"Thank you, I prefer to stand," said she loftily.
"As you will," I answered, but, even while I spoke, she seemed to
change her mind, for she sank into the nearest chair, and, chin
in hand, stared into the fire.
"And so," said she, as I sat down opposite her, "and so your name
is Peter Smith, and you are a blacksmith?"
"Yes, a blacksmith."
"And make horseshoes?"
"Naturally, yes."
"And do you live here?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Quite alone!"
"And how long have you lived here alone?"
"Not so long that I am tired of it."
"And is this cottage yours?"
"Yes--that is, it stands on the Sefton estates, I believe, but
nobody hereabouts would seem anxious to dispute my right of
occupying the place.
"Why not?"
"Because it is generally supposed to be haunted."
"Oh!"
"It was built by some wanderer of the roads," I explained, "a
stranger to these parts, who lived alone here, and eventually
died alone here."
"Died here?"
"Hanged himself on the staple above the door, yonder."
"Oh!" said she again, and cast a fearful glance towards the
deep-driven, rusty staple.
"The country folk believe his spirit still haunts the place," I
went on, "and seldom, or never, venture foot within the Hollow."
"And are you not afraid of this ghost?"
"No," said I.
"It must be very lonely here."
"Delightfully so."
"Are you so fond of solitude?"
"Yes, for solitude is thought, and to think is to live."
"And what did you do with the--pistol?"
"I dropped it out of sight behind my books yonder."
"I wonder why I gave it to you."
"Because, if you remember, I asked you for it."
"But I usually dislike doing what I am asked, and your manner
was--scarcely courteous."
"You also objected to my eyes, I think?"
"Yes," she nodded.
"Hum!" said I.
The dark night, outside, was filled with malignant demons now, who
tore at the rattling casements, who roared and bellowed down the
chimney, or screamed furiously round the cottage; but here, in the
warm firelight, I heeded them not at all, watching, rather, this
woman, where she sat, leaned forward, gazing deep into the glow.
And where the light touched her hair it woke strange fires, red and
bronze. And it was very rebellious hair, with little tendrils that
gleamed, here and there, against her temples, and small, defiant
curls that seemed to strive to hide behind her ear, or, bold and
wanton, to kiss her snowy neck--out of sheer bravado.