20. XX.
THE DUMB-CAKE.
In spite of every effort made by Honoria,
she found it impossible to recover
her calmness. It is probable that the
prolonged loss of rest, incident upon the
festivities of the many preceding nights,
had predisposed her to nervous agitation;
but, whatever may have been the cause,
she was now laboring under very great
excitement, and shrunk, trembling, at
every sound.
The strange rite she was about to
perform came to add the finishing touch
to her agitation.
There was the bucket, filled with
the mysterious water from the weird
locality where the three streams met;
she looked sidewise at it, with a sudden
quaking, as though it were some frightful
and repellent monster, some hideous
thing. This was to aid her in—in what?
In seeing the figure of her future husband!
At that thought, a quick blush came
to the beautiful young face, driving away
for an instant the expression of terror.
It was the name Edmund that rose to
her lips, and brought the crimson to her
cheeks. Could any other person than
Edmund ever sustain toward her that
most sacred relation? Was it within the
bounds of possibility that any one but
Edmund could be her husband? At
the very thought, the pale cheeks flushed,
and she exclaimed in a low tone, “I
would rather die!”
Her own voice made her start, and
she looked round fearfully. Every object
seemed to have assumed a new
character, becoming threatening or lugubrious.
The shadows of the curtains
on the wall resembled dark hands
raised to strike her; the great oak without
was a spectre peering in through her
casement; the half-hideous, half-grotesque
heads on the tops of the tall andirons
seemed grinning at her terror and
mocking her.
The nervous agitation of the young
lady had now attained almost its highest
point. The storm roared with a fury
more appalling than before. The shadows
assumed more threatening shapes.
At every sound, Honoria started, shuddering
and gazing around her with affrighted
eyes. This excitement grew at
last so powerful that she scarcely dared
to move. With a trembling frame and
colorless cheeks she listened in an agony
of terror, and once she wellnigh uttered
a scream, for a low, painful breathing
seemed to issue from the great white
bed, which, with spectral curtains drawn
together like a shroud, alternately appeared
and vanished as the dying firelight
leaped aloft or disappeared.
The low breathing had scarcely
ceased, when another source of agitation
presented itself. Above the fireplace
hung that portrait of the elder Lord
Ruthven, Colonel Brand's friend, and
the picture had changed its quarter from
the colonel's dressing-room by a singular
chance, which will be explained in the
progress of the narrative. As Honoria
gazed now at the dark, melancholy face,
it seemed alive. The shadowy eyes
were fixed upon her with terrifying intensity.
She looked away, but they
seemed to draw her, and there again was
the dark, lugubrious gaze, full of mysterious
meaning. Then the brows seemed
to contract with a frown—the lips to
assume an ominous and threatening expression—the
portrait to move, and the
figure to be about to step from the canvas
[ILLUSTRATION]
"At three in the morning." p.43.
[Description: 505EAF. Image of four women entering a bedroom where another woman is
lying passed out on the floor. Two of the women are holding candles for light,
while another is holding her hands clenched in front of her face. There is a
large chair pulled in front of a cold fireplace and a heavily blanketed canopy
bed can be seen on the left.]
and extend its shadowy hand toward
her.
Honoria rose to her feet, trembling
and shuddering. Her terror had reached
its climax. She felt that it was necessary
to dissipate the fearful atmosphere
around her, or she would fall fainting
upon the floor. The thought of calling
for assistance occurred to her, but
the storm was too violent to admit of
her being heard. Then she would become
the laughing-stock of all—was she
not overcome simply by foolish nervousness?
No, she would not shrink.
“I am no longer a child,” she murmured;
“I must prove myself a woman,
for his sake if not for my own!”
She knelt and prayed, trembling, but
firm in will.
Then partly disrobing herself, the
young lady dipped the sleeve of the
snowy garment, worn next her person,
in the bucket, placed it with a tremulous
hand upon a chair, and went toward the
mirror.
At the same moment the great clock
in the hall below began to strike midnight.
Pale, trembling, with bare feet, hair
falling upon her shoulders, and resembling
rather a ghost than a human being,
the young lady counted the strokes one
after another, shuddering more and
more as the number increased, and approached
the terrible “twelve,” denoting
midnight.
Had she not been so completely mastered
by terror, she might have seen
two burning eyes watching her from behind
the shroud - like curtains of the
great bed.
But she saw nothing; her eyes were
half closed, and fixed upon the floor;
one hand was placed upon her heart, to
still its terrible throbbing.
Suddenly the clock struck twelve: a
fearful shudder convulsed the frame of
Honoria; and, turning quickly, she
looked into the mirror.
