When Fay, escorted by Mrs. Heron and followed by Janet, had ascended the broad oaken staircase, and passed through the long gallery, the housekeeper paused in a recess with four red-baized doors.
“Sir Hugh’s dressing-room, my lady,” she explained, blandly, “and the next door belongs to Sir Hugh’s bathroom, and this,” pointing solemnly to the central door, “is the oriel room.”
“What,” faltered Lady Redmond, rather fearing from Mrs. Heron’s manner that this room might be the subject of some ghost story.
“The oriel room,” repeated the housekeeper still more impressively, “where the Redmond ladies have always slept. In this room both Sir Wilfred and Sir Hugh were born, and Sir Marmaduke and his sons Percy and Herewald were laid in state after the battle.”
It was well that Fay did not understand the latter end of the housekeeper’s speech, but she shuddered notwithstanding with vague discomfort when the door was opened, and all the glories of the oriel room were displayed before her. It was so large and grand that a queen might have slept in it and have been content, but to Fay’s eyes it was only a great gloomy room, so full of hidden corners and recesses, that the blazing fire-light and the wax-candles only seemed to give a faint circle of light, beyond which lurked weird shadows, hiding in the deep embrasures of the windows, or beaming against the painted ceiling.
The cabinets and wardrobe, and grotesque tables and chairs, all of black oak, and, above all, the great oak bedstead with its curiously twisted pillars and heavy silk damask curtains—each projected separate shadows and filled Fay’s mind with dismay, while from the paneled walls the childish figure was reflected in dim old mirrors.
“Oh, dear,” sighed the little bride, “I shall never dare to be by myself in this room. Janet, you must never leave me; look how those shadows move.”
“It is not quite canny, my lady,” replied Janet, glancing behind her at her mistress’s word, “but I think I can mend matters a little;” and so saying, she touched the logs so smartly that they spluttered and emitted showers of sparks, till the whole room gleamed warm and ruddy with reflected brightness.
“That is better, Janet,” cried Fay, delightedly; “but where are you going, Mrs. Heron?” for the housekeeper was making mysterious signs that her lady should follow her to a curtained recess; “indeed,” she continued, wearily, “I am very tired, and would rather see nothing more.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, my lady,” returned Mrs. Heron, smiling, and her tone made Fay follow her at once. But the next moment she uttered a little scream of delight, for there, hidden away behind the ruby curtains, was a tiny room—“a wee blue-lined nestie” fitted up as a boudoir or morning-room. The bow-window promised plenty of light, a cheerful modern paper covered the wall, with one or two choice landscapes; the snowy rug; the soft luxurious couch and low easy-chairs, covered with delicate blue cretonne; the writing-tables, and book-case, were all so suggestive of use and comfort. Two love-birds nestled like green blossoms in their gilded cage, and a white Persian kitten was purring before the fire.