I never suffer
anything to be wrong here--humph!" Becky, emboldened by despair, cast a
look towards the recess; and in a faint voice ventured to inquire, "Is
there no fear that Tom Jones or Gil Blas may be in that place behind
the bed?"
"And if they should," answered her hostess in her most appalling
tone, "what is that to you? Are you a mouse, that you are afraid they
will eat you? Yes, I suppose you are. You are perhaps the princess in
the fairy tale, who was a woman by day and a mouse by night. I believe
you are bewitched! So I wish your mouseship a good night." And she
descended the creaking stair, singing,
"Mrs. Mouse, are you within?"
till even her stentorian voice was lost in distance. Poor Becky's heart
died with the retreating sounds, and only revived to beat time with the
worm in the wood. Long and eerie was the night, as she gave herself up
to all the horrors of a superstitious mind--ghosts, gray, black, and
white, flitted around her couch; cats, half human, held her throat; the
deathwatch ticked in her ears. At length the light of morning shed its
brightening influence on the dim opaque of her understanding; and when
all things stood disclosed in light, she shut her eyes and oped her
mouth in all the blissfulness of security. The light of day was indeed
favourable for displaying to advantage the beauties of Lochmarlie
Castle, which owed more to nature than art.
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