At Love's Cost

"No," she replied in as low a voice. "It is not Jason--there is no one

else--who can it be? I will go and see."

She moved towards the terrace, and Stafford said: "I will come with you; you will let me?"

She did not refuse; indeed, she appeared to have forgotten his

presence: together they crossed the lawn and reached the corner of the

house near which the figure had disappeared. It struck Stafford as

strange that the dogs did not bark. In profound silence they went in

the direction the figure had taken, and Stafford presently saw a ruined

building, which had evidently been a chapel. As they approached it the

figure came out of it and towards them. As it passed them, so close

that they instinctively drew back, Stafford saw that it was an old man

in a dressing-gown; his head was bare, his hair touched the collar of

the gown. His eyes were wide open, and gazing straight in front of him.

Stafford was about to step forward and arrest his progress, when

suddenly the girl's hand seized his and gripped it.

"Hush!" she whispered, with subdued terror. "It is my father. He--yes,

he is asleep! Oh, see, he is asleep! He will fall--hurt himself--"

She, in her turn, was about to spring forward, but Stafford caught her

arm.

"No, no, you must not!" he said, in a hurried whisper. "I think it

would be dangerous. I think he is all right if you let him alone. He is

walking in his sleep. Don't speak--don't cry out."

"No, no," she breathed. "But it is dreadful."

Instinctively, unconsciously, she drew closer to Stafford, almost clung

to him, watching her father over her shoulder until the figure, with

its ghastly, mechanical movement and vacant stare, had passed into the

house; then, with a long breath, and with her hands clasping her

throat, as if she were stifling, she broke from Stafford and sprang

quickly and noiselessly up the steps and disappeared also. Wondering

whether he was awake or dreaming, Stafford waited for over an hour to

see if she would appear again; and he was turning away at last, when

her figure appeared in the open door-way, like that of a wraith. She

waved her hand to him, then disappeared, and the door closed.

Still asking himself if he were not in a land of dreams, but tingling

with the touch of her small hand, with the haunting perfume of the soft

black hair, Stafford gained the road and walked towards the inn.