THE PATH OF THE GHOST.
In due course they appeared at the Park, very dusty and rather hot. Mrs. Mildmay was greatly alarmed and distressed at the idea of their walking such a distance in such weather, but it was the captain who so cleverly suggested that a little refreshment might be acceptable.
Mr. Leicester eyed him for the first time with something like amiability.
"I am thirsty, I'll admit," he said, with his curt smile.
Mrs. Mildmay rang the bell.
"Some claret, and hock, and some seltzer water."
Violet, whose eyes were quick, saw a quiet twinkle in Mr. Fairfax's eyes, and said, with a laugh:
"Perhaps you would prefer something else, Mr. Fairfax?"
"No, not I," said wicked Bertie; "but Leicester here has acquired a most degraded taste for bitter beer."
And as Mr. Leicester did not take the trouble to deny the imputation, Violet added, "and some bottles of ale."
The servant brought them, and while the gentlemen—including the captain, who said that he really could not resist the temptation—discussed them, Mrs. Dodson delivered herself of the purport of her visit.
Would Mrs. and Miss Mildmay and the captain come over to the Cedars and eat a friendly dinner with them on the morrow?
Mrs. Mildmay glanced interrogatively at Violet. Violet looked up, smilingly, and accepted.
"I shall be delighted, for my part," she said, "if it is really to be a very friendly, unceremonious evening."
The captain and Mrs. Mildmay echoed, and Mrs. Dodson looked pleased.
"It will be very quiet," she said. "We did expect Lord and Lady Boisdale from Coombe Lodge; but it is not certain whether they have come yet; if they have they have promised to join us."
"I am so glad!" said Mrs. Mildmay, who was secretly quite surprised that the Dodsons should be on dining terms with the Lackland family. "I like Lady Lackland so much. I met them very often in town. Violet does not know them; they have not been to Coombe Lodge since she left school."
"Then you will come, and I hope we shall see them," said Mrs. Dodson, rising. "Seven o'clock. Have you gentlemen finished your ale, and do you mean to ride back?"
"I'll walk, please," said Leicester, rising.
"Then you must rest a little longer, I think," said Mrs. Mildmay.
So it happened that Mr. and Mrs. Dodson were escorted to their carriage and started off, and that Leicester and Bertie spent the afternoon resting in Violet's drawing-room and conservatory, and that, while Bertie was absorbed in conversation with the captain, Leicester was left to exchange notes and opinions with Violet.
Perhaps it did not seem so dull to Miss Mildmay that afternoon, and perhaps Mr. Leicester was not altogether unhappy, stretching his long legs among her ferns and flowers.
At seven o'clock on the following evening the Park carriage dashed up to the door of the Cedars, and the guests alighted.
"Fancy calling upon 'those people, the tallow chandlers,' auntie," whispered Violet, wickedly, as they were ushered through the immense hall to the magnificent drawing-room.
"Hush, my dear! they will hear you," murmured Mrs. Mildmay, warningly, as Mrs. Dodson came forward to greet them.
But Violet was shaking hands with Mr. Leicester and Mr. Fairfax, the latter looking particularly handsome and yellow-haired in his evening dress.
"The Boisdales have not come yet," said Mr. Dodson; "but they are coming."
"And here they are," said Leicester, as another carriage, not quite so well appointed as the wealthy Mildmays', dashed up.
Violet looked toward the door, with some curiosity, which was transformed to pleased interest as Lady Ethel entered.
Violet, whose likes and dislikes were most sudden, and oftentimes unaccountable, liked Ethel at first sight.
The two girls bowed first, and then shook hands. There was no doubting Violet's open, kindly eyes on Ethel's part, and Ethel's gentle, quiet smile on Violet's.
"This is my brother, Fitz," she said, as Violet made room for her on the sofa, and Violet looked up and saw good-natured, simple Lord Boisdale standing looking down at her with his boyish grin.
Violet felt herself superior to him immediately, and bowed quite condescendingly, as she would to a schoolboy. Lord Fitz felt—well, he never could tell how he felt at their first meeting, though he tried to often afterward.
"What a pretty place this is!" said Ethel. "I am so sorry we have not known more of it. It is the prettiest drive possible up the cliff."
"And that house with the green, old buildings on the hill," said Lord Boisdale, "is quite a treat. I wonder who owns it?"
"Miss Violet Mildmay," said Mr. Fairfax, who was standing near, quite silent, for a wonder, and looking out of the corner of his frank, blue eyes at Ethel.
"Eh? Eh? I beg your pardon," said Lord Fitz, coloring.
"You have done nothing to need it," said Violet. "I am quite grateful to you for admiring what I love."
"Well, it is pretty," said Lord Fitz. "By Jove! prettier than this," he added, in a loud whisper, which was fortunately drowned by the announcement of dinner.
Mr. Dodson took in Lady Ethel, Lord Fitz followed up with Mrs. Mildmay, and Violet found herself upon Bertie Fairfax's arm, but Leicester Dodson sat near her at dinner, and, being at home, found it his duty to talk.
It was a pleasant dinner, exquisitely cooked and served by discreet, attentive and noiseless servants.
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room the gentlemen seemed to miss them, and after a very little wine was consumed they followed them.
Somebody proposed whist to Mr. Dodson presently. The captain said it was a good idea, and simple-minded Fitz, Mr. Dodson and Bertie and the captain sat down, just for a rubber, while the ladies gave them a little music.
Leicester could play a good hand at any game of cards, and was fond of whist, but he found himself at Violet's side, by the piano.
The captain was induced to sing, and the audience dropped into silence, for when Captain Murpoint pleased he could still conversation most effectively, and never did he sing more effectively than he did then.
When the carriage came up the party was quite loath to break up.
Coombe Lodge was within such an easy drive, and the Park so near, that, as Mr. Dodson said, they were like a family party.
It was a lovely moonlight night, and Leicester proposed that, if they insisted upon going, they should send the carriages on at a slow pace and walk themselves part of the way.
They started and sauntered on, the moonlight pouring down upon them its soft, placid, fitful light, and bathing sea and land, cliff and hollow, in a silver stream.
The party soon broke up into groups. Fitz and Leicester with Violet, Bertie and Ethel with Mrs. Mildmay, and the captain and Mr. and Mrs. Dodson.
It was certainly a tempting night, and the young people seemed to quietly revel in it. Twice the Lackland carriage was sent on; but at last Ethel decided that they had better get in, and, much to Bertie's inward grief, Fitz consented.
"The day after to-morrow, then," he said, as he closed the carriage door. "You will not forget that as you forgot me."
"No," said Ethel laughing, but with a slight flush, "I will not forget, and I hope we shall all have a nice ride. Good-night."
Bertie bent over her hand and held it until he was in danger of the wheels. Then Leicester declared that he would go on as far as the Park and return with a cigar.
"You may light it now," said Violet, "if you like. I do not mind."
Leicester was very grateful and lit it.
By some means the captain attracted Bertie's attention as they neared the Park, and so, calling him away, left Leicester and Violet alone.
They did not seem to notice it, however, and stopped to look at the ruins of the old abbey clinging to the new house.
"Beautiful!" said Leicester. "Bertie has been in ecstasies over this; he is an author and an artist, you know."
"I like him," said Violet, in her decisive way.
"So do I," said Leicester. "He is my best friend. My rooms and his in the Temple adjoin."
"Do they?" said Violet. "How strange it sounds: 'In the Temple.' What do you do in chambers?"
"He works hard. I—smoke, drink, read, think, and watch him working."
Violet laughed.
"It must be very nice," she said, softly. "Look!" she said, suddenly; "that is the ghost's window."
"That long oriel window?" said Leicester. "You promised to tell me about your pet ghost."
"Don't joke about it," she said, with a short laugh. "Ask the fishermen about it. No man, woman or child would pass that tower after dark."
"What sort of ghost is it?" asked Leicester, with extreme levity. He did not believe in the supernatural.
"Have you never heard the legend?" said Violet. "It is a strange one."
"Tell it me here; it is a fine opportunity, and proper surroundings. Is it a man or a woman?"
"A nun," said Violet, "in white robes, with a skull's face and two gleaming eyes. My old nurse had seen it three times. And after each appearance something dreadful or unfortunate happened either at the Park or at the village. Once the old farm took fire and was burned down, the second time one of the Godolphins, who were then living at the Abbey, was drowned in the bay, and the third time a child fell off the cliff."
"The people of Penruddie should insure their lives after the ghost appears," said Leicester laughing.
"You laugh; but is it not strange?" said Violet gravely. "And, what is more strange to my mind, all the descriptions of the apparition by the different persons who have seen it tally exactly. All say it is a woman in white robes, with a skull's face and gleaming eyes, and that it carries a strange, shaded light, which throws a fearful, dim glare for some distance. Is it not awful?"
Leicester smiled.
"Not very," he said. "I have seen better at Drury Lane. And does your ghost confine herself to that lower and oriel window or does she perambulate?"
"Yes, she has been seen at that small window on the right, you see, which the ivy half covers."
"I see," he said, "and what room is that?"
"A room in the old abbey, which was left standing by my father's directions," said Violet, in a low voice. "He used it as a sort of study or reading-room, and when he died it was closed up."
"It is empty, then?" said Leicester.
"No; we would have nothing removed. There is all the old furniture as it used to be when he lived. It used to be left undisturbed while he was absent on his voyages, and it is undisturbed now."
"It is a room for a ghost," said Leicester.
Violet nodded.
"Yes," she said. "Look, the moon is obscured. How dark it is. Ah! what is that?" she broke off, with a scared, dry voice, clutching Leicester's arm.
"What—where?" he asked, quickly, and laying his hand upon hers.
"There—in the room! at the window!" she breathed. "It has gone!"
"What?" he asked, still keeping the hand, which she seemed too frightened to remove.
"I—I—scarcely know," she said, brokenly, and with a shudder, which Leicester felt. "A something white, with a light, at that little window."
"Oh, are you sure?" he asked, doubtfully, anxious to convince her that it was mere fancy. "Remember, we have just been talking about the ghost."
"No, no; it was not fancy," she said. "I saw it plainly enough. I was not thinking of it as I spoke, and I saw it when the moon got behind the cloud. It was in my father's room."
At that moment she started again. A voice so close behind her that it seemed to spring from the ground said: "Miss Mildmay, where are you? Oh, here you are!"
And Captain Murpoint came up.
"How interested you look! What are you talking about?"
"Ghosts," said Leicester, fixing his dark, scrutinizing eyes upon him. "Did you not hear Miss Mildmay call out?"
"No," said the captain, innocently, "I only just came up."
But he had been close beside them for some minutes, and had not only heard Violet's low cry of terror, but the whole of the conversation.