and her attendant never seemed even to suspect that I should dislike sleeping so far from all companionship, I was ashamed to confess my superstitious feelings, and called out a careless “Good night” to them down the passage, just as if I were quite at my ease. And, yet, when I saw their light disappear down the stairs, I shut my door with a nervous thrill I could not account for, and cast an apprehensive glance at the great oriel window near my door.
It was a fearful night. The wind and rain were beating heavily against the windows, and the storm rolling noisily round the old house, filling its echoes with strange rumbling sounds, and then moaning away along the passages to beat back with redoubled force against the clattering shutters and windows. I do not know what I feared, but strange influences were at work within me, and as I drew back the curtains to enter my bed, I think no apparition staring from behind them would have surprised me much. Having made up the fire, till it blazed brightly and strong, and went roaring lustily up the chimney, despite the wind and rain, I lay down to rest, and happily being well tired with my day’s exertions, soon fell fast asleep. How long I slept, I do not know, but I woke to find my fire slumbering in ashes, and a noise of voices and steps in the passage next my room.
Trembling in every limb with the strange sensations moving round me, I rose in my bed and listened. There were children in the passage! Yes, I heard their little pattering feet running up and down; and though I could distinguish no words, there was a sound of infantine voices. It was not real, that sound, not loud nor strong, but more in the air, about me, and yet moving in the passage! What children could they be, I thought, playing at this hour in this dark, stormy night, in the passages of this abandoned castle? There they run again past my door; one little hand touches it as they pass; now a burst of childish laughter rings out—but stop—up the stairs I hear, or rather feel, some one coming, a rustling of silks, a shuffling of feet, and the little unearthly footsteps pass on to meet it. On it comes, I hear the little ones join it, and the rustling of the silks and the sweeping of the train stop before my door. I hear mutterings and sounds, and the laugh of a child high up, as if the presence that had joined them had raised the little one in its arms. Then follows a kiss quite audible in the midnight air, and the window shaken by the wind seems to open, and I hear a scream and a plunge and wild waters rising, and a woman’s cry in the depths of the moat below, mingling with the moans of a child. And screams are in the passage, and steps in the distance, and a man’s voice, and a young girl’s, and a child’s, rise in one weird concert loud and strong, and mingle with the sound of the wind, and the howling of the storm.
And now all is still, and on beats the wind, and the rain, and the storm, but the spell of that dark hour seems passed! I throw myself out of bed, and making up my fire, and lighting my candles, dress with trembling hands, and so sitting dressed before the hearth, I await the day. It came at last, bright and fresh, and as I threw open my window to court the morning air, I saw that the whole country seemed renovated beneath the influence of the plentiful rain. The old park bore traces of the ravages of the wind. Several trees torn up by the roots lay scattered beneath the walls of the castle, close to which I could see, by leaning far over the parapet of my window, the cold, dark waters of the old moat. About six o’clock I went down, and found my hostess up and dressed, and evidently much astonished at my early appearance. She was, however, more surprised at my paleness.
“Monsieur n’a pas bien dormi, peut-être?” she asked.
I replied “yes;” but my hesitation and evident fatigue awoke her curiosity, and she questioned me till I told her the whole story of my nightly visitants. Her face visibly changed as I told her of the strange sounds and voices which had disturbed my slumbers, and turning from me to continue her preparations for our morning meal, I heard her murmur: “Pauvre dame, après tant d’années ne peut-elle dormir en paix?” I had caught her words, but no entreaties of mine could draw more from her then; she promised, however, that later she would tell me all she knew.
After breakfast my hostess proposed a visit to the rest of the castle, and we set off together. First she led me through a long suite of saloons, furnished with rare taste and magnificence, though the furniture was of ancient shape, and they had the cold, solemn aspect of uninhabited rooms. The last of these saloons opened into a small crimson-hung boudoir, with a lovely prospect from its low balconied windows, of a wide expanse of park and woodland across the moat. The clump of trees on the opposite side had evidently been cut in former times to give the fair occupants of the room the best advantages of the view; but now they were wild, untrimmed, and uncut; and the traces of former flower-beds were almost hidden beneath the moss, rank grass, and fallen branches of the trees and shrubs. The room itself might have been in constant use, for any appearance of neglect or decay there was about it. The mirror in its silver frame, the silver sconces, the glittering ornaments of the mantelpiece, the floor with its beautiful inlaid designs, the brass and ebony cabinet, were as bright and well-polished as if the lady of the castle was hourly expected to visit her sanctuary. The illusion of the minute was complete. I suddenly found myself transported to the retreat of the high-born Countess of sixty years ago. I almost fancied I heard the rustling of silks, and the tripping of a dainty high-heeled foot along the empty saloons beyond, and that in another second the hanging draperies would be drawn aside to let the Lady of Carlan pass in.
My hostess seemed to enjoy my surprise, and for some minutes looked on in silence. At last, beckoning me across the room, she drew aside a curtain, and pointed to a picture on the wall. It was the portrait of a lady, and underneath the escutcheon on the gilded frame was written, “Gabrielle de Plessie, Comtesse de Carlan.” Very beautiful and very haughty was the young Countess, with her fair hair and flashing eyes, and short curling lip. On her head, thrown back with an