an additional air of impishness to the
mischievous face beneath.
“Then I am even gladder to see you, Phil! Gladder than I should be to
see Miss Cummings. I hope we will be friends. Shall we, Phil?”
“I don’t know—maybe—I think so—if you don’t begin to put on airs with
us,” slowly and condescendingly replied the elf.
“I hope I shall do nothing so silly. Why should you suspect me?”
“Oh, I know you are our young lady of the manor, and have come with your
fine husband, who is a very great man indeed, to take possession of
everything! If the ghosts up there will let you. Ah!” said the imp, with
a malign leer in her beautiful, long, light blue eyes.
“I am truly sorry, but I am really not to blame for being your lady of
the manor. It was a providential arrangement in which I was no more
consulted than I was about being born. I hope you will forgive me for
finding myself in such an obnoxious position, and be my friend,” said
Gloria, with a good-humored sarcasm that seemed to win the impish
creature before her.
“I don’t know what I can do for you. I don’t know how to be anybody’s
friend unless I can do something for them. I can do nothing for you but
keep you in birds and hares and such. That is not much. They are so
plenty in the forests below here,” said Phil, thoughtfully.
“That is much more than I shall be able to do for you.”
“I don’t want anybody to do anything for me, and what’s more, I won’t
have it. I want to do all the doing myself.”
“Oh, you proud little sinner! Well, there is something I want you to do
for me right away. You know the path up to the house. Will you show it
to me?”
“Yes, I will go there with you, but not right away! I must feed Æneas
and Dido first, auntie! I know Uncle Ralph slaughtered an ox last week
and sent a lot of beef. I want a couple of pounds of sirloin for my
dogs, and I am going to get it,” said the elfish being, throwing off her
cap and hurrying out of the back door.
“Now that’s the way, honey, she always does! She’s going to feed them
dogs with the best meat in the house!” complained the old lady.
“Well, the dogs have helped her to provide the finest game,” said
Gloria.
“Ah, I see, my dear, you are going to encourage that girl! I see it
quite plain! Well, I wish you would take her altogether as a seamstress,
or housekeeper, if it were possible she could be either, or in any way
she could be useful or entertaining to you; for, indeed, I am anxious to
get her away from this sort of a wild life that keeps me always in a
fever!”
“Perhaps I may take you at your word, Mrs. Brent, if Phil is agreeable;
but what would you do without her?”
“Oh, first-rate! I would take Marthy, Aleck’s youngest daughter! She’s
older than Phil, and is a first-rate spinner and weaver and seamstress,
and house-girl generally. I could do a deal better with Marthy than with
this Witch-a-windy!”
As the old lady spoke, Phil came in and said:
“Well, I’ve given the beauties one full meal, if they never get another!
And now I am ready to go with you to Gryphynshold, Mrs.—Mrs.—— Oh, look
here now—bosh! You don’t look a bit more of a woman than I am myself,
and if I am to be expected to call you Mrs. What’s-her-name, or
Anything, our compact of friendship is going to fall through.”
“You may call me anything you wish?” said Gloria.
“Well, what is your other name?” demanded Phil.
“Maria da Gloria de la Vera,” repeated the young lady, with a merry
twinkle of her eyes.
“Mar—ree—ar—dar—— Say it over again, please,” exclaimed Phil, stretching
her blue eyes.
“Maria da Gloria de la Vera,” repeated the young lady, repressing an
inclination to laugh.
“Der—lar—Vay—rah! Heaven and earth and the other place! I forget one end
before I understand the other! That will never do! Say, what do they
call you at home, when they are in a hurry, you know, and haven’t got
time to sit down and repeat it all over slowly at their leisure?”
“They call me Gloria.”
“Glo—ree—ah! Well, that is three long syllables—a great deal too long
for a short and busy lifetime! I would rather call you Glo’.”
“Quite right, my dear Phil. You may call me Glo’.”
“It suits you, too, for there’s a glow all around you! Well, then, Glo’,
I am ready to escort you to Gryphynshold, Ghost Hall, Devil’s Den, for
by all these names is your manor house known, lady,” said the strange
girl, as she put on her hat and stood waiting.
“I will be with you in a moment,” exclaimed Gloria, as she started up
and left the room. She ran up stairs to put on her fur sack and cap, and
then hurried down to join her escort.