Chapter Six
The Vigil

He went at last to the library, his favorite room. It was lighted only by the warm glow from the hearth. He stood for a moment with his back to the fire, blotting up the welcome heat. Flames dancing from coal to coal cast his long shadow on the far wall and ceiling. After a time, going to the massive library table behind the davenport, he turned on a reading lamp.

It was just as he had remembered it. Persian rugs, even more threadbare than before, covered the floors of polished, oak parquetry; high windows recessed in the thick outer walls were guarded by privacy shutters. Above the mantle, a large, guilt-framed portrait of portly Hugh Leeds, an early ancestor, peered indifferently, if benignly down. He felt secure in this stout kingdom, safe from the threatening wind outside which could only whisper its frustration in sighing down-drafts at the chimney.

He hoped there might be something interesting on the radio, a stately, varnished Atwater-Kent, but a careful turn of the dial produced only gospel singing, a news broadcast, some sort of local amateur competition and other programs of little interest to him. Not greatly disappointed, since he enjoyed reading about as much as anything, he kept the radio low for company and returned to the rows of books by the fireplace. A tale of mystery or suspense was what he wanted so he pulled down a volume by Conan Doyle. Flipping through its pages, he saw that it was just about what he was looking for. Settling with it contentedly into a corner of the couch, he soon found himself following Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson across the lonely Devonshire moors as they sought to unravel the mystery of The Hound of the Baskervilles.

In the shadowy solitude of the library, his impression of the melancholy moors became increasingly real. At one point, it seemed that he could almost hear a baying pack, perhaps aroused by some nighttime intruder, borne from a distance on the wind. Whether this was real or imagined, he could not tell but finally reasoned that no one would be abroad in such cold and darkness.

Although he was not easily frightened, he became caught in the grip of an uneasiness which made him glance over his shoulder into the dimly lit recesses of the room. He almost feared to see the blazing eyes and the dripping jaws of the beast that roamed the pages of his book. He came to suspect, without knowing why, that someone or something beyond the lamp glow might be watching him with hostile eyes, possibly through the keyhole in the hall door, perhaps through a crack in the shutter, maybe from the darkened dining room. For a moment, he stopped reading altogether, listening intently, but heard only the incessant wind and the throbbing of his heart.

Feeling suddenly cold, he crossed to the grate. Emptying the coal scuttle into it, he poked the fire until it blazed brightly. The jangling of the telephone on the wall near the dining room entrance made him jump! He almost dropped the poker! It was just a few minutes before ten according to the clock on the mantle. As he took the receiver from the hook, he realized, with a sigh of relief, that it was his father calling as he had promised.

"Everything okay over there, son?" the familiar voice asked over the line.

"Seems fine, far as I can tell, Dad," he conceded, having nothing really to report and feeling too embarrassed to admit that he'd been frightened by his imagination.

"Well, we just wanted to be sure that you were all right with the occasional moonlight and the front porch light on, we can see you pretty clearly from over here."

His father reminded him to bank the furnace before going to bed and to be sure to call on the phone if anything unusual occurred. As he clicked off, Chris had the uneasy feeling that a lifeline had been cut. More reassured, though, he settled back in the davenport and again became engrossed in the mystery of Baskerville Hall.

A strong gust rattled the windows from top to bottom. Out on the edge of the yard, an upper tree limb, wrenched off by the gale, came crashing to the ground! Hurrying across the room, he unfastened a shutter and looked anxiously out. The shadows of fast moving clouds swept over the moonlit fields like giant, silent scythes. Barren tree tops, cast in dark relief against the night sky, whipped wildly back an forth in tempo with the rushing air. The frozen yard was desolate except for occasional drifts of faded leaves and, now, the fallen tree limb. He was about to turn away from the window when he noticed something at the bottom of the yard which made his heart race. Partly concealed by the trunk of an ancient beech tree, he thought he saw someone or something covertly watching the house. In the next moment, a large cloud covered the moon, casting the entire yard in darkness. Though he studied intently, he could see only murky, shifting shadows.

It was beginning to snow, but the first few flakes of winter, usually a cheery sight, did nothing to change his mood. He finally closed the shutter and, with little enthusiasm, again took up his book. After several attempts, he found he couldn't keep his mind on the story. For a while, he sat on the edge of the couch and gazed disappointedly into the fire. Angry at himself, he realized that an evening he'd hoped to enjoy was becoming a nightmare simply because he couldn't control an over-active imagination. He was just resolving to do better when, somewhere deep in the house, he heard a distant rustling or scraping, perhaps of mice scurrying along a pantry shelf, or possibly of someone stealthily, slowly forcing open a door or window!