Chapter III

When she had set foot in the garden and he came back to her, he was honestly surprised. He had thought her a precocious child of thirteen. Here was a tall girl up to his shoulder, with a figure that was rounding into the gracious curves of womanhood--eighteen at the very least, he decided, in spite of her childish manner and the simple blue gingham dress whose ruffled skirt was still short enough to betray half an inch of _écru_ stocking above the top of her trim little buttoned boots.

She looked back a little apprehensively at the step-ladder at the window.

“You may move the ladder until I get my flowers,” she said. “I am afraid that if cook came up to see after me she would find me out.”

He was rather amused at her pretty air of command as contrasted with her frightened, appealing tones of a little while ago. He obeyed her command, then sat down carelessly on a rustic seat, and watched her as she flitted about among his flowers. First she adorned herself, after the manner of a vain woman, with a bunch of rosebuds in the soft little fichu of white lace at her neck, and another at the belt of her white apron. Then she roved about from flower to flower, daintily and capriciously as a butterfly, but culling sweets as industriously as a bee, her white apron soon being filled with the scented beauties. Absorbed in her delightful occupation, time flew unheeded. She seemed to forget her neighbor, and the grim, gray house, whose shadow reached out long and dark and forbidding across the garden and compassed her in its gloom like a fateful prophecy.

He watched the child, as he called her to himself, idly, and yet with that something of interest that even the cold and world-hardened cannot deny to youth and happiness. Something of pity mingled with his careless thoughts. She seemed so young, and gay, and light-hearted, and he knew that it could not last, that the years would overtake her, and teach her that

“Youth’s life is but a brief one,
Foam from an ebbing sea.”

She passed out of sight under the shady arches of the trees, and for a little while Oran Delaney forgot her. He smoked a cigar with his hat drawn over his eyes, and his moody brows drawn together. The sudden silvery tinkle of a bell from the house aroused him to a remembrance of luncheon and his guest.

He glanced around him, and caught the glimmer of a blue dress among the trees. Following it, he found her hovering over a bed of exquisite pansies, murmuring softly to herself little exclamations of girlish pleasure and delight.

“I hope you will forgive me for rousing you to the prosaic realities of life,” he said, “but my luncheon is ready, and I came to ask you to share it.”

“Luncheon!” She glanced up with a startled face. “Is it so late as that?”

“‘How softly falls the foot of Time, that only treads on flowers!’” he quoted. “Yes, it is two o’clock”--glancing at his watch--“has not your physical entity already reminded you of that fact?”

“If you mean that I ought to be hungry by this time, I believe it is true,” said she, smiling. “Although I had not thought of it before, I believe I should like a biscuit. But I must go home now; I cannot stay to lunch with you. Do not look at this great load of flowers, Mr. Delaney; I am afraid you will scold.”

“You have tried to carry off every one in the garden, I see,” he returned, uncaring. “But my peaches and grapes are as sweet and lovely as my flowers. Come and try them.”

Another temptation! Nothing ever tasted so delicious to Aline as the sunny side of a peach. She was curious over Mr. Delaney’s lunch, too, and wondered who prepared it, and what the inside of that great house looked like. Ever since they had come to the cottage to live, she had been curious over it. Should she let the opportunity to enter it and see go unimproved?

Aline was a true descendant of our common mother Eve--she preferred knowledge at any risk. Her curiosity and her liking for peaches carried her beyond the bounds of prudence. She went boldly into the “lion’s den.”

Dear reader, do not think my heroine altogether bold and frivolous. She was only simple, innocent, and ignorant. She had never been to Wisdom’s school. She was at heart a child still, with a child’s free, willful impulses.

It did not occur to her that it was very improper to accept Mr. Delaney’s careless invitation to go into his house and take lunch with him. She wished very much to do so, and, being used to having her own way--very often with only occasional condign punishment, such as she had received to-day--she went.

She went, and she was almost startled at the gloomy magnificence of the long and stately dining-hall, with its costly carpet, thick and soft as moss, its dark, rich, walnut furniture, glittering side-boards, paneled walls, and splendid pictures. On one end of the long, imposing table was spread a delicate, luxurious luncheon of cold chicken, flaky biscuit, sweetmeats, and cake, with grapes, peaches, and wine. The service was of gold, and silver, and crystal, and glittered in the subdued light that stole into the room through the closed curtains. There was no attendant in the room, and the whole house appeared as silent as the tomb. Nevertheless, Aline enjoyed her lunch very much; its mysterious origin seeming as if served by magic, and the costly plate on which it was laid did not detract from its charm. In her enjoyment of the delicate repast she quite forgot her original intention of eating only just one peach and hurrying home. She discussed the whole bill of fare with the keen appetite of a healthy girl used to out door exercise and fresh air; and then she was quite frightened to find that it was three o’clock.

“Cook will have taken luncheon up to my room and found out that I have gone. What shall I do?” she said, growing suddenly frightened and lifting her large, anxious eyes to her entertainer’s face.

“Cook will not tell of you, I hope. Will she?” asked Mr. Delaney, coolly peeling a peach with his white, aristocratic hand, on which a magnificent diamond glowed with iridescent fire. “Have this peach, Miss--Miss--do you know I haven’t found out your name yet?”

“It is Aline--Aline Rodney. I thought you would know that much, as we are neighbors,” she said; then returning to her grievance, she added: “Cook will certainty betray me. You should have sent me home sooner. Why didn’t you?”

“That would have been discourteous,” said Oran Delaney, with his winning smile; “and, besides, Miss Rodney, I forgot you. Will you pardon me for it? I was smoking and dreaming, you see, and you escaped my mind for the moment.”

“‘Out of sight, out of mind,’” said Aline, quoting the old adage with perfect good humor. “Well, it was just the same with me. I thought of nothing but the flowers until you came up suddenly behind me. But I must go home now and see if I am found out. Ah, dear me, I am into another scrape, and, indeed, indeed, I never dreamed of it when I came down into the garden. I shall have to go down on my knees to cook, and beg her to keep it silent about the ladder and the book.”

“Since you feel so sure that you are found out, there can surely be no need to haste to return to your prison,” said Oran Delaney, toying with a purple, bloomy bunch of grapes. “An hour more or less cannot matter materially, I suppose, in the extent of cook’s wrath?”

“N--no, I suppose not,” said Aline, paltering with temptation weakly. “And I do hate to go back to that lonely room just yet. But, perhaps,” gazing at him, anxiously, “perhaps you would like for me to go. Perhaps you are weary of me.”

A sudden sigh, deep, subtle, profound, breathed over his lips. He looked at her strangely.

“I am weary of everything,” he said, abruptly. “But if it pleases you to stay, child, pray do so. It will be no annoyance to me.”

From being terribly afraid of him at first, Aline had become quite trusting and confidential. She looked at him with a smile.

“Thank you for your kind permission,” she said. “I will not go just yet. There are some things I should like to find out before I go home.”

“You are very frank.”

“Do you think so?” asked his unconventional guest. “And will you answer truly what I am about to ask you?”

“_Cela depends_,” he replied, with a slight frown.

“That means that you anticipate impertinent questions from me!” she laughed, easily. “But do you know, Mr. Delaney, that you have long been an object of curiosity to me?”

“You flatter me,” said Oran Delaney, lightly.

“I don’t know whether the curiosity is flattering or not,” said frank Aline. “The greater part of my curiosity is over this great, gloomy-looking house of yours. Is it really haunted, as they say?”

“It is haunted by my presence--nothing more ghostly than that,” he replied, laconically.

Aline looked as if she did not quite believe him, but she went on, perseveringly:

“Do you really live in this house all alone, sir?”

“Yes,” he replied.

Her large eyes wandered over the delicately prepared luncheon, then returned to his quiet face.

“But, really now, Mr. Delaney, there must be a housekeeper here. Else by whom could your meals be served?” she said.

“By the fairies,” he replied, with perfect gravity.

“You don’t expect me to believe that?” said Aline, pouting her rosy lips.

“I hope you will. At least it is the only answer I can give you,” he retorted.

Aline looked curiously at him. There was a slight smile on his face, but he spoke in grave earnest. She understood then that the secrets of the haunted house would remain secret still. He had no mind to reveal them to her.

The rich color rose to her face as it suddenly flashed over her that he must think she made him a poor return for his courtesy by her pointed questions.

“I beg your pardon for my impertinent questions,” she said. “I did not really mean to be rude. I was merely thoughtless.”

“You are freely forgiven,” he answered, courteously.

“And now I will thank you for your kindness, and go,” Aline continued, moving from the table and turning toward the door.

Mr. Delaney walked by her side and opened the door for her with his quiet, courteous air.

“You have done me the honor to be curious over my old house, Miss Rodney,” he said. “Perhaps this glimpse of its interior has not satisfied you. Do you care to examine any of the other rooms?”

They were walking slowly along, side by side on the echoing floor of the wide, marble-paved hall, and Aline had just opened her lips to speak, but her answer, whether negative or affirmative, will never be recorded. It was frozen on her lips by a terrible interruption.

The strange, brooding stillness that reigned throughout the great, gray stone mansion, was broken startlingly by a loud, prolonged shriek--a shriek of such terrible, diabolic, blood-curdling rage and hate, that it seemed to freeze the blood in Aline’s veins, and to cause every individual hair to stand erect upon her head with horror.

Instinctively she threw out her hand, and clutching Mr. Delaney’s arm, stared up into his face with wide, terrified blue eyes, like a child’s appealing for protection.

The shriek was repeated, followed by another, and another, each more terrible than the last. Those fearful cries struck terror to Aline’s heart. She could not determine whether they issued from male or female lips. It seemed to her frenzied fancy as if they did not belong to a human being, but rather to some vicious and diabolic spirit of the nether world. It

“Was neither man nor woman,
It was neither brute nor human,
’Twas a ghoul.”