“I ought to have told you her name, Mildred Tarnley—the genius loci. Mildred, you’ll show your mistress to her room.”
And he and his young wife smiled a mutual farewell. A little curious she was to see something more of the old house, and she peeped about her as she went up, and asked a few questions as they went along. “And this room,” she asked, peeping into a door that opened from the back stairs which they were ascending, “it has such a large fireplace and little ovens, or what are they?”
“It was the still-room once, my lady, my mother remembered the time, but it was always shut up in my day.”
“Oh, and can you tell me—I forget—where is my servant?”
“Upstairs, please, with your things, ma’am, when the man brought up your boxes.”
Still looking about her and delaying, she went on. There was nothing stately about this house; but there was that about it which, if Alice had been in less cheerful and happy spirits, would have quelled and awed her. Thick walls, windows deep sunk, double doors now and then, wainscoting, and oak floors, warped with age.
On the landing there was an archway admitting to a gallery. In this archway was no door, and, on the landing, Alice Fairfield, as I may now call her, stood for a moment and looked round.
Happy as she was, I cannot tell what effect these faintly lighted glimpses of old and desolate rooms, aided by the repulsive companionship of her ancient guide, may have insensibly wrought upon her imagination, or what a trick that faculty may have just then played upon her senses, but turning round to enter the gallery under the open arch, the old woman standing by her, with the candle raised a little, Alice Fairfield stepped back, startled, with a little exclamation of surprise.
THE OMEN OF CARWELL GRANGE.