“Yes,” he replied, “I am Mr. Bristed’s man. He told me to drive here and fetch home a Miss Reef—if you are that person, miss!” touching his hat with an effort at politeness.
“I am,” I answered, and without further ado we proceeded to the carriage, which he had left waiting at the rear platform.
The evening air was chilly, for it was quite sunset. Drawing my shawl around me, I ensconced myself in a corner of the vehicle, and watched the fading landscape with stolid indifference to whatever might befall me.
We drove on thus for a good hour and a half, halting at length before a dark, massy object, the form of which my dozy eyes could not discern. However, it proved to be Bristed Hall.
I emerged from the carriage and passed up the steps to an open door which, at the pausing of our carriage wheels, had been set ajar. An old woman, the feminine counterpart of my sulky driver, stood in the dimly-lighted passage-way to receive me. She vouchsafed me but a grum welcome, but I felt already too desolate and weary to experience any further depression from her humor.
Bidding me follow her, and ordering the man to carry my luggage, she led me directly through the hall up the stairway to a chamber evidently prepared for my use. The apartment was prettily furnished, and its tidy appearance and the cheerful fire burning on the hearth quite roused my drooping spirits.
After assisting me to remove my bonnet and shawl, my conductress left me, returning ere long with a tray containing refreshments. These she set before me with silent hospitality; then bade me goodnight, saying she would call me in the morning at eight o’clock for breakfast.
My sleep that night was disturbed by dreams, which though vague filled me with terror.
I imagined that I was walking through a long corridor, opening into a sumptuous apartment, its interior partly concealed by rich folds of damask curtains. I lifted the heavy drapery and essayed to enter, but a cold hand grasped mine and prevented me. A woman’s figure, slight and youthful, with white face, great sad eyes, and long yellow hair, stood in the arched doorway and pressed me back with her clammy hand. I started up from my pillow in alarm to find myself alone; the pale moonbeams streaming through the looped curtains of the window and glancing upon my forehead, I thought, probably accounted for the cold hand of my dream. I slept, and dreamed again. The scene was changed: a field of stubble lay before me; through it I must make my way; the rough ground hurt my feet; I stumbled and fell; attempting to rise, I saw painted in clear relief against the horizon the same female figure.
Her pale, golden hair hung long and loose over her shoulders. As she caught my eye she lifted her finger as if in warning, and disappeared from sight.