Chapter Five.An Unexpected Ally.At some little distance from where we now stood was a sort of terrace-walk, for this side of the house, though not that of the front entrance, was evidently intended to be the best. The windows looking out this way were somewhat wider, one or two reaching to the ground, as if to give easy egress from the rooms within.At one side of the walk was a carefully kept piece of lawn; on the other—that nearest the house—a border, even at this early season presenting a lovely, and, in contrast to the severity and gloom of the building itself, an almost startling blaze of colour. It was filled with spring flowers, tulips, hyacinths, etc, beautifully arranged, so that the groups and their shades harmonised perfectly together. It was evidently a sheltered spot, and evidently, too, this bit of garden ground was most carefully tended. One felt by instinct that it was somebody’s pet or hobby.“How lovely!” Zella exclaimed under her breath. “I had no idea that there were flowers at this side. Naturally so, for of course we couldn’t see it from the road. We have no spring show to compare with this at the Manor-house, Regina!” And she was moving on eagerly, forgetting in her excitement for she was a great gardener—that we were trespassers, when suddenly there broke on our ears the peculiar sound of “tap tap” coming round the other side of the house, and in another moment we caught sight of the slowly approaching figure of the younger Mr Grey, the cripple brother, with his crutch.In less time than it takes to tell it, we had fled—fled ignominiously—too startled to know whether we were ashamed of ourselves or only alarmed.But as soon as we had reached the friendly shelter of the farther side of the bushes, my audacity reasserted itself.“Stop, Isabel,” I whispered. “Do let us see what he is going to do. He can’t possibly have caught sight of us.”“I don’t know that,” returned Isabel, who was all in a quiver. “He may haveheardus, if he didn’t see us—the sound of our skirts as we rushed off, in this perfect silence.” And so it appeared. For, as we stood there peeping out, we saw that the newcomer stopped short and seemed to be listening attentively.“Good gracious?” I ejaculated, “he has heard us. There is something rather uncanny about him. I dare say he has extra-acute eyes and ears—delicate people often have—for we made next to no sound. But we must stay here for the present,” I continued, rather pleased, in spite of our alarm, that we were forced into remaining where we were, as with care it was quite possible to watch the newcomer.“Do be quiet,” said Isabel in a whisper, speaking, for once, almost crossly. “Your voice will be heard if you don’t take care.”I subsided meekly enough, for I felt conscious that in my excitement I had not been very cautious. So we stood there like two naughty children, as indeed in a sense we were, furtively watching the poor man’s movements. It was touching to see him. He walked and stooped with difficulty, but his heart was evidently in his work as he carefully removed any dead flowers and leaves and raised here and there a drooping tulip in need of support, standing still now and then, while he drew back a few paces, to enjoy apparently the whole beautiful effect of the lovely colours.“I dare say,” I thought to myself, for I did not venture to speak at all,—“I dare say he is an artist as well as an amateur gardener. If so, he is not so much to be pitied after all, though he must long sometimes to pull down that hideous house!”He went on quietly attending to the borders for some little time, having apparently reassured himself as to the sounds he had heard. And at last, when he had moved on a little, Isabel touched my arm, whispering—“Don’t you think we might go now?”I agreed, and we were on the point of stealing away, when another little incident revived our curiosity, and made us stop short. We heard a whistle; in response to it the cripple raised himself from bending over a flower-bed and listened. The whistle was repeated, and then Mr Grey called out—“Here I am—waiting for you.”“Your brother wants you for a moment,” was the reply, in a man’s voice undoubtedly, though assuredly not that of a servant. “He won’t keep us long, and then we can—” But the rest of the sentence was inaudible.The cripple moved in the direction of the voice, and as he turned the corner of the house, the tap of his crutches growing fainter, we heard a cheery voice greeting him and the sound of laughter, to our amazement, reached our ears.“There now!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps you’ll be convinced at last, Isabel! Thereisa fifth person living in that house.”“Wait till we are outside to talk about it, for goodness’ sake,” said Isabel. “I never knew any one so impulsive as you are, Regina.”But I was too elated by what I considered our successful investigations, even though to some extent they had but deepened the mystery, to take offence.We closed the door in the wall cautiously, for I was rather afraid of its shutting with a spring, and thus debarring us from ever making use of it again. And as soon as we were safely outside I took up the thread of my discourse.“You see, Isabel,” I went on, “the person who whistled and called was amanevidently, and a gentleman, and assuredly not the elder brother, as he spoke of him. I believe in my heart that it was the very man I met the other day—possibly the one you met some time ago.”Isabel looked perplexed and a little worried. Her nerves had suffered with the morning’s excitement and adventures, which in my case had only stimulated my curiosity and audacity.“Perhaps so,” she replied; “but really, Regina, I wish you’d forget about it. I never felt so ashamed and frightened in my life as when we were hiding behind these bushes.”“I do think you are exaggerating,” I said, gently I hope; for though I was rather provoked by her want of adventurous spirit, as I called it to myself, I was also sorry for her, and at the bottom of my heart I almost think I felt a little guilty for involving her in anything that her father would disapprove of. Possibly, too, though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the salve which I applied to my own misgivings was not altogether effectual, though I proceeded to use it for Isabel’s benefit.“Don’t you see,” I continued, “we may perhaps be on the way to be of real use to these poor people by finding out a little more about them? I would not have minded—indeed I was almost hoping for it—if the cripple Mr Greyhadseen us and asked what we wanted.”“Oh,” exclaimed Isabel, “I should have died of shame!”“Not at all,” I replied. “We could easily have said that we were tempted by the open doorway to take a look at the grounds; or even,” I proceeded, “we might have asked him if he knew that the door had been left open, as we felt sure it was not intended to be!”“That would have been,” said Isabel sharply, “not—”“You are not to say that it would have been untrue,” I interrupted rather indignantly. “It would only have been part of the truth, I allow, but still—”“Oh, well, don’t let us quarrel about it,” said Isabel, smiling; “but I do think, Regina, we had better not continue our investigations; we might get ourselves, and possibly other people, into trouble somehow.”“Ourselves perhaps,” I agreed, “but not other people, that I can see. And I don’t mind risking something myself, if it could do any good.”“It might do harm,” Isabel persisted. “Whatever it is, the motive must be of the strongest—the Greys’, I mean—which compels them to live as they do. And any attempt at breaking down the barrier might lead to mischief that we cannot picture to ourselves, so completely in the dark as we are.”I did not agree with her, or perhaps, to speak more accurately, my true judgment was more than half convinced, but my self-will would not allow me to be guided by it.The result was, that I felt, and probably appeared, very cross. But an unexpected distraction of my thoughts was in store. That afternoon’s post brought two letters for me, both with the same news, though from different sources. One was from mother and one from Moore.They announced that an epidemic of some kind, though not of a very serious nature, had broken out in his “house,” and that the boys were disbanded for two or three weeks, Moore amongst them, as no exceptions could be made under the circumstances, though as it was an illness he had already had, he was considered proof against infection.“He is coming home,” wrote my mother, “at once. It is a great pity, and I shall not know what to do with him alone here. He will miss you so dreadfully. If it were not a shame to propose it, I should be inclined to shorten your visit.”And Moore’s lamentations were even more outspoken.“Do come back as soon as ever you can, Reggie,” he wrote. “I really can’t stand home without you, and you can go back to Millflowers again later.”I looked up gravely.“Isabel,” I exclaimed, “I must go home;” and I told her what my letter contained.Isabel looked greatly distressed.“Oh, no, Regina,” she replied, “you cannot leave us yet. You have been here barely a fortnight, and you were to stay five or six weeks at least. I should feel so unhappy if you left just now,” she went on, “for—I don’t quite know how it is—I feel as if I had been rather disagreeable to you about that tiresome old Grim House, but I am sure I didn’t mean to be so. Only—”“You are quite right,” I replied; “quite right not to do anything that you are at all afraid might vex your father;” at which Isabel’s face cleared. She little suspected that I was saying to myself that I, not being Mr Wynyard’s daughter, was not restricted in the same way.“I am so glad,” she said, “that you see it that way now, for thatismy principal reason, though it is true too that I am naturally cowardly in some ways. I have not got your spirit and love of adventure. But as to your going home now, it really cannot be thought of. We must plan something. Stay! I have got an idea. Wait here a moment, Regina; I will be back directly.”She ran off to look for her father, I felt sure. We were sitting in the drawing-room; it was nearly tea-time, and in a few moments she reappeared, followed by Mr Wynyard, her face fall of pleasure.“It is all right,” she began. “I knew it would be. Regina, Moore is to come here as soon as it can be managed. Father says so.”“Yes,” Mr Wynyard agreed, “it is by far the best solution of the difficulty. There is no fear of infection. Isabel has had all these childish illnesses long ago—and you too, Regina, I suppose? Otherwise your mother would not think of your returning home to meet your brother.”“Yes,” I answered, “Moore and I, and Horry, I think, had scarlet fever and all these things together. It would be quite delightful to have Moore here, if you are sure he would not be at all in the way. He is really not a tiresome kind of boy, I must say.”“No, indeed,” exclaimed Isabel. “We saw that at Weissbad, when he was so often alone with you and me, Regina, and quite content with our society.”“In some ways,” I said, “the others call me more of a boy than him at home;” and I reddened a little, feeling half ashamed of the confession before Mr Wynyard. But he did not seem to mind it; rather the other way indeed.“It would do Zella no harm to have a little of the boy element instilled into her,” he said with a smile. “But there is no time to be lost in arranging this new plan. Let me see! Must Moore go home first? Yes, I suppose it is on the way.”“I think it would be better,” I replied. “Winchester is really only a short way from home, and he is sure to want to pick up things there. I do hope father won’t think it too far for him to come for so short a time.”“It need not be so short a time, as far as we are concerned,” said Mr Wynyard hospitably. “But of course the boy will have to get back to school again whenever he can. I’ll tell you what,” he went on, “I will write to your father myself, which I think will ensure Moore’s being allowed to come.”“Oh, thank you,” I said gratefully, and indeed I felt so.“Your father isverykind,” I said to Isabel when we were by ourselves. “I am getting to feel much less afraid of him.”Isabel looked pleased at this.“I told you so,” she said. “I can’t imagine being afraid of him unless I knew I was doing something wrong.”Her words recalled our discussion about the Grim House.“I know,” I thought to myself, “whowouldsympathise with me about it to the full, and that’s Moore. I wonder if I dare tell him.”Then another warning returned to my mind—that of Jocelyn.“How curious that he should have thought of such a possibility as Moore’s coming here,” I said to myself. “I feel half inclined to look at things from the ‘Kismet’ point of view. ‘What is to be, will be.’ If Moore’s coming here helps me to go on with my investigations without involving Isabel, which I now see I have no right to do, it will seem as if it was allmeant. That’s to say, if I make up my mind to tell him about it, in spite of Jocelyn’s fatherly advice.”And in my heart I think I knew that I should never have the resolution to keep the fascinating subject to myself, once Moore was on the spot.All came to pass as we had hoped. Moore arrived, brimful of delight, and very much inclined to think the epidemic at school an unlimited subject of congratulation. He was looking very well, I was pleased to see—altogether in a mood for viewing everything with rose-coloured spectacles.“Thisisa jolly place, Regina,” he confided to me when we were strolling about the first morning after his arrival, I acting “cicerone,” as Isabel was engaged in her housekeeping cares. “Now I hope you’ll give me some credit for knowing what I’m about when I make friends with people! Do you remember how angry you were that day at Weissbad when I came in and told you I had been speaking to the Wynyards? Even mother looked rather funny about it.”“What nonsense!” I exclaimed. “Angry! I wasn’t the least angry! I was only rather shy at the idea of making new acquaintances.”“And the Paynes,” Moore resumed, “they were thoroughly nice people too. By-the-bye, Reggie, I forgot to tell you that Leo, the youngest, is almost sure to come to my ‘house’ next term. I knew that he was down for Winchester, but I had no idea we’d be together. It isn’t quite certain yet—it depends on a vacancy.”“That will be nice for you,” I replied, half absently. Not that I had not taken in what he said, but that his mention of the Payne family had recalled to me Rupert’s talk of sensational stories, “facts stranger than fiction,” which had come to his knowledge, and I began wishing that I could see him again to talk over the Millflowers mystery, now that I had seen for myself the Grim House and its inhabitants. But on that occasion I did not allude to it to Moore.For some days our pleasantest anticipations were realised. Moore proved a great acquisition in our drives and walks. Mr Wynyard encouraged to the full everything of the kind, and gratified me more than once by saying that active exercise in the open air, and all that sort of thing, was “so good for Isabel.”“A little roughing it would really do her no harm,” he said. “She is as unselfish and conscientious as she can be, but life has been in some ways perhaps too sheltered for her. I don’t know how she could ever stand alone, as she may have to do any day,” he added with a little sigh which touched me.“But you are not at all old, Mr Wynyard,” I said, rather brusquely perhaps. “You can’t be older than father, and we look upon him as—oh! quite a young man. Then, too, Margaret, Mrs Percy, and her husband are devoted to dear Zella!”“Yes,” he agreed, “but still the best of brothers and sisters are not like a parent, and I suppose, to confess the truth, I have spoilt Zella a little. Circumstances seemed to make it inevitable.”I knew that he alluded to his wife’s death, so I said no more. But the effect of this little conversation was, I now see, somewhat to increase my own self-confidence, and rather to lead me to think more than heretofore that in some ways Isabel was babyish, and almost morbid in her scrupulous conscientiousness.Between us, with the best intentions in the world, her father and I at this juncture went rather to an extreme with poor Isabel. She was very far from being as strong as I constitutionally, and when she hung back, as happened now and then, from any scheme of long walks or drives, which Moore and I, in spite of his past delicacy, felt quite equal to, we urged her joining us, Mr Wynyard always endorsing what was said.“You mustn’t be lazy, my dear child,” he would say rallyingly; “now that you have got companions you must profit by them.”And she always gave in, accusing herself of want of energy and spirit, when in reality she was not fit for what she attempted.I have often felt sorry, now that years and greater experience have taught me better—I have often felt sorry to think of the efforts dear little Isabel must have made in order to keep up with us and to please her father. But after all, no very great harm was done, for the poor child caught cold one day through getting drenched in a thunderstorm, which necessitated a visit from the doctor, who had known her all her life, and who pronounced her decidedly “below par.”Any suggestion of chest danger terrified Mr Wynyard, for Zella’s mother had died of consumption; so her catching cold was probably a benefit in disguise, as it put a stop once for all to her forcing herself to do more than she was able for. She took it to heart so much, that Moore and I felt on our mettle to prove to her, and indeed also to Mr Wynyard, who blamed himself almost unduly, that we could manage to amuse ourselves very well indeed in spite of our regret at her absence. For fully a week she was not able to go out at all, and during that week—well, I must narrate what happened circumstantially.I think it was on one of our expeditions before Isabel fell ill, and not many days after his arrival, that Moore, on our return to Millflowers one evening down the hill-road, noticed the Grim House for the first time. Hitherto I had not mentioned it to him. I think I was secretly a little afraid of awakening his curiosity on the subject, and conscious that if I talked of it at all, I should probably be tempted to tell him all I knew.He stopped short, I remember, at the point on the road whence the best, in fact the only, view of the place was attainable.“What a gloomy-looking house!” he exclaimed. “It might be a small prison or a private lunatic asylum.”“On the contrary,” said Isabel. “Such places, asylums at least, are now-a-days very cheerful-looking, I believe.”“But whatisthe place?” he asked, and Isabel told him, shortly enough, that it was a private residence, though its inhabitants kept very much to themselves, and then she changed the subject. Something in her tone, however, must have struck him, though she said so little, for afterwards, when we were alone—I cannot quite remember if it were the same day, or not till we were again passing the spot—he alluded to it.“Is there anything queer about that house?” he inquired. “Isabel seemed mysterious! Is it haunted or anything of that kind? How jolly it would be if it were,” and his eyes gleamed. “I’d find my way into it somehow, and make the fellows stare at my adventures when I get back to school.”“No,” I said cautiously, “it is not haunted;” but my tone—perhaps I did it purposely—only stimulated his inquisitiveness.He glanced at me suspiciously.“It issomething, then?” he exclaimed. “And you know about it, and don’t mean to tell me! It’s too bad! You know you can trust me if it’s a secret.”“It isn’t exactly a secret,” I replied. “But if I do tell you, Moore, you must promise me—solemn word of honour—that you’ll not—”I stopped and hesitated. It was rather difficult to say what I wanted him to promise, for the very suggestion that he wasnotto think of doing certain things was enough to put them into his head.“Promise you what?” he asked, seeing my hesitation.“Well,” I resumed, “that you won’t do anything in the way of trying to discover the mystery—for a mystery there is—without telling me.”The word was enough. The boy would have promised me anything and everything under its fascinating influence.“Of course I will,” he replied. “Honour bright! So fire away, Regina.”So I did as he asked, and before we reached home, my brother was as fully versed in the whole details of the queer story as I was myself, inclusive of my own bit of adventure, the advent of the stranger; not to speak of a very fair amount of entirely groundless speculations which I had got into the habit of indulging in.
At some little distance from where we now stood was a sort of terrace-walk, for this side of the house, though not that of the front entrance, was evidently intended to be the best. The windows looking out this way were somewhat wider, one or two reaching to the ground, as if to give easy egress from the rooms within.
At one side of the walk was a carefully kept piece of lawn; on the other—that nearest the house—a border, even at this early season presenting a lovely, and, in contrast to the severity and gloom of the building itself, an almost startling blaze of colour. It was filled with spring flowers, tulips, hyacinths, etc, beautifully arranged, so that the groups and their shades harmonised perfectly together. It was evidently a sheltered spot, and evidently, too, this bit of garden ground was most carefully tended. One felt by instinct that it was somebody’s pet or hobby.
“How lovely!” Zella exclaimed under her breath. “I had no idea that there were flowers at this side. Naturally so, for of course we couldn’t see it from the road. We have no spring show to compare with this at the Manor-house, Regina!” And she was moving on eagerly, forgetting in her excitement for she was a great gardener—that we were trespassers, when suddenly there broke on our ears the peculiar sound of “tap tap” coming round the other side of the house, and in another moment we caught sight of the slowly approaching figure of the younger Mr Grey, the cripple brother, with his crutch.
In less time than it takes to tell it, we had fled—fled ignominiously—too startled to know whether we were ashamed of ourselves or only alarmed.
But as soon as we had reached the friendly shelter of the farther side of the bushes, my audacity reasserted itself.
“Stop, Isabel,” I whispered. “Do let us see what he is going to do. He can’t possibly have caught sight of us.”
“I don’t know that,” returned Isabel, who was all in a quiver. “He may haveheardus, if he didn’t see us—the sound of our skirts as we rushed off, in this perfect silence.” And so it appeared. For, as we stood there peeping out, we saw that the newcomer stopped short and seemed to be listening attentively.
“Good gracious?” I ejaculated, “he has heard us. There is something rather uncanny about him. I dare say he has extra-acute eyes and ears—delicate people often have—for we made next to no sound. But we must stay here for the present,” I continued, rather pleased, in spite of our alarm, that we were forced into remaining where we were, as with care it was quite possible to watch the newcomer.
“Do be quiet,” said Isabel in a whisper, speaking, for once, almost crossly. “Your voice will be heard if you don’t take care.”
I subsided meekly enough, for I felt conscious that in my excitement I had not been very cautious. So we stood there like two naughty children, as indeed in a sense we were, furtively watching the poor man’s movements. It was touching to see him. He walked and stooped with difficulty, but his heart was evidently in his work as he carefully removed any dead flowers and leaves and raised here and there a drooping tulip in need of support, standing still now and then, while he drew back a few paces, to enjoy apparently the whole beautiful effect of the lovely colours.
“I dare say,” I thought to myself, for I did not venture to speak at all,—“I dare say he is an artist as well as an amateur gardener. If so, he is not so much to be pitied after all, though he must long sometimes to pull down that hideous house!”
He went on quietly attending to the borders for some little time, having apparently reassured himself as to the sounds he had heard. And at last, when he had moved on a little, Isabel touched my arm, whispering—
“Don’t you think we might go now?”
I agreed, and we were on the point of stealing away, when another little incident revived our curiosity, and made us stop short. We heard a whistle; in response to it the cripple raised himself from bending over a flower-bed and listened. The whistle was repeated, and then Mr Grey called out—
“Here I am—waiting for you.”
“Your brother wants you for a moment,” was the reply, in a man’s voice undoubtedly, though assuredly not that of a servant. “He won’t keep us long, and then we can—” But the rest of the sentence was inaudible.
The cripple moved in the direction of the voice, and as he turned the corner of the house, the tap of his crutches growing fainter, we heard a cheery voice greeting him and the sound of laughter, to our amazement, reached our ears.
“There now!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps you’ll be convinced at last, Isabel! Thereisa fifth person living in that house.”
“Wait till we are outside to talk about it, for goodness’ sake,” said Isabel. “I never knew any one so impulsive as you are, Regina.”
But I was too elated by what I considered our successful investigations, even though to some extent they had but deepened the mystery, to take offence.
We closed the door in the wall cautiously, for I was rather afraid of its shutting with a spring, and thus debarring us from ever making use of it again. And as soon as we were safely outside I took up the thread of my discourse.
“You see, Isabel,” I went on, “the person who whistled and called was amanevidently, and a gentleman, and assuredly not the elder brother, as he spoke of him. I believe in my heart that it was the very man I met the other day—possibly the one you met some time ago.”
Isabel looked perplexed and a little worried. Her nerves had suffered with the morning’s excitement and adventures, which in my case had only stimulated my curiosity and audacity.
“Perhaps so,” she replied; “but really, Regina, I wish you’d forget about it. I never felt so ashamed and frightened in my life as when we were hiding behind these bushes.”
“I do think you are exaggerating,” I said, gently I hope; for though I was rather provoked by her want of adventurous spirit, as I called it to myself, I was also sorry for her, and at the bottom of my heart I almost think I felt a little guilty for involving her in anything that her father would disapprove of. Possibly, too, though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the salve which I applied to my own misgivings was not altogether effectual, though I proceeded to use it for Isabel’s benefit.
“Don’t you see,” I continued, “we may perhaps be on the way to be of real use to these poor people by finding out a little more about them? I would not have minded—indeed I was almost hoping for it—if the cripple Mr Greyhadseen us and asked what we wanted.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Isabel, “I should have died of shame!”
“Not at all,” I replied. “We could easily have said that we were tempted by the open doorway to take a look at the grounds; or even,” I proceeded, “we might have asked him if he knew that the door had been left open, as we felt sure it was not intended to be!”
“That would have been,” said Isabel sharply, “not—”
“You are not to say that it would have been untrue,” I interrupted rather indignantly. “It would only have been part of the truth, I allow, but still—”
“Oh, well, don’t let us quarrel about it,” said Isabel, smiling; “but I do think, Regina, we had better not continue our investigations; we might get ourselves, and possibly other people, into trouble somehow.”
“Ourselves perhaps,” I agreed, “but not other people, that I can see. And I don’t mind risking something myself, if it could do any good.”
“It might do harm,” Isabel persisted. “Whatever it is, the motive must be of the strongest—the Greys’, I mean—which compels them to live as they do. And any attempt at breaking down the barrier might lead to mischief that we cannot picture to ourselves, so completely in the dark as we are.”
I did not agree with her, or perhaps, to speak more accurately, my true judgment was more than half convinced, but my self-will would not allow me to be guided by it.
The result was, that I felt, and probably appeared, very cross. But an unexpected distraction of my thoughts was in store. That afternoon’s post brought two letters for me, both with the same news, though from different sources. One was from mother and one from Moore.
They announced that an epidemic of some kind, though not of a very serious nature, had broken out in his “house,” and that the boys were disbanded for two or three weeks, Moore amongst them, as no exceptions could be made under the circumstances, though as it was an illness he had already had, he was considered proof against infection.
“He is coming home,” wrote my mother, “at once. It is a great pity, and I shall not know what to do with him alone here. He will miss you so dreadfully. If it were not a shame to propose it, I should be inclined to shorten your visit.”
And Moore’s lamentations were even more outspoken.
“Do come back as soon as ever you can, Reggie,” he wrote. “I really can’t stand home without you, and you can go back to Millflowers again later.”
I looked up gravely.
“Isabel,” I exclaimed, “I must go home;” and I told her what my letter contained.
Isabel looked greatly distressed.
“Oh, no, Regina,” she replied, “you cannot leave us yet. You have been here barely a fortnight, and you were to stay five or six weeks at least. I should feel so unhappy if you left just now,” she went on, “for—I don’t quite know how it is—I feel as if I had been rather disagreeable to you about that tiresome old Grim House, but I am sure I didn’t mean to be so. Only—”
“You are quite right,” I replied; “quite right not to do anything that you are at all afraid might vex your father;” at which Isabel’s face cleared. She little suspected that I was saying to myself that I, not being Mr Wynyard’s daughter, was not restricted in the same way.
“I am so glad,” she said, “that you see it that way now, for thatismy principal reason, though it is true too that I am naturally cowardly in some ways. I have not got your spirit and love of adventure. But as to your going home now, it really cannot be thought of. We must plan something. Stay! I have got an idea. Wait here a moment, Regina; I will be back directly.”
She ran off to look for her father, I felt sure. We were sitting in the drawing-room; it was nearly tea-time, and in a few moments she reappeared, followed by Mr Wynyard, her face fall of pleasure.
“It is all right,” she began. “I knew it would be. Regina, Moore is to come here as soon as it can be managed. Father says so.”
“Yes,” Mr Wynyard agreed, “it is by far the best solution of the difficulty. There is no fear of infection. Isabel has had all these childish illnesses long ago—and you too, Regina, I suppose? Otherwise your mother would not think of your returning home to meet your brother.”
“Yes,” I answered, “Moore and I, and Horry, I think, had scarlet fever and all these things together. It would be quite delightful to have Moore here, if you are sure he would not be at all in the way. He is really not a tiresome kind of boy, I must say.”
“No, indeed,” exclaimed Isabel. “We saw that at Weissbad, when he was so often alone with you and me, Regina, and quite content with our society.”
“In some ways,” I said, “the others call me more of a boy than him at home;” and I reddened a little, feeling half ashamed of the confession before Mr Wynyard. But he did not seem to mind it; rather the other way indeed.
“It would do Zella no harm to have a little of the boy element instilled into her,” he said with a smile. “But there is no time to be lost in arranging this new plan. Let me see! Must Moore go home first? Yes, I suppose it is on the way.”
“I think it would be better,” I replied. “Winchester is really only a short way from home, and he is sure to want to pick up things there. I do hope father won’t think it too far for him to come for so short a time.”
“It need not be so short a time, as far as we are concerned,” said Mr Wynyard hospitably. “But of course the boy will have to get back to school again whenever he can. I’ll tell you what,” he went on, “I will write to your father myself, which I think will ensure Moore’s being allowed to come.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said gratefully, and indeed I felt so.
“Your father isverykind,” I said to Isabel when we were by ourselves. “I am getting to feel much less afraid of him.”
Isabel looked pleased at this.
“I told you so,” she said. “I can’t imagine being afraid of him unless I knew I was doing something wrong.”
Her words recalled our discussion about the Grim House.
“I know,” I thought to myself, “whowouldsympathise with me about it to the full, and that’s Moore. I wonder if I dare tell him.”
Then another warning returned to my mind—that of Jocelyn.
“How curious that he should have thought of such a possibility as Moore’s coming here,” I said to myself. “I feel half inclined to look at things from the ‘Kismet’ point of view. ‘What is to be, will be.’ If Moore’s coming here helps me to go on with my investigations without involving Isabel, which I now see I have no right to do, it will seem as if it was allmeant. That’s to say, if I make up my mind to tell him about it, in spite of Jocelyn’s fatherly advice.”
And in my heart I think I knew that I should never have the resolution to keep the fascinating subject to myself, once Moore was on the spot.
All came to pass as we had hoped. Moore arrived, brimful of delight, and very much inclined to think the epidemic at school an unlimited subject of congratulation. He was looking very well, I was pleased to see—altogether in a mood for viewing everything with rose-coloured spectacles.
“Thisisa jolly place, Regina,” he confided to me when we were strolling about the first morning after his arrival, I acting “cicerone,” as Isabel was engaged in her housekeeping cares. “Now I hope you’ll give me some credit for knowing what I’m about when I make friends with people! Do you remember how angry you were that day at Weissbad when I came in and told you I had been speaking to the Wynyards? Even mother looked rather funny about it.”
“What nonsense!” I exclaimed. “Angry! I wasn’t the least angry! I was only rather shy at the idea of making new acquaintances.”
“And the Paynes,” Moore resumed, “they were thoroughly nice people too. By-the-bye, Reggie, I forgot to tell you that Leo, the youngest, is almost sure to come to my ‘house’ next term. I knew that he was down for Winchester, but I had no idea we’d be together. It isn’t quite certain yet—it depends on a vacancy.”
“That will be nice for you,” I replied, half absently. Not that I had not taken in what he said, but that his mention of the Payne family had recalled to me Rupert’s talk of sensational stories, “facts stranger than fiction,” which had come to his knowledge, and I began wishing that I could see him again to talk over the Millflowers mystery, now that I had seen for myself the Grim House and its inhabitants. But on that occasion I did not allude to it to Moore.
For some days our pleasantest anticipations were realised. Moore proved a great acquisition in our drives and walks. Mr Wynyard encouraged to the full everything of the kind, and gratified me more than once by saying that active exercise in the open air, and all that sort of thing, was “so good for Isabel.”
“A little roughing it would really do her no harm,” he said. “She is as unselfish and conscientious as she can be, but life has been in some ways perhaps too sheltered for her. I don’t know how she could ever stand alone, as she may have to do any day,” he added with a little sigh which touched me.
“But you are not at all old, Mr Wynyard,” I said, rather brusquely perhaps. “You can’t be older than father, and we look upon him as—oh! quite a young man. Then, too, Margaret, Mrs Percy, and her husband are devoted to dear Zella!”
“Yes,” he agreed, “but still the best of brothers and sisters are not like a parent, and I suppose, to confess the truth, I have spoilt Zella a little. Circumstances seemed to make it inevitable.”
I knew that he alluded to his wife’s death, so I said no more. But the effect of this little conversation was, I now see, somewhat to increase my own self-confidence, and rather to lead me to think more than heretofore that in some ways Isabel was babyish, and almost morbid in her scrupulous conscientiousness.
Between us, with the best intentions in the world, her father and I at this juncture went rather to an extreme with poor Isabel. She was very far from being as strong as I constitutionally, and when she hung back, as happened now and then, from any scheme of long walks or drives, which Moore and I, in spite of his past delicacy, felt quite equal to, we urged her joining us, Mr Wynyard always endorsing what was said.
“You mustn’t be lazy, my dear child,” he would say rallyingly; “now that you have got companions you must profit by them.”
And she always gave in, accusing herself of want of energy and spirit, when in reality she was not fit for what she attempted.
I have often felt sorry, now that years and greater experience have taught me better—I have often felt sorry to think of the efforts dear little Isabel must have made in order to keep up with us and to please her father. But after all, no very great harm was done, for the poor child caught cold one day through getting drenched in a thunderstorm, which necessitated a visit from the doctor, who had known her all her life, and who pronounced her decidedly “below par.”
Any suggestion of chest danger terrified Mr Wynyard, for Zella’s mother had died of consumption; so her catching cold was probably a benefit in disguise, as it put a stop once for all to her forcing herself to do more than she was able for. She took it to heart so much, that Moore and I felt on our mettle to prove to her, and indeed also to Mr Wynyard, who blamed himself almost unduly, that we could manage to amuse ourselves very well indeed in spite of our regret at her absence. For fully a week she was not able to go out at all, and during that week—well, I must narrate what happened circumstantially.
I think it was on one of our expeditions before Isabel fell ill, and not many days after his arrival, that Moore, on our return to Millflowers one evening down the hill-road, noticed the Grim House for the first time. Hitherto I had not mentioned it to him. I think I was secretly a little afraid of awakening his curiosity on the subject, and conscious that if I talked of it at all, I should probably be tempted to tell him all I knew.
He stopped short, I remember, at the point on the road whence the best, in fact the only, view of the place was attainable.
“What a gloomy-looking house!” he exclaimed. “It might be a small prison or a private lunatic asylum.”
“On the contrary,” said Isabel. “Such places, asylums at least, are now-a-days very cheerful-looking, I believe.”
“But whatisthe place?” he asked, and Isabel told him, shortly enough, that it was a private residence, though its inhabitants kept very much to themselves, and then she changed the subject. Something in her tone, however, must have struck him, though she said so little, for afterwards, when we were alone—I cannot quite remember if it were the same day, or not till we were again passing the spot—he alluded to it.
“Is there anything queer about that house?” he inquired. “Isabel seemed mysterious! Is it haunted or anything of that kind? How jolly it would be if it were,” and his eyes gleamed. “I’d find my way into it somehow, and make the fellows stare at my adventures when I get back to school.”
“No,” I said cautiously, “it is not haunted;” but my tone—perhaps I did it purposely—only stimulated his inquisitiveness.
He glanced at me suspiciously.
“It issomething, then?” he exclaimed. “And you know about it, and don’t mean to tell me! It’s too bad! You know you can trust me if it’s a secret.”
“It isn’t exactly a secret,” I replied. “But if I do tell you, Moore, you must promise me—solemn word of honour—that you’ll not—”
I stopped and hesitated. It was rather difficult to say what I wanted him to promise, for the very suggestion that he wasnotto think of doing certain things was enough to put them into his head.
“Promise you what?” he asked, seeing my hesitation.
“Well,” I resumed, “that you won’t do anything in the way of trying to discover the mystery—for a mystery there is—without telling me.”
The word was enough. The boy would have promised me anything and everything under its fascinating influence.
“Of course I will,” he replied. “Honour bright! So fire away, Regina.”
So I did as he asked, and before we reached home, my brother was as fully versed in the whole details of the queer story as I was myself, inclusive of my own bit of adventure, the advent of the stranger; not to speak of a very fair amount of entirely groundless speculations which I had got into the habit of indulging in.
Chapter Six.The Black Curtain.Moore listened in almost breathless silence, only interrupted now and then by muttered ejaculations, and when I had finished he looked up, his eyes sparkling, and said solemnly—“It’s as good as a haunted house any day, Reggie. I never heard such a jolly mystery. Close at hand too! I do wish I had been with you the day you got inside. I fancy I can see you and Isabel scuttering off like two frightened rabbits,” and here he broke out laughing.This I did not altogether approve of.“If you treat it in that way,” I said severely, “I shall wish I had not told you anything about it. It is no laughing matter, that I can see. It is terribly sad to think of these poor people being forced, or thinking they are forced, to lead such a life. I should be so glad to find out any way of helping them.”My tone sobered the boy, but he did not pretend to be influenced by any such high motives as those which I persuaded myself actuatedme, far more than idle curiosity.“I don’t see that you or any stranger could possibly be of the least use to them,” he said. “All the same I’d give anything to find out about it, and I don’t see but what we might make some investigations without doing any one any harm. You are plucky enough for anything—not like Isabel; and just supposing, Reggie, that thereissomebody shut up there that no one has ever seen; that man you met might be a kind of a keeper.”“He was a gentleman,” I replied.“He might have been some sort of a doctor,” said Moore consideringly.“And don’t think for a moment,” I said, without noticing his last remark, “that they are the kind of people to do anything wicked or cruel. They are the sufferers themselves, of that I am certain.”“I’ll have a good look at them in church next Sunday,” he replied. “I do remember noticing them in their big square pew, and thinking they looked gloomy and queer, but I could not see them very well from where I sat. Have you been back to the door in the wall again to see if it is still open?”I shook my head.“No,” I replied, “I have kept quite out of the way of it since Isabel got so frightened. Indeed I have not spoken to her about it for some time, and I have often thought how much I should like to tell you about it; I knew you’d be so interested. Only, Moore—remember what you have promised,” I added impressively.“Of course I shall,” he replied. “You’ve never known me break my word, now, have you, Reggie?”“No,” I allowed.“And I’m not going to do such a thing this time,” he continued. “Besides, it would be a mean sort of trick to start anything on my own account, and keep you out of the fun.”“It is notfunI am thinking of,” I replied, with some indignation.“Oh well, you know what I mean. You’d like awfully to find out what is at the bottom of it all, and so would I. We needn’t say more than that. I don’t suppose weshallfind out anything, but the mere idea of it is so interesting. I wonder what the house is like inside. Are the windows barred, do you know?”“Not that I have seen,” I replied. “Certainly not on the side where Isabel and I were. And you can see for yourself that there’s nothing of the kind on this side,” for, as I said, we were standing on the hilly ground from which two sides of the Grim House were fairly well within view. “No, Moore, I don’t believe in your theory of some one being shut up there. It would have come out to a certainty through the servants. I told you they have no old servants of their own; they just get them in the neighbourhood like other people.”Moore whistled softly and swung his legs about. When I said we were “standing,” I should rather have said “sitting,” he on the top of a high gate, the entrance to a sloping field, I on the lower step of a stile at one side. I detected a note of incredulity in his manner.“No,” I repeated, “I am certain there is no one shut up there—not even a—”“What?”“Oh I don’t know—a tiger, or a pet boa constrictor, as there was in a story I read the other day,” I said carelessly. “Anything you like. No, there is nothing inthatidea, Moore.”“Well,” he replied, “we shall see, or very likely we shallnotsee. But at worst I’m determined to have a go at finding outsomethingbefore I leave Millflowers, and of course you will help me, Reggie. You see I can’t do anything on my own account because of my promise to you.”I trusted him, yet I felt uneasy, and almost began to regret my confidences. He would certainly notmeanto break his word, but still—he might be sorely tempted, and he was only a boy. If, for instance, he was passing the door in the wall and found it ajar, what boy nature could resist, like Bluebeard’s wife, peeping in; and once within the enchanted precincts! No, I had myself to thank for it; I had laid the train, and I must see to the consequences.“There is really nothing to do,” I began, trying, now that it was too late, to wet-blanket the boy’s curiosity.“There’s lots to find out,” he interrupted. “You have been thinking and wondering ever so much about it yourself. You know you have. And if I keep my promise, as of course I shall, you mustn’t fight off poking about a bit, to see what we can see. We needn’t get into mischief or bother anybody. Isabel and her father need never know we go near the place.Ishould never do anything half as risky as you and she did the other day.”“What is it you want to do?” I asked, with a curious mixture of feelings. I was afraid, though I scarcely knew what I was afraid of, and yet in a sense pleased to be, as it were, forced into prosecuting some investigation into the mystery which had so fascinated my imagination.Moore did not at once reply. At some risk to his equilibrium, he managed to raise himself to a standing position on one of the higher bars of the gate, and gazed before him intently. Of course I did not need to be told in what direction he was gazing.“It seems to me,” he said at last, “so far as I can understand from your description the spot where the door is—it seems to me that if we got in by it, we could creep round to the front of the house—I mean to a part from where we could have a good view of the front, and see the windows and anything there is to be seen—behind the bushes, without coming out into the open at all. That would be grand, wouldn’t it, Reggie?”My first impulse was to exclaim delightedly in agreement, but there came misgivings again. I had not, so far, contemplated anything so audacious. Still, Moore, as he turned towards me interrogatively, must have seen the gleam in my eyes. He was as sharp as a needle.“Oh,” I replied, “that would really be trespass. We must not do as much as that—just supposing we were seen? What could we say for ourselves?”“Just supposing we arenotseen,” he said with boyish pertness. “Nonsense, Reggie—trust me for that.”“Or if there are dogs about,” I went on.“You’d have seen them, or they would have scented you that other day to a certainty. Besides, if there were, dogs always like me. I can always smooth them down,” which was true enough. I had seen it tested more than once. Moore was one of those persons naturally gifted with a curious power over animals. “I don’t say,” he continued, evidently anxious to impress me with his caution and sobriety of judgment, “that I’d care to tackle a bloodhound or even a mastiff. But it’s most unlikely that they have any fellows of the kind about the place. It would be known.”This too was a reasonable presumption. Still I shook my head.“All the same, we shall be doing a thing we have no right to be doing,” I persisted.Moore shrugged his shoulders.“If you go at it like that, there are a good many things we’d better not do,” he said. “We’ve norightto pick mushrooms in old Porson’s fields at home, but no one has ever found fault with us for it.”“Oh, that’s quite different,” I replied. “However,” for I was anxious to drop the subject as far as possible, knowing by experience that once Moore got into an argument it was not easy to dislodge him without giving in entirely, “the first thing to be done is to look for the door in the wall, for if it is locked, there’s an end to everything,” though as I said the words, Jocelyn’s ominous prediction, “he’d be scaling the walls and goodness only knows what,” returned to my memory. “That was a stupid speech of mine,” I said to myself. “Just the thing to start him on some wild scheme.”And I now began to hope fervently, from the side of expediency as well as of curiosity, that the door shouldnotbe locked.Moore took no apparent notice of my last remark, but after events proved that he had not only heard, but thoroughly digested it.We had no opportunity of prosecuting our researches that day or the next. For “to-morrow” turned out an appallingly wet day—so drivingly rainy and wretched, that even Moore’s ardour was damped, and he stayed indoors contentedly enough. I did not know how he was amusing himself, but he told me afterwards that he had been making a “plan” of Grimsthorpe House, or rather of its position and grounds so far as he had been able to get them into his head from his own observations and my descriptions. He had also made preparations for the adventure he was determined not to be balked of, in other ways. He stuffed his pockets with strong cord, an old geological hammer and chisel of Mr Wynyard’s, which he had found in a drawer and taken possession of with Isabel’s leave, a feather and small bottle of oil, and all the unused keys he could lay hands on, and, last not least, in spite of his contempt for my suggestion, a large piece of dog-biscuit, to be on the safe side in case of canine opposition to our visit.And the next afternoon I found myself “in” for it. There was no evasion of my promise even had I heartily wished to get out of it.It was not very early when we set off, as I had in the first place been for a drive with Isabel, the doctor having given leave for this as soon as the weather grew milder, and to-day had turned out peculiarly fine after the storms of yesterday.Moore was waiting for me when we came in.“I want Reggie to go a little walk with me,” he said, half apologetically, to Isabel. “She wasn’t out all yesterday, and she’ll be getting too fat if she doesn’t have exercise.”Isabel laughed. At that stage in my career there seemed little likelihood of the danger he alluded to. For strong and wiry as I was, I was decidedly thin.“Don’t be late for tea,” she said, as we turned away; but Moore called back—“Don’t expect us till half-past five; it is more than four already. It doesn’t matter about tea.”“Speak for yourself,” I said to him when we were out of hearing. “I do mind about tea, and I don’t suppose you’ve got a private invitation from the Greys to have it with them.”“Who knows!” said Moore jokingly. “Perhaps they’ll fall in love with us at first sight and ask us to go in.”Even though I knew he was joking, what he said startled me. I stopped short in the path and turned round, facing him.“Don’t talk nonsense,” I said warningly.“Who began it?” he replied. “I was only following up what you said.”“Well, but seriously,” I resumed. “I hope you are not in a wild humour, Moore, meaning to do anything reckless?”“Of course not,” he said reassuringly. “To-day Imeanto do nothing whatever but spy the ground. But do let us walk faster. How far have we to go?”“Not above half a mile or so to where the wall begins,” I replied. “And then, oh! it can’t be above a few hundred yards to the place where the door is, only if we are to find it we must walk slowly when we get near there.”The road looked almost more lonely to-day than when I had been there before. There was not the slightest sign of life or movement as far as we could see beyond us.“I could believe that no one had passed this way for weeks,” I said to Moore. “Did you ever see such a lonely place?”“That is probably why they have made the door on this side,” he replied. “I dare say they come out at night, and walk up and down like ghosts!”“I’m sure they don’t,” I answered, “andtheydidn’t make the door. It’s as old as the wall itself, as you can see by the ivy. Now don’t talk any more; I want to give all my attention to looking for it.”And in a minute or two I exclaimed triumphantly; “Here it is, and—yes—still unlocked!”It must have called for some self-restraint on Moore’s part not to shout “hurrah!” but we were well on our guard. We pushed the door open and entered cautiously, drawing it to behind us. We were well sheltered, as I have said, by the bushes skirting the wall. I crept along a few yards in the same direction as I had done the last time, my brother closely following me. Then we stopped, and I whispered to him that I thought it would be safe to peep out a little. He did so, keeping still well in the shade of the heavy clumps of evergreens farther inside the grounds. Then, after reconnoitring, he beckoned to me to come on.“There isn’t a creature about,” he said, “and we can’t be seen from the windows at this side. You needn’t be so dreadfully frightened, Reggie.”“Oh, but it was just like this the last time,” I whispered, “when all of a sudden we heard the cripple brother coming. No, Moore, Iwon’tgo farther in!”“Well, stay where you are for a bit,” he replied. “I want to get a thoroughly good idea of the lie of the place;” and he certainly seemed to be doing his best to obtain this, his curly head bobbing backwards and forwards in all directions, while I stood on guard, tremulously listening for the slightest sound, extremely frightened, extremely interested, and intensely excited.When Moore was satisfied that there was no more to be done from his present post of observation, we crept back again to the neighbourhood of the door. I flattered myself that he was now ready to go home, but I was mistaken.“Now,” he said, “I am going to explore for myself. You and Isabel didn’t try the other side—to the left, I mean.”“O Moore,” I exclaimed, “that is towards the front of the house!”“I know that,” he answered; “but that’s just why I want to go that way. It’s perfectly safe if we keep pretty near the wall;” and my curiosity surmounting my fears, I in my turn followed him for some little way. Then an unexpected thing happened! Suddenly, on our right hand, the border of bushes opened out into a sort of trellised passage, between trees, what in France is called atonnelle, and at its end we perceived a glazed door, evidently leading into a conservatory.I started back in affright, exclaiming, though in a whisper—“I believe that leads straight into the house!”“All the better,” was Moore’s unsympathising reply; “all the better if it does! I had no hope of such a find as this. Come along, Reggie, keep well to one side, and then no one could see us unless they were actually at the door looking out for us, which isnotlikely to be the case.”But now I stood firm.“I won’t come a step farther,” I said positively.“Well, stay where you are,” said my brother, “though I do think you’re a goose, after having come so far, to stop short at the jolliest point!I’mgoing on.”I caught hold of him. He was so excited by this time, though cool enough outwardly, that I was terrified of any war of words ensuing, the sound of which might have attracted attention at the house, so perfectly still and silent was everything about us.“If—” I began, “if you will promise me, vow to me, that you will come back in five minutes, I’ll make my way to the door again, and wait there for you.”“All right,” was the reply; “I promise,” and we separated, he creeping along as nimbly as a cat, while I retreated tremulously, looking over my shoulder every now and then as I did so, for as long as I could keep the boy in sight.These five minutes—and I really don’t think he exceeded them—seemed to me hours. My relief was indescribable when I heard his softly-uttered “Reggie,” as he returned to me.“Well?” I said interrogatively. “Was it worth the risk? I know I’ve been shaking here as if I had the palsy. I couldn’t have stood it much longer.”“Worth the risk?” he repeated, cavalierly ignoring the mention of my tremors. “I should rather think so! Wait till we get outside, and then I’ll tell you what I saw.”And in another moment, outside and in safety, we found ourselves carefully closing the door so that its unfastened condition should not attract attention, as Isabel and I had done on our first visit.“What did you see?” I inquired at once. “None of the inhabitants, I suppose?”“No,” was the reply, “but traces of them. That glass door, Reggie, is the entrance to a long, narrow conservatory, which opens right into the house at the other end. It isn’t much as far as plants go, just a lot of ferns and green things at one side, but there’s a broad sort of walk, and I saw a pipe or two lying on a little table, and some books and seats. There was one long deck-chair kind of thing, belonging to the cripple brother most likely. Evidently it’s a place that they keep for smoking and sitting in. I got close up to the other end and peeped in.”“O Moore!” I exclaimed, interested but horrified, “supposing you had been seen!”“But I wasn’t,” he answered in his most matter-of-fact way. “There was nobody about, even in the room I peeped into—I couldn’t make out if it was a sitting-room or a bedroom. It was dark and dullish-looking, as I think all the house must be; the windows are so narrow.”“Perhaps it’s the cripple brother’s room,” I suggested; “bedroom and sitting-room in one, as he probably finds it difficult to go up and down stairs.”Moore seemed struck by my acuteness.“Yes,” he said. “I expect it is. It had the look of it.”“Well?” I continued, surprised at the silence which ensued, “go on!” for he seemed to be thinking deeply.“What do you mean?” he replied. ”‘Go on’ about what?”“All that you saw, of course,” I answered impatiently. “Don’t begin thinking about it till you have told me the whole! Then we can discuss it together.”He looked up in surprise.“There isn’t any more to tell,” he said. “I was only thinking to myself how queer it is altogether.”I gave a little laugh, half derisively.“Why, that’s what everybody thinks,” I said, “who knows anything about it. There’s nothing original in that.”“I didn’t suppose there was,” said Moore, beginning to get cross.I was feeling cross too. I think one often does after any unusual strain or excitement, especially when it ends in nothing, as our present adventure now seemed to do.“I thought,” I continued unwisely, “that you had made some wonderful discovery, or at least that you thought yourself on the road to one, and now it has all ended in smoke!”My tone must have been very provoking, but Moore was a queer boy in some ways. His irritation seemed to have disappeared.“There is a certain proverb,” he said oracularly, “which your words remind me of. ‘There is no smoke without fire.’ What do you say to that?—Eh?—I beg your pardon. What did you remark?”I had not remarked anything. I suppose I had muttered something inarticulate in my irritation.“Don’t be nonsensical,” I said sharply. “You needn’t begin hinting, with nothing to hint about!”Moore was gazing in front of him, and when he spoke again I was really at a loss to tell whether he was in earnest or not.“There was one thing I have not told you of,” he said. “In one corner of the room there was a heavy, long black curtain—black,” he repeated impressively. “It cut off that corner of the room as it were. There may be a door behind it leading to a staircase; there may be—a skeleton for all I know, or—goodness knows what!”“Rubbish!” I exclaimed this time. “You are drawing on your imagination just to keep up the farce! I don’t believe you even saw the curtain!” He faced round on me.“Reggie!” he exclaimed, “Ididsee a curtain, word of honour.”“Naturally,” I replied, “most windows have curtains. You know what I mean. I don’t believe you saw any unusual kind of curtain, or that it was black.”“I swear to you it was black, and a very unusual kind of curtain.”“Then why didn’t you tell me of it before?” I inquired. “It may have looked black because the room was dark.”“I was thinking about it,” he answered.“You weren’t,” I retorted. “You only remembered about it when I said you had made no discoveries. If you had thought it was really mysterious you would have mentioned it straight off. Now do let us drop the whole thing, I’m getting tired of it.”In my heart I was disappointed. I had had in reality, in spite of my warnings to him, some hopes that Moore’s rashness would at least have led tosomethingin the way of discovery. And by this time I had succeeded in making him angry.“You will see,” he muttered, and then as I ran off without waiting to hear more—“you will see,” he called after me loudly, “if it is true that I can find out nothing. I am not such a fool as you think!”But I still ran on, half laughing to myself at his boyish indignation, and heedless of his mysterious hints. Somehow, my own curiosity and interest in the Grim House mystery had diminished as Moore’s increased. “Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!” I thought to myself. “It is, anyway, not worth running the risk of getting into any disagreeables, and no doubt Mr Wynyard would be very annoyed if he knew where we had been this evening.”What a truism is the old saying, that “nothing is certain except the unforeseen,” and yet how constantly one feels inclined to quote it to oneself even in everyday life! Two most unforeseen circumstances occurred during the first three weeks of my stay at Millflowers—Moore’s joining me there, and now a sudden summons to Mr Wynyard and Isabel to go to Mr Percy’s for some days.I am not perfectly clear in my memory as to the reason of it. As far as I can recall, the cause was the sudden arrival of some important member of the family from a distance. However that may have been, the fact was that our host and his daughter were practically forced to go. They were very sorry. Mr Wynyard full of apologies, declaring that his sense of hospitality was outraged by this unfortunate necessity. But they were both very thankful that my young brother was with me, otherwise, Isabel declared, that they couldnothave left me alone, and it might have ended in my visit being curtailed.
Moore listened in almost breathless silence, only interrupted now and then by muttered ejaculations, and when I had finished he looked up, his eyes sparkling, and said solemnly—
“It’s as good as a haunted house any day, Reggie. I never heard such a jolly mystery. Close at hand too! I do wish I had been with you the day you got inside. I fancy I can see you and Isabel scuttering off like two frightened rabbits,” and here he broke out laughing.
This I did not altogether approve of.
“If you treat it in that way,” I said severely, “I shall wish I had not told you anything about it. It is no laughing matter, that I can see. It is terribly sad to think of these poor people being forced, or thinking they are forced, to lead such a life. I should be so glad to find out any way of helping them.”
My tone sobered the boy, but he did not pretend to be influenced by any such high motives as those which I persuaded myself actuatedme, far more than idle curiosity.
“I don’t see that you or any stranger could possibly be of the least use to them,” he said. “All the same I’d give anything to find out about it, and I don’t see but what we might make some investigations without doing any one any harm. You are plucky enough for anything—not like Isabel; and just supposing, Reggie, that thereissomebody shut up there that no one has ever seen; that man you met might be a kind of a keeper.”
“He was a gentleman,” I replied.
“He might have been some sort of a doctor,” said Moore consideringly.
“And don’t think for a moment,” I said, without noticing his last remark, “that they are the kind of people to do anything wicked or cruel. They are the sufferers themselves, of that I am certain.”
“I’ll have a good look at them in church next Sunday,” he replied. “I do remember noticing them in their big square pew, and thinking they looked gloomy and queer, but I could not see them very well from where I sat. Have you been back to the door in the wall again to see if it is still open?”
I shook my head.
“No,” I replied, “I have kept quite out of the way of it since Isabel got so frightened. Indeed I have not spoken to her about it for some time, and I have often thought how much I should like to tell you about it; I knew you’d be so interested. Only, Moore—remember what you have promised,” I added impressively.
“Of course I shall,” he replied. “You’ve never known me break my word, now, have you, Reggie?”
“No,” I allowed.
“And I’m not going to do such a thing this time,” he continued. “Besides, it would be a mean sort of trick to start anything on my own account, and keep you out of the fun.”
“It is notfunI am thinking of,” I replied, with some indignation.
“Oh well, you know what I mean. You’d like awfully to find out what is at the bottom of it all, and so would I. We needn’t say more than that. I don’t suppose weshallfind out anything, but the mere idea of it is so interesting. I wonder what the house is like inside. Are the windows barred, do you know?”
“Not that I have seen,” I replied. “Certainly not on the side where Isabel and I were. And you can see for yourself that there’s nothing of the kind on this side,” for, as I said, we were standing on the hilly ground from which two sides of the Grim House were fairly well within view. “No, Moore, I don’t believe in your theory of some one being shut up there. It would have come out to a certainty through the servants. I told you they have no old servants of their own; they just get them in the neighbourhood like other people.”
Moore whistled softly and swung his legs about. When I said we were “standing,” I should rather have said “sitting,” he on the top of a high gate, the entrance to a sloping field, I on the lower step of a stile at one side. I detected a note of incredulity in his manner.
“No,” I repeated, “I am certain there is no one shut up there—not even a—”
“What?”
“Oh I don’t know—a tiger, or a pet boa constrictor, as there was in a story I read the other day,” I said carelessly. “Anything you like. No, there is nothing inthatidea, Moore.”
“Well,” he replied, “we shall see, or very likely we shallnotsee. But at worst I’m determined to have a go at finding outsomethingbefore I leave Millflowers, and of course you will help me, Reggie. You see I can’t do anything on my own account because of my promise to you.”
I trusted him, yet I felt uneasy, and almost began to regret my confidences. He would certainly notmeanto break his word, but still—he might be sorely tempted, and he was only a boy. If, for instance, he was passing the door in the wall and found it ajar, what boy nature could resist, like Bluebeard’s wife, peeping in; and once within the enchanted precincts! No, I had myself to thank for it; I had laid the train, and I must see to the consequences.
“There is really nothing to do,” I began, trying, now that it was too late, to wet-blanket the boy’s curiosity.
“There’s lots to find out,” he interrupted. “You have been thinking and wondering ever so much about it yourself. You know you have. And if I keep my promise, as of course I shall, you mustn’t fight off poking about a bit, to see what we can see. We needn’t get into mischief or bother anybody. Isabel and her father need never know we go near the place.Ishould never do anything half as risky as you and she did the other day.”
“What is it you want to do?” I asked, with a curious mixture of feelings. I was afraid, though I scarcely knew what I was afraid of, and yet in a sense pleased to be, as it were, forced into prosecuting some investigation into the mystery which had so fascinated my imagination.
Moore did not at once reply. At some risk to his equilibrium, he managed to raise himself to a standing position on one of the higher bars of the gate, and gazed before him intently. Of course I did not need to be told in what direction he was gazing.
“It seems to me,” he said at last, “so far as I can understand from your description the spot where the door is—it seems to me that if we got in by it, we could creep round to the front of the house—I mean to a part from where we could have a good view of the front, and see the windows and anything there is to be seen—behind the bushes, without coming out into the open at all. That would be grand, wouldn’t it, Reggie?”
My first impulse was to exclaim delightedly in agreement, but there came misgivings again. I had not, so far, contemplated anything so audacious. Still, Moore, as he turned towards me interrogatively, must have seen the gleam in my eyes. He was as sharp as a needle.
“Oh,” I replied, “that would really be trespass. We must not do as much as that—just supposing we were seen? What could we say for ourselves?”
“Just supposing we arenotseen,” he said with boyish pertness. “Nonsense, Reggie—trust me for that.”
“Or if there are dogs about,” I went on.
“You’d have seen them, or they would have scented you that other day to a certainty. Besides, if there were, dogs always like me. I can always smooth them down,” which was true enough. I had seen it tested more than once. Moore was one of those persons naturally gifted with a curious power over animals. “I don’t say,” he continued, evidently anxious to impress me with his caution and sobriety of judgment, “that I’d care to tackle a bloodhound or even a mastiff. But it’s most unlikely that they have any fellows of the kind about the place. It would be known.”
This too was a reasonable presumption. Still I shook my head.
“All the same, we shall be doing a thing we have no right to be doing,” I persisted.
Moore shrugged his shoulders.
“If you go at it like that, there are a good many things we’d better not do,” he said. “We’ve norightto pick mushrooms in old Porson’s fields at home, but no one has ever found fault with us for it.”
“Oh, that’s quite different,” I replied. “However,” for I was anxious to drop the subject as far as possible, knowing by experience that once Moore got into an argument it was not easy to dislodge him without giving in entirely, “the first thing to be done is to look for the door in the wall, for if it is locked, there’s an end to everything,” though as I said the words, Jocelyn’s ominous prediction, “he’d be scaling the walls and goodness only knows what,” returned to my memory. “That was a stupid speech of mine,” I said to myself. “Just the thing to start him on some wild scheme.”
And I now began to hope fervently, from the side of expediency as well as of curiosity, that the door shouldnotbe locked.
Moore took no apparent notice of my last remark, but after events proved that he had not only heard, but thoroughly digested it.
We had no opportunity of prosecuting our researches that day or the next. For “to-morrow” turned out an appallingly wet day—so drivingly rainy and wretched, that even Moore’s ardour was damped, and he stayed indoors contentedly enough. I did not know how he was amusing himself, but he told me afterwards that he had been making a “plan” of Grimsthorpe House, or rather of its position and grounds so far as he had been able to get them into his head from his own observations and my descriptions. He had also made preparations for the adventure he was determined not to be balked of, in other ways. He stuffed his pockets with strong cord, an old geological hammer and chisel of Mr Wynyard’s, which he had found in a drawer and taken possession of with Isabel’s leave, a feather and small bottle of oil, and all the unused keys he could lay hands on, and, last not least, in spite of his contempt for my suggestion, a large piece of dog-biscuit, to be on the safe side in case of canine opposition to our visit.
And the next afternoon I found myself “in” for it. There was no evasion of my promise even had I heartily wished to get out of it.
It was not very early when we set off, as I had in the first place been for a drive with Isabel, the doctor having given leave for this as soon as the weather grew milder, and to-day had turned out peculiarly fine after the storms of yesterday.
Moore was waiting for me when we came in.
“I want Reggie to go a little walk with me,” he said, half apologetically, to Isabel. “She wasn’t out all yesterday, and she’ll be getting too fat if she doesn’t have exercise.”
Isabel laughed. At that stage in my career there seemed little likelihood of the danger he alluded to. For strong and wiry as I was, I was decidedly thin.
“Don’t be late for tea,” she said, as we turned away; but Moore called back—
“Don’t expect us till half-past five; it is more than four already. It doesn’t matter about tea.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said to him when we were out of hearing. “I do mind about tea, and I don’t suppose you’ve got a private invitation from the Greys to have it with them.”
“Who knows!” said Moore jokingly. “Perhaps they’ll fall in love with us at first sight and ask us to go in.”
Even though I knew he was joking, what he said startled me. I stopped short in the path and turned round, facing him.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” I said warningly.
“Who began it?” he replied. “I was only following up what you said.”
“Well, but seriously,” I resumed. “I hope you are not in a wild humour, Moore, meaning to do anything reckless?”
“Of course not,” he said reassuringly. “To-day Imeanto do nothing whatever but spy the ground. But do let us walk faster. How far have we to go?”
“Not above half a mile or so to where the wall begins,” I replied. “And then, oh! it can’t be above a few hundred yards to the place where the door is, only if we are to find it we must walk slowly when we get near there.”
The road looked almost more lonely to-day than when I had been there before. There was not the slightest sign of life or movement as far as we could see beyond us.
“I could believe that no one had passed this way for weeks,” I said to Moore. “Did you ever see such a lonely place?”
“That is probably why they have made the door on this side,” he replied. “I dare say they come out at night, and walk up and down like ghosts!”
“I’m sure they don’t,” I answered, “andtheydidn’t make the door. It’s as old as the wall itself, as you can see by the ivy. Now don’t talk any more; I want to give all my attention to looking for it.”
And in a minute or two I exclaimed triumphantly; “Here it is, and—yes—still unlocked!”
It must have called for some self-restraint on Moore’s part not to shout “hurrah!” but we were well on our guard. We pushed the door open and entered cautiously, drawing it to behind us. We were well sheltered, as I have said, by the bushes skirting the wall. I crept along a few yards in the same direction as I had done the last time, my brother closely following me. Then we stopped, and I whispered to him that I thought it would be safe to peep out a little. He did so, keeping still well in the shade of the heavy clumps of evergreens farther inside the grounds. Then, after reconnoitring, he beckoned to me to come on.
“There isn’t a creature about,” he said, “and we can’t be seen from the windows at this side. You needn’t be so dreadfully frightened, Reggie.”
“Oh, but it was just like this the last time,” I whispered, “when all of a sudden we heard the cripple brother coming. No, Moore, Iwon’tgo farther in!”
“Well, stay where you are for a bit,” he replied. “I want to get a thoroughly good idea of the lie of the place;” and he certainly seemed to be doing his best to obtain this, his curly head bobbing backwards and forwards in all directions, while I stood on guard, tremulously listening for the slightest sound, extremely frightened, extremely interested, and intensely excited.
When Moore was satisfied that there was no more to be done from his present post of observation, we crept back again to the neighbourhood of the door. I flattered myself that he was now ready to go home, but I was mistaken.
“Now,” he said, “I am going to explore for myself. You and Isabel didn’t try the other side—to the left, I mean.”
“O Moore,” I exclaimed, “that is towards the front of the house!”
“I know that,” he answered; “but that’s just why I want to go that way. It’s perfectly safe if we keep pretty near the wall;” and my curiosity surmounting my fears, I in my turn followed him for some little way. Then an unexpected thing happened! Suddenly, on our right hand, the border of bushes opened out into a sort of trellised passage, between trees, what in France is called atonnelle, and at its end we perceived a glazed door, evidently leading into a conservatory.
I started back in affright, exclaiming, though in a whisper—
“I believe that leads straight into the house!”
“All the better,” was Moore’s unsympathising reply; “all the better if it does! I had no hope of such a find as this. Come along, Reggie, keep well to one side, and then no one could see us unless they were actually at the door looking out for us, which isnotlikely to be the case.”
But now I stood firm.
“I won’t come a step farther,” I said positively.
“Well, stay where you are,” said my brother, “though I do think you’re a goose, after having come so far, to stop short at the jolliest point!I’mgoing on.”
I caught hold of him. He was so excited by this time, though cool enough outwardly, that I was terrified of any war of words ensuing, the sound of which might have attracted attention at the house, so perfectly still and silent was everything about us.
“If—” I began, “if you will promise me, vow to me, that you will come back in five minutes, I’ll make my way to the door again, and wait there for you.”
“All right,” was the reply; “I promise,” and we separated, he creeping along as nimbly as a cat, while I retreated tremulously, looking over my shoulder every now and then as I did so, for as long as I could keep the boy in sight.
These five minutes—and I really don’t think he exceeded them—seemed to me hours. My relief was indescribable when I heard his softly-uttered “Reggie,” as he returned to me.
“Well?” I said interrogatively. “Was it worth the risk? I know I’ve been shaking here as if I had the palsy. I couldn’t have stood it much longer.”
“Worth the risk?” he repeated, cavalierly ignoring the mention of my tremors. “I should rather think so! Wait till we get outside, and then I’ll tell you what I saw.”
And in another moment, outside and in safety, we found ourselves carefully closing the door so that its unfastened condition should not attract attention, as Isabel and I had done on our first visit.
“What did you see?” I inquired at once. “None of the inhabitants, I suppose?”
“No,” was the reply, “but traces of them. That glass door, Reggie, is the entrance to a long, narrow conservatory, which opens right into the house at the other end. It isn’t much as far as plants go, just a lot of ferns and green things at one side, but there’s a broad sort of walk, and I saw a pipe or two lying on a little table, and some books and seats. There was one long deck-chair kind of thing, belonging to the cripple brother most likely. Evidently it’s a place that they keep for smoking and sitting in. I got close up to the other end and peeped in.”
“O Moore!” I exclaimed, interested but horrified, “supposing you had been seen!”
“But I wasn’t,” he answered in his most matter-of-fact way. “There was nobody about, even in the room I peeped into—I couldn’t make out if it was a sitting-room or a bedroom. It was dark and dullish-looking, as I think all the house must be; the windows are so narrow.”
“Perhaps it’s the cripple brother’s room,” I suggested; “bedroom and sitting-room in one, as he probably finds it difficult to go up and down stairs.”
Moore seemed struck by my acuteness.
“Yes,” he said. “I expect it is. It had the look of it.”
“Well?” I continued, surprised at the silence which ensued, “go on!” for he seemed to be thinking deeply.
“What do you mean?” he replied. ”‘Go on’ about what?”
“All that you saw, of course,” I answered impatiently. “Don’t begin thinking about it till you have told me the whole! Then we can discuss it together.”
He looked up in surprise.
“There isn’t any more to tell,” he said. “I was only thinking to myself how queer it is altogether.”
I gave a little laugh, half derisively.
“Why, that’s what everybody thinks,” I said, “who knows anything about it. There’s nothing original in that.”
“I didn’t suppose there was,” said Moore, beginning to get cross.
I was feeling cross too. I think one often does after any unusual strain or excitement, especially when it ends in nothing, as our present adventure now seemed to do.
“I thought,” I continued unwisely, “that you had made some wonderful discovery, or at least that you thought yourself on the road to one, and now it has all ended in smoke!”
My tone must have been very provoking, but Moore was a queer boy in some ways. His irritation seemed to have disappeared.
“There is a certain proverb,” he said oracularly, “which your words remind me of. ‘There is no smoke without fire.’ What do you say to that?—Eh?—I beg your pardon. What did you remark?”
I had not remarked anything. I suppose I had muttered something inarticulate in my irritation.
“Don’t be nonsensical,” I said sharply. “You needn’t begin hinting, with nothing to hint about!”
Moore was gazing in front of him, and when he spoke again I was really at a loss to tell whether he was in earnest or not.
“There was one thing I have not told you of,” he said. “In one corner of the room there was a heavy, long black curtain—black,” he repeated impressively. “It cut off that corner of the room as it were. There may be a door behind it leading to a staircase; there may be—a skeleton for all I know, or—goodness knows what!”
“Rubbish!” I exclaimed this time. “You are drawing on your imagination just to keep up the farce! I don’t believe you even saw the curtain!” He faced round on me.
“Reggie!” he exclaimed, “Ididsee a curtain, word of honour.”
“Naturally,” I replied, “most windows have curtains. You know what I mean. I don’t believe you saw any unusual kind of curtain, or that it was black.”
“I swear to you it was black, and a very unusual kind of curtain.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me of it before?” I inquired. “It may have looked black because the room was dark.”
“I was thinking about it,” he answered.
“You weren’t,” I retorted. “You only remembered about it when I said you had made no discoveries. If you had thought it was really mysterious you would have mentioned it straight off. Now do let us drop the whole thing, I’m getting tired of it.”
In my heart I was disappointed. I had had in reality, in spite of my warnings to him, some hopes that Moore’s rashness would at least have led tosomethingin the way of discovery. And by this time I had succeeded in making him angry.
“You will see,” he muttered, and then as I ran off without waiting to hear more—“you will see,” he called after me loudly, “if it is true that I can find out nothing. I am not such a fool as you think!”
But I still ran on, half laughing to myself at his boyish indignation, and heedless of his mysterious hints. Somehow, my own curiosity and interest in the Grim House mystery had diminished as Moore’s increased. “Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!” I thought to myself. “It is, anyway, not worth running the risk of getting into any disagreeables, and no doubt Mr Wynyard would be very annoyed if he knew where we had been this evening.”
What a truism is the old saying, that “nothing is certain except the unforeseen,” and yet how constantly one feels inclined to quote it to oneself even in everyday life! Two most unforeseen circumstances occurred during the first three weeks of my stay at Millflowers—Moore’s joining me there, and now a sudden summons to Mr Wynyard and Isabel to go to Mr Percy’s for some days.
I am not perfectly clear in my memory as to the reason of it. As far as I can recall, the cause was the sudden arrival of some important member of the family from a distance. However that may have been, the fact was that our host and his daughter were practically forced to go. They were very sorry. Mr Wynyard full of apologies, declaring that his sense of hospitality was outraged by this unfortunate necessity. But they were both very thankful that my young brother was with me, otherwise, Isabel declared, that they couldnothave left me alone, and it might have ended in my visit being curtailed.
Chapter Seven.The Locked Door.The summons from Mr Percy reached the Manor-house the very morning after the escapade which I described in the last chapter, so Moore was still rather on cold terms with me when the departure of our hosts was announced.Afterwards, though it had scarcely struck me at the time, I remembered that he had been rather silent when he heard of it, expressing but very little regret in the prospect of their absence. I recollect Isabel’s turning to him and saying—“You don’t seem to mind it much, Moore; I feel rather hurt;” whereupon he grew red and said something rather confusedly about its only being for a few days; that we would manage to amuse ourselves all right, or words to that effect. But in the little bustle that ensued, the boy’s peculiar manner, as I have said, made no great impression on me.Isabel and her father started, I think, the next day. I remember standing in the porch with Moore to watch them off, and as soon as the carriage had disappeared down the drive, I turned to him with some little remark as to how odd it was for him and me to find ourselves alone for the first time in our lives, and that not at our own home.“You must be your very nicest to me, Othello, do you hear, to prevent my feeling dull,” I said, meaning to propitiate him after my sharpness on the evening of our last expedition, for I saw that the cloud had not yet disappeared.“I shall be quite ready to do anything you like,” he said, rather primly, “and yes, I think I can promise you that it will not be my fault if you have adulltime.”“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, with a passing flash of misgiving; but he evaded a direct reply, though I fancied I heard him murmuring something practically inaudible.“The best thing I can do,” I thought to myself, “is to put some other things in his head, if heisstill planning any fresh investigations; and after all, I have his promise to do nothing without telling me.” It did not then occur to me that the vague threat he had thrown out as to not letting the matter drop could be twisted by his boyish conscience into a definite announcement of his project.I went on talking about the drive that had been proposed for us that afternoon in Isabel’s pony-cart—a drive in a new direction, as to which Mr Wynyard had instructed us before he left. Moore answered with interest, even getting up a little argument as to the exact route we were to take. But still he was notquitehimself, nor did he become so during our expedition, though it passed off very successfully, without our losing our way or any other misfortune.And during the evening that followed something in his manner continued to give me the same feeling of slight uneasiness. He did not seem to care to talk much, and looked himself out a book from among those in the library which Mr Wynyard had recommended to him, and then settled himself in a corner to enjoy it. I felt a little hurt and anxious too, though I hoped it only meant that his irritation with me had not entirely subsided.“I wish I had never told him a word about that hateful old house or the stupid people that live in it. I dare say there is no mystery at all, and that they are just a parcel of half imbecile hypochondriacs,” I thought to myself, feeling as if I must give vent, at least in thought, to my vexation towardssomebody! And aloud I appealed to Moore—not captiously, as that would only have made things worse—but with a touch of reproach.“I think you might talk to me a little, or play chess, or something sociable,” I said brightly. “You might even read aloud. It is rather dull for me.”“I can’t read aloud; you know I can’t,” he replied quietly enough. “I’ll play chess if you like.”And so we did. But Moore did not put his usual spirit into it, and so when I checkmated him at the end of an hour or so, I did not feel as pleased as would have been the case in an ordinary way. For he played better than I. And soon after I said I felt tired, as I did, and got up to go to bed.“How long are they,”—meaning of course our hosts—“going to stay away?” Moore said abruptly as we were bidding each other good-night.“Three days—four at the most,” I replied. “This is Tuesday. Yes, they quite hope to be back on Friday.”He murmured something unintelligible in reply, but I said no more. I was really tired, for our drive had been a long one, and over very rough roads for some considerable part of the day.The next morning, however, I awoke quite refreshed again, and ready for another expedition of any kind.“I must amuse Moore if he won’t amuse me,” I thought to myself. “Boys are terrible creatures for getting into mischief if they are idle, as the old hymn truly says,” and I prepared to go downstairs to breakfast in excellent spirits.But alas! the sunshine which had passed into my room while I was dressing had been but short-lived. Before we had finished breakfast the skies had clouded over into a very unpromising grey; long before noon it was hopeless.“No chance of an expedition to-day!” I said, rather drearily, as I stood at the window gazing out, but Moore seemed inclined to take things philosophically.“I’m afraid not,” he said, as he joined me, his hands in his pockets, a somewhat superior air about him. “Not for you at least, Reggie. It may clear up by late afternoon, enough for me to get out a bit, but the roads will be terrible, it’s coming down so heavily.”“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go out as well as you if it clears at all,” I said. “You forget that I am less sensitive to cold than you, since you were ill!”If I had thought a moment I would not have said this, knowing what boy nature is as to any precautionary measures for health. I was surprised that my not very tactful speech did not seem to annoy my brother.“I don’t know about that,” was all he said in reply. “I’m ever so much tougher than I was, and at worst, I have the advantage over you of having no flapping skirts to soak up the wet.”No more was said just then. We got through the day comfortably enough. I amused myself, as one can always do on a wet day when away from one’s people, by writing a long letter home; Moore entertaining himself, so far as I saw him during the morning, with a wonderful “find” in the shape of a collection of old bound volumes ofPunch—dating back years before their present reader had honoured the world by his presence. I overheard him chuckling quietly to himself now and then, as he sat in his corner, and the sound was pleasant to my ears for more reasons than one. I was glad that he was not feeling bored, and I was relieved to think that the suppressed excitement which I had begun to suspect his manner had no existence except in my fancy.“I don’t believe,” I said to myself with satisfaction, “I don’tthinkthere can be anything brewing in his brain,” and in this comfortable state of mind I passed the greater part of the day, reassuring myself now and then by taking a peep at the boy whenever I lost sight of him for many minutes at a time.We had tea together, of course, very comfortably in the library, which we had chosen in preference to the drawing-room during ourtête-à-têtedays, and Moore did full justice to the cakes which Isabel before she left home had taken care to order in profusion for his, or our, delectation.The second post came in about five o’clock at Millflowers, and the outgoing post left at six. To-day brought an unexpected letter from mother, from whom I had already heard that very morning. This necessitated an addition to what I had previously written, as it concerned a matter of some little importance.“I shall only just have time,” I reflected, “to answer what mother asks before the bag goes,” and for a moment or two I sat thinking over what I had to say, rather absorbed in it.Moore meanwhile had strolled to the window, and stood there looking out; the post had brought nothing for him.“It has cleared up,” he remarked, “to some extent at least, but it doesn’t look tempting. What do you say about going out, Reggie?”I looked up doubtfully.“I don’t think I can,” I replied; “by the time I have finished my letter it will be too late, and it looks misty and disagreeable enough already. I don’t think you should go out either, Moore. It is just the sort of evening to catch cold in.”I spoke without misgiving, for my thoughts were running on my letters. Moore did not at once reply.“I’ll see about it,” he said; “anyway I shan’t go far, and I won’t catch cold.”“Be sure you are in by six,” I called back to him as I left the room.And till close upon that hour my letters engrossed me, and when I had seen them safely despatched, and returned to the library, I scarcely gave a thought to anything else, till the timepiece striking the quarter past, made me begin to expect to hear Moore’s footsteps every moment. But the clock’s ticking went on to the half-hour without his coming.“It is wrong of him,” I began to think, “to stay out like this, when he knows I am all alone, especially after what I said.” Then as my half-forgotten fears suddenly revived—“He can’t have—oh! no, surely he would not think of anything of the kind; I am too fanciful,” and I took up a book and tried to interest myself in it. But such tryings are generally of the nature of make-believe. Sometimes, indeed, any effort of the kind, like a half dose of chloroform, only seems to intensify the consciousness one would fain put aside. I grew more and more uneasy, and when once again the timepiece struck—this time the quarter to—I threw my book aside, and gave up pretending that I had no cause for misgiving. It was not raining now, and the sky, though darkening for the evening, seemed clearer. I soon made up my mind what to do, and hurried to my own room to fetch my wraps. On the way out I met one of the men-servants.“I am afraid we may be a little late for dinner,” I said. “My brother has stayed out so long. I am going to meet him. I know the way he has gone.”The young man, who was extremely obliging, as were all the servants of that well-managed household, offered to go off himself in search of the truant, but I shook my head.“No, thank you,” I replied; “I shall find him easily. He was not going far.”Yes, indeed, in my heart I did know “the way he had gone.”“O Moore,” I said to myself, “you areverynaughty. It is really too bad. How I do wish I had been guided by Jocelyn’s advice!” and feeling decidedly angry as well as frightened—the one sensation seeming to increase instead of lessening the other—I hurried on.My destination, I need scarcely say, was the door in the wall, and all the way thither I kept straining my eyes in the vain hope of seeing the boy’s figure emerging from the gathering gloom and coming to meet me. But no—I knew my point very accurately by now, and soon relaxed my pace, knowing that the door must be near at hand. And all the way from the Manor-house I had not met one living soul.“It is a very lonely place,” I thought, with a little shiver of nervousness. “None of the roads near home are as deserted. I don’t think I should like to live all the year round in the North.”Then a new fear struck me. What if the door should be locked—should have been locked after Moore had entered the grounds? for that he had done so I had no manner of doubt. What if that were the explanation of his non-appearance? WhatcouldI do?But I did not allow myself to dwell on this cruel possibility, and in another moment it was set aside. I found the door, and it was unclosed!Half my distress seemed to vanish with this discovery, though I grew more and more angry with my brother. Once inside, I stood still to consider, but not for long.“He is sure to have gone to the left,” I said to myself. “All his curiosity was to peep into the house again, and he could only do so through thetonnelleand the long glass house;” so I crept along in the direction I decided upon, keeping close to the wall, between it and the shrubs which bordered it, as I have described, though it was now so dusky that my extreme precaution was scarcely called for. And before long I came to the passage between trees and bushes which we had lighted upon the last time.It was not quite so dark here, for the real entrance to thetonnellewas a fairly wide one at the side, and I could still clearly see the glazed door at the other end. I stood still, gazing before me—then taking courage I advanced a few steps, still keeping my eyes fixed on the door through which I seemed to feel by instinct that the truant would make his way out. And I was not disappointed. As I approached the conservatory pretty closely, the door moved, softly and noiselessly. I would scarcely have noticed its doing so but for the faint glimmer of light on the glass panes of its upper part. And, peering cautiously to right and left, then gazing straight before him, stood the naughty boy!It took all my self-command to repress an exclamation, but I did so, only whispering—and in the silence, unbroken save for the drip of the still rain-laden leaves, even a whisper sounded portentously audible—“Moore, come at once. Don’t you see me?”See me! Of course he did. His eyes as well as his ears were as sharp as a Red Indian’s—I can’t find a better comparison—and a smile, half-triumphant, half-impish, broke over his face as he looked at me. He nodded reassuringly, and I think he was just going to speak, when suddenly, in the flash of a lightning gleam, it seemed to me, his whole expression changed. The smile vanished, a look almost of terror came over his face; he made a frantic gesture to me, which I interpreted rightly enough to mean, “get out of the way; hide yourself,” and disappeared as completely as if he had not been there at all.For half a second I stood, dazed and completely bewildered—rubbing my eyes to make sure that Ihadseen him, that the whole thing had not been an extraordinary optical delusion, born of my nervous anxiety, or—worse still—could it have been not Moore himself, but his ghost that I had seen? After all, what might not have happened to him in that mysterious secret house? Therewassomething abnormal about it, or rather about the lives of its inhabitants. Why, oh why had I told the boy anything about it, I thought with momentary anguish. But another instant reassured me as to this last foolish terror. ItwasMoore himself—he had smiled in the mischievous way he sometimes did. How grateful I felt for that smile!All these thoughts, as will readily be understood by those who have gone through similar crises, had flashed across my mind in far less time than it takes to write them.The reason for Moore’s alarm and sudden gesture of warning to me was still a mystery, when, as I stood motionless, awaiting I knew not what, there reached my ears a sound which, from where he was, he had become aware of some moments before—it was that of measured footsteps, slowly advancing from the inner end of the long conservatory. And then I realised my situation, and the necessity for effacing myself. I glanced around me. Moore had evidently taken refuge behind some of the plants inside, but I dared not follow him. Probably enough, there would only have been room to conceal one of us in the corner he had descried; for all I knew, he might be stretched on the ground at full length; a boy of his size is at great advantage in such a quandary, and Moore was not one to stick at much, at a pinch. No, less than an instant’s reflection satisfied me that I must remain out of doors, and I pressed my way behind the greenery, at the part which appeared to me the thickest.“There is not much fear of him or them”—for it seemed to me that the footsteps were those of more than one person, though accompanied by the tap of the crutch that I had heard on a previous occasion—“coming out,” I thought. “It is getting chilly, and the cripple Mr Grey is very delicate.” And I breathed a little more freely once I felt myself screened among the bushes; fortunately, too, my dress was dark.Still my heart beat very much faster than usual as I heard the steps coming nearer and nearer. By peeping out cautiously I could see two figures at last, as they reached the open glass door and stood there. They were those of the brothers. How I prayed that they might remain where they were; but such was not to be the case. They halted for a moment or two on the threshold, as if undecided whether to turn or walk on, then, to my unspeakable consternation, they passed out along thetonnellepast the very spot which I had only just quitted a moment or two before! Instinctively I drew myself together as if to grow as small as possible, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of being heard.But they were talking, as I soon perceived, and to my further satisfaction, in absorbed though low tones—so absorbed that I question if any little unusual sound would have caught their attention, and after all, some slight rustling among the dripping leaves would have explained any disturbance I might involuntarily have caused.My ears, however, were terribly on the alert, whatever theirs were not. I was in an agony lest Moore should betray his whereabouts. My fears for him and myself had completely swamped my curiosity. So it will be believed that I had no wish to overhear what the newcomers were saying. I would have stopped my ears if I had dared to do so, though, ashamed as I was of our position, I do not think it struck me in any very acute way at the time that I was forced into playing the part of an eavesdropper. And I really do not believe that in my intense engrossment I would have noticed the words that fell from the brothers, but for a peculiar circumstance—that of the mention of our own name!One’s own name, it is said, always catches one’s attention more readily than any other word.“Fitzmaurice,” I heard the younger brother say, as if repeating it thoughtfully, though not in any tone of surprise. “Oh yes, I agree with you, but—”“I know what you are going to say,” interrupted the elder, “but don’t say it. I sometimes almost regret having told even you my conviction that Ernest Fitzmaurice is theonlychance of my rehabilitation. I would not of course—I would die sooner than have had the girls” (afterwards the pathos of his thus speaking of the two poor faded little old maids, whom he could not disassociate from what then must have been a quarter of a century ago, struck me pitifully) “suspect my suspicion, myconviction, I may say. And nothing, Caryll, nothing would ever make me breathe it except to you.”The cripple sighed a deep sigh.“I understand,” he said, “and sympathise, especially as the chance of its being any use is so small, so very small.”“That young fellow,” resumed the elder Mr Grey, “is clever and well-meaning; acute in a remarkable degree, to have discovered that Ihavea secret on the subject even from his father. But the discussion tortures me, Caryll—yes, tortures me. Iwouldnot take any steps in that quarter. He must surely understand now that his persistence is useless, worse than useless.”“I think he does,” replied the other simply.“And after all,” he repeated half dreamily, “it is the smallest of chances. He may be dead, or undiscoverable. If what we have been talking of were the case,hewould of course have the strongest motives for keeping out of the way.”“I am not so sure of that,” said the elder Mr Grey, after a moment’s pause. “You forget that no onedreamtof such a thing but myself. He kept perfectly clear. No, he may even be a prominent person by now, for all I know, in one of the colonies—I forget which he was bound for. But one thing is certain, the man who could do what I believe he did, and act with such fearful hypocrisy, must have slain his conscience long ago. There would be no use in tracing him, and even if there were—no! I do not think I could bring upon another, above all for Jessie’s sake I could not, what I have gone through myself.”This was all I heard distinctly. I do not imagine either of them spoke again for some moments, and by that time they were back close to the conservatory, which they entered, the elder brother closing the door after him. I took this to be a sign that they were not coming out any more.I cannot of course, at this distance of time, vouch for the perfect accuracy of the words I have quoted, but the sense of it is exact. I was in a state of nervous tension, in which my hearing was almost abnormally quick; then the mention of our own surname had of course startled me into even closer attention, and through all, my original curiosity was still in existence, though to some extent it had become dormant. So when the time came for the question to arise as to whether I was justified in making use of my unintentional eavesdropping, I felt no misgiving as to my capability of reporting it correctly.But for the moment, as soon as the brothers had disappeared, everything in my mind gave way to the intense wish to make our escape. Would Moore come out? Must I summon him, or should I leave him to his fate and save myself?—for to me, as a lady, the whole situation was far more grave than for a mischievous schoolboy like my brother. I was revolving these alternatives in my mind when my perplexity was set at rest by the glass door opening cautiously, and Moore’s face, somewhat paler than usual and portentously solemn, peering out. I pushed through the bushes so that he could see me, and said his name in the faintest of whispers. He heard me, and was beside me in a moment, not forgetting, however—I must say the boy had plenty of presence of mind—to close the door behind him. I did not speak—I was too angry to have done so in measured tones—so I said nothing, only grasping him by the arm to make sure of no evasion, as the two of us rushed down thetonnelle, till, breathless, I pulled up for a moment or two once I felt ourselves, comparatively speaking, safe, close against the wall and behind the shelter of the bushes bordering it.Then I really could not contain myself, though I hadintendedto keep silence until we were outside the grounds.“Moore,” I burst out, “howcouldyou? Breaking your promise and terrifying me, and, and—”I could scarcely speak. I was on the point of tears, which under the circumstances I should have felt peculiarly humiliating.The boy was distressed, and in reality, I think, not a little frightened. But he held his ground, nevertheless.“No, Reggie,” he replied, “you must not say I broke my word. I promised I would do nothing without letting you know. And I did let you know that I had not given it up, and that I meant to do more; you dared me to, you know you did, and I called after you, ‘you shall see if I find out nothing,’ and you only laughed.”“I call that a mean quibble,” I replied indignantly, though in my heart I felt that I had been wildly injudicious. “You did not tell me where you were going this evening before you came out.”“No,” he replied, “I had not decided that I would come—word of honour, Reggie. And I am very sorry that I stayed so long—but—it was so tempting. I got in so easily, and everything seemed to favour it, and—”“Moore,” I exclaimed, “did you really go into the house? I am ashamed of you. It wasn’t like a gentleman;” and indeed I felt aghast.“Only into that first room,” he replied deprecatingly. “I did so want to see what was behind that black curtain, though—you were right, Reggie—it isn’t black, only very dark red.”“And whatwasbehind it?” I could not help asking.“Something very queer,” he answered eagerly, delighted to find that my curiosity was still in existence, “ropes and pulleys, horrid looking things. They reminded me of the Inquisition.”“I dare say it is only a shower-bath,” I replied, “No, no, I thought of that. I am sure it isn’t,” he exclaimed. “I—” but here I stopped him.“Moore,” I interrupted, “we are mad to stand chattering here. Any moment some one may pass and hear us. Wait till we are safely outside the door.”He made no objection, and we hurried on as fast as the small space before us made it possible, and we reached the door without further ado.With no misgiving I seized the handle—for there was a handle—to pull it open, when—never shall I forget my horror!—it resisted me.The door was locked!
The summons from Mr Percy reached the Manor-house the very morning after the escapade which I described in the last chapter, so Moore was still rather on cold terms with me when the departure of our hosts was announced.
Afterwards, though it had scarcely struck me at the time, I remembered that he had been rather silent when he heard of it, expressing but very little regret in the prospect of their absence. I recollect Isabel’s turning to him and saying—
“You don’t seem to mind it much, Moore; I feel rather hurt;” whereupon he grew red and said something rather confusedly about its only being for a few days; that we would manage to amuse ourselves all right, or words to that effect. But in the little bustle that ensued, the boy’s peculiar manner, as I have said, made no great impression on me.
Isabel and her father started, I think, the next day. I remember standing in the porch with Moore to watch them off, and as soon as the carriage had disappeared down the drive, I turned to him with some little remark as to how odd it was for him and me to find ourselves alone for the first time in our lives, and that not at our own home.
“You must be your very nicest to me, Othello, do you hear, to prevent my feeling dull,” I said, meaning to propitiate him after my sharpness on the evening of our last expedition, for I saw that the cloud had not yet disappeared.
“I shall be quite ready to do anything you like,” he said, rather primly, “and yes, I think I can promise you that it will not be my fault if you have adulltime.”
“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, with a passing flash of misgiving; but he evaded a direct reply, though I fancied I heard him murmuring something practically inaudible.
“The best thing I can do,” I thought to myself, “is to put some other things in his head, if heisstill planning any fresh investigations; and after all, I have his promise to do nothing without telling me.” It did not then occur to me that the vague threat he had thrown out as to not letting the matter drop could be twisted by his boyish conscience into a definite announcement of his project.
I went on talking about the drive that had been proposed for us that afternoon in Isabel’s pony-cart—a drive in a new direction, as to which Mr Wynyard had instructed us before he left. Moore answered with interest, even getting up a little argument as to the exact route we were to take. But still he was notquitehimself, nor did he become so during our expedition, though it passed off very successfully, without our losing our way or any other misfortune.
And during the evening that followed something in his manner continued to give me the same feeling of slight uneasiness. He did not seem to care to talk much, and looked himself out a book from among those in the library which Mr Wynyard had recommended to him, and then settled himself in a corner to enjoy it. I felt a little hurt and anxious too, though I hoped it only meant that his irritation with me had not entirely subsided.
“I wish I had never told him a word about that hateful old house or the stupid people that live in it. I dare say there is no mystery at all, and that they are just a parcel of half imbecile hypochondriacs,” I thought to myself, feeling as if I must give vent, at least in thought, to my vexation towardssomebody! And aloud I appealed to Moore—not captiously, as that would only have made things worse—but with a touch of reproach.
“I think you might talk to me a little, or play chess, or something sociable,” I said brightly. “You might even read aloud. It is rather dull for me.”
“I can’t read aloud; you know I can’t,” he replied quietly enough. “I’ll play chess if you like.”
And so we did. But Moore did not put his usual spirit into it, and so when I checkmated him at the end of an hour or so, I did not feel as pleased as would have been the case in an ordinary way. For he played better than I. And soon after I said I felt tired, as I did, and got up to go to bed.
“How long are they,”—meaning of course our hosts—“going to stay away?” Moore said abruptly as we were bidding each other good-night.
“Three days—four at the most,” I replied. “This is Tuesday. Yes, they quite hope to be back on Friday.”
He murmured something unintelligible in reply, but I said no more. I was really tired, for our drive had been a long one, and over very rough roads for some considerable part of the day.
The next morning, however, I awoke quite refreshed again, and ready for another expedition of any kind.
“I must amuse Moore if he won’t amuse me,” I thought to myself. “Boys are terrible creatures for getting into mischief if they are idle, as the old hymn truly says,” and I prepared to go downstairs to breakfast in excellent spirits.
But alas! the sunshine which had passed into my room while I was dressing had been but short-lived. Before we had finished breakfast the skies had clouded over into a very unpromising grey; long before noon it was hopeless.
“No chance of an expedition to-day!” I said, rather drearily, as I stood at the window gazing out, but Moore seemed inclined to take things philosophically.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, as he joined me, his hands in his pockets, a somewhat superior air about him. “Not for you at least, Reggie. It may clear up by late afternoon, enough for me to get out a bit, but the roads will be terrible, it’s coming down so heavily.”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go out as well as you if it clears at all,” I said. “You forget that I am less sensitive to cold than you, since you were ill!”
If I had thought a moment I would not have said this, knowing what boy nature is as to any precautionary measures for health. I was surprised that my not very tactful speech did not seem to annoy my brother.
“I don’t know about that,” was all he said in reply. “I’m ever so much tougher than I was, and at worst, I have the advantage over you of having no flapping skirts to soak up the wet.”
No more was said just then. We got through the day comfortably enough. I amused myself, as one can always do on a wet day when away from one’s people, by writing a long letter home; Moore entertaining himself, so far as I saw him during the morning, with a wonderful “find” in the shape of a collection of old bound volumes ofPunch—dating back years before their present reader had honoured the world by his presence. I overheard him chuckling quietly to himself now and then, as he sat in his corner, and the sound was pleasant to my ears for more reasons than one. I was glad that he was not feeling bored, and I was relieved to think that the suppressed excitement which I had begun to suspect his manner had no existence except in my fancy.
“I don’t believe,” I said to myself with satisfaction, “I don’tthinkthere can be anything brewing in his brain,” and in this comfortable state of mind I passed the greater part of the day, reassuring myself now and then by taking a peep at the boy whenever I lost sight of him for many minutes at a time.
We had tea together, of course, very comfortably in the library, which we had chosen in preference to the drawing-room during ourtête-à-têtedays, and Moore did full justice to the cakes which Isabel before she left home had taken care to order in profusion for his, or our, delectation.
The second post came in about five o’clock at Millflowers, and the outgoing post left at six. To-day brought an unexpected letter from mother, from whom I had already heard that very morning. This necessitated an addition to what I had previously written, as it concerned a matter of some little importance.
“I shall only just have time,” I reflected, “to answer what mother asks before the bag goes,” and for a moment or two I sat thinking over what I had to say, rather absorbed in it.
Moore meanwhile had strolled to the window, and stood there looking out; the post had brought nothing for him.
“It has cleared up,” he remarked, “to some extent at least, but it doesn’t look tempting. What do you say about going out, Reggie?”
I looked up doubtfully.
“I don’t think I can,” I replied; “by the time I have finished my letter it will be too late, and it looks misty and disagreeable enough already. I don’t think you should go out either, Moore. It is just the sort of evening to catch cold in.”
I spoke without misgiving, for my thoughts were running on my letters. Moore did not at once reply.
“I’ll see about it,” he said; “anyway I shan’t go far, and I won’t catch cold.”
“Be sure you are in by six,” I called back to him as I left the room.
And till close upon that hour my letters engrossed me, and when I had seen them safely despatched, and returned to the library, I scarcely gave a thought to anything else, till the timepiece striking the quarter past, made me begin to expect to hear Moore’s footsteps every moment. But the clock’s ticking went on to the half-hour without his coming.
“It is wrong of him,” I began to think, “to stay out like this, when he knows I am all alone, especially after what I said.” Then as my half-forgotten fears suddenly revived—“He can’t have—oh! no, surely he would not think of anything of the kind; I am too fanciful,” and I took up a book and tried to interest myself in it. But such tryings are generally of the nature of make-believe. Sometimes, indeed, any effort of the kind, like a half dose of chloroform, only seems to intensify the consciousness one would fain put aside. I grew more and more uneasy, and when once again the timepiece struck—this time the quarter to—I threw my book aside, and gave up pretending that I had no cause for misgiving. It was not raining now, and the sky, though darkening for the evening, seemed clearer. I soon made up my mind what to do, and hurried to my own room to fetch my wraps. On the way out I met one of the men-servants.
“I am afraid we may be a little late for dinner,” I said. “My brother has stayed out so long. I am going to meet him. I know the way he has gone.”
The young man, who was extremely obliging, as were all the servants of that well-managed household, offered to go off himself in search of the truant, but I shook my head.
“No, thank you,” I replied; “I shall find him easily. He was not going far.”
Yes, indeed, in my heart I did know “the way he had gone.”
“O Moore,” I said to myself, “you areverynaughty. It is really too bad. How I do wish I had been guided by Jocelyn’s advice!” and feeling decidedly angry as well as frightened—the one sensation seeming to increase instead of lessening the other—I hurried on.
My destination, I need scarcely say, was the door in the wall, and all the way thither I kept straining my eyes in the vain hope of seeing the boy’s figure emerging from the gathering gloom and coming to meet me. But no—I knew my point very accurately by now, and soon relaxed my pace, knowing that the door must be near at hand. And all the way from the Manor-house I had not met one living soul.
“It is a very lonely place,” I thought, with a little shiver of nervousness. “None of the roads near home are as deserted. I don’t think I should like to live all the year round in the North.”
Then a new fear struck me. What if the door should be locked—should have been locked after Moore had entered the grounds? for that he had done so I had no manner of doubt. What if that were the explanation of his non-appearance? WhatcouldI do?
But I did not allow myself to dwell on this cruel possibility, and in another moment it was set aside. I found the door, and it was unclosed!
Half my distress seemed to vanish with this discovery, though I grew more and more angry with my brother. Once inside, I stood still to consider, but not for long.
“He is sure to have gone to the left,” I said to myself. “All his curiosity was to peep into the house again, and he could only do so through thetonnelleand the long glass house;” so I crept along in the direction I decided upon, keeping close to the wall, between it and the shrubs which bordered it, as I have described, though it was now so dusky that my extreme precaution was scarcely called for. And before long I came to the passage between trees and bushes which we had lighted upon the last time.
It was not quite so dark here, for the real entrance to thetonnellewas a fairly wide one at the side, and I could still clearly see the glazed door at the other end. I stood still, gazing before me—then taking courage I advanced a few steps, still keeping my eyes fixed on the door through which I seemed to feel by instinct that the truant would make his way out. And I was not disappointed. As I approached the conservatory pretty closely, the door moved, softly and noiselessly. I would scarcely have noticed its doing so but for the faint glimmer of light on the glass panes of its upper part. And, peering cautiously to right and left, then gazing straight before him, stood the naughty boy!
It took all my self-command to repress an exclamation, but I did so, only whispering—and in the silence, unbroken save for the drip of the still rain-laden leaves, even a whisper sounded portentously audible—“Moore, come at once. Don’t you see me?”
See me! Of course he did. His eyes as well as his ears were as sharp as a Red Indian’s—I can’t find a better comparison—and a smile, half-triumphant, half-impish, broke over his face as he looked at me. He nodded reassuringly, and I think he was just going to speak, when suddenly, in the flash of a lightning gleam, it seemed to me, his whole expression changed. The smile vanished, a look almost of terror came over his face; he made a frantic gesture to me, which I interpreted rightly enough to mean, “get out of the way; hide yourself,” and disappeared as completely as if he had not been there at all.
For half a second I stood, dazed and completely bewildered—rubbing my eyes to make sure that Ihadseen him, that the whole thing had not been an extraordinary optical delusion, born of my nervous anxiety, or—worse still—could it have been not Moore himself, but his ghost that I had seen? After all, what might not have happened to him in that mysterious secret house? Therewassomething abnormal about it, or rather about the lives of its inhabitants. Why, oh why had I told the boy anything about it, I thought with momentary anguish. But another instant reassured me as to this last foolish terror. ItwasMoore himself—he had smiled in the mischievous way he sometimes did. How grateful I felt for that smile!
All these thoughts, as will readily be understood by those who have gone through similar crises, had flashed across my mind in far less time than it takes to write them.
The reason for Moore’s alarm and sudden gesture of warning to me was still a mystery, when, as I stood motionless, awaiting I knew not what, there reached my ears a sound which, from where he was, he had become aware of some moments before—it was that of measured footsteps, slowly advancing from the inner end of the long conservatory. And then I realised my situation, and the necessity for effacing myself. I glanced around me. Moore had evidently taken refuge behind some of the plants inside, but I dared not follow him. Probably enough, there would only have been room to conceal one of us in the corner he had descried; for all I knew, he might be stretched on the ground at full length; a boy of his size is at great advantage in such a quandary, and Moore was not one to stick at much, at a pinch. No, less than an instant’s reflection satisfied me that I must remain out of doors, and I pressed my way behind the greenery, at the part which appeared to me the thickest.
“There is not much fear of him or them”—for it seemed to me that the footsteps were those of more than one person, though accompanied by the tap of the crutch that I had heard on a previous occasion—“coming out,” I thought. “It is getting chilly, and the cripple Mr Grey is very delicate.” And I breathed a little more freely once I felt myself screened among the bushes; fortunately, too, my dress was dark.
Still my heart beat very much faster than usual as I heard the steps coming nearer and nearer. By peeping out cautiously I could see two figures at last, as they reached the open glass door and stood there. They were those of the brothers. How I prayed that they might remain where they were; but such was not to be the case. They halted for a moment or two on the threshold, as if undecided whether to turn or walk on, then, to my unspeakable consternation, they passed out along thetonnellepast the very spot which I had only just quitted a moment or two before! Instinctively I drew myself together as if to grow as small as possible, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of being heard.
But they were talking, as I soon perceived, and to my further satisfaction, in absorbed though low tones—so absorbed that I question if any little unusual sound would have caught their attention, and after all, some slight rustling among the dripping leaves would have explained any disturbance I might involuntarily have caused.
My ears, however, were terribly on the alert, whatever theirs were not. I was in an agony lest Moore should betray his whereabouts. My fears for him and myself had completely swamped my curiosity. So it will be believed that I had no wish to overhear what the newcomers were saying. I would have stopped my ears if I had dared to do so, though, ashamed as I was of our position, I do not think it struck me in any very acute way at the time that I was forced into playing the part of an eavesdropper. And I really do not believe that in my intense engrossment I would have noticed the words that fell from the brothers, but for a peculiar circumstance—that of the mention of our own name!
One’s own name, it is said, always catches one’s attention more readily than any other word.
“Fitzmaurice,” I heard the younger brother say, as if repeating it thoughtfully, though not in any tone of surprise. “Oh yes, I agree with you, but—”
“I know what you are going to say,” interrupted the elder, “but don’t say it. I sometimes almost regret having told even you my conviction that Ernest Fitzmaurice is theonlychance of my rehabilitation. I would not of course—I would die sooner than have had the girls” (afterwards the pathos of his thus speaking of the two poor faded little old maids, whom he could not disassociate from what then must have been a quarter of a century ago, struck me pitifully) “suspect my suspicion, myconviction, I may say. And nothing, Caryll, nothing would ever make me breathe it except to you.”
The cripple sighed a deep sigh.
“I understand,” he said, “and sympathise, especially as the chance of its being any use is so small, so very small.”
“That young fellow,” resumed the elder Mr Grey, “is clever and well-meaning; acute in a remarkable degree, to have discovered that Ihavea secret on the subject even from his father. But the discussion tortures me, Caryll—yes, tortures me. Iwouldnot take any steps in that quarter. He must surely understand now that his persistence is useless, worse than useless.”
“I think he does,” replied the other simply.
“And after all,” he repeated half dreamily, “it is the smallest of chances. He may be dead, or undiscoverable. If what we have been talking of were the case,hewould of course have the strongest motives for keeping out of the way.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said the elder Mr Grey, after a moment’s pause. “You forget that no onedreamtof such a thing but myself. He kept perfectly clear. No, he may even be a prominent person by now, for all I know, in one of the colonies—I forget which he was bound for. But one thing is certain, the man who could do what I believe he did, and act with such fearful hypocrisy, must have slain his conscience long ago. There would be no use in tracing him, and even if there were—no! I do not think I could bring upon another, above all for Jessie’s sake I could not, what I have gone through myself.”
This was all I heard distinctly. I do not imagine either of them spoke again for some moments, and by that time they were back close to the conservatory, which they entered, the elder brother closing the door after him. I took this to be a sign that they were not coming out any more.
I cannot of course, at this distance of time, vouch for the perfect accuracy of the words I have quoted, but the sense of it is exact. I was in a state of nervous tension, in which my hearing was almost abnormally quick; then the mention of our own surname had of course startled me into even closer attention, and through all, my original curiosity was still in existence, though to some extent it had become dormant. So when the time came for the question to arise as to whether I was justified in making use of my unintentional eavesdropping, I felt no misgiving as to my capability of reporting it correctly.
But for the moment, as soon as the brothers had disappeared, everything in my mind gave way to the intense wish to make our escape. Would Moore come out? Must I summon him, or should I leave him to his fate and save myself?—for to me, as a lady, the whole situation was far more grave than for a mischievous schoolboy like my brother. I was revolving these alternatives in my mind when my perplexity was set at rest by the glass door opening cautiously, and Moore’s face, somewhat paler than usual and portentously solemn, peering out. I pushed through the bushes so that he could see me, and said his name in the faintest of whispers. He heard me, and was beside me in a moment, not forgetting, however—I must say the boy had plenty of presence of mind—to close the door behind him. I did not speak—I was too angry to have done so in measured tones—so I said nothing, only grasping him by the arm to make sure of no evasion, as the two of us rushed down thetonnelle, till, breathless, I pulled up for a moment or two once I felt ourselves, comparatively speaking, safe, close against the wall and behind the shelter of the bushes bordering it.
Then I really could not contain myself, though I hadintendedto keep silence until we were outside the grounds.
“Moore,” I burst out, “howcouldyou? Breaking your promise and terrifying me, and, and—”
I could scarcely speak. I was on the point of tears, which under the circumstances I should have felt peculiarly humiliating.
The boy was distressed, and in reality, I think, not a little frightened. But he held his ground, nevertheless.
“No, Reggie,” he replied, “you must not say I broke my word. I promised I would do nothing without letting you know. And I did let you know that I had not given it up, and that I meant to do more; you dared me to, you know you did, and I called after you, ‘you shall see if I find out nothing,’ and you only laughed.”
“I call that a mean quibble,” I replied indignantly, though in my heart I felt that I had been wildly injudicious. “You did not tell me where you were going this evening before you came out.”
“No,” he replied, “I had not decided that I would come—word of honour, Reggie. And I am very sorry that I stayed so long—but—it was so tempting. I got in so easily, and everything seemed to favour it, and—”
“Moore,” I exclaimed, “did you really go into the house? I am ashamed of you. It wasn’t like a gentleman;” and indeed I felt aghast.
“Only into that first room,” he replied deprecatingly. “I did so want to see what was behind that black curtain, though—you were right, Reggie—it isn’t black, only very dark red.”
“And whatwasbehind it?” I could not help asking.
“Something very queer,” he answered eagerly, delighted to find that my curiosity was still in existence, “ropes and pulleys, horrid looking things. They reminded me of the Inquisition.”
“I dare say it is only a shower-bath,” I replied, “No, no, I thought of that. I am sure it isn’t,” he exclaimed. “I—” but here I stopped him.
“Moore,” I interrupted, “we are mad to stand chattering here. Any moment some one may pass and hear us. Wait till we are safely outside the door.”
He made no objection, and we hurried on as fast as the small space before us made it possible, and we reached the door without further ado.
With no misgiving I seized the handle—for there was a handle—to pull it open, when—never shall I forget my horror!—it resisted me.
The door was locked!