Free Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1.1)

at the door of an anteroom and, seeing them,
paused where he stood, as if waiting for them to precede him.
                 “Who
is that, George? What does he want?” said Douglas , drawing his friend’s attention to the dark
figure, whose gleaming eyes belied his almost servile posture of humility and
respect.
                 “Oh,
that is Mrs. Vane’s man, Jitomar. He was one of the colonel’s Indian servants,
I believe. Deaf and dumb, but harmless, devoted, and invaluable—she says. A
treacherous-looking devil, to my mind,” replied Lennox .
                 “He
looks more like an Italian than an Indian, in spite of his Eastern costume and
long hair. What is he after now?” asked Earl.
                 “Going to receive the orders of his mistress. I would gladly
change places with him, heathen as he is, for the privilege of serving her.
Good night.”
                 As
George spoke, they parted, and while the dark servant watched Douglas going up the wide oaken stairs, he shook
his clenched hand after the retreating figure, and his lips moved as if he
muttered something low between his teeth.
                 A
few moments afterward, as Earl sat musing over his fire, there came a tap at
his door. Having vainly bidden the knocker to enter, he answered the summons,
and saw Jitomar obsequiously offering a handkerchief. Douglas examined it,
found the major’s name, and, pointing out that gentleman’s room, farther down
the corridor, he returned the lost article with a nod of thanks and dismissal.
While he had been turning the square of cambric in his hands, the man’s keen
eyes had explored every corner of the room. Nothing seemed to escape them, from
the ashes on the hearth, to a flower which Diana had worn, now carefully
preserved in water; and once a gleam of satisfaction glittered in them, as if
some desired object had met their gaze. Making a low obeisance, he retired, and Douglas went to bed, to dream waking dreams till
far into the night.
                 The
great hall clock had just struck one, and sleep was beginning to conquer love,
when something startled him wide awake. What it was he could not tell, but
every sense warned him of impending danger. Sitting up in his bed, he pushed
back the curtains and looked out. The night lamp burned low, the fire had
faded, and the room was full of dusky shadows. There were three doors: one led
to the dressing room, one to the corridor, and the third was locked on the
outside. He knew that it opened upon a flight of narrow stairs that
communicated with the library, having been built for the convenience of a
studious Lennox long ago.
                 As
he gazed about him, to his great amazement the door was seen to move. Slowly, noiselessly
it opened, with no click of lock, no creak of hinge. Almost sure of seeing some
ghostly visitant enter, he waited mute and motionless. A muffled hand and arm
appeared and, stretching to their utmost, seemed to take something from the
writing table that stood near this door. It was a human hand, and with a single
leap Douglas was halfway across the room. But the door
closed rapidly, and as he laid his hand upon it, the key turned in the lock. He
demanded who was there, but not a sound replied; he shook the door, but the
lock held fast; he examined the table, but nothing seemed gone, till, with an
ominous thrill, he missed the iron ring. On reaching his chamber, he had taken
it off, meaning to restore it to its place; had laid it down, to put Diana’s
rose in water; had forgotten it, and now it was gone!
                 Flinging
on dressing gown and slippers, and taking a pistol from his traveling case, he
left his room. The house was quiet as a tomb, the library empty, and no sign of
intruders visible, till, coming to the door itself, he found that the rusty
lock had been newly oiled, for the rusty key turned noiselessly, and the hinges
worked