Five minutes later, Janet May found herself alone on the tiny patch of ground which went by the name of the Witch's Island.
It consisted of a thickly wooded piece of land rising up in the very center of Lake Crena, and about three-quarters of an acre in size. There was a little landing-place where some of the thick trees had been cleared away. Here, high and dry, and well out of reach of the water, stood a rude summerhouse. Janet waited alone on the little strip of quay until the boat, turning a tiny headland, was lost to view; then she went into the summerhouse, and lighting her candle sat down on a broken-down bench, placed the candle securely on a small stone slab by her side, and opening her novel began to read. The courage she had shown was not in the least assumed. This enterprise simply amused her; she expected to find the time dull—dullness was the worst enemy that could possibly visit her.
"Pretty Miss Neville," however, was quite to her taste, and turning its leaves quickly, she soon lost herself in a world far away from the Witch's Island, and much more in harmony with her own ambitious and eager spirit. She, too, would win her triumphs, and have her lovers in the not too distant future. Oh, how splendidly she had managed everything! How nice it was to have a girl like Bridget O'Hara completely in her power! Janet's thoughts after all proved more delightful than her book. She closed it, and coming out of the little stuffy summerhouse stood on the tiny quay and looked around her. The moon was getting up slowly, and was shedding silver paths of shimmery light over beautiful Lake Crena. The scene was so lovely, so exquisitely soothing and peaceful, that a girl with a different order of mind might have felt her thoughts rise as she looked at that moonlight path, and some aspirations for the good, the true, the noble, might have filled her breast. Janet was not without imagination as she looked at that long silver path which stretched away from her very feet onward to the distant horizon, but it only brought to her visions of Paris and Lady Kathleen, and what she would do to aggrandize herself in the delightful future which was so near.
Her meditations were suddenly disturbed by a slight noise to her right.
She looked around her carelessly. "Can the Witch be coming?" she said, with a slight laugh.
At that moment the great clock in the stable at Castle Mahun struck ten; the deep notes swelled and died away on the evening breeze.
"That noise can't be caused by the Witch," thought Janet, "for the boys say that she seldom deigns to put in an appearance before eleven o'clock; oh, dear! oh, dear! have I two more hours to spend on this detestable spot? When will they have passed away? What shall I do to kill time? I had better go back and go on with my book." She was about to re-enter the little summerhouse when the distinct splash of an oar on the water reached her ears.
She could not help giving a start, and then exclaimed with a sigh of relief:
"Is that you, Pat? But you need not come back yet. I assure you I am thoroughly comfortable. I am waiting in state for her majesty Mrs. Witch to visit me."