This was not entirely a comfortable thought, nor was the chasm of blackness at the end of the hall a comfortable sight. The Duchess had not exaggerated when she said the castle was a dreary place at night. As Marianne stood looking curiously into the dark, wondering what lay farther along the corridor, she heard a faint dry rustling and fancied the darkness shifted as if something lumbered stealthily toward her. She fled into the library.

It would have taken a thousand wax tapers to illumine the vast room properly; it was two stories high, with row upon row of books on both levels, the upper one reached by an iron staircase. Chairs and tables of all kinds were scattered about, but the room was so large it looked scantily furnished. There was light enough, however, for Marianne to see that a nearby table held an assortment of volumes which, by their neat bindings, appeared to be more modern than the crumbling leather tomes on the shelves.

Sure enough, she found among these books several familiar authors, and finally selected Persuasion and Wuthering Heights to take upstairs with her. She also looked for writing paper, but found none. Then it occurred to her that she had only to ring for a servant and ask for anything she desired. She was not yet accustomed to this luxury. The management of the squire's household had been anything but efficient, and the servants had had a tendency to treat their young mistress with more affection than deference.

With a bright fire on the hearth and dozens of candles, her room looked less forbidding than before. Marianne settled herself in a chair and opened Wuthering Heights.

Marianne's reading had been more catholic than her old friend Mrs. Jay suspected. That good lady had kept her supplied with moralistic tales. The only modem writers of whom she approved were Scott and Dickens and Miss Austen, and the only essays Marianne was allowed to read were sermons of stupefying dullness. She had never been exposed to "that pernicious doctrine of women's rights," or to the novels of Balzac or George Eliot. But she had picked up certain other novels from her governesses. None of these were really pornographic, they were merely sensational, ranging from Lady Audley's Secret and the Gothic horrors of Mrs. Radcliffe to Jane Eyre, which latter volume Mrs. Jay had condemned as unwomanly and immoral.

Marianne had loved Jane Eyre. She had been at a loss to understand her friend's condemnation, for it seemed to her a wonderfully moral story. Indeed, she was not at all sure that she would have had the strength to resist Mr. Rochester. But she had never managed to lay her hands on Wuthering Heights.

Yet this volume is not, perhaps, the most soothing fare for a young lady of imaginative temperament alone at night in an ancient castle. So immersed was Marianne in the fatal love of Cathy and Heathcliffe that she jumped and let out a shriek when the door opened, admitting Annie and a footman carrying her dinner. This was laid out upon a table, and the pair were about to withdraw when Marianne remembered she wanted to write a letter. She asked Annie to fetch pen and ink, adding that the girl need not return at once; she could bring the writing materials when she came to carry away the tray.

When Annie returned she was accompanied by the same young footman, who was carrying a heavy can of hot water for Marianne's bath. In other households this work was properly that of a housemaid. This was not significant in itself; but Marianne noticed that Annie kept as far from her, and as close to the young man, as she possibly could. The girl had been friendly enough, in her shy way, before; Marianne wondered what had happened to change her. But she thought she knew. The story of her being a witch had spread through the servants' hall.

So she let Annie go instead of requesting that the girl help her prepare for bed. Assuming a warm woolen dressing gown, she sat down at the table, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and began to write:

"My dear Mrs. Jay. Knowing that you must have been concerned about me, I take pleasure in writing to inform you that I am well, and am now in the most fortunate situation. The Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook – a lady of the highest character – has taken me into her household…"

The words had flowed fluently until then; but Marianne came to a sudden halt as she realized she would have to be more specific about her role in the Duchess's household.

To tell Mrs. Jay the truth was out of the question. The vicar's widow had condemned the awful heresy of spiritualism in no uncertain terms. On the other hand, lying was a sin.

Marianne nibbled the end of her pen in considerable agitation, seeking a compromise between unpalatable truth and out-and-out falsehood. Finally her worried frown smoothed out and she began to write again.

"… as her companion. Her Grace is a widow and childless; she treats me quite as a daughter, and I hope I am of service to her."

Upon rereading this, Marianne was satisfied. She had spoken the literal truth, and if a few salient facts had been omitted… Well, surely it would also be a sin to worry poor Mrs. Jay unnecessarily.

The difficult part of the letter having been dealt with, she wrote on easily, describing the appointments of the London house and the private railway carriage with considerable enthusiasm. She was pleased to be able to add, "We attend church services tomorrow. I will be thinking of you, dear Mrs. Jay. I hope your health is good and that you will find time to write me. A letter addressed to Devenbrook Castle will find me for some weeks to come, I believe."

With a feeling of virtuous accomplishment she sealed and addressed the letter. Tomorrow she would ask the Duchess how it could be sent to the post.

Rising to return to her chair by the fire, she was suddenly aware of how quiet the room was. There was no clock, so she had no idea of the time. The fire was dying and the candles had burned low. She felt a chill for which the cooling air was not entirely responsible, and reminded herself that she was not alone and isolated; the Duchess's room was next door.

A sound from the direction of her own door made her whirl around. In the silence the slightest creak was magnified. The source of the noise was not hard to find: the heavy iron handle was moving. Transfixed, Marianne stood glaring as the handle reached its lowest point and the door began to open. The aperture was no more than the merest slit, however, before the door closed again and the frightened girl heard soft footsteps retreating.

It was several seconds before she could move. Now that the unseen visitor had departed, she thought of several innocent explanations for its presence; one of the servants, coming to see if she required anything more; or the young Duke, hoping to find her engaged in mysterious rites. She ran to the door and threw it open. If the boy had ventured to peek into her room she would give him a good lecture.

The corridor was empty of any human presence. Most of the candles had gone out. At the far end, where a window slit admitted a flood of moonlight, something moved. A pale diaphanous substance veiled a more solid but indistinguishable form; it flashed briefly luminous in the bleached light, and then was gone. Marianne's straining ears heard a ghost of sound, like a faint sigh of wind. But there was no wind. The night was calm.

Marianne bolted her door. But she lay awake a long time, with the covers over her head, until exhaustion sent her to sleep.