Chapter Eight.

Chapter Eight.A Catastrophe.For a moment or two we stood, as people generally do in such a case, stupefied, paralysed, so to say, staring at each other blankly. Then there came a reaction of incredulity. Itcouldnot be so.“It must have stuck,” said Moore, seizing the handle in his turn. But no! He shook and pulled and pushed in vain, there was no sign of yielding, not even the faintest creak. The door was a strong one, and the lock in good order.Some one must have passed out since I entered—a gardener probably—with authority in the shape of a key, to fasten up for the night. There was no use in hiding from ourselves any longer the dire certainty that we were trapped, however involuntarily on the part of our captors.“It must be the rule, I suppose, to lock up here late every evening. Moore, what have you got me into? It is far worse for me than for you.”“You shouldn’t have followed me,” he said half sulkily, then his better feelings reasserted themselves. “I amawfullysorry, Reggie, dreadfully sorry, but don’t lose heart yet. There are ways and means; the wall isn’t so very high after all,” and he stepped back a pace or two, and stood regarding it with anxious criticism.“Yes,” he said at last, “I thought so! It is lower a bit farther on. Either it is lower or the ground slopes upwards, which, as far as we are concerned, comes to the same thing; and now that all is shut up for the night, it’s most unlikely that any one will be coming this way. We can go about things quietly, without fussing.”“What will they be thinking about us at the Manor-house!” I exclaimed. “There’ll be a hue and cry over the neighbourhood if we don’t return soon!”“No fear?” said Moore reassuringly. “Servants’ nerves are not so easily upset. They will just think we’ve missed our way, or something of that kind. Besides, I hope we shall not be so very late after all; once over the wall we can run all the way home. You can get over the ground nearly as fast as I can if you like, you know, Reggie!”I felt that he was doing his best to keep up my spirits, and, in spite of everything, I was sorry for him; so I allowed him to take the lead, and followed him silently to the spot he had pointed out, where the wall certainly looked more easy to scale. Arrived there, Moore began feeling in his pockets; out came the stout piece of whipcord and the old geological hammer which I mentioned before, with which he started operations. The wall was rough and uneven, fortunately for us; I think it was of brick—there were already small ledges, so to say, here and there, one or two of which Moore chipped away at to make them deeper, with a great air of importance. I could have danced with impatience!“We shall be here all night,” I said at last, “if you are going on like that. I believe I could climb the wall as it is!” But he tapped on for a moment or two longer without replying.“Now,” he said, “I dare say you could! There are enough footholds, but of course I will go up first. Then, as I couldn’t reach to your hands, I’ll let down two long loops of cords to you, which you can pull yourself up by.”“No, thank you,” I replied ungratefully. “I had much rather trust to clutching at the stones or the ivy.” For though the ivy was cleared on this side, branches here and there came straggling over.Moore took my snub quietly.“You will see,” he said, “once I am up, you’ll be glad enough of the loops.”See I did not; for, alas! just as the boy was close to the top, something, I know not what—a loosened brick perhaps—gave way, and with a cry he fell heavily, poor child, down on to the ground beside where I stood. At first I was too terrified to think of anything but him; for a moment or two I thought he was killed, and my relief was great when he spoke.“I’m not badly hurt, Reggie,” he whispered; “my head’s all right, it is only my—” and a little moan escaped him—“my ankle,” he continued. “Can I have broken it?”He sat up and began to examine it. Even in the dim light I could see that he was very pale.“Oh!” he exclaimed, “if I could get my shoe off! My foot feels bursting!”I was not altogether without experience in injuries of the kind. With so many brothers always coming to grief more or less, I had acquired a smattering of “first aid to the injured,” as it is called nowadays. I stooped down, and getting Moore’s pocket-knife from him, I cut the shoelaces, and rather deftly, I flattered myself, released the poor, already painfully swollen foot.“No,” I said, “Ithinkand hope it is only a bad sprain. But even if no worse, you cannot possibly attempt to stand, or drag yourself along with it in such a state.”“I don’t think I could,” he allowed, and he looked so nearly fainting that I grew desperate.“I must go for help,” I said, “whatever or whoever these people are! It is the only thing to do.”Moore was too utterly knocked over to remonstrate, and I felt it would be cruel and useless to reproach him. I started off, running as quickly as was safe in the increasing dusk, scarcely giving myself time to think how I could explain our unwarranted intrusion. Some instinct told me that it was better to go straight to the front door than through the conservatory. I did so, but before I had time to ring, I saw that it was standing wide open, and almost immediately two figures crossed the hall. They must have caught sight of me at once, for the foremost of them—it was the elder Mr Grey—came forward, amazement depicted on his face, and stood gazing at me for a moment as if unable to speak. His stupefaction gave me a sort of courage, or rather I felt the necessity of speech.“I beg your pardon,” I began. “I don’t know how to explain, but—oh! my brother—he’s quite a boy—has hurt himself badly. He has fallen from the top of your wall, and—and—somebody must come to help him!”I could not utter another word. I felt myself beginning to choke and sob.“How the—” Then the speaker checked himself. “What in the world was he doing at the top of the wall, and how did he get there? And how did you—” Here again he stopped. I think it dawned upon him at that moment that he was addressing a lady. Probably, too, it struck him that if some one was lying badly injured by some accident, the first thing to do was to see to him, and reserve explanations till after this had been done. But the poor man was terribly upset—as tothatthere could be no doubt; and excited though I was, I was able to feel fearfully ashamed and penitent.During the moment or two that had passed, the second person in the hall, a travelling-rug over his arm, had come forward. To him Mr Grey now turned.“Have you heard?” he said. “Come with me. We must at all costs see what is the matter.”The younger man, for considerably such he was had taken it all in, though in silence.“Where is the boy?” he said to me abruptly, though not uncourteously.I pointed to the side of the grounds where Moore was lying.“Over there,” I said, “not far from the—the door in the wall. It is locked, and we were trying to climb over.”As I said this, the prelude to the inevitable confession, the misery and shame of the whole position almost overwhelmed me, in spite of my increasing anxiety about Moore’s injuries. It was with great difficulty that I suppressed a sob.The last speaker, less startled and bewildered than the hermit-like owner of the place, was naturally quicker to realise what I was feeling, and I think he heard the catch in my voice, and was sorry for me. He turned to the other.“I will hurry on with this young lady, Mr Grey,” he said, “and see what can be done. Perhaps you—”“Yes, yes,” our host interrupted. “I’ll—I had better—the others might be startled, and—” I fancied I heard him mutter something about “the servants.”“I will follow you immediately,” he went on, and as he spoke he dived back into the dim recesses of the gloomy hall and disappeared.We—the younger man and I—hurried out. As we went, I felt that, however badly hurt my brother was, I must say something. So I began—“I—I am so terribly ashamed,” I said. “We had no right to come into the grounds at all. We are well punished. I—you see I got frightened about Moore, my brother, and I followed him in, and then—the door had been locked in the meantime, and—we thought we could climb over.”My companion assuredlywasvery quick of apprehension. He glanced at me, and I could feel that his eyes were kind, dark as it was.“Try not to distress yourself,” he said very gently. “I do not see that you are the least to blame—rather the other way, indeed, for bravely entering the ogre’s den,” he laughed a little, evidently taking for granted that I was acquainted with the uncanny reputation of the place, “for your brother’s sake, and—”Here I interrupted him. I think, Ihope, that I am really candid by nature. Unmerited praise is always painful and humiliating to me, as to all honestly-inclined folk.“Oh!” I exclaimed, “please don’t say that. If you knew—”Thenheinterrupted. I think he was terrified of my beginning to cry!“One thing I do know,” he said, “and that is, what boys are, and the inconceivable hobbles they get themselves and their belongings into. Let us hope your brother is not badly hurt after all. Ah! there he is,” for his quick eyes had discerned Moore’s half-prostrate form even before I had done more than peer about, knowing we must be near him.“Moore,” I exclaimed, “here we are. I—this gentleman will help us.”I spoke encouragingly. I was very sorry for him. I was answered by an exclamation of relief.“O Reggie,” he said, with something like a smothered sob, “I am so thankful. I thought you were never coming.”“Yes,” said our new friend, who was already on his knees beside the boy, “under such circumstances time does not fly. Let me see! which foot is it? The left? Ah,”—for Moore must have winced even at his careful touch—“yes; a good thing you got the boot off. I am not a doctor—” (as to which fact I had had a slight doubt), “but I think it’s not worse than a sprain. Of course the thing is to get you home at once. You live near here?”“No,” I began; “yes, I mean. We are staying at the Manor-house, Mr Wynyard’s, in the village.”He shook his head.“I don’t know the neighbourhood at all,” he said. “I have only been here two or three times, and only for a few hours together. Is the village—oh yes, I remember—is the Manor-house on the way to the church?”“Yes,” I replied, and I went on to explain, as well as I could, whereabouts stood our temporary home. Then a sudden remembrance flashed across me, and I exclaimed impulsively, “Was it not you whom I met a week or two ago out there?” and I nodded towards the road, “You had lost your pocket-book?”“Exactly,” he replied; “and you kindly looked for it. One good turn deserves another. I wonder how I can best help you and your brother just now. By-the-bye, my fly must be at the door by this time.” He peered at his watch. “I am—I was to catch the London express, if possible.”“Oh don’t,” I began.“It is not of enormous importance if I miss it,” he said. “It’s about the fly.”“Reggie,” whispered Moore, “stoop down a moment.”I did no, and nodded in agreement.“If,” I began again—“the thing is—can wepossiblyget Moore home without any one knowing about it? About how it happened, I mean? You don’t know how perfectly horrible it would be for Mr Wynyard to know. He is very, very particular, and he would make no allowances or excuses.” Here I unconsciously clasped my hands in entreaty. “If we were at home,” I went on, “I would tell father and mamma all about it. Don’t think I want to conceal it from them. But as visitors—and Moore is sure to be laid up here for some time.”“I see,” said our friend thoughtfully. “It would be rather horrid for you. But—can you propose anything?”“Mr Wynyard and his daughter are away,” I replied. “We can’t hide theaccidentof course, but if we could hide that it washere. Oh, if we could!”Moore echoed what I said. In his anxiety he sat up, almost forgetting the pain.“If you could get me outside the wall,” he said, “and then Reggie could fetch some one—there are cottages not far off—or I wouldn’t even mind waiting while you went home,” he added, turning to me.“No, no,” said the stranger, “that would never do. There must be no avoidable delay.” He stopped a moment. “I think I have it!” he exclaimed, “and here comes Mr Grey. For his sake, too, it is best to avoid any gossip, as he is so sensitive. I will go and speak to him for a moment;” and he was moving away, when he turned towards me again. “Don’t misunderstand him or them,” he said quickly. “They are the kindest-hearted people in the world.”Then for two or three minutes Moore and I were left alone.“I wonder what they are going to do,” I said anxiously, for I saw that the two were talking together eagerly. “O Moore, I shall never, never for—”“Forgive me?” said the boy, trying to smile, though he winced with pain as he did so. “Well, I suppose I must bear it.”“Nonsense?” I replied indignantly. “I was only going to say that I shall never forget this evening, not if I live to be a hundred. But I would not be so mean and cruel as to talk of never forgiving, when you are already so punished.”By this time Mr Grey and the stranger were close to us, the former looking, if possible, more gloomy and harassed than usual; by which term must be understood, so far as I am concerned, the expression of his face in church! His companion was still talking quickly, but I only heard the elder man’s reply.“Well, yes,” were his words. “I suppose it is the best thing to do. The servants would make a wild story of it. The flyman—”—and here I think I detected a grim smile—“would probably give out that we set man-traps along the wall.”“We have thought of a plan, Miss—” began the young man, then stopped suddenly, realising that he had not heard our name. “We have thought of a plan which will obviate all that you are afraid of.”“The only objection to it,” interrupted Mr Grey, turning to him, “being thatyouwill lose your train.”“That is really of no consequence,” was the reply. “I can wire to my people from the station when to expect me.”Mr Grey’s interruption annoyed me. I was all on tenter-hooks to hear the “plan,” and I could see that the stranger sympathised with my impatience.“It is this,” he explained. “A fly is now waiting for me to take me to the station. Mr Grey and I will carry your brother outside, as carefully as possible. He must be carried somewhere, and a little bit down the road will be scarcely farther than back to the house. Then, as I pass in the fly, you must call out to me for help. I shall stop, and between us we will lift him in, and I will take you both home—to the Manor-house, I think you called it? So the driver will have nothing to tell except that his fare behaved with ordinary humanity,” and here he smiled, nor washissmile a grim one. “And on the way,” he went on, “you must give me the doctor’s address if you know it, so that I may send him as I pass through the village.”“There is no doctor in the village,” said Mr Grey, “but you can save time nevertheless, as his house is close to the railway station.”“Thank you, oh! thank you so much,” Moore and I exclaimed together, but that was all we had time for, for by now the two men were busied in lifting my brother, with the least possible jar to the poor foot, preparatory to carrying him outside. They were both strong men, and their gentleness and deftness, especially perhaps as regarded Mr Grey, struck me with admiration.I followed the little cortège meekly enough to the fateful door in the wall. Here they halted, Mr Grey requesting me to unlock it with a key which he had handed to me before lifting Moore off the ground. Then we all passed through.“Close it, if you please,” said our host, for such he was, however unwillingly. “Draw it to, that is to say, and leave the key in the lock. It cannot shut itself.”I did as I was bid, and we proceeded down the road till we had reached an unsuspicious distance from the entrance in the wall, sufficiently near the corner which the fly must pass on its way to the station, for it to be easy to attract the driver’s attention without any appearance of collusion. Then they placed Moore in as easy a position as possible; happily the excitement of all that had passed, aided by the stimulus of the brandy and water which Mr Grey had brought with him in a flask, had quite revived the patient, and he declared that the pain was much less severe.“I am sorry to leave you,” said the older man, as he lifted his hat in farewell, “but—considering everything, primarily of course your own wishes—it cannot be helped.”“And it will only be for a very few minutes that you will be alone,” added the younger one.“I do not mind in the least,” I replied. “I only wish, O Mr Grey,”—involuntarily almost the name escaped me, and at its sound he stopped and half moved—“will you not allow us to apologise to you—we shall probably not have another opportunity of doing so—for our unwarrantable, our impertinent—” (at this word I felt, rather than saw, that Moore grew red) “intrusion? I do not know how to express what I feel, nor how to thank you for your kindness.”“My dear young lady,” replied the hermit, “pray do not take the matter so much to heart. Mr—my friend here, has explained it to me. I cannot see that you personally have anything whatever to reproach yourself with, and as for your brother—why,” and for the first time the cold, almost hard, voice softened, “I know well the love of adventure and—and—” he seemed at a loss to find a word, evidently unwilling to supply so hurting a one as “curiosity”—“and all that sort of thing of young folk. You may rely on us to keep this affair to ourselves, and I trust the doctor’s report will relieve your anxiety.”Then, for the second time, he lifted his hat, and in another moment both he and his companion had disappeared.“Moore,” I said, as soon as I was sure that the two were well out of hearing, “Moore, they—he—that poor man has been very, very good about it.”“Yes,” he agreed, meekly enough at first, “he has. All the same, Reggie, I don’t see that you need have spoken of what I did—it was only a bit of a lark after all—as ‘impertinent’.”“I did not apply it only toyou,” I replied. “I saidour. And you needn’t suppose I don’t blame myself. I do, bitterly, and I shall do so as long as I live, for having tried to pry into these poor people’s secret—above all, for having put it into your head to do so.” Here Moore grunted, but he did not attempt any further defence. “You don’t know how I hated being told I was not to blame at all, and not being able to confess that I was.”“Why weren’t you able?” Moore asked.“Because of course it would only have made it far worse for the Greys to hear how, after all these years, they are still talked over. And besides that, I should have had to bring in poor Isabel! But forher, I shouldn’t have so much minded telling the other man how inquisitive I had been—only after all, there was really no time to explain.”“You can tell him in the fly, if you like,” said Moore. I was not sure if he said it to tease me or if he were in earnest. I preferred to think the former, especially as it showed that he could not be in any very great suffering if he were equal to teasing!“I wish the fly would come,” was the only reply I condescended to make.“So do I,” began Moore, and his rather plaintive tone made me very sorry for him again.“Is your foot—” I was just going to ask, when the welcome sound of approaching wheels caught my ears. Our unknown friend had lost no time!“Here it is,” I exclaimed, “I must run to meet it, Moore.”I was not a moment too soon. The man was driving quickly, and I inferred that the stranger had not ventured to prevent his doing so, as he doubtless was in hopes of still catching the train he had been ordered for. And the reception of my first call was not encouraging.“Stop, please,” I cried. “Do stop for a moment.”“Can’t,” was the reply; “I’m bound to catch the London express. You must send your order to the inn.”“It’s not an order,” I replied. “Some one, my brother, has had an accident, and is lying on the road,” and I pointed towards the spot. “You must stop in common humanity. We are staying at the Manor-house, Mr Wynyard’s.”By this time the man had probably found out that I was a lady—possibly even recognised me, as the Scart Bridge flys were sometimes used by the Wynyards for station-work. And in spite of his protest, he had slackened speed a little. This gave the occupant of the vehicle time to put his head out and ask questions—to the driver’s disgust no doubt, little suspecting that his hirer, the principal in the matter of catching the express, had no expectation whatever of doing so.“What’s the matter?” he inquired.“The lady says as there’s some one been and hurted hisself down the lane,” began the man. “We can send a man up from Hart’s Cottages,” and he pointed with his whip, “but if we stop, sir—”“Stop!” was the interruption in imperative tones. “Of course we must,” and he jumped out as he spoke. “Follow us,” he said sharply to the driver, who thereupon proceeded to obey, murmuring some thing to the effect that the train would be gone, but that “it’ll be no fault o’ mine.”“Nobody said it would be,” my companion called back, and then we walked on the few paces to where Moore was propped up in a half-sitting posture against the wall.“I was as quick as possible,” said the stranger, though already he hardly seemed such. Circumstances sometimes lead to familiarity so quickly. “Is he all right—the boy; your brother?”“Yes,” I said. “I don’t think the pain is very bad. I am sure you have been wonderfully quick, and I don’t know how to thank you. And how kind that poor Mr Grey has been!”I felt my companion glance at me almost sharply.“I told you,” he said, “that they are the kindest-hearted people possible. But—may I ask why you speak of him as ‘poor Mr Grey’?”I was surprised, almost startled by the question. I had somehow taken it for granted, not only that this visitor was completelyau faitof the Greys’ peculiar position, but that he must be aware that the mystery concerning the Grim House was common talk in the neighbourhood.“Oh!” I replied, rather lamely, “because, of course, everything about them seems so strange and sad!”There was no time for him to reply, for we had now reached Moore, and at once set to work to get him into the fly, which drew up at the place where we stopped, the driver, rather snubbed by the very peremptory tone assumed by his “fare,” was much on the alert to obtrude his benevolent instincts.“Dear, dear!” he exclaimed. “It’s a bad business. I’m afraid there’s bones broke! Did you fall far, sir?” he went on, to Moore, evidently anxious to get all the information he could for the delectation of his cronies at the White Hart, or whatever was the name of the inn. But before Moore replied, our friend in need did so for him.“You don’t need to fall far to sprain your ankle,” he remarked quickly, “and I hope it is nothing worse than that. A slip on level ground is quite enough sometimes.”“Yes,” I agreed; “indeed I often wonder that we hold together as we do, considering our complicated bones and joints.”The driver, imagining himself gifted with great discrimination, evidently thought we were trying to encourage Moore, and took his cue accordingly.“Young bones ain’t so hard to mend as old ones,” he said philosophically, as he closed the door; “and where shall I drive to if you please?”“To Mr Wynyard’s—the Manor-house,” I answered promptly, and off we set, this time at a moderate speed, all thought of train-catching eliminated from our conductor’s mind.

For a moment or two we stood, as people generally do in such a case, stupefied, paralysed, so to say, staring at each other blankly. Then there came a reaction of incredulity. Itcouldnot be so.

“It must have stuck,” said Moore, seizing the handle in his turn. But no! He shook and pulled and pushed in vain, there was no sign of yielding, not even the faintest creak. The door was a strong one, and the lock in good order.

Some one must have passed out since I entered—a gardener probably—with authority in the shape of a key, to fasten up for the night. There was no use in hiding from ourselves any longer the dire certainty that we were trapped, however involuntarily on the part of our captors.

“It must be the rule, I suppose, to lock up here late every evening. Moore, what have you got me into? It is far worse for me than for you.”

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” he said half sulkily, then his better feelings reasserted themselves. “I amawfullysorry, Reggie, dreadfully sorry, but don’t lose heart yet. There are ways and means; the wall isn’t so very high after all,” and he stepped back a pace or two, and stood regarding it with anxious criticism.

“Yes,” he said at last, “I thought so! It is lower a bit farther on. Either it is lower or the ground slopes upwards, which, as far as we are concerned, comes to the same thing; and now that all is shut up for the night, it’s most unlikely that any one will be coming this way. We can go about things quietly, without fussing.”

“What will they be thinking about us at the Manor-house!” I exclaimed. “There’ll be a hue and cry over the neighbourhood if we don’t return soon!”

“No fear?” said Moore reassuringly. “Servants’ nerves are not so easily upset. They will just think we’ve missed our way, or something of that kind. Besides, I hope we shall not be so very late after all; once over the wall we can run all the way home. You can get over the ground nearly as fast as I can if you like, you know, Reggie!”

I felt that he was doing his best to keep up my spirits, and, in spite of everything, I was sorry for him; so I allowed him to take the lead, and followed him silently to the spot he had pointed out, where the wall certainly looked more easy to scale. Arrived there, Moore began feeling in his pockets; out came the stout piece of whipcord and the old geological hammer which I mentioned before, with which he started operations. The wall was rough and uneven, fortunately for us; I think it was of brick—there were already small ledges, so to say, here and there, one or two of which Moore chipped away at to make them deeper, with a great air of importance. I could have danced with impatience!

“We shall be here all night,” I said at last, “if you are going on like that. I believe I could climb the wall as it is!” But he tapped on for a moment or two longer without replying.

“Now,” he said, “I dare say you could! There are enough footholds, but of course I will go up first. Then, as I couldn’t reach to your hands, I’ll let down two long loops of cords to you, which you can pull yourself up by.”

“No, thank you,” I replied ungratefully. “I had much rather trust to clutching at the stones or the ivy.” For though the ivy was cleared on this side, branches here and there came straggling over.

Moore took my snub quietly.

“You will see,” he said, “once I am up, you’ll be glad enough of the loops.”

See I did not; for, alas! just as the boy was close to the top, something, I know not what—a loosened brick perhaps—gave way, and with a cry he fell heavily, poor child, down on to the ground beside where I stood. At first I was too terrified to think of anything but him; for a moment or two I thought he was killed, and my relief was great when he spoke.

“I’m not badly hurt, Reggie,” he whispered; “my head’s all right, it is only my—” and a little moan escaped him—“my ankle,” he continued. “Can I have broken it?”

He sat up and began to examine it. Even in the dim light I could see that he was very pale.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “if I could get my shoe off! My foot feels bursting!”

I was not altogether without experience in injuries of the kind. With so many brothers always coming to grief more or less, I had acquired a smattering of “first aid to the injured,” as it is called nowadays. I stooped down, and getting Moore’s pocket-knife from him, I cut the shoelaces, and rather deftly, I flattered myself, released the poor, already painfully swollen foot.

“No,” I said, “Ithinkand hope it is only a bad sprain. But even if no worse, you cannot possibly attempt to stand, or drag yourself along with it in such a state.”

“I don’t think I could,” he allowed, and he looked so nearly fainting that I grew desperate.

“I must go for help,” I said, “whatever or whoever these people are! It is the only thing to do.”

Moore was too utterly knocked over to remonstrate, and I felt it would be cruel and useless to reproach him. I started off, running as quickly as was safe in the increasing dusk, scarcely giving myself time to think how I could explain our unwarranted intrusion. Some instinct told me that it was better to go straight to the front door than through the conservatory. I did so, but before I had time to ring, I saw that it was standing wide open, and almost immediately two figures crossed the hall. They must have caught sight of me at once, for the foremost of them—it was the elder Mr Grey—came forward, amazement depicted on his face, and stood gazing at me for a moment as if unable to speak. His stupefaction gave me a sort of courage, or rather I felt the necessity of speech.

“I beg your pardon,” I began. “I don’t know how to explain, but—oh! my brother—he’s quite a boy—has hurt himself badly. He has fallen from the top of your wall, and—and—somebody must come to help him!”

I could not utter another word. I felt myself beginning to choke and sob.

“How the—” Then the speaker checked himself. “What in the world was he doing at the top of the wall, and how did he get there? And how did you—” Here again he stopped. I think it dawned upon him at that moment that he was addressing a lady. Probably, too, it struck him that if some one was lying badly injured by some accident, the first thing to do was to see to him, and reserve explanations till after this had been done. But the poor man was terribly upset—as tothatthere could be no doubt; and excited though I was, I was able to feel fearfully ashamed and penitent.

During the moment or two that had passed, the second person in the hall, a travelling-rug over his arm, had come forward. To him Mr Grey now turned.

“Have you heard?” he said. “Come with me. We must at all costs see what is the matter.”

The younger man, for considerably such he was had taken it all in, though in silence.

“Where is the boy?” he said to me abruptly, though not uncourteously.

I pointed to the side of the grounds where Moore was lying.

“Over there,” I said, “not far from the—the door in the wall. It is locked, and we were trying to climb over.”

As I said this, the prelude to the inevitable confession, the misery and shame of the whole position almost overwhelmed me, in spite of my increasing anxiety about Moore’s injuries. It was with great difficulty that I suppressed a sob.

The last speaker, less startled and bewildered than the hermit-like owner of the place, was naturally quicker to realise what I was feeling, and I think he heard the catch in my voice, and was sorry for me. He turned to the other.

“I will hurry on with this young lady, Mr Grey,” he said, “and see what can be done. Perhaps you—”

“Yes, yes,” our host interrupted. “I’ll—I had better—the others might be startled, and—” I fancied I heard him mutter something about “the servants.”

“I will follow you immediately,” he went on, and as he spoke he dived back into the dim recesses of the gloomy hall and disappeared.

We—the younger man and I—hurried out. As we went, I felt that, however badly hurt my brother was, I must say something. So I began—

“I—I am so terribly ashamed,” I said. “We had no right to come into the grounds at all. We are well punished. I—you see I got frightened about Moore, my brother, and I followed him in, and then—the door had been locked in the meantime, and—we thought we could climb over.”

My companion assuredlywasvery quick of apprehension. He glanced at me, and I could feel that his eyes were kind, dark as it was.

“Try not to distress yourself,” he said very gently. “I do not see that you are the least to blame—rather the other way, indeed, for bravely entering the ogre’s den,” he laughed a little, evidently taking for granted that I was acquainted with the uncanny reputation of the place, “for your brother’s sake, and—”

Here I interrupted him. I think, Ihope, that I am really candid by nature. Unmerited praise is always painful and humiliating to me, as to all honestly-inclined folk.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, “please don’t say that. If you knew—”

Thenheinterrupted. I think he was terrified of my beginning to cry!

“One thing I do know,” he said, “and that is, what boys are, and the inconceivable hobbles they get themselves and their belongings into. Let us hope your brother is not badly hurt after all. Ah! there he is,” for his quick eyes had discerned Moore’s half-prostrate form even before I had done more than peer about, knowing we must be near him.

“Moore,” I exclaimed, “here we are. I—this gentleman will help us.”

I spoke encouragingly. I was very sorry for him. I was answered by an exclamation of relief.

“O Reggie,” he said, with something like a smothered sob, “I am so thankful. I thought you were never coming.”

“Yes,” said our new friend, who was already on his knees beside the boy, “under such circumstances time does not fly. Let me see! which foot is it? The left? Ah,”—for Moore must have winced even at his careful touch—“yes; a good thing you got the boot off. I am not a doctor—” (as to which fact I had had a slight doubt), “but I think it’s not worse than a sprain. Of course the thing is to get you home at once. You live near here?”

“No,” I began; “yes, I mean. We are staying at the Manor-house, Mr Wynyard’s, in the village.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t know the neighbourhood at all,” he said. “I have only been here two or three times, and only for a few hours together. Is the village—oh yes, I remember—is the Manor-house on the way to the church?”

“Yes,” I replied, and I went on to explain, as well as I could, whereabouts stood our temporary home. Then a sudden remembrance flashed across me, and I exclaimed impulsively, “Was it not you whom I met a week or two ago out there?” and I nodded towards the road, “You had lost your pocket-book?”

“Exactly,” he replied; “and you kindly looked for it. One good turn deserves another. I wonder how I can best help you and your brother just now. By-the-bye, my fly must be at the door by this time.” He peered at his watch. “I am—I was to catch the London express, if possible.”

“Oh don’t,” I began.

“It is not of enormous importance if I miss it,” he said. “It’s about the fly.”

“Reggie,” whispered Moore, “stoop down a moment.”

I did no, and nodded in agreement.

“If,” I began again—“the thing is—can wepossiblyget Moore home without any one knowing about it? About how it happened, I mean? You don’t know how perfectly horrible it would be for Mr Wynyard to know. He is very, very particular, and he would make no allowances or excuses.” Here I unconsciously clasped my hands in entreaty. “If we were at home,” I went on, “I would tell father and mamma all about it. Don’t think I want to conceal it from them. But as visitors—and Moore is sure to be laid up here for some time.”

“I see,” said our friend thoughtfully. “It would be rather horrid for you. But—can you propose anything?”

“Mr Wynyard and his daughter are away,” I replied. “We can’t hide theaccidentof course, but if we could hide that it washere. Oh, if we could!”

Moore echoed what I said. In his anxiety he sat up, almost forgetting the pain.

“If you could get me outside the wall,” he said, “and then Reggie could fetch some one—there are cottages not far off—or I wouldn’t even mind waiting while you went home,” he added, turning to me.

“No, no,” said the stranger, “that would never do. There must be no avoidable delay.” He stopped a moment. “I think I have it!” he exclaimed, “and here comes Mr Grey. For his sake, too, it is best to avoid any gossip, as he is so sensitive. I will go and speak to him for a moment;” and he was moving away, when he turned towards me again. “Don’t misunderstand him or them,” he said quickly. “They are the kindest-hearted people in the world.”

Then for two or three minutes Moore and I were left alone.

“I wonder what they are going to do,” I said anxiously, for I saw that the two were talking together eagerly. “O Moore, I shall never, never for—”

“Forgive me?” said the boy, trying to smile, though he winced with pain as he did so. “Well, I suppose I must bear it.”

“Nonsense?” I replied indignantly. “I was only going to say that I shall never forget this evening, not if I live to be a hundred. But I would not be so mean and cruel as to talk of never forgiving, when you are already so punished.”

By this time Mr Grey and the stranger were close to us, the former looking, if possible, more gloomy and harassed than usual; by which term must be understood, so far as I am concerned, the expression of his face in church! His companion was still talking quickly, but I only heard the elder man’s reply.

“Well, yes,” were his words. “I suppose it is the best thing to do. The servants would make a wild story of it. The flyman—”—and here I think I detected a grim smile—“would probably give out that we set man-traps along the wall.”

“We have thought of a plan, Miss—” began the young man, then stopped suddenly, realising that he had not heard our name. “We have thought of a plan which will obviate all that you are afraid of.”

“The only objection to it,” interrupted Mr Grey, turning to him, “being thatyouwill lose your train.”

“That is really of no consequence,” was the reply. “I can wire to my people from the station when to expect me.”

Mr Grey’s interruption annoyed me. I was all on tenter-hooks to hear the “plan,” and I could see that the stranger sympathised with my impatience.

“It is this,” he explained. “A fly is now waiting for me to take me to the station. Mr Grey and I will carry your brother outside, as carefully as possible. He must be carried somewhere, and a little bit down the road will be scarcely farther than back to the house. Then, as I pass in the fly, you must call out to me for help. I shall stop, and between us we will lift him in, and I will take you both home—to the Manor-house, I think you called it? So the driver will have nothing to tell except that his fare behaved with ordinary humanity,” and here he smiled, nor washissmile a grim one. “And on the way,” he went on, “you must give me the doctor’s address if you know it, so that I may send him as I pass through the village.”

“There is no doctor in the village,” said Mr Grey, “but you can save time nevertheless, as his house is close to the railway station.”

“Thank you, oh! thank you so much,” Moore and I exclaimed together, but that was all we had time for, for by now the two men were busied in lifting my brother, with the least possible jar to the poor foot, preparatory to carrying him outside. They were both strong men, and their gentleness and deftness, especially perhaps as regarded Mr Grey, struck me with admiration.

I followed the little cortège meekly enough to the fateful door in the wall. Here they halted, Mr Grey requesting me to unlock it with a key which he had handed to me before lifting Moore off the ground. Then we all passed through.

“Close it, if you please,” said our host, for such he was, however unwillingly. “Draw it to, that is to say, and leave the key in the lock. It cannot shut itself.”

I did as I was bid, and we proceeded down the road till we had reached an unsuspicious distance from the entrance in the wall, sufficiently near the corner which the fly must pass on its way to the station, for it to be easy to attract the driver’s attention without any appearance of collusion. Then they placed Moore in as easy a position as possible; happily the excitement of all that had passed, aided by the stimulus of the brandy and water which Mr Grey had brought with him in a flask, had quite revived the patient, and he declared that the pain was much less severe.

“I am sorry to leave you,” said the older man, as he lifted his hat in farewell, “but—considering everything, primarily of course your own wishes—it cannot be helped.”

“And it will only be for a very few minutes that you will be alone,” added the younger one.

“I do not mind in the least,” I replied. “I only wish, O Mr Grey,”—involuntarily almost the name escaped me, and at its sound he stopped and half moved—“will you not allow us to apologise to you—we shall probably not have another opportunity of doing so—for our unwarrantable, our impertinent—” (at this word I felt, rather than saw, that Moore grew red) “intrusion? I do not know how to express what I feel, nor how to thank you for your kindness.”

“My dear young lady,” replied the hermit, “pray do not take the matter so much to heart. Mr—my friend here, has explained it to me. I cannot see that you personally have anything whatever to reproach yourself with, and as for your brother—why,” and for the first time the cold, almost hard, voice softened, “I know well the love of adventure and—and—” he seemed at a loss to find a word, evidently unwilling to supply so hurting a one as “curiosity”—“and all that sort of thing of young folk. You may rely on us to keep this affair to ourselves, and I trust the doctor’s report will relieve your anxiety.”

Then, for the second time, he lifted his hat, and in another moment both he and his companion had disappeared.

“Moore,” I said, as soon as I was sure that the two were well out of hearing, “Moore, they—he—that poor man has been very, very good about it.”

“Yes,” he agreed, meekly enough at first, “he has. All the same, Reggie, I don’t see that you need have spoken of what I did—it was only a bit of a lark after all—as ‘impertinent’.”

“I did not apply it only toyou,” I replied. “I saidour. And you needn’t suppose I don’t blame myself. I do, bitterly, and I shall do so as long as I live, for having tried to pry into these poor people’s secret—above all, for having put it into your head to do so.” Here Moore grunted, but he did not attempt any further defence. “You don’t know how I hated being told I was not to blame at all, and not being able to confess that I was.”

“Why weren’t you able?” Moore asked.

“Because of course it would only have made it far worse for the Greys to hear how, after all these years, they are still talked over. And besides that, I should have had to bring in poor Isabel! But forher, I shouldn’t have so much minded telling the other man how inquisitive I had been—only after all, there was really no time to explain.”

“You can tell him in the fly, if you like,” said Moore. I was not sure if he said it to tease me or if he were in earnest. I preferred to think the former, especially as it showed that he could not be in any very great suffering if he were equal to teasing!

“I wish the fly would come,” was the only reply I condescended to make.

“So do I,” began Moore, and his rather plaintive tone made me very sorry for him again.

“Is your foot—” I was just going to ask, when the welcome sound of approaching wheels caught my ears. Our unknown friend had lost no time!

“Here it is,” I exclaimed, “I must run to meet it, Moore.”

I was not a moment too soon. The man was driving quickly, and I inferred that the stranger had not ventured to prevent his doing so, as he doubtless was in hopes of still catching the train he had been ordered for. And the reception of my first call was not encouraging.

“Stop, please,” I cried. “Do stop for a moment.”

“Can’t,” was the reply; “I’m bound to catch the London express. You must send your order to the inn.”

“It’s not an order,” I replied. “Some one, my brother, has had an accident, and is lying on the road,” and I pointed towards the spot. “You must stop in common humanity. We are staying at the Manor-house, Mr Wynyard’s.”

By this time the man had probably found out that I was a lady—possibly even recognised me, as the Scart Bridge flys were sometimes used by the Wynyards for station-work. And in spite of his protest, he had slackened speed a little. This gave the occupant of the vehicle time to put his head out and ask questions—to the driver’s disgust no doubt, little suspecting that his hirer, the principal in the matter of catching the express, had no expectation whatever of doing so.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired.

“The lady says as there’s some one been and hurted hisself down the lane,” began the man. “We can send a man up from Hart’s Cottages,” and he pointed with his whip, “but if we stop, sir—”

“Stop!” was the interruption in imperative tones. “Of course we must,” and he jumped out as he spoke. “Follow us,” he said sharply to the driver, who thereupon proceeded to obey, murmuring some thing to the effect that the train would be gone, but that “it’ll be no fault o’ mine.”

“Nobody said it would be,” my companion called back, and then we walked on the few paces to where Moore was propped up in a half-sitting posture against the wall.

“I was as quick as possible,” said the stranger, though already he hardly seemed such. Circumstances sometimes lead to familiarity so quickly. “Is he all right—the boy; your brother?”

“Yes,” I said. “I don’t think the pain is very bad. I am sure you have been wonderfully quick, and I don’t know how to thank you. And how kind that poor Mr Grey has been!”

I felt my companion glance at me almost sharply.

“I told you,” he said, “that they are the kindest-hearted people possible. But—may I ask why you speak of him as ‘poor Mr Grey’?”

I was surprised, almost startled by the question. I had somehow taken it for granted, not only that this visitor was completelyau faitof the Greys’ peculiar position, but that he must be aware that the mystery concerning the Grim House was common talk in the neighbourhood.

“Oh!” I replied, rather lamely, “because, of course, everything about them seems so strange and sad!”

There was no time for him to reply, for we had now reached Moore, and at once set to work to get him into the fly, which drew up at the place where we stopped, the driver, rather snubbed by the very peremptory tone assumed by his “fare,” was much on the alert to obtrude his benevolent instincts.

“Dear, dear!” he exclaimed. “It’s a bad business. I’m afraid there’s bones broke! Did you fall far, sir?” he went on, to Moore, evidently anxious to get all the information he could for the delectation of his cronies at the White Hart, or whatever was the name of the inn. But before Moore replied, our friend in need did so for him.

“You don’t need to fall far to sprain your ankle,” he remarked quickly, “and I hope it is nothing worse than that. A slip on level ground is quite enough sometimes.”

“Yes,” I agreed; “indeed I often wonder that we hold together as we do, considering our complicated bones and joints.”

The driver, imagining himself gifted with great discrimination, evidently thought we were trying to encourage Moore, and took his cue accordingly.

“Young bones ain’t so hard to mend as old ones,” he said philosophically, as he closed the door; “and where shall I drive to if you please?”

“To Mr Wynyard’s—the Manor-house,” I answered promptly, and off we set, this time at a moderate speed, all thought of train-catching eliminated from our conductor’s mind.

Chapter Nine.“The Misses Grey.”It was certainly a curious position, and now that my anxiety about Moore had to some extent calmed down, I could scarcely help smiling to myself as we jogged along, at the adventure which my injudiciousness and Moore’s self-will had landed us in.The road cleared a good deal as we approached our destination. I was able to get a better view of our companion than hitherto, while the shade of the trees had lessened the already waning light. He was young, under thirty, I thought to myself, decidedly pleasing in appearance, if not exactly handsome; but what struck me the most was a shadowy resemblance to some one I had seen, though, try as I might, I could not succeed in remembering to whom. Once or twice I fancied I descried the shadow of an amused smile crossing his own face, but before we stopped at the Manor-house door his expression grew more serious.“You quite understand,” he began, “and excuse me if it is unnecessary to remind you of it, that your own wish to—to keep all this business to ourselves, is thoroughly agreed to, indeed desired by—Mr Grey and his family?”“Oh dear, yes,” I replied eagerly, “and I am very thankful for it, but I don’t feel as if we had been grateful enough to him. And—” with a little hesitation, “to yourself.”He made a slight gesture of deprecation of the latter part of my speech, but I went on—“If you should be writing to Mr Grey, would you be so kind as to thank him again?”“Certainly,” he said cordially. “If I don’t write it I will not forget tosayit, the next time I see him,” and the rather unguarded inference of his words reminded me that letters were, so far as we knew, unknown at the Grim House.So I contented myself with another “thank you.” I should have liked to ask our friend’s own name, but my courage failed me, and afterwards I was glad I had not done so; it might have savoured a little of seeking for information which had not been volunteered to us.The hall-door stood open as we drove up to it, and one or two of the older servants, among them the housekeeper and butler, were looking out anxiously. Their faces cleared when they saw us, but clouded again when I jumped out and hurriedly volunteered some explanation of our late return, of which of course the word “accident” was the first to catch their ears.“Dear, dear!” said the housekeeper, “what will Master and Miss Isabel say, with all their charges to me and Sims to take good care of you, Miss Fitzmaurice?”“They will certainly not say it is your fault, or Sims’, Mrs Bence,” I replied; “and after all, I hope it is nothing very bad. We were very lucky to meet this gentleman, otherwise I could not have got my brother home nearly so quickly.”I indicated by a movement of my head in his direction our friend in need, who was now, with the butler’s assistance, extricating Moore from the fly. Poor boy! he did look rather dilapidated! though both he and I tacitly agreed in trying to make the best of our misfortunes. It would have been impolitic in the highest degree to pile on the agony so as to have led to minute or detailed inquiry on the part of the servants.By this time the stranger had got Moore on to a comfortable seat in the hall, where of such there was no lack.“Now,” he said, “I think the best thing I can do is to send you the doctor as quickly as possible, I know where to find him. I should advise you to let your brother stay where he is for a few minutes. Get him a cup of tea, or something to pull him together a little, before you carry him upstairs, and once there, put him to bed as quickly as possible, and just raise the injured foot on a pillow till the doctor sees it.”He glanced round as if to satisfy himself that he left us in good hands, and then, before I had time to do more than shake hands, he was gone.“A nice-spoken young gentleman,” said Mrs Bence approvingly, “but I’ve never seen him before. He must be a stranger in these parts. Do you know who he—”But I interrupted her by a shake of my head.“I have no idea who he is,” I said. “He did not tell us his name. He has been extremely kind. I am only afraid that by stopping to help us he has lost his train. He was on his way to the station.”“If it was the evening express for London,” said Sims, taking out his watch—Mrs Bence had gone off in quest of the prescribed cup of tea—“he certainly has, Miss. There is a slower one an hour later; he will be in plenty of time for that.”This information somewhat consoled me. I said nothing more, nor did Moore. And after a while we got him upstairs and settled in bed as comfortably as was possible under the circumstances.The poor foot looked in very bad case when we had got it quite free, and Mrs Bence groaned over it in much distress. But when the doctor came our spirits rose again. It proved to be only a sprain, and not averysevere one, though painful. Perfect quiet and minute attention to his orders would do wonders, he assured me, to my great relief.“You are alone here for the present, I understand,” he said. “Mr and Miss Wynyard are away?”“Yes,” I replied, “but only for a day or two. I believe they will be back by Saturday.”“By Saturday,” he repeated. “Ah, well—by Saturday I think you will see great improvement. The swelling will have gone down, I hope. Let me see! How did you say it happened? A fall, was it?”We had not said anything at all as to how it had happened, but luckily we were not called upon to reply, for Mrs Bence, who was a little deaf, came just then innocently to our aid by some inquiry as to the arrangements for the night. Should she or Sims sit up with Master Moore?“Oh, no—no need of it,” said the doctor. “He will probably sleep far better if he is left alone. Let him have a hand-bell within reach, and some one near enough to hear if he rings;” whereupon my own maid, who had been dying to be of use, came forward to suggest that she should sleep in a small dressing-room next door, and where she would hear the slightest sound. This was agreed to, then followed repeated directions from the doctor as to liniments and bandages, and then at last I gave in to Mrs Bence’s reiterated entreaties that I would come downstairs and have a bit of dinner—Moore joining his voice to hers, and promising to eat something himself, though he owned that he was not feeling “exactly hungry.”I was terribly tired if not hungry, and I felt grateful for the unusual tact which made Sims and his underlings leave me alone once the good man had satisfied himself that everything I was in want of was within reach.I had plenty to think of; not a little to blame myself for, though farther back than the actual events of this strange evening; still more to be very thankful about—how easily my young brother might have been, if not killed, at least terribly injured, crippled perhaps for life, by no greater an accident!And the thought brought back to my mind again the mystery of the Grim House, made more real, more impressive, so to say, by the further glimpse I had had of its melancholy occupants. In spite of myself and my determination to oust all curiosity concerning them from my mind, the picture of the quartette, at that very moment sitting, probably in silence, around their dining-table, would force itself on to my brain. Could the mysterious secret have had to do with the accident which crippled the younger brother? No; somehow I felt sure it had not been that. The sisters, I remembered Isabel telling me, had referred to it quite simply on the one occasion when they had emerged to offer sympathy at the vicarage. No, the mystery did not lie in that direction. Then the words I had unwillingly overheard recurred to my memory. I had thought I would try to forget them, but this was beyond my power, and next best to doing so, an instinct seemed to tell me, was to remember them accurately; and this, for I had a retentive brain, I found I could easily do.The mention of our own surname had naturally impressed them much more vividly on me.“Ernest Fitzmaurice”—who could he be? I had never heard of him, I felt sure. Yet our name was not a commonplace one, and the great Irish family to which we belonged were very clannish, and kept up their knowledge of each other with considerable energy; my father did so, I well knew; some day perhaps I might ask him if he knew of any relative whose first name was Ernest.“He must be a man of about father’s age,” I reflected, “or even a little older, if he is a contemporary of Mr Grey’s.” But by this time I was feeling very tired, very sleepy, and almost before I had finished eating, I felt that Imustgo to bed, if I were to be fit to take my share in looking after and cheering poor Moore the next day.“And I shall have to write home and tell them about it,” I thought to myself. “Oh dear, oh dear! I wish I had never heard of the Grim House. I should like to forget its existence.”But this was not to be.I woke the next morning considerably refreshed, and inclined to take a more cheerful view of things. Moore, I was glad to find, had had a fairly good night, all things considered, though his foot and ankle were of course still very inflamed and swollen. Mrs Bence and Maple, however, thought well of it in comparison with what it had been, and so long as he kept it motionless, my brother said that the pain was slight. I was just preparing to begin my letter to mother, when the sound of wheels—I was sitting near the window of the library, which at one side looked to the front—made me stop, my heart beating a little faster than usual from the idea that it might possibly be Isabel and her father returning sooner than we had expected them.“Oh, no,” I said to myself reassuringly, “of course it will only be the doctor,” though in another moment the sight of the approaching vehicle revived my doubts and fears.It was the fly again! I drew as near the window as I dared, while avoiding being seen, almost expecting to catch sight of the stranger, our good Samaritan, getting out, for it struck me that he might have had to stay the night after all, and had come up to inquire how Moore was getting on. But no, the driver himself got ponderously down and rang. It was certainly neither the doctor, the Wynyards, nor the stranger! Wild ideas rushed through my mind as to the possibility of its being father, or Jocelyn even, though half an instant’s reflection showed me the absurdity of such a thing. Who could it be? From where I stood, the interior of the carriage was completely hidden from view. I heard the servant cross the hall, and as it were,feltthe little colloquy that ensued when the door was opened. Then the driver turned to the fly with the information he had received, and its occupants at last became visible.They were—words fail me to describe my sensations—none other than the two little old maiden sisters from Grimsthorpe!My first feeling was one of astonishment, mysecondof fear! Was our secret known, then? Had Mr Grey broken his promise? But whatwashis promise—in a moment I recalled his words, “You may rely on us to keep the affair to ourselves;” he had spoken in the plural. Still, what was the meaning then of this visit, which was certain to awaken the gossip and curiosity of the whole small neighbourhood? I felt utterly nonplussed, but I had no time in which to think over things; I was obliged to pull myself together as best I could, for the door was thrown open for the announcement, “The Misses Grey,” and my little-looked-for visitors entered.They were, at the first glance, curiously like each other, though afterwards I discerned several points of dissimilarity. The elder of the two—for naturally I at once so dubbed her in my own mind as she preceded her sister—had a much stronger face—strong in its very gentleness—though the younger was, or had been, decidedly the prettier. Except as to eyes—I never saw lovelier eyes than those of Miss Grey herself, as she drew near and looked up at me, for though not very tall, I was much taller than they. And with the first glance, all my misgivings as to the purport or unwisdom of their coming vanished.“Miss—Fitzmaurice,” she began, with a slight, the very slightest, hesitation. “I—we—this is my sister Beatrice—could not rest without hastening to offer our services and sympathy in this—most unfortunate accident, which,” and here her voice grew peculiarly distinct, her words almost emphasised, “which we heard of this morning through the driver of the fly, which fortunately was passing the spot where your brother and you were,” here she glanced at me again in a way which showed that her eyes could be keen as well as kind, and even—I could not feel sure if this was my fancy—not without a touch of humour in their depths. “One of our servants had occasion to visit the village this morning, and brought back the story, and—as I said, hearing that you were alone, we felt we must come to inquire for you ourselves—my brothers uniting with us in—in”—here she repeated the words—“sympathy and offers of service.”She had held out her hand at the opening of this rather long speech. I had of course taken it, and scarcely conscious of so doing, was still clasping it. And as for the third time she raised her lovely kind eyes to my face, I—it was very unconventional and undignified, and all the rest of it, I know—I burst into tears!“Oh, Miss Grey!” I exclaimed. “You are far, far too kind. We—we don’t—” how I longed to finish my sentence, “don’t deserve it.” But I dared not, for there flashed over me the remembrance that, if I confessed my own share in our impertinent intrusion, I should implicate Isabel, which I had no right whatever to do, and I stopped short. My tears, I think, standing me in good stead, as they gave a reason for my confusion, and increased the kind woman’s pity. They were genuine enough, too, Heaven knows, for I had been putting considerable restraint on myself to keep them back hitherto, for every sake—Moore’s especially.I felt Miss Grey’s other hand steal on to the top of mine, already in her clasp.“My poor child,” she said,—“excuse me for calling you so—do not take things so to heart, unless—unless, indeed, there is fresh cause for your distress?” and now her tone was full of anxiety. “I trust your brother is not worse? No injury to the head, or to the limbs, that did not show perhaps at first?”I shook my head, and now a silly feeling of wishing to laugh came over me, when I thought of the excellent breakfast I had seen the naughty boy upstairs despatching, and his very comfortable condition, propped up with a story-book, at the present moment. No, my tears were not those of anxiety about him, but of very sincere shame and distress at the trouble we had caused these good kind people, who surely had a right to shut themselves up in their own domain if they chose, without being subjected to inquisitive espionage.“Oh, no,” I said at last, choking down my hysterical symptoms, “he is going on all right. In himself he is really very well indeed, and Ithinkhis foot is improving. But you are standing all this time,” and I drew forward a chair, Miss Beatrice Grey, who looked pale and nervous, having already sunk into a corner of a sofa.“Jessie,” she now said, speaking for the first time, and addressing her sister, “you are forgetting the liniment.”“By no means, my dear love,” replied the elder one, “I am just coming to it,” and from the folds of her mantle—a good but old-fashioned affair, as was every part of their attire—she produced a phial, neatly wrapped up, which she carefully unfolded. “This is a very excellent preparation,” she continued, “for external application—external. If Dr Meeke has not called this morning, pray suggest it to him when he does so. He knows it of old, though probably he did not think of it in the present case. We distil it ourselves—my sister and I—not having”—here she coughed a little—that tiny cough was her only sign of nervousness—“as we have not,” she resumed, “too much to do;” and here there came a little murmur about “a quiet country life,” “we amuse ourselves with these sorts of things—distilling, and so on. We take a great interest in herbs, and we have some rare ones.”She tapped the little bottle as she spoke.“There are some ingredients in here which are not to be met with every day,” she said, with a funny little tone of self-congratulation, “as Dr Meeke knows!”I thanked her warmly, of course, promising to ask the doctor to let us make use of her gift at once.“And is there anything else,” she went on, “that we can be of use in?” While from the sofa there came a little echo of—“Yes, so glad to be of use!”I considered for a moment. It was so plainly to be seen that these good creatures would feel real pleasure in their offer being literally accepted.“New milk,” murmured Miss Beatrice, “to keep up his strength. It did wonders for our dear Caryll, long ago, when he—injured his spine. New milk with a spoonful of rum, first thing in the morning on waking.”Miss Grey—Miss Jessie I feel inclined to call her—turned a little sharply on her younger sister.“My dear Beatrice,” she exclaimed, “you forget. Everything of that kind of course is at Miss—Fitzmaurice’s command.”“To be sure,” was the reply. “Still—”“I’m sure it would be an excellent thing,” I said, as she paused, “but I do not think there is much fear of Moore’s strength failing him, though he has been rather a delicate boy.”“I hope not,” said Miss Jessie; “I hope not, indeed. Perhaps we felt unduly anxious, for in our case it was not till several days after the accident that the grave injury was discovered.” I suppose my face must have betrayed a little alarm at this, for she hastened to reassure me.“If Dr Meeke is satisfied, I am sure you may feel so,” she said. “He is really a very competent man. We had no misgiving on that score; it was only hearing of you two young things being here alone, we felt we—must inquire at first hand.”“You have beenmostgood and kind,” I said. “I shall never be able to thank you—youall,” after a moment’s hesitation, “enough;” and though she said nothing, Ifeltthat she understood the under-sense of my words. I had it on the tip of my tongue to add that I hoped their friend had caught the later train, but a moment’s reflection satisfied me that I must follow their cue, and make no allusion to the secret which their brother and I had agreed to preserve intact.Then they both rose, saying they had detained me long enough; I must be anxious to rejoin my brother.“We shall hear how he goes on,” were Miss Jessie’s last words, “as Dr Meeke calls now and then at present. We have a delicate young servant who requires care.”“Yes,” I said impulsively, “and Mr Caryll Grey—I suppose he is never very strong?”Both faces brightened perceptibly at the mention of his name.“His condition does not vary much,” said Miss Grey in her precise way, “and, thank God, he rarely suffers acutely. And what we should be still more thankful for—his nature is a quite wonderfully buoyant one.”“He is so very, very good,” murmured the other little sister. “Always cheerful, always thinking of others, never of himself, dear fellow.”She lost her shyness and timidity as she spoke of him. It was really beautiful to see. I felt as I ran upstairs, eager to confide to Moore the details of the wonderful visit, that it was not only Mr Caryll Grey who was “so very, very good,” but that I had indeed been entertaining angels!Moore was of course intensely interested and excited by my story. I think it deepened, perhaps more even than the punishment he had brought on himself, the lesson he had received. For I heard a murmur as I concluded, in which the words, “caddish thing to do,” were audible enough.The doctor made his appearance shortly afterwards. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, which he was too discreet to express otherwise, when I related to him the visit from the Grim House, and by no means “pooh-poohed” the use of the medicament the kind woman had brought.“I remember it,” he said. “And in more than one case of sprain I have known it have a wonderfully good effect. Try it by all means, Miss Fitzmaurice, now that the inflammation has begun to subside; it is just the sort of thing we want, and you may safely continue its use, diluted with water of course, till you have emptied the bottle.”The next two or three days passed quietly, even monotonously. Moore was very patient, and I think I did my best to help him to be so. It was a relief when my home letter was written, and a still greater one when an answer to it had been received. I meant to tell mother the whole circumstances when I saw her again, by no means exonerating myself where I felt I had been to blame, but to enter into any explanation in a letter would have been out of the question. Besides—and as I arrived at this point in my cogitations a new idea struck me—had I any right to retail what Isabel had told me in confidence, without her permission, and would not the applying for this, risk the betrayal to her of my agreement with Mr Grey?“Oh dear,” I thought to myself, “what a labyrinth a little indiscretion may involve one in. I see now that I was not justified in telling Moore about Grimsthorpe. It was not faithful to Isabel, but with his being here on the spot and seeing the place for himself, it never struck me before in this light. No doubt he would have heard some gossip about it, but probably not enough to cause much curiosity. I shall really be very glad when we are both safely back at home again, and the whole thing forgotten, so far as ever can be. Moore has had his lesson anyway; I am certain he would never intrude on the Greys again, even if he were here for months. How very discreet those old ladies were! I suppose they have learnt it, poor things.” For that there was a secret, and a very sad one, my recent experiences had in no way led me to doubt. “By the way,” I went on in my own mind, “I wonder how they knew our name?” Then I recalled the little colloquy at the hall-door. “Of course,” I reflected, “they must have asked for the young lady who was staying here, and naturally the footman would speak of me as ‘Miss Fitzmaurice’?” and later I discovered, by a little judicious inquiry through my own maid, that this had in fact been the case. Nor did I make the inquiry solely through curiosity. I had noticed the almost imperceptible hesitation in Miss Jessie’s manner as she addressed me by name, and I could not forget—it was no use pretending to myself that I should ever do so—the mention of “Ernest Fitzmaurice” which I had overheard. “Something to do specially with Jessie,” I had gathered.“Poor little woman! What may she not have suffered in life, and how brave she seems!” were my last waking thoughts that night.

It was certainly a curious position, and now that my anxiety about Moore had to some extent calmed down, I could scarcely help smiling to myself as we jogged along, at the adventure which my injudiciousness and Moore’s self-will had landed us in.

The road cleared a good deal as we approached our destination. I was able to get a better view of our companion than hitherto, while the shade of the trees had lessened the already waning light. He was young, under thirty, I thought to myself, decidedly pleasing in appearance, if not exactly handsome; but what struck me the most was a shadowy resemblance to some one I had seen, though, try as I might, I could not succeed in remembering to whom. Once or twice I fancied I descried the shadow of an amused smile crossing his own face, but before we stopped at the Manor-house door his expression grew more serious.

“You quite understand,” he began, “and excuse me if it is unnecessary to remind you of it, that your own wish to—to keep all this business to ourselves, is thoroughly agreed to, indeed desired by—Mr Grey and his family?”

“Oh dear, yes,” I replied eagerly, “and I am very thankful for it, but I don’t feel as if we had been grateful enough to him. And—” with a little hesitation, “to yourself.”

He made a slight gesture of deprecation of the latter part of my speech, but I went on—

“If you should be writing to Mr Grey, would you be so kind as to thank him again?”

“Certainly,” he said cordially. “If I don’t write it I will not forget tosayit, the next time I see him,” and the rather unguarded inference of his words reminded me that letters were, so far as we knew, unknown at the Grim House.

So I contented myself with another “thank you.” I should have liked to ask our friend’s own name, but my courage failed me, and afterwards I was glad I had not done so; it might have savoured a little of seeking for information which had not been volunteered to us.

The hall-door stood open as we drove up to it, and one or two of the older servants, among them the housekeeper and butler, were looking out anxiously. Their faces cleared when they saw us, but clouded again when I jumped out and hurriedly volunteered some explanation of our late return, of which of course the word “accident” was the first to catch their ears.

“Dear, dear!” said the housekeeper, “what will Master and Miss Isabel say, with all their charges to me and Sims to take good care of you, Miss Fitzmaurice?”

“They will certainly not say it is your fault, or Sims’, Mrs Bence,” I replied; “and after all, I hope it is nothing very bad. We were very lucky to meet this gentleman, otherwise I could not have got my brother home nearly so quickly.”

I indicated by a movement of my head in his direction our friend in need, who was now, with the butler’s assistance, extricating Moore from the fly. Poor boy! he did look rather dilapidated! though both he and I tacitly agreed in trying to make the best of our misfortunes. It would have been impolitic in the highest degree to pile on the agony so as to have led to minute or detailed inquiry on the part of the servants.

By this time the stranger had got Moore on to a comfortable seat in the hall, where of such there was no lack.

“Now,” he said, “I think the best thing I can do is to send you the doctor as quickly as possible, I know where to find him. I should advise you to let your brother stay where he is for a few minutes. Get him a cup of tea, or something to pull him together a little, before you carry him upstairs, and once there, put him to bed as quickly as possible, and just raise the injured foot on a pillow till the doctor sees it.”

He glanced round as if to satisfy himself that he left us in good hands, and then, before I had time to do more than shake hands, he was gone.

“A nice-spoken young gentleman,” said Mrs Bence approvingly, “but I’ve never seen him before. He must be a stranger in these parts. Do you know who he—”

But I interrupted her by a shake of my head.

“I have no idea who he is,” I said. “He did not tell us his name. He has been extremely kind. I am only afraid that by stopping to help us he has lost his train. He was on his way to the station.”

“If it was the evening express for London,” said Sims, taking out his watch—Mrs Bence had gone off in quest of the prescribed cup of tea—“he certainly has, Miss. There is a slower one an hour later; he will be in plenty of time for that.”

This information somewhat consoled me. I said nothing more, nor did Moore. And after a while we got him upstairs and settled in bed as comfortably as was possible under the circumstances.

The poor foot looked in very bad case when we had got it quite free, and Mrs Bence groaned over it in much distress. But when the doctor came our spirits rose again. It proved to be only a sprain, and not averysevere one, though painful. Perfect quiet and minute attention to his orders would do wonders, he assured me, to my great relief.

“You are alone here for the present, I understand,” he said. “Mr and Miss Wynyard are away?”

“Yes,” I replied, “but only for a day or two. I believe they will be back by Saturday.”

“By Saturday,” he repeated. “Ah, well—by Saturday I think you will see great improvement. The swelling will have gone down, I hope. Let me see! How did you say it happened? A fall, was it?”

We had not said anything at all as to how it had happened, but luckily we were not called upon to reply, for Mrs Bence, who was a little deaf, came just then innocently to our aid by some inquiry as to the arrangements for the night. Should she or Sims sit up with Master Moore?

“Oh, no—no need of it,” said the doctor. “He will probably sleep far better if he is left alone. Let him have a hand-bell within reach, and some one near enough to hear if he rings;” whereupon my own maid, who had been dying to be of use, came forward to suggest that she should sleep in a small dressing-room next door, and where she would hear the slightest sound. This was agreed to, then followed repeated directions from the doctor as to liniments and bandages, and then at last I gave in to Mrs Bence’s reiterated entreaties that I would come downstairs and have a bit of dinner—Moore joining his voice to hers, and promising to eat something himself, though he owned that he was not feeling “exactly hungry.”

I was terribly tired if not hungry, and I felt grateful for the unusual tact which made Sims and his underlings leave me alone once the good man had satisfied himself that everything I was in want of was within reach.

I had plenty to think of; not a little to blame myself for, though farther back than the actual events of this strange evening; still more to be very thankful about—how easily my young brother might have been, if not killed, at least terribly injured, crippled perhaps for life, by no greater an accident!

And the thought brought back to my mind again the mystery of the Grim House, made more real, more impressive, so to say, by the further glimpse I had had of its melancholy occupants. In spite of myself and my determination to oust all curiosity concerning them from my mind, the picture of the quartette, at that very moment sitting, probably in silence, around their dining-table, would force itself on to my brain. Could the mysterious secret have had to do with the accident which crippled the younger brother? No; somehow I felt sure it had not been that. The sisters, I remembered Isabel telling me, had referred to it quite simply on the one occasion when they had emerged to offer sympathy at the vicarage. No, the mystery did not lie in that direction. Then the words I had unwillingly overheard recurred to my memory. I had thought I would try to forget them, but this was beyond my power, and next best to doing so, an instinct seemed to tell me, was to remember them accurately; and this, for I had a retentive brain, I found I could easily do.

The mention of our own surname had naturally impressed them much more vividly on me.

“Ernest Fitzmaurice”—who could he be? I had never heard of him, I felt sure. Yet our name was not a commonplace one, and the great Irish family to which we belonged were very clannish, and kept up their knowledge of each other with considerable energy; my father did so, I well knew; some day perhaps I might ask him if he knew of any relative whose first name was Ernest.

“He must be a man of about father’s age,” I reflected, “or even a little older, if he is a contemporary of Mr Grey’s.” But by this time I was feeling very tired, very sleepy, and almost before I had finished eating, I felt that Imustgo to bed, if I were to be fit to take my share in looking after and cheering poor Moore the next day.

“And I shall have to write home and tell them about it,” I thought to myself. “Oh dear, oh dear! I wish I had never heard of the Grim House. I should like to forget its existence.”

But this was not to be.

I woke the next morning considerably refreshed, and inclined to take a more cheerful view of things. Moore, I was glad to find, had had a fairly good night, all things considered, though his foot and ankle were of course still very inflamed and swollen. Mrs Bence and Maple, however, thought well of it in comparison with what it had been, and so long as he kept it motionless, my brother said that the pain was slight. I was just preparing to begin my letter to mother, when the sound of wheels—I was sitting near the window of the library, which at one side looked to the front—made me stop, my heart beating a little faster than usual from the idea that it might possibly be Isabel and her father returning sooner than we had expected them.

“Oh, no,” I said to myself reassuringly, “of course it will only be the doctor,” though in another moment the sight of the approaching vehicle revived my doubts and fears.

It was the fly again! I drew as near the window as I dared, while avoiding being seen, almost expecting to catch sight of the stranger, our good Samaritan, getting out, for it struck me that he might have had to stay the night after all, and had come up to inquire how Moore was getting on. But no, the driver himself got ponderously down and rang. It was certainly neither the doctor, the Wynyards, nor the stranger! Wild ideas rushed through my mind as to the possibility of its being father, or Jocelyn even, though half an instant’s reflection showed me the absurdity of such a thing. Who could it be? From where I stood, the interior of the carriage was completely hidden from view. I heard the servant cross the hall, and as it were,feltthe little colloquy that ensued when the door was opened. Then the driver turned to the fly with the information he had received, and its occupants at last became visible.

They were—words fail me to describe my sensations—none other than the two little old maiden sisters from Grimsthorpe!

My first feeling was one of astonishment, mysecondof fear! Was our secret known, then? Had Mr Grey broken his promise? But whatwashis promise—in a moment I recalled his words, “You may rely on us to keep the affair to ourselves;” he had spoken in the plural. Still, what was the meaning then of this visit, which was certain to awaken the gossip and curiosity of the whole small neighbourhood? I felt utterly nonplussed, but I had no time in which to think over things; I was obliged to pull myself together as best I could, for the door was thrown open for the announcement, “The Misses Grey,” and my little-looked-for visitors entered.

They were, at the first glance, curiously like each other, though afterwards I discerned several points of dissimilarity. The elder of the two—for naturally I at once so dubbed her in my own mind as she preceded her sister—had a much stronger face—strong in its very gentleness—though the younger was, or had been, decidedly the prettier. Except as to eyes—I never saw lovelier eyes than those of Miss Grey herself, as she drew near and looked up at me, for though not very tall, I was much taller than they. And with the first glance, all my misgivings as to the purport or unwisdom of their coming vanished.

“Miss—Fitzmaurice,” she began, with a slight, the very slightest, hesitation. “I—we—this is my sister Beatrice—could not rest without hastening to offer our services and sympathy in this—most unfortunate accident, which,” and here her voice grew peculiarly distinct, her words almost emphasised, “which we heard of this morning through the driver of the fly, which fortunately was passing the spot where your brother and you were,” here she glanced at me again in a way which showed that her eyes could be keen as well as kind, and even—I could not feel sure if this was my fancy—not without a touch of humour in their depths. “One of our servants had occasion to visit the village this morning, and brought back the story, and—as I said, hearing that you were alone, we felt we must come to inquire for you ourselves—my brothers uniting with us in—in”—here she repeated the words—“sympathy and offers of service.”

She had held out her hand at the opening of this rather long speech. I had of course taken it, and scarcely conscious of so doing, was still clasping it. And as for the third time she raised her lovely kind eyes to my face, I—it was very unconventional and undignified, and all the rest of it, I know—I burst into tears!

“Oh, Miss Grey!” I exclaimed. “You are far, far too kind. We—we don’t—” how I longed to finish my sentence, “don’t deserve it.” But I dared not, for there flashed over me the remembrance that, if I confessed my own share in our impertinent intrusion, I should implicate Isabel, which I had no right whatever to do, and I stopped short. My tears, I think, standing me in good stead, as they gave a reason for my confusion, and increased the kind woman’s pity. They were genuine enough, too, Heaven knows, for I had been putting considerable restraint on myself to keep them back hitherto, for every sake—Moore’s especially.

I felt Miss Grey’s other hand steal on to the top of mine, already in her clasp.

“My poor child,” she said,—“excuse me for calling you so—do not take things so to heart, unless—unless, indeed, there is fresh cause for your distress?” and now her tone was full of anxiety. “I trust your brother is not worse? No injury to the head, or to the limbs, that did not show perhaps at first?”

I shook my head, and now a silly feeling of wishing to laugh came over me, when I thought of the excellent breakfast I had seen the naughty boy upstairs despatching, and his very comfortable condition, propped up with a story-book, at the present moment. No, my tears were not those of anxiety about him, but of very sincere shame and distress at the trouble we had caused these good kind people, who surely had a right to shut themselves up in their own domain if they chose, without being subjected to inquisitive espionage.

“Oh, no,” I said at last, choking down my hysterical symptoms, “he is going on all right. In himself he is really very well indeed, and Ithinkhis foot is improving. But you are standing all this time,” and I drew forward a chair, Miss Beatrice Grey, who looked pale and nervous, having already sunk into a corner of a sofa.

“Jessie,” she now said, speaking for the first time, and addressing her sister, “you are forgetting the liniment.”

“By no means, my dear love,” replied the elder one, “I am just coming to it,” and from the folds of her mantle—a good but old-fashioned affair, as was every part of their attire—she produced a phial, neatly wrapped up, which she carefully unfolded. “This is a very excellent preparation,” she continued, “for external application—external. If Dr Meeke has not called this morning, pray suggest it to him when he does so. He knows it of old, though probably he did not think of it in the present case. We distil it ourselves—my sister and I—not having”—here she coughed a little—that tiny cough was her only sign of nervousness—“as we have not,” she resumed, “too much to do;” and here there came a little murmur about “a quiet country life,” “we amuse ourselves with these sorts of things—distilling, and so on. We take a great interest in herbs, and we have some rare ones.”

She tapped the little bottle as she spoke.

“There are some ingredients in here which are not to be met with every day,” she said, with a funny little tone of self-congratulation, “as Dr Meeke knows!”

I thanked her warmly, of course, promising to ask the doctor to let us make use of her gift at once.

“And is there anything else,” she went on, “that we can be of use in?” While from the sofa there came a little echo of—“Yes, so glad to be of use!”

I considered for a moment. It was so plainly to be seen that these good creatures would feel real pleasure in their offer being literally accepted.

“New milk,” murmured Miss Beatrice, “to keep up his strength. It did wonders for our dear Caryll, long ago, when he—injured his spine. New milk with a spoonful of rum, first thing in the morning on waking.”

Miss Grey—Miss Jessie I feel inclined to call her—turned a little sharply on her younger sister.

“My dear Beatrice,” she exclaimed, “you forget. Everything of that kind of course is at Miss—Fitzmaurice’s command.”

“To be sure,” was the reply. “Still—”

“I’m sure it would be an excellent thing,” I said, as she paused, “but I do not think there is much fear of Moore’s strength failing him, though he has been rather a delicate boy.”

“I hope not,” said Miss Jessie; “I hope not, indeed. Perhaps we felt unduly anxious, for in our case it was not till several days after the accident that the grave injury was discovered.” I suppose my face must have betrayed a little alarm at this, for she hastened to reassure me.

“If Dr Meeke is satisfied, I am sure you may feel so,” she said. “He is really a very competent man. We had no misgiving on that score; it was only hearing of you two young things being here alone, we felt we—must inquire at first hand.”

“You have beenmostgood and kind,” I said. “I shall never be able to thank you—youall,” after a moment’s hesitation, “enough;” and though she said nothing, Ifeltthat she understood the under-sense of my words. I had it on the tip of my tongue to add that I hoped their friend had caught the later train, but a moment’s reflection satisfied me that I must follow their cue, and make no allusion to the secret which their brother and I had agreed to preserve intact.

Then they both rose, saying they had detained me long enough; I must be anxious to rejoin my brother.

“We shall hear how he goes on,” were Miss Jessie’s last words, “as Dr Meeke calls now and then at present. We have a delicate young servant who requires care.”

“Yes,” I said impulsively, “and Mr Caryll Grey—I suppose he is never very strong?”

Both faces brightened perceptibly at the mention of his name.

“His condition does not vary much,” said Miss Grey in her precise way, “and, thank God, he rarely suffers acutely. And what we should be still more thankful for—his nature is a quite wonderfully buoyant one.”

“He is so very, very good,” murmured the other little sister. “Always cheerful, always thinking of others, never of himself, dear fellow.”

She lost her shyness and timidity as she spoke of him. It was really beautiful to see. I felt as I ran upstairs, eager to confide to Moore the details of the wonderful visit, that it was not only Mr Caryll Grey who was “so very, very good,” but that I had indeed been entertaining angels!

Moore was of course intensely interested and excited by my story. I think it deepened, perhaps more even than the punishment he had brought on himself, the lesson he had received. For I heard a murmur as I concluded, in which the words, “caddish thing to do,” were audible enough.

The doctor made his appearance shortly afterwards. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, which he was too discreet to express otherwise, when I related to him the visit from the Grim House, and by no means “pooh-poohed” the use of the medicament the kind woman had brought.

“I remember it,” he said. “And in more than one case of sprain I have known it have a wonderfully good effect. Try it by all means, Miss Fitzmaurice, now that the inflammation has begun to subside; it is just the sort of thing we want, and you may safely continue its use, diluted with water of course, till you have emptied the bottle.”

The next two or three days passed quietly, even monotonously. Moore was very patient, and I think I did my best to help him to be so. It was a relief when my home letter was written, and a still greater one when an answer to it had been received. I meant to tell mother the whole circumstances when I saw her again, by no means exonerating myself where I felt I had been to blame, but to enter into any explanation in a letter would have been out of the question. Besides—and as I arrived at this point in my cogitations a new idea struck me—had I any right to retail what Isabel had told me in confidence, without her permission, and would not the applying for this, risk the betrayal to her of my agreement with Mr Grey?

“Oh dear,” I thought to myself, “what a labyrinth a little indiscretion may involve one in. I see now that I was not justified in telling Moore about Grimsthorpe. It was not faithful to Isabel, but with his being here on the spot and seeing the place for himself, it never struck me before in this light. No doubt he would have heard some gossip about it, but probably not enough to cause much curiosity. I shall really be very glad when we are both safely back at home again, and the whole thing forgotten, so far as ever can be. Moore has had his lesson anyway; I am certain he would never intrude on the Greys again, even if he were here for months. How very discreet those old ladies were! I suppose they have learnt it, poor things.” For that there was a secret, and a very sad one, my recent experiences had in no way led me to doubt. “By the way,” I went on in my own mind, “I wonder how they knew our name?” Then I recalled the little colloquy at the hall-door. “Of course,” I reflected, “they must have asked for the young lady who was staying here, and naturally the footman would speak of me as ‘Miss Fitzmaurice’?” and later I discovered, by a little judicious inquiry through my own maid, that this had in fact been the case. Nor did I make the inquiry solely through curiosity. I had noticed the almost imperceptible hesitation in Miss Jessie’s manner as she addressed me by name, and I could not forget—it was no use pretending to myself that I should ever do so—the mention of “Ernest Fitzmaurice” which I had overheard. “Something to do specially with Jessie,” I had gathered.

“Poor little woman! What may she not have suffered in life, and how brave she seems!” were my last waking thoughts that night.


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