CHAPTER XLVII
THE END OF THE NIGHT
“The sky is red in the east. Go now, my bairn. Thou art a good child, and brave to dare the ghosts of the old hall and to hear the tale of an old crone. And it is true, bairn; it is true. Do not you give faith to any who tell you it is not and tell you I am mad.”
“I will not. I will believe only you. But before I go tell me—can I do anything for you?”
“Nay, bairn. Nothing, bless ’ee.”
“Where do you live?”
“In the old hut—the hut outside the south wall, open to the lane.”
“I can find it. May I come to see you there?”
“Ay, ay, bairn. Bless ’ee for the kind thought. Come when thou like, but dinna bring ony other with ’ee. Na other might hear me sa kind and mind me sa well as ye do.”
“Do you—are you—have you—will you——”
Wynnette hesitated and blushed.
“Speak out, bairn. Dinna be feared. Speak out.”
“Then—will you have—a good breakfast ready for you when you go home?” hesitatingly inquired practical Wynnette.
“I shall have all I want, bairnie. Earl Francis has provided for me. Go your ways to the house now, bairnie. Your friends will be speiring after ye.”
Wynnette took the shriveled hand of the creature and pressed it kindly before she left the old castle hall.
The early June morning was breaking brightly and beautifully over land and sea as Wynnette went down the half-ruined steps that led from the castle hall to the courtyard below.
She climbed over the piles of rubbish, and at length found herself on the flagged walk that led up to the west entrance of the new castle.
Not a soul was yet astir. It could not have been more than half-past four o’clock, and the servants of the castle were not accustomed to rise before six.
She went up the broad stone stairs and opened the door, which she found, as she had left it at midnight, unfastened.
She passed in silently, quietly replaced all the fastenings, and ascended noiselessly to her room. Her sister was still sleeping soundly. She felt no disposition to sleep. She resumed her seat at the west window, and looked out upon the morning view, as she had looked on the night scene, trying to understand the adventure she had passed through.
Was the old crone who had talked with her really mad? Had her only child been ruined and murdered by the wicked earl? Had she, Wynnette, really witnessed that wonderful vision in the dungeon under the castle, or had she been so psychologized by the crone as to have been the subject of an optical illusion?
She could not tell! She could make nothing of her night’s experience. While she was musing over it all her thoughts grew confused, her vision obscured, and perhaps she fell asleep; for she was presently roused as from profound unconsciousness by the voice of Odalite calling out to her:
“Wynnette! Wynnette! Child! you have never slept at that open window all night? How imprudent!”
The girl roused herself and tried to recall her faculties.
“I believe I did fall asleep, Odalite,” she replied; but she shuddered as she remembered her night’s adventure.
“And you are shivering now. And you are pale and heavy-eyed. Oh, my dear, what an indiscreet thing to do—to sleep with your head on the sill of an open window! You have caught cold.”
“Ah! if you only knew what I have caught,” thought Wynnette; but she answered:
“Oh, no, I have not, Odalite. I am going to take a bath now and dress for breakfast. I am all right. How could I take cold on such a lovely night in June?”
“But you must not repeat this,” said Odalite.
“I don’t mean to!” significantly replied Wynnette.
An hour later they met the family at breakfast.
Wynnette was so unusually grave and silent that at length her uncle noticed her manner and inquired:
“What is the matter with our Little Pickle this morning?”
“She sat in the chair at the open window all night, and fell asleep there. That is the matter,” replied Odalite for her sister.
“Ah! ah! that will never do! We must put a stop to that sort of practice!” replied the earl.
And then Mr. and Mrs. Force both fell upon their daughter with rebuke and admonition, but were soothed and mollified when Wynnette assured them not only that she had taken no harm on this occasion, but that she never meant to repeat the last night’s performance again so long as she should live.
When breakfast was over the family party adjourned to a pleasant morning room looking out upon the sea, and occupied themselves with opening and reading their letters, which had come in by the morning’s mail.
Mr. Force had letters from his farm manager and from his attorney, giving satisfactory accounts of affairs at Mondreer.
Leonidas had equally good news from Beeves concerning his little estate of Greenbushes.
Mrs. Force received a short note, ill-spelled and worse written, from her housekeeper, but it gave good account of domestic affairs.
Rosemary Hedge had a joint letter from her mother and aunt, saying that they were both in good health, and giving their child plenty of good counsel.
Wynnette received an old-fashioned letter from young Grandiere, which she laughed over and refused to show to any one.
In the midst of this occupation they were interrupted by the opening of the door, and the entrance of a footman, who touched his forehead with a grave air and stood in silence.
“What is it?” inquired the earl.
“If you please, my lord, it is Old Silly,” solemnly replied the man.
“Old Zillah?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What of her?”
“If you please, my lord, she is dead.”
“Dead!”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Old Zillah! Why—when did she die?”
“If you please, my lord, we don’t know. Kato, the under scullery maid, who carried her some breakfast this morning, found her dead on her bed.”
“It was to have been expected. She was nearly a century old. It is well!”