A dark, dreamy silence wraps the cottage in its soft embrace, the moon, clear and full, sails tranquilly through the star-sown heavens, and the sweet scent of distant orange groves is wafted through the midnight breeze. Yet the dark-cloaked figure that walks quickly and softly up the graveled walk sees none of the soft, calm beauty of the still summer night. She raises the brass knocker with a quick, imperative touch. After a wait of perhaps ten minutes or so Septima answers the summons, but the candle she holds nearly drops from her hands as she beholds the face of her midnight visitor in the dim, uncertain flickering glare of the candle-light.
“Miss Pluma,” she exclaims, in amazement, “is there any one ill at the Hall?”
“No!” replies Pluma, in a low, soft, guarded whisper. “I wished to see you––my business is most important––may I come in?”
“Certainly,” answered Septima, awkwardly. “I beg your pardon, miss, for keeping you standing outside so long.”
As Pluma took the seat Septima placed for her, the dark cloak she wore fell from her shoulders, and Septima saw with wonder she still wore the shimmering silk she had in all probability worn at the fête. The rubies still glowed like restless, leaping fire upon her perfect arms and snowy throat, and sprays of hyacinth were still twined in her dark, glossy hair; but they were quite faded now, drooping, crushed, and limp among her curls; there was a strange dead-white pallor on her haughty face, and a lurid gleam shone in her dark, slumbrous eyes. Pluma had studied well the character of the woman before her––who made no secret of her dislike for the child thrust upon their bounty––and readily imagined she would willingly aid her in carrying out the scheme she had planned.
Slowly one by one the stars died out of the sky; the pale moon drifted silently behind the heavy rolling clouds; the winds tossed the tops of the tall trees to and fro, and the dense darkness which precedes the breaking of the gray dawn settled over the earth.
The ponies which the groom had held for long hours pawed the ground restlessly; the man himself was growing impatient.
“She can be up to no good,” he muttered; “all honest people should be in their beds.”
The door of the cottage opened, and Pluma Hurlhurst walked slowly down the path.