Wylder's Hand eBook

The floor, more than anything else, showed the great age of the room.  It was warped and arched all along by the wall between the door and the window.  The portion of it which the carpet did not cover showed it to be oak, dark and rugged.  My bed was unexceptionably comfortable, but, in my then mood, I could have wished it a great deal more modern.  Its four posts were, like the rest of it, oak, well-nigh black, fantastically turned and carved, with a great urn-like capital and base, and shaped midway, like a gigantic lance-handle.  Its curtains were of thick and faded tapestry.  I was always a lover of such antiquities, but I confess at that moment I would have vastly preferred a sprightly modern chintz and a trumpery little French bed in a corner of the Brandon Arms.  There was a great lowering press of oak, and some shelves, with withered green and gold leather borders.  All the furniture belonged to other times.

I would have been glad to hear a step stirring, or a cough even, or the gabble of servants at a distance.  But there was a silence and desertion in this part of the mansion which, somehow, made me feel that I was myself a solitary intruder on this level of the vast old house.

I shan’t trouble you about my train of thoughts or fancies; but I began to feel very like a gentleman in a ghost story, watching experimentally in a haunted chamber.  My cigar case was a resource.  I was not a bit afraid of being found out.  I did not even take the precaution of smoking up the chimney.  I boldly lighted my cheroot.  I peeped through the dense window curtain there were no shutters.  A cold, bright moon was shining with clear sharp lights and shadows.  Everything looked strangely cold and motionless outside.  The sombre old trees, like gigantic hearse plumes, black and awful.  The chapel lay full in view, where so many of the, strange and equivocal race, under whose ancient roof-tree I then stood, were lying under their tombstones.

Somehow, I had grown nervous.  A little bit of plaster tumbled down the chimney, and startled me confoundedly.  Then some time after, I fancied I heard a creaking step on the lobby outside, and, candle in hand, opened the door, and looked out with an odd sort of expectation, and a rather agreeable disappointment, upon vacancy.

CHAPTER XII.

IN WHICH UNCLE LORNE TROUBLES ME.

I was growing most uncomfortably like one of Mrs. Anne Radcliffe’s heroes—­a nervous race of demigods.

I walked like a sentinel up and down my chamber, puffing leisurely the solemn incense, and trying to think of the Opera and my essay on ‘Paradise Lost,’ and other pleasant subjects.  But it would not do.  Every now and then, as I turned towards the door, I fancied I saw it softly close.  I can’t the least say whether it was altogether fancy.  It was with the corner, or as the Italians have it, the ‘tail’ of my eye that I saw, or imagined that I saw, this trifling but unpleasant movement.