Nor did she, sweet girl, as we started; and she would stop here and there to show me some choice foreign shrub or some new plant, or the view from this or that particular spot. All the time I was wondering how I should introduce the subject of the neglected plateau with the broken-down fountain.
The opportunity came.
“Your father does not allow any part of his shrubberies to run wild,” I said; “but I fancied I saw a wild-looking spot among the pines, where there were neglected flower-beds and the grass was unmown.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know of any place about like that,” she said, reflectively. “No! I am sure that none of the flower-beds have weeds. Papa hates weeds: and weeding gives employment to people who cannot do much else.”
I had hardly time to be reassured by this support of the theory that the events of last night meant nightmare and nothing else, when we suddenly came upon that clearing with the grass plat. That bench under the laurels, where the lady had been sitting, was there. It was the same spot I had seen by moonlight—the very same.
“I come here and read sometimes on summer afternoons,” said Lilia, looking up at me innocently. “Why, what is the matter, Mr. Paull? You are frowning.”
“I was thinking that this is rather a damp place,” I said, “and cheerless looking.”
“Not to me,” she said. “But I only come here on really sultry days. When it is simply mild, I prefer the terrace. You haven’t seen the terrace. Do come, it has a history.”
The terrace! The terrace with a history! So it was not a dream; no, something far more disagreeable. Then and there I began to wonder whether I had not hit upon a family mystery. As we strolled along the path I had walked over but a few hours since with an unknown lady hanging familiarly upon my arm, I was imagining a possible elucidation of my mystery. Lilia’s mother—of whom I had heard absolutely nothing—perhaps mentally afflicted, shut up in some cottage or house on the estate, and wandering by night? Other even more extravagant ideas occurred to me.