"You don't expect me before June, do you? Nevertheless, don't faint if I return to our 'right little, tight little' island before that. Meantime, write and let me know how the world wags with you; and, only I know it is out of your line, I should ask you to offer a prayer for your unfortunate friend
"Reginald Stanford."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE GHOST AGAIN.
Rose Danton stood leaning against the low, old-fashioned chimney piece in her bedroom staring at the fire with a very sulky face. Those who fell in love with pretty Rose should have seen her in her sulky moods, if they wished to be thoroughly disenchanted. Just at present, as she stood looking gloomily into the fire, she was wondering how the Honourable Reginald Stanford would feel on his wedding-day, or if he would feel at all, if they should find her (Rose) robed in white, floating in the fish-pond drowned! The fish-pond was large enough; and Rose moodily recollected reading somewhere that when lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, the only way to hide that folly from every eye, to bring repentance to her lover, to wring his bosom, is to—die!
The clock down stairs struck eleven. Rose could hear them dispersing to their bedrooms. She could hear, and she held her breath to listen, Mr. Stanford, going past her door, whistling a tune of Kate's. Of Kate's, of course! He was happy and could whistle, and she was miserable and couldn't. If she had not wept herself as dry as a wrung sponge, she must have relapsed into hysterics once more; but as she couldn't, with a long-drawn sigh, she resolved to go to bed.
So to bed Rose went, but not to sleep. She tossed from side to side, feverish and impatient; the more she tried to sleep, the more she couldn't. It was quite a new experience for poor Rose, not used to "tears at night instead of slumber." The wintry moonlight was shining brightly in her room through the parted curtains, and that helped her wakefulness, perhaps. As the clock struck twelve, she sprang up in desperation, drew a shawl round her, and, in her night-dress, sat down by the window, to contemplate the heavenly bodies.
Hark! what noise was that?
The house was as still as a vault; all had retired, and were probably asleep. In the dead stillness, Rose heard a door open—the green baize door of Bluebeard's room. Her chamber was very near that green door; there could be no mistaking the sound. Once again she held her breath to listen. In the profound hush, footsteps echoed along the uncarpeted corridor, and passed her door. Was it Ogden on his way upstairs? No! the footsteps paused at the next door—Kate's room; and there was a light rap. Rose, aflame with curiosity, tip-toed to her own door, and applied her ear to the key-hole. Kate's door opened; there was a whispered colloquy; the listener could not catch the words, but the voice that spoke to Kate was not the voice of Ogden. Five minutes—ten—then the door shut, the footsteps went by her door again, and down stairs.