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With some difficulty, the grooms succeeded in placing the body of the
woman upon one of the horses, and while one man mounted and held it there,
the other, with the little child in his arms, regained his own saddle, and, calling
upon Mr. Gillies to follow closely, they took the same road their master had
done.

The violence of the storm would have rendered communication difficult had
it been desired, and not a word was exchanged until, at a sharp turn of the road,
the servants pausing to see that the stranger was close beside them, turned in at
a gate sheltered and nearly concealed by a dense growth of evergreens.

At some distance, and a little higher than this entrance, appeared the glancing
lights of a large building dimly outlined against the stormy sky.

A few moments later the horses paused at the foot of some broad steps, and
James, with the infant, carefully dismounting, carried it in at the hall door, and
presently returned followed by two or three female servants, who, with much
outcry and many questions, helped him to take the body of the woman from the
stiffened arms of Thomas, who avowed himself “chilled to the marrow,” and
carried it into the house.

Then, and not till then, James, who had privately resented more than he
thought safe to express Mr. Gillies's resolute non-interference in this work of
humanity, said,

“Will you get off your horse, sir, and walk into the house. I will speak to
Mrs. Rhee, for I suppose Mr. Vaughn won't be able to see any one to-night.”

Mr. Gillies remained immovable.

“I will give any man here a dollar, or as much more as we may decide upon,
to show me the way to my own house of Cragness,” said he, at length.

“Cragness, sir! There isn't a man or horse about the place that could reach
Cragness to-night. There's no choice but for you to stop here. Won't you
please walk into the house,” replied James, with respectful impatience.

With undisguised reluctance, the visitor dismounted and followed his guide
up the steps.

“I had rather go to my own house,” persisted he.

To this remark James offered no reply; but, pushing open the heavy door,
ushered the guest into a hall, whose warmth, light, and the fragrance from some
large flowering shrubs, offered a charming contrast to the wild weather without.

The door of a room at the right of the entrance stood open, and James
pushed it a little wider.

“Walk into the library, sir, and sit down,” said he. “I will speak to the
housekeeper.”

“I am sorry I could not go to Cragness,” murmured John Gillies, as he advanced
into the quiet room and looked about him. The lamps were not lighted,
but a fire of bituminous coal blazed in the grate and fitfully illuminated the frescoes
of the ceiling, the rare marbles and dim, lettered bindings of volumes rarer
than any marbles, the carved blazonry above the fire-place, the moss-green carpet,
and furniture.

“A man of letters and art—a proud man and a luxurious,” commented
shrewd John Gillies, as his eyes wandered over these details. “And not a

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musical instrument of any sort,” added he, with a hard smile of contempt, as he
turned his back upon the room, and stood looking into the glowing coals.

“Shall I show you to your room, Mr. Gillies?” said a voice at his elbow.

He turned, and found a woman beside him. A woman, perhaps thirty-five
years old, with one of the most singular faces he had ever seen. Not a trace of
color lay beneath the pale olive of the skin, except a deep scarlet in the lips.
The large eyes, dark and full as those of a stag, had swept one rapid glance at
him when she first spoke, but fell before his own could fairly meet them. Heavy
masses of black hair were swept away from a low forehead, and half covered the
small ears. The figure was slight and graceful, the hands small, the dress quiet,
but handsome. It was in none of these, however, that the peculiarity of this
woman's appearance lay; it was in the latent expression of the whole, a sort of
terrible intimation of something just beneath the surface, hidden for the moment
by an unnatural qulet, but ever watching for a moment of weakness in its guardian
to burst from her control.

Something of this the acute physiognomist, John Gillies, felt, but failed at
the moment to reduce the perception to thought.

“Shall I show you to your room, sir? I am Mrs. Rhee, Mr. Vaughn's
housekeeper,” said the woman, finding her first appeal disregarded.

“Thank you. I am sorry to intrude upon strangers at such a time as this,
but am informed it would be impossible to reach my own house to-night.”

“Quite, sir. It is a terrible night for any one to leave a happy home and go
all alone into the storm.”

She shivered convulsively as she spoke, and moved toward the door.

Both words and manner were strange, and catching rather at their hidden
than their obvious meaning, Mr. Gillies said,

“The woman we found to-night, will she recover?”

“She is dead,” said the housekeeper, briefly, as she began to ascend the
stairs.

“And Mrs. Vaughn?” asked Gillies, doubtfully.

Mrs. Rhee paused, and clung a moment to the banister before she answered,
in a whisper,

“She is dying.”

“A terrible night for any one to leave a happy home and go all alone into
the storm,” echoed through John Gillies's brain, but he said nothing, and the
housekeeper recovering from her sudden emotion, passed swiftly up the stairs
and threw open the door of a bed-chamber, warmed, lighted, and luxurious.

“You will find a bell at the head of the bed, sir, and dinner will be served in
half an hour,” said his attendant, briefly, as she closed the door.

The guest stood looking after her a moment, and then drawing a chair to
the blazing fire, seated himself and stared absently into its depths.

“A terrible night,” murmured he; “I wonder if what is left of those two
women will know what sort of a night it is. I wonder if that housekeeper was
very fond of her mistress, or if she is what they call nervous. I wonder if this
man sitting before this fire is the man who twenty-four hours ago had never been
out of the city where he was born, had never seen one of these curious people.
I wonder if they keep going on in this way all the time.”

Half an hour later, the servant sent to summon Mr. Gillies to dinner, found
him sitting in the same position still staring vacantly into the glowing coals.

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“Mr. Vaughn begs to be excused from dinner, sir. He cannot leave his
wife,” said Mrs. Rhee's subdued voice, as the guest entered the dining-room.

The dining-room door again opened, and a small man with quick bright eyes,
and a close mouth, entered, and advanced toward the table.

“Mr. Gillies, Doctor Roland,” said the housekeeper, briefly.

The two men bowed, and seated themselves at table. Some trifling conversation
upon the weather, and upon the peculiarities of the sea-shore in winter,
ensued, but the housekeeper did not speak, except in performing the duties of
the table, nor did either food or wine pass her lips. Only as they were about to
rise, Mr. Gillies noticed that she asked for a glass of ice water, and drank it with
feverish rapidity.

Returning at last to his own room, he paused on hearing satifled grons from
a corridor just beyond, and, looking down it, was startled to see a dark shapeless
figure lying upon the floor at the farther end, and writhing to and fro as if in
agony. Cautiously approaching until he stood directly above it, Mr. Gillies
still failed in the dim light to discover more than that it appeared to be a woman
suffering intensely.

“What's the matter?” asked he, hesitatingly. “Can I help you in any
way?”

The sounds of distress became more violent, although evidently suppressed
as much as possible, but still the figure neither rose nor spoke.

Gillies, unwilling either to abandon or to urge his proffer of sympathy, stood
irresolute, when a door softly opened, and Mrs. Rhee appeared, closing it behind
her.

“Chloe!” said she, sternly, and stooping down, she whispered a few words,
and then said aloud,

“Get up, Chloe, and go to my room to wait till you are called. Mr. Gillies,
I will show you the way to your own chamber.”

“I know the way to the chamber I was in before dinner,” said Gillies, composedly.
“I came here to see what was the matter with this person.”

He paused, as he spoke, to look at the uncouth figure now standing erect before
him. It was that of an intensely black negro woman, dwarfed in stature,
and so malformed that her head, bent upon her breast, could only be turned from
side to side, forcing her in addressing any person to give them a sidelong upward
glance indescribably elfish and peculiar.

“She is Mrs. Vaughn's nurse, and she feels—”

Mrs. Rhee paused abruptly. The negro woman who had moved away a few
steps, turned impulsively, and catching the housekeeper's skirts, buried her face
in them with a dumb moan of anguish more pitiful than words. For an instant
Mrs. Rhee stooped as if to throw her arms about her, but restraining herself,
said imperiously,

“Come with me, Chloe. Mr. Gillies—”

“I have no intention of farther intrusion upon the domestic affairs of this
house, ma'am,” said Gillies, coldly. “I should not have been guilty of it in
this in this instance had not humanity—”

But Mrs. Rhee had not paused for more than his first words. Already she
had disappeared through a door at the end of the corridor, followed by Chloe.

Mr. Gillies walked meditatively to his own room, and gave no further clue
to his feelings that night, than to say as he stepped into bed. “I wish I could
have gone to Cragness.”

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