The Honorable Miss Part 13

To her surprise it opened at a touch.

"Kate!" exclaimed the young girl, "Tester has been very careless; he has never closed the side gate."

"I will call him up and speak to him now," said Catherine, who had a certain touch of her mother's imperious nature. "He shall do it now.

Mother is always most particular about the gates, and she ought not to be disobeyed in her absence."

Catherine was running across the avenue to wake old Tester when Loftus laid his hand on her arm.

"You really are too absurd, Kitty," he said. "I simply won't allow that poor, infirm, old man to be got out of his bed for such a ridiculous reason. Who cares whether the gates are locked, or not locked?"

"Mother cares," said Catherine, her eyes flashing.

"Now, Kate, you must use your common-sense. That fad about locking the gates is a pure and simple whim on the mother's part. Of course we'll humor it, but not to the extent of waking up old Tester. Come, Kitty, you shall give the old man any amount of blowing up in the morning, only now you really must leave him alone."

"I'm going on," said Mabel; "I can scarcely keep my eyes open. Will you come with me, Loftie? If Kate likes to stay by herself with the dark trees and the ghosts, why, let her. I'm off to bed."

She ran laughing and singing up the old avenue.

Loftus turned to resume his argument with Catherine, Mabel's gay voice echoed more faintly as she ran on. Suddenly it stopped. Patter, patter, came back the swift feet, and, trembling and shivering, she threw herself into Loftus's arms.

"I heard something--there's something in the avenue!"

The moon was shining, and showed Mabel's face as white as a sheet.

"You silly child," said Loftus, "you heard a rabbit scuttling home.

Here, take my arm, and let us all get home as fast as we can. Why, you are trembling from head to foot. You are tired out, that's it. Take her other arm, will you, Kate?"

"They say Rosendale is haunted," panted Mabel.

"Folly! Don't listen to such rubbish. Your rabbit was hurrying to bed, and was as much afraid of you as you of it."

"It--it wasn't a rabbit," said Mabel. "Rabbits don't sigh."

"Oh--sighs only belong to ghosts?"

"I don't know. Don't laugh at me, Loftie. I heard a real sigh and a rustle, and something white flashed."

"Then you flashed back to us. Never talk of being a brave girl again, May."

"Let us walk very quickly," said Mabel. "It was just there I saw it.

Just by that great clump of Lauristinus. Don't let us speak. There, that's better. I own I'm frightened, Loftie. You needn't laugh at me."

Loftus Bertram had many faults, but he was not ill-natured. He took Mabel's little cold hand, and pressed it between his warm fingers, and ceased to laugh at her, and walked quickly, and was even silent at her bidding. By degrees, Mabel leaned all her weight on Loftus, and took no notice of Kate, who, for her part, held herself erect, and walked up the avenue with a half-aggrieved, half-scornful look on her face, and with some anxiety in her heart.

CHAPTER IX.

THE GHOST IN THE AVENUE.

Rosendale Manor had heaps of rooms. It was an old house, added to at many times; added to by builders, who had little or no knowledge of their craft, who were prodigal of s.p.a.ce, and illiberal in all matters of convenience.

The Manor was the sort of house which might best be described as inadequate for the wants of ordinary people. For instance, its drawing-rooms were large out of all proportion, whereas its dining-room, morning-room and library were ridiculously small. It had a s.p.a.cious hall and wide landings, but its stairs were steep and narrow, and there was not even one decent-sized bedroom in the house. All the rooms had low ceilings and were small. Their only virtue was that there were such a number of them.

Catherine and Mabel liked the bedrooms at the Manor, because being rather distinct in their tastes, and decidedly given to quarrel over the arrangements of their separate properties, it was impossible for them to sleep together. Each girl had a room of her own, and these rooms did not even touch, for Mabel slept near her mother, and Catherine away in a wing by herself. This wing could only be reached by a spiral staircase, and was p.r.o.nounced by the timid Mabel to be odiously lonely.

Catherine, however, knew no fears, and enjoyed the privacy of her quaint little bedroom with its sloping roof and lattice window.

She bade her brother and sister good-night, and went up to it, now.

"You'll go to bed at once, won't you, Kitty?" said Mabel, whose eyes were half-shut. "Perhaps it _was_ only a rabbit I heard. Only why did it flash white, and why did it sigh? Well, I won't think of it any more. Good-night, Kitty, how wide awake you look."

Catherine kissed her sister and sought her distant chamber. She waited until all was silent in the house, then slowly and cautiously she unbarred her door and went downstairs.

In the large square entrance hall she took a white shawl from a stand.

She hung it across her arm, and still walking very softly reached the hall door, drew back its bolts, removed its chain, opened it, and went out into the porch.

Her mother had stood in that porch two nights fgo. Catherine thought of her now. The remembrance of her mother's face caused her to sigh and shiver as if she had been struck with sudden cold. Leaving the hall door ajar she wrapped the white shawl about her shoulders, and then walked a little way across the wide gravel sweep in front of the house.

Her footsteps crunched the gravel, but her brother and sister slept in distant bedrooms and could hear nothing. The moon was riding full and high in the heavens, and its reflection caused intense light and dark shadows. Catherine's own shadow stalked heavy and immense by her side.

She walked a little way down the avenue, listening intently. Even the crunching of the gravel disturbed her, so she stepped on the gra.s.s, and walked noiselessly on its velvet path.

Suddenly she stopped, threw up her head, flung her shawl off, and with a movement quick as lightning, put out her hand and caught something.

She was holding a girl's slender and round arm. She drew her forward, pushed back her somewhat tawdry hat, and looked into her face.

"What are you doing here? What is your name? Speak at once. Tell me the truth."

The girl had queer, half-wild eyes. She looked down and began to mutter something indistinct. The next instant she went on her knees, caught Catherine's white dress and pressed it to her lips.

"Don't," said Miss Bertram, with a movement both of decision and repulsion. "You aren't even clean. Don't touch my dress. What are you doing here?"

"I have travelled a long way. I am only dirty because I am travel-sore.

I have come to see the lady, your mother. I have come from far to see her. I have a message for her. Is she at home?"

"Would she see you, if she were at home, at this hour? Tell me your name first, and then go away. You cannot see my mother."

"You are Miss Bertram, are you not?"

"Yes--and Rosendale Manor is my home. It is not yours. Go away. Never come back here again. You are not to see my mother."

The girl rose to her feet. Her dress was dirty, her face was begrimed with the dirt of travel, but Catherine noticed that the dress was whole, not patched anywhere, also that her accent was pure, and almost refined.

"Miss Bertram," she said, "I must see the lady, your mother. I have an important message for her; I am not a spy, and I don't come in any unkindness, but I must see the lady who lives here, and who is your mother. I have waited for hours in the avenue, hours and hours. I will wait until morning. The nights are not cold, and I shall do very well.

Let me see your mother then."