“I will not!” returned Pat sturdily. “It’s my joke, and I’m not going to have it spoiled. You leave them to fight it out between themselves, and if they come out alive you’ll hear the tale first hand. ‘What do my eyes behold?’ says he. ‘What fairy form is this I see before me?’ ‘Pity me!’ says she. ‘What’s that white pillar over there by the window? It’s a dust sheet that Molly has been hanging over the curtains, and maybe the draught is making it move. Oh, oh, oh, there’s a head to it! It’s alive! It comes towards me! What will I do? What will I do?’”
Pat clasped his hands in affected terror, and shrieked in clever imitation of his sister’s manner. The door was still ajar, and as he stopped a sound from below rose faintly to the ears of his companions, a second shriek so alike in tone and expression that it might have been the echo of his own. “Pixie,” cried Bridgie wildly, “at him, Pixie! At him!” And like a flash of lightning Pixie lay prone on the floor with her arms wound tightly round Pat’s legs. He swayed and staggered, clutched at the wall, and felt Mademoiselle’s arms nip him from behind, as the door flew open, and Bridgie sped like a lapwing along the gallery.
Chapter Twenty.
The White Lady.
Esmeralda set out on her expedition in the highest spirits, for a girl who is brought up on a regime of outdoor sport is not troubled with nerves, and she laughed at the suggestion of ghosts with the scorn which it deserved. What she did not laugh at, however, was the promise of Pat’s racket, a gift to him from an absent godfather, and coveted by all his brothers and sisters, but by none so much as Esmeralda, who played a very pretty game of her own, and felt a conviction that she could distinguish herself still more if she possessed a good racket instead of the old one which had done duty for years, and was now badly sprung.
Pat had promised in the presence of witnesses to hand over his treasure if she returned to the schoolroom without—oh, elegant expression!—“letting a howl out of her,” and Esmeralda smiled to herself at the unlikeliness of such a proceeding. Why, except for the cold air, it was really a treat to walk along the disused old gallery which traversed the left wing of the Castle, where the moonbeams shone in through the long row of windows with such picturesque effect. She sauntered along, enjoying the scene with artistic appreciation, even feeling a sense of satisfaction in her own appropriate attire. Powdered hair and hooped skirt seemed more in keeping with the surroundings than the bicycling dress of everyday life, and it was an agreeable variety to pose as one’s own great-grandmother once in a way.
Esmeralda reached the end of the gallery, and stretched a hand on either side, to feel her way down the circular stone staircase which would lead her into the entrance hall below. This means of descent was rarely used, and was now in a semi-ruinous condition, the stone steps being so much worn with the action of time that it required some little care to descend safely in the darkness. She stood poised on each step, extending a pretty foot to find a secure resting-place on the one below; round the curve where the darkness was almost complete, then coming into sight of the hall, with the moonlight making long streaks of light across the floor, and in the distance a yellow gleam from the solitary lamp.
Only three more steps remained to be descended, when suddenly she stopped short, drawing her breath sharply, for there by the second window stood a man’s tall form, all straight and still, and of a curious shining whiteness. The face was turned aside, but at the sound of that gasping sob it turned slowly round, and a pair of keen, steel-like eyes stared into hers.