I was quiet now, and more
composed. Even the light gossip of the maid, full of petty human
cares and joys, had done me good--diverted my thoughts from
brooding. I was on the point of dropping asleep, when I was twice
disturbed. Once, by an owl, hooting in the ivy outside--no
unaccustomed sound, but harsh and melancholy; once, by a long and
mournful howling set up by the mastiff, chained in the yard beyond
the wing I occupied. A long-drawn, lugubrious howling was this
latter, and much such a note as the vulgar declare to herald a
death in the family. This was a fancy I had never shared; but yet
I could not help feeling that the dog's mournful moans were sad,
and expressive of terror, not at all like his fierce, honest bark
of anger, but rather as if something evil and unwonted were abroad.
But soon I fell asleep.
How long I slept I never knew. I awoke at once with that abrupt
start which we all know well, and which carries us in a second from
utter unconsciousness to the full use of our faculties. The fire
was still burning, but was very low, and half the room or more was
in deep shadow.
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