CHAPTER VII. AT THE DREAD HOUR OF MIDNIGHT.

Half an hour passed by slowly.

The storm was over.

The lightning, thunder, and rain had ceased, and the moon was coming out from the black wrack of clouds where she had hidden her glory.

Her silver light shone again upon the sleeping world, and flashed into the parlor window that Floy had opened before she left the room half an hour ago.

In the sheen of the moonlight, the staring eyes of the portraits on the wall seemed to be watching eagerly for their descendant to reappear.

The hall door opened softly, and Floy staggered across the threshold, bearing the lamp unsteadily in her small hand.

What a change had come over the sparkling _riante_ face!

She was pale to the lips--pale as a ghost, as the saying goes--and there was a strange expression in her blue eyes, as if they had looked upon something uncanny.

With an unsteady step, as though she trembled in every limb, the lamp flaring dismally in her grasp, she dragged herself across the room to a long swinging mirror between the windows, and held the light up over her golden head, looking at herself carefully, as she whispered:

“I wonder if my hair has turned white?”

The words, coupled with her appalling shrieks of half an hour ago, proved two facts. First, that Floy had sustained a severe shock of some kind, since only sudden fright or grief is supposed to whiten the hair in a single hour; and secondly, that she was recovering from her alarm, as manifested by her anxiety over her personal appearance.

The long mirror gave her back faithfully the beautiful form with the graceful swelling curves of dawning womanhood, and the lovely face lighted by clear blue eyes, and crowned by waves of crinkly gold above the frank white brow.

No, her hair had not turned white, despite the untold horror that had shaken her soul to the center. Not even one silver thread shone among the gold.

Floy heaved a long, bursting sigh of intense relief, set down the lamp, and dropped wearily into a chair near the window.

The moon’s rays shone in her white face, so pale and horror-struck, and she saw that the storm was over and the sky clear again.

“Oh, how much longer must I stay here?--how long before the dawn?” she muttered, fearfully, gazing straight before her into the night, as if afraid to look back into the grewsome room with its dark, shadowy corners.

And this was Fly-away Floy, the fearless, with her nerves of steel, and her contemptuous disbelief in the supernatural--this pale, startled creature who had just looked into the mirror to see if the golden locks of youth had changed to the frosty ones of age.

What had changed and shaken the careless girl like this? Would she ever reveal the secret? Or would her indomitable pride seal her lips?

She leaned out of the window, reaching down and breaking off great clusters of wet, fragrant lilacs, in which she buried her stricken face, while low, bursting sobs convulsed her form--sobs of abject misery.

Hark! what was that sound? Only the low wind of the summer night soughing through the trees.

“No,” she cried, dismissing the fancy and springing to her feet, “it is a step in the hall!”

She clung to the window-sill, looking over her shoulder with terrified blue eyes, her heart beating wildly against her side.

She was half tempted to spring from the window and seek refuge in flight.

But it was at least ten feet from the ground, and she did not fancy the idea of making a cripple of herself.

The door was suddenly flung open, and a laughing voice exclaimed, eagerly:

“Where are you, Floy?”

The very sound of a human voice was bliss to her after the long and fearful night.

She sprung up, sobbing with joy and relief, as Otho Maury entered the room with a lantern.

“So you have come for me! I--I didn’t guess it was near daylight yet,” she faltered.

“It isn’t, Floy--only a little past midnight.”

He came up to her with a jubilant air, and his eager, dark eyes burned on her face as he continued:

“But I couldn’t rest for thinking of you, Floy, all alone in this terrible place, exposed to Heaven knows what dangers! I--I--my heart ached for your loneliness, dear little one, and so I came to share your vigil.”

At the first moment her face had brightened with relief, but when he came up close she drew back shrinkingly, and at his words she took swift alarm.

“You have been frightened. I knew you would be, though you pretended to be so brave. I see the tears on your lashes. Now, aren’t you glad I came?” triumphantly.

“Yes, I’m glad, for I did wrong to come. I’ve grown nervous waiting here alone, and you may take me home at once,” she answered, gratefully, throwing on her hat and turning toward the door.

“Wait a little, Floy, for there’s a storm coming up. I did not think you would want to go until daylight, when the committee called for you with a carriage.”

She recoiled, looking at him with startled eyes.

“Do you mean to say that they did not come with you--that you came here alone?” she demanded.

“Why, yes, that was what I told you, Floy. I feared the storm would frighten you, so I came to remain with you till morning.”

The wet lilacs at the window shook and rustled as in a rising gale, but neither heeded it in their excitement.

He pressed closer, and tried to take her hand, but she drew herself to her full height, the color rushing to her pale cheeks, her eyes like blue fire.

“Go! leave me at once!” she commanded, imperiously.

“Leave you, Floy--I can not! Did you not confess just now that you had grown nervous waiting here alone? And there were tears on your lovely cheeks when I found you drooping here. No, darling, I shall stay and cheer your solitude.”

“Is the man mad, or does he think me an ignorant child with no knowledge of the world and its ways? Listen, Otho Maury: you can not remain here through the night with me, for what would people say to-morrow?”

She seemed to grow taller with each word so bravely spoken, as she stood before him like an imperious little queen, her finger still pointing to the door.

But the man made no motion to obey, and his manner was full of a jaunty _insouciance_ that filled her with indefinable dismay.

“Nonsense!” he answered, airily; and his voice sunk to a tender cadence as he continued: “Darling little Floy, no one need know of my being here to-night. No one knew of my coming, and I can slip away just before daylight, don’t you see? Then when the committee comes you will be found alone bright and happy, and they will believe your proud boast that you were not the least afraid to stay alone in Suicide Place.”

“I command you to go at once!” she said, angrily.

“I refuse to obey,” he returned, jauntily; and there was a streaming fire of elation in his eyes that almost drove her wild.

“Then I shall go and leave you here!” she said, scornfully, turning to the door; but he barred her way. “I can spring from the window!” she cried, moving to it, and not noticing the rustling of the lilac branches.

“And kill yourself,” he sneered. “No, Floy, you will not be so rash. You will stay here with me, for I love you madly, beautiful one! and I came here to be alone with you where none could interfere, that I might clasp your lovely form to my heart and kiss your scornful lips till they yielded to my caresses, till your heart thrilled to mine with responsive love!”

“Why, I hate you! hate you! hate you! you cowardly villain, you infamous cur!” raged Floy, tempestuously, as she tried to rush past him and gain the door.

But Otho was too quick for her, agile as she was. Rushing forward, he caught her in his arms, pressing her tightly to his breast, heedless of her wild shrieks of fear and prayers for mercy.

Struggling fiercely to bend back her fair head and kiss her crimson lips, the villain did not catch the rustling sound of the branches at the window, as a man who had been hiding and listening there came at a bound over the sill and into the room.

But the next moment Otho’s arms were caught in a grasp of steel, and a hoarse voice thundered:

“Release the lady, you vile hound, and take your punishment!”

It was St. George Beresford, raging like a lion in his fury, and as Maury’s grasp on Floy relaxed, he caught up the slim, wriggling coward in his athletic grasp, shook him contemptuously, and flew over to the window.

Floy, raising up her eyes to her noble deliverer, saw him, pale with revengeful fury, as, with superb strength, he lifted Maury up to the window and hurled him through it over the tops of the lilacs far out into the grove.