"If you'll take this boy!" he cried. "Hold him tight, please, and don't let him get off. I'm going—if I may?" he looked swift inquiry at Margaret.
"Oh, yes, yes!" cried the girl. "Do go! We are all right. Cousin Sophronia, you must let him go."
Dropping Merton into the affrighted lady's arms, the lithe, active youth was in the house in an instant, following the Voice of Fernley. There it came again, rising, rising,—the cry of a lost soul, the wail of a repentant spirit.
"A roarer, by all means!" said young Merryweather. "But where, and by whom?" He ran from side to side, laying his ear against the wall here, there, following the sound. Suddenly he stopped short, like a dog pointing. Here, in this thickness of the wall, was it? Then, there must be a recess, a something. What corresponded to this jog? Ha! that little low door, almost hidden by the great picture of the boar-hunt. Locked? No; only sticking, from not having been opened, perhaps, for years. It yielded. He rushed in,—the door closed behind him with a spring. He found himself in total darkness,—darkness filled with a hideous cry, that rang out sharp and piercing,—then fell into sudden silence.
"Is it you, Master Merton?" said a whisper. "I didn't wait; I thought maybe—"
Gerald stretched out his arm, and grasped a solid form. Instantly he was grasped in return by a pair of strong arms,—grasped and held with as powerful a grip as his own. A full minute passed, two creatures clutching each other in the pit-dark, listening to each other's breathing, counting each other's heart-beats. Then—
"Who are you?" asked Gerald, under his breath.
"None of your business!" was the reply, low, but prompt. "Who are you, if it comes to that?"
"Why,—why, you're a woman!"
"And you're a man, and that's worse. What are you doing here?"