A Strange World: A Novel. Volume 2 (of 3)Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
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A Strange World: A Novel. Volume 2 (of 3)
Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
English fiction -- 19th century
‘Good night, Mrs. Trevanard. By the way, you’ve no ghosts here, I think
your son said?’
‘I hope both you and he know better than to believe any such rubbish,
sir.’
‘Of course; only this room looks the very picture of a haunted chamber,
and if I were capable of believing in ghosts I should certainly lie
awake on the look-out for one to-night.’
‘Those whose faith is surely grounded have no such fancies, sir,’
replied Mrs. Trevanard, severely, and closed the door without another
word.
‘The room looks haunted, for all that,’ muttered Maurice, and then
involuntarily repeated those famous lines of Hood’s,—
‘O’er all there hung a shadow and a fear;
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!’
The bedstead was a four-poster, with tall, spirally twisted posts, and
some dark drapery, shrunken with age, and too small for the wooden
framework. There was an old-fashioned press, or wardrobe, of black wood,
whose polished surface reflected the firelight. A three-cornered
wash-hand stand, and a clumsy-looking chest of drawers between the
windows, surmounted by a cracked looking-glass, completed the furniture
of the room. The boards were uncarpeted, and showed knots and dark
patches in the worm-eaten wood, which a morbid fancy might have taken
for the traces of some half-forgotten murder.
‘Not a cheerful-looking room by any means, even with the aid of that
blazing fire,’ thought Maurice.
He opened one of the casements and looked out. The night air was soft
and balmy, perfumed with odours of clover and the newly stacked hay. The
Atlantic lay before him, shining under the great red moon, which had but
just risen. A pleasanter prospect this than the bare walls of faded,
dirty pink, the black clothes-press, and funereal four-poster.
Maurice lingered at the window, his arms folded on the broad ledge, his
thoughts wandering idly—wandering back to last year and the moonlight
that had shone upon the cathedral towers of Eborsham, the garden of the
‘Waterfowl’ Inn, and the winding river.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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