Was it credible? Had it actually occurred, that
strange confession of Dorcas Brandon’s?
Could anything be imagined so mad—so unaccountable?
She reviewed Stanley in her mind’s eye.
She was better acquainted, perhaps, with his defects
than his fascinations, and too familiar with both
to appreciate at all their effect upon a stranger.
’What can she see in him? There’s
nothing remarkable in Stanley, poor fellow, except
his faults. There are much handsomer men than
he, and many as amusing—and he with no
estate.’
She had heard of charms and philtres. How could
she account for this desperate hallucination?
Rachel was troubled by a sort of fear to-night, and
the low fever of an undefined expectation was upon
her. She turned from the window, intending to
write two letters, which she had owed too long—young
ladies’ letters—for Miss Lake, like
many of her sex, as I am told, had several little
correspondences on her hands; and as she turned, with
a start, she saw old Tamar standing in the door-way,
looking at her.
‘Tamar!’
‘Yes, Miss Rachel.’
‘Why do you come so softly, Tamar? Do you
know, you frightened me?’
’I thought I’d look in, Miss, before I
went to bed, just to see if you wanted anything.’
‘No—nothing, thank you, dear Tamar.’
’And I don’t think, Miss Rachel, you are
quite well to-night, though you are so gay—you’re
pale, dear; and there’s something on your mind.
Don’t be thinking about Master Stanley; he’s
out of the army now, and I’m thankful for it;
and make your mind easy about him; and would not it
be better, dear, you went to your bed, you rise so
early.’
’Very true, good old Tamar, but to-night I must
write a letter—not a long one, though—and
I assure you, I’m quite well. Good-night,
Tamar.’
Tamar stood for a moment with her odd weird look upon
her, and then bidding her good-night, glided stiffly
away, shutting the door.
So Rachel sat down to her desk and began to write;
but she could not get into the spirit of her letter;
on the contrary, her mind wandered away, and she found
herself listening, every now and then, and at last
she fancied that old Tamar, about whom that dream,
and her unexpected appearance at the door, had given
her a sort of spectral feeling that night, was up
and watching her; and the idea of this white sentinel
outside her door excited her so unpleasantly, that
she opened it, but found no Tamar there; and then
she revisited the kitchen, but that was empty too,
and the fire taken down. And, finally, she passed
into the old woman’s bed-chamber, whom she saw,
her white head upon her pillow, dreaming again, perhaps.
And so, softly closing her door, she left her to her
queer visions and deathlike slumber.
RACHEL LAKE SEES WONDERFUL THINGS BY MOONLIGHT FROM
HER WINDOW.
