"Oh!" cried out several voices, as I ceased, "is that all? And what became of the poor bridegroom? And did the father ever come back? And haven't you ever really found out where the poor thing went to? And do you think she died?"
For reply I rose. I had never taken my eye off madame, and the strain upon us both had been terrible; but I let my glance wander now, and smiling genially into the eager faces which had crowded around me, I remarked:
"I never spoil a good story by too many explanations. You have heard all you will from me to-night. So do not question me further. Am I not right, madame?"
"Perfectly," came in her even tones. "And I am sure we are all very much obliged to you."
I bowed and slipped away into the background. I was worn out.
An hour later I was passing through the hall above on my way to my own room. As I passed madame's door, I saw it open, and before I had taken three steps away I felt her soft hand on my arm.
"Your pardon, Mrs. Truax," were her words; "but my daughter has been peculiarly affected by the story you related to us below. She says it is worse than any ghost story, and that she cannot rid herself of the picture of the young wife flitting out of sight down the hall. I am really afraid it has produced a very bad effect upon her, and that she will not sleep. Is it—was it a true story, Mrs. Truax, or were you merely weaving fancies out of a too fertile brain?"
I smiled, for she was smiling, and shook my head, looking directly into her eyes.
"Your daughter need not lose her sleep," I said, "on account of any story of mine. I saw they wanted something blood-curdling, so I made up a tale to please them. It was all imagination, madame; all imagination. I should not have told it if it had been otherwise. I think too much of my house."
"And you had nothing to found it upon? Just drew upon your fancy?"