When the wind dropped, as it did at brief intervals,
the sea was heard moaning on the distant beach, strangely mingled with
the desolate warning of the bell-buoy as it rocked to the waves. Then
the wind rose again, and the noise of the sea was lost in the fierce
gusts which, finding no obstacle on the open marshes, swept with their
full fury upon the house by the creek. The strange voices of the air
shrieked in its chimneys windows rattled, doors slammed, and even, the
very curtains seemed to live and move.
Eunice was in bed, awake. A small nightlight in a saucer of oil shed a
sickly glare upon the worm-eaten old furniture, distorting the most
innocent articles into ghastly shapes. A wilder gust than usual almost
deprived her of the protection afforded by that poor light, and she lay
listening fearfully to the creakings and other noises on the stairs,
bitterly regretting that she had not asked Martha to sleep with her.
But it was not too late even now. She slipped hastily to the floor,
crossed to the huge wardrobe, and was in the very act of taking her
dressing-gown from its peg when an unmistakable footfall was heard on
the stairs.
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