Never so well pleased as when opportunity was afforded for grumbling, the dame addressed herself again to her evening avocations.
Pondering deeply what should be the issue of these things, Gervase set out with Grace Ashton to her house at Clegg Hall, a good mile distant. Evening had closed in—a chill wind blew from the hills. The west had lost its splendour, but a pure transparent brightness filled its place, across which the dark wavy outline of the high moorlands rested in deep unvarying shadow. In these bright depths a still brighter star hung, pure and of a diamond-like lustre, the precursor, the herald of a blazing host just rising into view.
As they walked on, it may well be supposed that the strange occurrences of the last few hours were the engrossing theme of their discourse.
"My mother is a little too superstitious, I am aware," said Gervase. "But what I have witnessed to-night has rendered me something more credulous on this head than aforetime."
"I don't half like this neighbourhood," said his companion, looking round. "It hath an ill name, and I could almost fancy the Red Woman again, just yonder in our path."
She looked wistfully; it was only the mist creeping lazily on with the stream.
They were now ascending the hill towards Beil or Belfield, where the Knights Templars had formerly an establishment. Not a vestige now remains, though at that period a ruinous tower covered with ivy, a gateway, and an arch, existed as relics of their former grandeur.
"Here lived the Lady Eleanor Byron," said Grace, pointing to the old hall close by, and as though an unpleasant recollection had crossed her. She shuddered as they passed by the grim archway beneath the tower. Whether it was fancy or reality, she knew not, but as she looked curiously through its ivied tracery, she thought the Red Woman was peering out maliciously upon them. She shrank aside, and pointed to the spot; but there was nothing visible save the dark and crumbling ruins, from which their steps were echoed with a dull and sullen sound.
The night wind sighed round the grey battlements, and from its hidden recesses came moans and whispers, at least so it seemed to their heated imaginations.
"Let us hasten hence," said Grace; "I like not this lonely spot. There was always a fear and a mystery about it. The tale of the invisible sylphid and Eleanor Byron's elfish lover, haunts me whenever I pass by, and I feel as though something was near, observing and influencing every movement and every thought."