A week passed without any adventures; Jo poked about everywhere and soon learnt her way about the house. She was delighted to find a well-stocked library; she was very fond of reading and now had plenty of time to enjoy it. She also occupied herself with writing a book, which she had begun in her spare time at home. She always sat in the cosy little room, where she had had tea the first evening she came. It led out of the big hall, and was like it also panelled with oak. One night, being interested in her writing, Jo sat up later than usual. Bridget had long gone to bed, so she knew she was entirely alone in that part of the house. Suddenly she paused in the middle of her writing and listened with bated breath. Tap! Tap! Tap! It sounded like the tap-tap of a high heeled shoe on the oak floor outside. Then she heard the rustle of silk, and saw a little lady dressed in old-fashioned brown taffeta glide in through the fast closed door. One hand she held close against her neck, and when, for one moment she lowered it, Jo saw a terrible gash across her pretty white throat. Her beautiful eyes were unutterably sad. Slowly and silently she glided on, until she reached the other side of the room, then as silently disappeared through the panelled wall. Jo pinched herself to make sure she was awake, and wondered to find herself quite calm and more interested than frightened. She examined carefully the wall where the little lady had disappeared, but could discover nothing. One thing perplexed : her she felt certain she had seen the lady before, but when and where she could not remember. Next day she accidently solved this question. It was a miserable wet day, and Jo was tired of reading and writing, but did not care to go out, so by way of exercise she took the keys and wandered all over the house. From room to room she went till she found herself in the big gallery. The walls were lined with portraits of many dates. There were several large, massive chandeliers about the room in which were half burnt wax candles yellow with age. Jo had only been there once before, on the day after she arrived, when Bridget showed her all over the house. The old woman had then told her that this gallery was called the Pall-room, but had not been lit up by mortal hand as long as she could remember. Jo had laughingly asked whether the ghosts often lit it up, but Bridget shook her old head gravely and refused to continue the conversation. Jo strolled about looking at the different portraits, making up stories about them, and imagining relationships. Suddenly she came face to face with her little friend of last night, with this difference, that in the picture she looked happy and contented. She was dressed in white satin and gold brocade, while at her neck sparkled a magnificent ruby necklace. She sat there with a baby nestling in her arms, and by her side stood a tall fair man, with a handsome but weak face, looking down at her and her baby with an air of proud possession. Beneath the picture she read the simple inscription "Dorothy and Geoffrey." The next picture was the portrait of a handsomer man than Jo had ever seen before; "Philip Courtenay" was written below it. Tall, well-made, with faultless features and dark expressive eyes. It was evident that the two men were brothers, as they were very much alike, only unlike Geoffrey, Philip had a strong passionate expression. It occurred to her that he had perhaps something to do with the sad looks of poor Dorothy's ghost. |