Billie was wide awake in an instant. She sat up in bed and listened. The ancient abbey was filled with ghostly sounds. The rain beat against the window and the wind howled mournfully. It seemed to be saying “Vanitas vanitatum.”
“That’s what I thought was the chanting of the monks,” she said to herself. “I suppose I had one of my usual nightmares.”
Back under the covers she crept, glad of the warmth and comfort after that gruesome dream.
CHAPTER XXIV.—WHEN HATRED TURNS TO LOVE.
The smiling summer landscape showed not a sign next morning of the disturbances of the night before. The rain-washed foliage glistened in the sunshine, and far below in the valley curled a ribbon of blue, hazy smoke. Billie, greatly refreshed from the sleep which had come to her after the storm, had almost forgotten the nightmare until the ringing of a bell in the distance brought it to mind. She touched an electric button, as she had been directed to do by Beatrice, and presently a pretty Irish maid appeared carrying a tray on which was a glass of hot milk. A few minutes later she reappeared with a small basin of hot water. Billie wondered if this was to be her allowance. Probably in an ancient abbey hot water was scarce. But it was only a sample upon which she was to pass judgment.
“It’s quite right, thank you,” she said, testing the temperature with the tip of her finger. Next there was a sound of water being poured into a tub in the dressing-room and she was aware that the bath was prepared. Leaning back on the pillows she sipped her milk comfortably.
“My, but this is luxury,” she thought. “Vanitas vanitatum for a fact.”
“Your bath is ready, Miss,” announced the girl, pausing irresolutely.
“Did you want to say anything, Bridget?” asked Billie, noticing that the maid lingered in the doorway.
“Bad luck has come to us this day, Miss, and may the Saints preserve us all.”