"Come—in—quickly, sir," she jerked out. "I am afraid what may happen—come quickly!" Whilst she spoke, she was locking and bolting the green door again; then, without uttering another syllable, she led the way up a flagged path, across a bare and deserted garden, to a white stone house, through whose open front door a stream of light fell across an unkempt, overgrown lawn.
"This way, sir," the woman said, when, having entered the door, she turned across a wide hall; "this way—quickly!" As she uttered the last word, a little cry broke the stillness of the house—a woman's cry, sharp with fear, and the doctor's guide, her face suddenly grown livid and pinched, broke into a run. They were passing along a corridor, which intersected the hall at one end, and even in his hurry Fergusson noticed the thickness of the carpet beneath his feet, and the heavy curtains that shrouded the windows on his right; noticed, too, that after that one short sharp cry, a silence had fallen over the house again—a silence as sinister and uncanny as that in the valley outside.
His guide paused before a door on their left, and as she turned her plain but kindly face towards him, he saw how strained and ashen it had grown, and what a great fear looked out of her eyes.
"It is so quiet," she whispered in low, horror-stricken accents, "so quiet—I—am—afraid!"
Pushing her aside, Fergusson opened the door, ashamed of feeling how hard his own heart was knocking against his ribs, ashamed of that momentary shrinking from what he might find inside the room; but his involuntary shrinking did not bring with it even a second of hesitation. He opened the door widely, and stepped straight into the apartment. Excepting for a night-light burning on a chest of drawers, the room was in darkness, and he could make out nothing of his surroundings. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he uttered a short exclamation of horror, and moved hurriedly forwards, calling to the woman behind him to bring a light, and to bring it quickly.
CHAPTER X.
"IT IS ONLY HE WHO MATTERS!"
Christina's thoughts that evening often travelled to the silent valley, and to the beautiful woman with the anguished face, who had made so profound an impression upon her. Having tucked Baba safely into her cot, and heard the soft breathing which indicated that the blue-eyed baby was sleeping, Christina returned to the sitting-room, and drawing an armchair close to the fire, took up a novel in which she was deeply interested. But to-night her thoughts refused to follow the chequered fortunes of her heroine, and she no longer felt herself the least thrilled over the approaching climax of the story. The strange piece of real life into which she had been unwittingly plunged, interested her far more than any heroes or heroines of fiction, and she soon found herself with her book on her lap, and her own eyes fixed on the glowing coals, whilst her mind recapitulated all the events of the past few hours.
"It is just like something entrancingly exciting in a melodrama," she reflected: "that lonely house, and the beautiful lady with the white face, and that silent valley." Remembering the silence in the valley, she shuddered a little, and wondered whether the lady of the unfathomable eyes ever minded the loneliness and silence; whether sometimes she was afraid—down there in the stillness of those sheltering woodlands.