Alva was a magnificent woman, in high health and with strong nerves. She laughed at her brother’s question.
“I am not at all afraid that the ghosts will rout me!” she replied, gayly.
So they ordered a carriage to take them out, and the driver was almost petrified with astonishment when they told him to drive past Suicide Place.
It was nearing sunset when they reached the grim old building in its splendid grove of trees, and again the driver gasped with amazement when told to stop there.
“We are going to walk through that splendid grove,” explained Alva, carelessly.
“But, begging your pardon, miss, surely you don’t know what an awful name the place bears. I wouldn’t set foot inside that gate for a thousand dollars, poor as I am!” cried the man, in consternation.
“Oh, yes, I do know all about the place, but I don’t believe those spook tales, and my brother and I are determined to explore those grounds so that we can boast of our bravery hereafter. So you may wait for us here,” laughed Alva; and she was vastly amused when she saw the disgusted man drive off to the opposite side of the road so as to be as far as possible from the place.
But as she went in through the gates, out of the glory of the August sunlight that flooded the west, into the heavy shallows of the dark grove, the smile faded from Alva’s ruby lips, and a subtle premonition of evil began to weigh on her spirits.
As for St. George, he was remembering the first time he came here—that May night that seemed so long ago now, when he had followed Floy, warned of her peril by that strange dream, and saved her from the insults of Otho Maury.
How freshly it all came back—the sweet May night cool with soft spring rain, the breeze laden with odors of wet lilacs tossing their purple plumes against the windows.