The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1904-02-14

year-and faces looked grave and troubled
when the Arethusa was named. She had
not been heard of anywhere for about
eighteen months. A gunboat was sent out
in search of her. and could find no trace.
Another year wore away in ever-increasing
gloom and pain. At the end of that time
she was given up for lost. and even 1, who
had hoped on against hope with the con-
fidence and elasticity of. youth. began to
keep silence when the subject was brought
up. L felt that to assert hope had now
become something akin to folly.
And yet-and yet-how was it that. If
Harold had died. 1 had had 10 Fremont
ton OF it? What 1 expected 1 scarce know;
but 1 felt so certain that he would not
nave quilted this world forever without
farewell TO me of some sort. 1 had. often
seen him in Dreams; continually we were
together in that fairy region woven of our
W imaginings. walking together along
some coral strand. with the blue, sunny
sky above and the crisp wavelets ripping
at our feet. This dream was so constant
that it had become interviewer with the
very texture of my life, and made night
the happiest portion of the twenty-four
hours to me. But never had l dreamt of
Harold in deadly peril: or felt a lackness
and horror fall upon me. Never had 1
seen him In the way in which others nave
een-or have seemed TO see-some beloved
one whose bodily presence is far away.
That experience had never been mine. and
for that very reason foolish though it
would have sounded to others) l could not
truly and honestly believe that my Harold
was dead. 1 hoped in silence now; but
still. 1 hoped.
Christmas was coming around again, and
l had promised TO spend that season with
some relatives of mine whom 1 had hitherto
only seen in London, where they had a
house in which they spent half the year.
l had heard of the old family seat in Kent
half manor house, half ~castle-about
which SO many traditions and legends had
gathered. But / had never seen il till this
time of which l am telling you; and when
l arrived there, l found the old place buzz
zing with life, and was quickly drawn into
a perfect vortex of fun and youthful gayety.
My losses were now a thing of the past
even that loss of my lover, as my friends
regarded it. 1t was considered the light
thing now that 1 should be ''cheered up
1 was not suffered to sit apart. 1 had to
S0NO I'll CNANC 6AAdlG III lnt u dilu ITOllC
around me, and as L had always a high
courage and a dislike to acting in any way
as a wet blanket, / threw myself with all
the heart / could into the life of the house.
and found that it did me good to be young
and merry again, even though the ache at
my heart was persistent still, and my night
dreams my chiefest solace.
But L did not dream now of the coral
strand and the ripping waves. 1 could not
have told where it was l met my lover: only
that we still seemed TO meet somewhere.
and that there was an eager buoyancy
about him now that had been less noticeable
before. l not infrequently woke with a
start in the dead of the night, feeling some
how as though he were near me-not visi-
by, or not in any distress, you understand:
the feeling was one of pure joy when il
came, and / would lie tingling all over.
scarce knowing whether 1 slept or woke.
But L think this strange happiness, which
/ did not understand myself, helped me to
enjoy my days all the more. Life in 4
country house in those simpler days was a
very pleasant affair. We rode and walked.
some of us hunted and occasionally / took
n gun and went out shooting with the boys.
ON wet days We sometimes retired into a
big, empty coachhOuSe and fired at a mark.
a prize was offered by one gentleman of a
pair or very beautifully-mOunted small Dis-
tolls in a case. and TO my great delight [
won il away from all the boys and Young
men who competed. 1 mention this. as
L am telling.
At Christmas the house filled up from
garnet to basement: and when on the very
day of the festival some unexpected cousins
begged 10 be allowed TO come at once TO
stay awhile, Ii was a puzzle to know where
to pack them. The girls of the house. and
the boys. too. had done everything that was
possible in the way OF slowing themselves
into holes and corners: and when heard
of the difficulty l at once offered to give
up my room. which was a large one.
But. Beatrice, where shall we put you?
We haven't Il hole or corner left, except
except
We'll. what? Anything will do for me.
What have you got left still?'
Why. there's the haunted room at the
end of the west gallery. But it's half dis
mantled; it's not been used for years. |
really don't think mother would like 10 put
anybody there.
say, i was not superstitiOus in the ordinary
sense of the term. Don't tell your mother
anything about IL. Just say I've been ar
ranged for, and that my room is vacant;
and give ne the haunted one. | should like
it: 1 really should. I'm not afraid of
ghosts. What sort OF a ghost is il? 1t won't
eat me, l SUPPOSE
'Oh. | don't think there's any danger
you know. l never really knew what the
story was. l daresay it's all nonsense
rats or owls. or wind down the old Chin
ney. But all the same the room is never
used. and there's hardly anything left in
IL now except the Old four-poster and an
oak press or two
We rushed OF TO look at it. and 1 was
charmed with the old room. What did il
matter that IL was bare and full of dust
and cobwebs? We got brooms and busters
ourselves. We fOraged for odds and ends
OF furniture from other places. My be-
longings were speedily transferred here.
and | could have had n bedfellOW for the
asking. l am sure. But | saw that none
Of the girls really wanted 10 sleep here.
and as / had not the smallest fear myself,
/ did not make the suggestion.
The room was not particularly large or