"You must go round to the side-door if you have any business here," cried a shrill, angry, quavering voice, in answer to the loud knocking of a stranger at the main entrance of Heron Dyke.
Edward Conroy--for he it was--could not at first make out where the voice came from, but when he stepped from under the portico and glanced upward, he saw a withered face protruded from one of the upper windows, and a skinny hand and arm pointing in the direction of a door which he now noticed for the first time in a corner of the right wing. For the first time, too, he saw that the grim old door at which he had been knocking looked as if it had not been opened for years, and that the knocker itself was rusty from disuse. Even the steps that led up to the portico were falling into disrepair, and through the cracks and crevices tiny tufts of grass and patches of velvety moss showed themselves here and there.
Conroy descended the steps slowly, and then turned to take another look at the grey old house, which he had never seen before to-day. The first view of it, as he crossed the bridge over the moat, had not impressed him favourably. But now that he looked at it again, the quaint formality of its lines seemed to please him better. It might have few pretensions to architectural dignity; but, with the passage of years, there had come to it a certain harmoniousness such as it had never possessed when it was new. Summer sun and winter rain had not been without their effect upon it. They had toned down the hardness of its original outlines: its coldness seemed less cold, its formality not so formal, as they must once have seemed. It was slowly mellowing in the soft, sweet air of antiquity.
He noticed, as he walked along the front of the house from the main entrance to the side-door, that the entire range of windows on the ground floor had their shutters fastened, and those of the upper floor their blinds drawn down. His heart chilled for a moment as the thought struck him that some one might perhaps be lying dead inside the house. But then he reflected that he should surely have heard such a thing spoken of at the village inn, where he had slept last night. Was it not, rather, that the house had always the same shut-up look that it wore to-day?
Conroy knocked at the side-door, a heavy door also, and was answered by the loud barking of a dog. After waiting for what seemed an intolerable time, he heard footsteps in the distance, which slowly drew nearer. The door was unbolted, and opened as far as the chain inside would permit. Through this opening peered forth the crabbed, wizened face of an old man--of a man with a pointed chin, and a long nose, and eyes that were full of suspicion and ill-humour.
"And what may be your business at Heron Dyke?" he demanded, in a harsh, querulous voice, after a look that took in the stranger from head to foot.
"Be good enough to give this card to Mr. Denison, and if he can spare two minutes----"
"He won't see any strangers without he knows their business first," interrupted the old man brusquely, as he turned the card to the light that was streaming through the open doorway into the dim corridor in which he stood, and read the name printed on it. "Never heard of you before," he added. "Maybe you are a spy--a mean, dastardly spy," he continued, after a pause, still eyeing the young man suspiciously from under his thick white eyebrows.
"A spy! No, I am not a spy. Have you any spies in these parts?"
"Lots of them."
"And what do they come to spy out?"
"That's none of your business, sir, so long as you're not one--though that has to be proved," answered the crusty old man, as he went away with the card, leaving Conroy outside.
He turned, and began to pace the gravelled pathway in front of the door.
"Is my sweet princess here, I wonder, and shall I succeed in seeing her?" he said to himself. "Very like a wild-goose chase, this errand of mine. To see her once in London for a couple of hours--to fall in love with her then and there--to come racing down to this out-of-the-world spot, weeks afterwards, on the bare possibility of seeing her again--when she probably remembers no more of me than she does of any other indifferent stranger--what can that be but the act of a----"
Light footsteps were coming swiftly down the stone corridor. Conroy's face flushed, and a strange eager light leapt into his eyes. There was a rustle of garments, then the heavy chain dropped, the door swung wide on its hinges, and Ella Winter stood revealed to Conroy's happy gaze.
His card was in her hand. She glanced from it to his face, and, a momentary blush mounting to her cheek, she advanced a step or two, and held out her hand.
"Mr. Conroy," she said, "I have not forgotten your sketches. Or you either," she added, as if by an after-thought, a smile playing round her lips by this time, coming and going like spring sunshine.
She led the way in, and he followed. The long, flagged corridor, with its dim light, struck him with a chill, after coming out of the bright air. Ella entered a small, oak-panelled room, plainly and heavily furnished, and invited Mr. Conroy to sit down.
"We live mostly at the back of the house," she observed. "My uncle prefers the rooms to those in front."
"It is a grand old house," answered Conroy. "And what might it not be made!" he added to himself.
"You received your portfolio of sketches back safely, Mr. Conroy, I hope. My aunt left them at your address that day when we went out for our drive."
"Did you indeed leave them? Were you so good?"
"Sketches such as those are too valuable to be trusted to the chance of loss," said Ella.
"I was so very sorry not to call again on Mrs. Carlyon, as I had promised," he continued, "but the next day but one I had to leave town. I wonder what she thought of me?"
"I don't think she thought at all," replied Ella, ingenuously--"though she would, I am sure, have been glad to see you. Aunt Gertrude was too full of her loss in those days to notice who visited her. On the evening of the party she lost her jewels."
"Lost her jewels!" exclaimed Conroy. "Do you mean those she wore?"
"No, no. Her casket of jewels was stolen from her dressing-room. Some of them were very valuable. The case was left on her dressing-table, and it disappeared during the evening."
"Was the case itself stolen?"
"We thought so that night, but the next morning, when the housemaids were sweeping her boudoir--the room in which we looked at your sketches, if you remember--they found the case on the floor, ingeniously hidden behind the window-curtain."
"Empty?"
"Oh, of course. The thief had taken the contents and left the case. Aunt Gertrude can hear nothing of them."
"I hope and trust she will find them," was Mr. Conroy's warm answer. And then he went on, after a perceptible pause: "I think you know already, Miss Winter, that I am connected with the Press. The world being quiet just now, my employers, having nothing better for me to do, have found a very peaceful mission for me for the time being. They have sent me into this part of the country to take sketches of different old mansions and family seats, and I am here to-day to seek Mr. Denison's permission to make a couple of drawings of Heron Dyke."
Ella hesitated for a moment or two, toying nervously with Conroy's card, which she still held. Then she spoke:
"My uncle is a confirmed invalid, Mr. Conroy, and very much of a recluse. Strangers, or indeed acquaintances whom he has not met for a long time, are unwelcome to him, even when there is no need for him to see them personally. Whether he will see you, or grant you the permission you ask for, without seeing you, is more than I can tell. I will, however, try my best to induce him to do so."
"Thank you very much," said Conroy. "I certainly should like to take some sketches of this old house: but, rather than put Mr. Denison out of the way, or cause the slightest annoyance in the matter, I will forego----"
"Certainly not," Ella hastily interrupted: "at least, until I have spoken to my uncle. If he would but see you it might rouse him from the lethargy that seems to be gradually creeping over him, and would do him good. To receive more visitors would be so much better for him! You will excuse me for a few minutes, will you not?"
"What a life for this fair young creature to lead!" Conroy said to himself as soon as she was gone. "To be shut up in this gloomy old house with a querulous hypochondriac who suspects an enemy in every stranger and dreads he knows not what; but it seems to me that women can endure things that would drive a man crazy. Would that I were the knight to rescue her from this wizard's grasp, and take her out into the sweet sunlight!"
He stood gazing out of the window, tapping the panes lightly with his fingers and smiling to himself, lost in dreams.
"My uncle will see you," said Ella, as she re-entered the room.
"Thank you for your kind intervention."
"He is in one of his more gracious moods to-day; but you must be careful not to contradict him if you wish to obtain his sanction to what you require. And now I will show you to his room."
After traversing two or three flagged passages, Conroy was ushered into a room which might have been an enlarged copy of the one he had just left. It was the same room in which Captain Lennox's interview took place on the night of his return from London. Aaron Stone was coming out as Conroy went in. The old man greeted him with a queer, sour look, and some uncomplimentary remark, muttered to himself. Then he went out, and banged the heavy door noisily behind him.
"S--s--s--s! That confounded door again!" exclaimed a rasping, high-pitched voice from behind the screen at the farther end of the room. "Will that old rapscallion never remember that I have nerves? Ah--ha! if I could but cuff him as I used to do!" added the Squire, breaking off with a fit of coughing.
Ella held up a warning finger, and waited without moving till all was quiet again. She then glided across the polished, uncarpeted floor, and passed in front of the screen. Conroy waited in the background.
"I have brought Mr. Conroy to see you, Uncle Gilbert--the gentleman who wants to take some sketches of the Hall," said Ella, in tones a little louder than ordinary.
"And who gave you leave, young lady, to introduce any strangers here? You know--"
"You yourself gave me leave, uncle, not many minutes ago," she quietly interposed. "You said that you would see Mr. Conroy."
"Did I, child?"
"Certainly you did."
"Then my memory must be failing me faster than I thought it was." Here came a deep sigh, followed by a moment or two of silence. "You are right, Ella. I remember it now. Let us see what this bold intruder is like."
Conroy stepped forward in front of the screen, and saw before him the Master of Heron Dyke. He looked to-day precisely as he had looked that evening, now several weeks ago, when Captain Lennox called at the Hall. It might be that his face was a little thinner and more worn, but that was the only difference.
"So! You are the young jackanapes who wants to sketch my house--eh?" said Mr. Denison, as he peered into Conroy's face with eager, suspicious eyes. "How do I know that you are not a spy--a vile spy?" He ground out the last word from beneath his teeth, and craned his long neck forward so as to bring it closer to Conroy's face.
"Do I look like a spy, sir?" asked Conroy calmly, as he went a pace nearer to the old man's chair.
"What have looks to do with it? There's many a false heart beneath a fair-seeming face. Aye, many--many." He spoke the last words as if to himself, and when he had ended he sat staring out of the window like one who had become suddenly oblivious of everything around him. His lips moved, but no sound came from them.
Mr. Denison's reverie was broken by the entrance of Aaron with letters and newspapers. Then the Squire turned to Conroy. "So you're not a spy, eh? Well, I don't know that you look like one. But pray what can there be about a musty tumble-down old house, like this, that you should want to make a sketch of it?"
"The Denisons are one of the oldest families in Norfolk. Surely, sir, some account of the home of such a family would interest many people."
"And how come you to know so much about the Denisons?" shrewdly asked the Squire. "But sit down. It worries me to see people standing at my elbow."
"Such knowledge is a part of my stock-in-trade," said Conroy, as he took a chair. "I have not only to make the sketches, but to tell the public all about them. Both in Burke and the 'County History' I have found many interesting particulars of the old family whose home is at Heron Dyke."
"So--so! And pray, young sir, what other houses in the county have you sketched before you found your way here?"
"None; I have come to you, sir, before going anywhere else."
"Well said, young man. The county can boast of finer houses by the score, but what are the families who live in them? Mushrooms--mere mushrooms in comparison with the Denisons. We might have been ennobled centuries ago had we chosen to accept a title. But the Denisons always thought themselves above such gewgaws."
"Was it not to the same purport, sir, that Colonel Denison answered James the Second when his Majesty offered him a patent of nobility on the eve of the Battle of the Boyne?"
"Ah--ha! your reading has been to some purpose," said the old man, with a dry chuckle. "That's the colonel's portrait over there in the left-hand corner. They used to tell me that I was something like him when I was a young spark."
Evidently he was pleased. He rubbed his lean, chilly fingers together, and fell into another reverie. Conroy glanced round. Ella was sitting at her little work-table busy with her crewels. What a sweet picture she made in the young man's eyes as she sat there in her grey dress, with the rich coils of her chestnut hair bound closely round her head, and an agate locket set in gold suspended from her neck by a ribbon, in which was a portrait of her dead mother. Not knowing that Conroy was gazing at her, her eyes glanced up from her work and encountered his. Next moment the long lashes hid them again, but the sweet carnation in her cheeks betrayed that she had been taken unawares.
Then Gilbert Denison spoke again. "There's something about you, young man," he said, "that seems to wake in my mind an echo of certain old memories which I thought were dead and buried for ever. Whether it's in your voice, or your eyes, or in the way you carry your head, or in all of them together, I don't know. Very likely what I mean exists only in my own imagination: I sometimes think I'm getting into my dotage. What do you say your name is?" he asked abruptly.
"Conroy, sir. Edward Conroy."
Mr. Denison shook his head. "I never knew any family of that name."
"The Conroys have been settled in North Devon for the last three hundred years."
"Never heard of 'em. But that's no matter. As I said before, there's something about you that comes home to me and that I like, though I'll be hanged if I know what it is, and I've no doubt I'm an old simpleton for telling you as much. Anyhow, you may take what sketches of the place you like. You have my free permission for that. And if you're not above dining off boiled mutton--we are plain folk here now--you may find your way back to this room at five sharp, and there will be a knife and fork ready for you. Why not?"
The interview was over. Ella conducted Conroy into another room, and then rang the bell. "There must be some magic about you," she said, with a smile, "to have charmed my uncle as you have. You don't know what a rarity it is for him to see a fresh face at Heron Dyke."
Aaron Stone answered the bell, Ella gave Conroy into his charge, with instructions to show him all that there was to be seen, and to allow him to sketch whatever he might choose. The old man received this with a bad grace. He had become so thoroughly imbued with the fear of spies and what they might do, that no courtesy was left in him. Growling something under his breath about strangers on a Friday always bringing ill-luck, he limped away to fetch his bunch of keys.
"What a capital subject for an etching," thought Conroy, as he looked after the old man.
When five o'clock struck, Conroy shut up his sketch-book and retraced his way to Mr. Denison's room. The dinner was almost as homely as the host had divined that it would be. But if the viands were plain, the wine was super-excellent, and as Conroy could see that he was expected to praise it, he did not fail to do so. A basin of soup, followed by a little jelly and a glass of Madeira, formed Mr. Denison's dinner. His bodily weakness was evidently very great. It seemed to Conroy that the man was upheld and sustained more by his indomitable energy of will than by any physical strength he might be possessed of. "Heron Dyke will want a new master before long," was Conroy's unspoken thought, as he looked at the long-drawn, cadaverous face before him.
Ella would have left the room when the cloth was drawn, but her uncle bade her stay; for which Conroy thanked him inwardly. The young artist quickly found that if the evening were not to languish, perhaps end in failure, he must do the brunt of the talking himself. Mr. Denison was no great talker at the best of times, and Ella, from some cause or another, was more reserved than usual; so Conroy plunged off at a tangent, and did his best to interest his hearers with an account of his experiences in Paris during the disastrous days of the Commune. As Desdemona of old was thrilled by the story of Othello's adventures, so was Ella thrilled this evening. Even Mr. Denison grew interested, and for once let his mind wander for a little while from his own interests and his own concerns.
As they sat thus, the September evening slowly darkened. The candles were never lighted till the last moment. Conroy sat facing the windows which opened into the private garden at the back of the Hall. The boundary of this garden was an ivy-covered wall about six feet high. A low-browed door in one corner gave access to the kitchen-garden, beyond which was the orchard, and last of all a wide stretch of park. There were flowers in the borders round the garden wall, but opposite the windows grew two large yews, whose sombre foliage clouded much of the light that would otherwise have crept in through the diamond-paned windows, and made more gloomy still an apartment which, even on the brightest of summer days, never looked anything but cheerless and cold. On this overcast September eve the yew-trees outside blackened slowly, and seemed to draw the darkness down from the sky. Aaron came in at last with candles, and while he was disposing them Conroy rose, crossed to one of the windows, and stood looking out into the garden. It was almost dark by this time. While looking thus, he suddenly saw the figure of a man emerge from behind one of the yews, stare intently into the room for a moment, and then vanish behind the other yew. Conroy was startled. Was there, then, really truth in the Squire's assertion that spies were continually hovering round the Hall? Somehow he had deemed it nothing more than the hallucination of a sick man's fancy.
With what object could spies come to Heron Dyke? It was a mystery that puzzled Conroy. He crossed over to Ella and told her in a low voice what he had seen. She looked up with a startled expression in her eyes.
"Don't say a word about it to my uncle," she whispered. "It would only worry him, and could do no good. Both he and Aaron often assert that they see strange people lurking about the house; but I myself have never seen anyone."
The Squire began to talk again, and nothing more passed. When Conroy rose to take his leave, his host held his hand and spoke to him cordially.
"You will be in the neighbourhood for some days, you tell us, Mr. Conroy. If you have nothing better to do on Tuesday than spend a few hours with a half-doited old man and a country lassie, try and find your way here again. Eh, now?"
This, nothing loth, Conroy promised to do; the more so as Ella's needle was suspended in mid-air for a moment while she waited to hear his answer. Conroy's eyes met hers for an instant as she gave him her hand at parting, but she was on her guard this time, and nothing was to be read there.
He had not gone many steps from the house when there was a rustle amidst the trees he was passing; and a young and well-dressed man, so far as Mr. Conroy could see, who had been apparently peering through an opening in the trees, walked quickly away.
"He was watching the house," said Mr. Conroy to himself. "One of the spies, I suppose. What on earth is it that they want to find out?"
Dull enough felt Ella after Conroy's departure.
"I'll get a book," she said, shaking off her thoughts, which had turned on the man Conroy had seen behind the yew-tree: and she went to a distant room in search of one. Coming back with it, she saw the two housemaids, Martha and Ann, standing at the foot of the stairs which led up to the north wing. One of them held a candle, the other clung to her arm; both their faces were wearing an unmistakable look of terror.
"What is the matter?" she asked, going towards them.
"We've just heard something, Miss Ella," whispered Ann. "One of the bedroom-doors up there has just shut with a loud bang."
"And it sounded like the door ofherroom," spoke the other from her pale and frightened lips. "Miss Ella, I amsureit was."
"The door of whose room?" asked Miss Winter sharply, her own heart beating fast.
"Of Katherine's," answered both the maids together.
For a moment Ella could not command herself.
"What business had you in this part of the house at all?" she questioned, after a pause.
"Mrs. Stone sent us after her spectacles," explained Ann. "She left them in your sitting-room, ma'am, when she was up there seeing to the curtains this afternoon. She sent us, Miss Ella; she'd not go up herself at dark for the world."
"Did she send both of you?" was the almost sarcastic question.
"Ma'am, she knows neither one of us would dare to go alone."
"You are a pair of silly, superstitious girls," rebuked Miss Winter. "What is there in the north wing to frighten you, more than in any other part of the house? I am surprised at you; at you, Ann, especially, knowing as I do how sensibly your mother brought you up."
"I can't help the feeling, miss, though I do strive against it," said Ann, with a half sob. "I know it's wrong, but I can't help myself turning cold when I have to come into this part of the house after dark."
"We hear noises in the north wing as we don't hear elsewhere," said Martha, shivering. "Miss Ella, it is true--if anything ever was true in this world. It was the door of her room we heard just now--loud enough too. Just as if the wind had blown it to, or as if somebody had shut it in a temper."
"There is hardly enough wind this evening to stir a leaf," reproved their young mistress. "And you know that every door in the north wing is locked outside, except that of my sitting-room."
"No, Miss Ella, there's not enough wind, and the doors is locked, as you say; but we heard one of 'em bang, for all that, and it sounded like her door," answered Martha, with respectful persistency.
Ella looked at the young women. Could she cure them of this foolish fear, she asked herself--or, at least, soften it?
"Come with me, both of you," she said, taking the candle into her hand, and leading the way up the great oaken staircase.
Clinging to each other, the servants followed. This, the north wing, was the oldest part of the house. Here and there a stair creaked beneath their footsteps; at every corner there were fantastic shadows, that seemed to lie in wait and then spring suddenly out. The squeaking of a mouse and the pattering of light feet behind the wainscot made the girls start and tremble; but Ella held lightly on her way till the corridor that ran along the whole length of the upper floor of the wing was reached. Into this corridor some dozen rooms opened. Here Ella halted for a moment, and held the candle aloft.
"You shall see for yourselves that it could not be any of these doors you heard. We will examine them one by one."
One after another, the doors were tried by Miss Winter. Each door was found to be locked, its key on the outside. When she reached Number Nine, she drew in her breath, and paused for a moment before turning the handle: perhaps she did not like that room more than the girls did. It was the room they had called "her room." But Number Nine was locked as the others were locked, and Ella passed on.
When all the doors had been tried, Ella turned to the servants.
"You see now that you must have been mistaken," she said, speaking very gravely; but in their own minds neither Martha nor Ann would have admitted anything of the kind.
Ella saw that they were not satisfied. Leading the way back to Number Nine, she turned the key, opened the door, and went in. The two girls ventured no farther than the threshold. The room contained the ordinary adjuncts of a bed-chamber, and of one apparently in use. Across a chair hung a servant's muslin apron, on the chest of drawers lay a servant's cap, a linen collar, and a lavender neck-ribbon. Simple articles all, yet the two housemaids shuddered when their eyes fell on them. In a little vase on the chimney-piece were a few withered flowers--violets and snowdrops. The oval looking-glass on the dressing-table was festooned with muslin, tied with bows of pink ribbon. But Ella, as she held the candle aloft and gazed round the room, saw something to-night that she had never noticed before. The bows of ribbon had been untied, and the muslin drawn across the face of the glass so as completely to cover it.
Ella had been in the room some weeks ago, and she felt sure that the looking-glass was not covered then, It must have been done since; but by whom, and why? That none of the servants would enter the room of their own accord she knew quite well: yet whose fingers, save those of a servant, could have done it? Despite her resolution to be calm, her heart chilled as she asked herself these questions, and her eyes wandered involuntarily to the bed, as though half expecting to see there the dread outlines of a form that was still for ever. The same idea struck the two girls.
"Look at that glass!" cried the one to the other, in a half-whisper. "It is covered up as if there had been a death in the room."
Ella could bear no more. Motioning the servants from the room, she passed out herself and relocked the door. But this time she took the key with her instead of leaving it in the lock.
"You see there is nothing to be afraid of," she said to the girls, as she gave them back the candle at the foot of the stairs. "Do not be so foolish again."
But Ella Winter was herself more perplexed and shaken than she allowed to appear, or would have cared to admit.
One of the last houses that you passed before you began to climb the hill into Nullington was the vicarage; a substantial red-brick building of the Georgian era, standing a little way back from the road in a paved fore-court, access to which was obtained through a quaintly-wrought iron gateway. At the back of the house was a charming terraced-garden, with an extensive view, some prominent features of which were the twisted chimneys of Heron Dyke, and the seven tall poplars that overshadowed the moat. Here dwelt the Rev. Francis Kettle, vicar of Nullington-cum-Easterby, and his daughter Maria. The living was not a very lucrative one, being only of the annual value of six hundred pounds; but the vicar was a man who, if his income had been two thousand a year, would have lived up to the full extent of it. He was fond of choice fruits, and generous wines, and French side-dishes; while indoors he never did anything for himself that a servant could do for him. Out of doors, he would potter about in his garden by the hour together. He was sixty years old, a portly, easy-going, round-voiced man, who read prayers admirably, but whose sermons hardly afforded an equal amount of satisfaction to the more critical members of his congregation. To rich and poor alike Mr. Kettle was bland, genial, and courteous. No one ever saw him out of temper. A moment's petulance was all that he would exhibit, even when called from his warm fireside on a winter evening to go through the sloppy streets to pray by the bedside of some poor parishioner. No deserving case ever made a direct appeal to his pocket in vain, although the amount given might be trifling; but he was not a man who, even in his younger and more active days, had been in the habit of seeking out deserving cases for himself. Before all things, Mr. Kettle loved his own ease; ease of body and ease of mind. It was constitutional with him to do so, and he could not help it. He knew that there was much sin and misery in the world, but he preferred not to see them; he chose rather to shut his eyes and walk on the other side of the way. Not seeing the sin and misery, there was no occasion for him to trouble his mind or pain his heart about them. But if, by chance, some heartrending case, some pathetic tale of human wretchedness, did persist in obtruding itself on his notice, and would not be kept out of sight, then would all the vicar's finer feelings be on edge for the remainder of that day. He would be restless and unhappy, and unable to settle down satisfactorily to his ordinary avocations. He would be as much hurt and put out of the way morally, as he would have been hurt physically had he cut his finger. It was very thoughtless of people thus to disturb his equanimity, and cause him such an amount of needless suffering. Next morning, however, the vicar would be his old, genial, easy-going self again, and human sin and wretchedness, and all the dark problems of life, would, so far as he was concerned, have discreetly vanished into the background.
Perhaps it was a fortunate thing for the vicar that he had a daughter--at least, such a daughter as Maria. Whatever shortcomings there might be on the father's part were more than compensated for on the daughter's. Maria Kettle was one of those women who cannot be happy unless they are striving and toiling for someone other than themselves. Her own individuality did not suffice for her: she lost herself in the wants and needs of others. No one knew the little weaknesses of her father's character better than herself, and no one could have striven more earnestly than she strove to cover them up from the eyes of the world. If he did not care to visit among the sick and necessitous of his flock, or to have his easy selfishness disturbed by listening to the story of their troubles, she made such amends as lay in her power. She did more, in fact, being a sympathetic and large-hearted woman, than it would have been possible for the vicar to have done, had his inclinations lain ever so much in that direction. In the back streets of Nullington, and among the alleys and courts where the labouring people herded together, no figure was better known than that of the vicar's daughter, with her homely features, her bright, speaking eyes, her dress of dark serge, her thick shoes, and her reticule. Little children who could scarcely talk were taught to lisp her name in their prayers, and the oldest of old people, as they basked outside their doors in the summer sunshine, blessed her as she passed that way.
Early in the present year, the state of the vicar's health had caused alarm, and he was ordered to the South of France. Maria could not let him go alone, and for the time being the parish had to be abandoned to its fate, and to the ministrations of a temporary clergyman. Maria felt a prevision that she should find most things turned upside down when she got back to it--which proved to be the case. She and her father, the latter in good health, had now returned, and on the day following their arrival, Miss Winter, all eagerness to see them, set off to walk to the vicarage. She and Maria were close and dear friends.
That she should be required to tell all about everything that had happened since their absence, Ella knew; it was only natural.
More especially about that one sad, dark, and most unexplainable event which had taken place at the Hall in February last. She already shrank from the task in anticipation; for, in truth, it had shaken her terribly, and a haunting dread lay ever on her mind.
About midway between Heron Dyke and the vicarage, lying a little back from the road, was a small inn, its sign, a somewhat curious one, "The Leaning Gate." Its landlord, John Keen, had died in it many years ago, since which time it had been kept by his widow, a very respectable and hard-working woman, who made her guests comfortable in a homely way, and who possessed the good-will of all the neighbours around. She had two daughters, Susan and Katherine, who were brought up industriously by the mother, and were both nice-looking, modest, and good girls. Susan was somewhat dull of intellect. Katherine was rather a superior girl in intelligence and manners, and very clever with her needle; she had been the favourite pupil in Miss Kettle's school, and later had helped to teach in it. Maria esteemed her greatly, and about fourteen months prior to the present time, when Miss Winter was wanting a maid, Maria said she could not do better than take Katherine. So Katherine Keen removed to the Hall, greatly to her mother's satisfaction, for she thought it a good opening for the young girl; but not so much to the satisfaction of Susan.
The sisters were greatly attached to one another. Susan especially loved Katherine. It is sometimes noticeable that where the intellect is not bright the feelings are strong; and with an almost unreasonable, passionate tenderness Susan Keen loved her sister. Katherine's removal to Heron Dyke tried her. She could hardly exist without seeing her daily; and she would put her cloak on when the day's work was done--for Susan assisted her mother in the inn--and run up to the Hall to see Katherine. But Katherine and Mrs. Keen both told her she must not do this: her going so frequently might not be liked at the Hall, especially by ill-tempered Aaron Stone and his wife. Thus admonished, Susan put a restraint upon herself, so as not to trouble anybody too often; but many an evening she would steal up at dusk, walk round the Hall, and stand outside watching the windows, hoping to get just one distant glimpse of her beloved Katherine.
The time went on to February in the present year, Katherine giving every satisfaction at Heron Dyke: even old Aaron would now and then afford her a good word. And it should be mentioned that the girl had made no fresh acquaintance, either of man or woman--she was thoroughly well-conducted in every way.
Miss Winter's own sitting-room and her bedroom were in the north wing. She had chosen them there on account of the beautiful view of the sea from the windows. Katherine slept in a room near her. On the evening of the fifteenth of February they were both in the sitting-room at work; Ella was making garments for some poor children in the village and had called Katherine to assist. Katherine had a headache; it got worse; and at nine o'clock Ella told her she had better go to bed. The girl thanked her, lighted her candle and went; Ella, who went at the same time to her own room to get something she wanted, saw her enter her chamber and heard her lock herself in: and from that moment Katherine Keen was never seen, alive or dead. Before the night was over, Ella--as you will hear her tell presently--had occasion to go to Katherine's room; she found the door unlocked, and Katherine absent, the bed not having been slept in. Her apron, cap, collar, and neck-ribbon lay about, showing that she had begun to undress; but that was all. Of herself there was no trace; there never had been any since that night.
That she had not left the house was a matter of absolute fact, for old Aaron had already locked and bolted all the doors, and there could be no egress from it. In short, it was a strange mystery, and puzzled everyone. Where was she? What could have become of her? The matter caused endless stir and commotion in the neighbourhood. Old Squire Denison, very much troubled at the extraordinary occurrence, instituted all kinds of inquiries, but to no purpose. Every nook and corner in the spacious house was searched again and again. Aaron Stone, cross enough with the girl oftentimes beforehand, seemed troubled with the rest; his wife declared openly, her eyes round with terror, that the girl must have been 'spirited' away. The grandson, Hubert, was in London at the time, and knew absolutely nothing whatever of the occurrence.
But the sister, Susan, had a tale to tell, and it was a curious one. It appeared that that same morning she had met Katherine in the village, doing an errand for Miss Winter. Susan told her that a letter had come from their brother--a young man older than themselves, who had gone some years before to an uncle in Australia--and that she would bring it to the Hall that evening. However, when evening came, snow began to fall, and Mrs. Keen would not let Susan go out in it, for she had a cold. Presently the snow ceased, and Susan, wrapping her cloak about her, started with the letter. As she neared the Hall the clock struck nine--too late for Susan to attempt to call, for after that hour her visits were interdicted. She hovered about a short while, thinking that haply she might see one of the housemaids hastening home from some errand, and could send in the letter by her, or perhaps catch a glimpse of her darling sister at her window. The sky was clear then, the moon shining brilliantly on the snowy ground. As Susan stood there, a light appeared in Katherine's room. She fancied she saw the curtain pulled momentarily aside, but she saw no more. While thus watching, Susan was startled by a cry, or scream of terror; two screams, the last very faint, but following close upon the other. They appeared to come from inside the house, Susan thought from inside the room, and were in her sister's voice--of that Susan felt an absolute certainty. A little thing served to terrify her. She ran back home as she had never run before, and burst into her mother's kitchen in a pitiable state. Mrs. Keen and two or three people sitting in the inn took it for granted that the cry must have been that of some night-bird, and the terrified girl was got to bed.
With the morning, news was brought to the inn of Katherine's strange disappearance; and, as already said, she had never been heard of from that day. Nothing could shake Susan's belief that it was her sister's screams she had heard; she declared she knew her voice too well to be mistaken. The event had a sad effect upon her mind: at times she seemed almost half-witted. She could not be persuaded but that Katherine was still in the house at Heron Dyke; and as often as she could escape her mother's vigilance, she would steal up in the dark and hover about outside, looking at the windows for Katherine--nay, more than once believing that she saw her appear at one of them.
Such was the occurrence that had served to shake Miss Winter's nerves, and that she was on her way now to the vicarage to be (as she well knew) cross-questioned about.
Mr. Kettle met her with a fatherly kiss, telling her she looked bonnier than ever, and that there was nothing to compare with an English rose-bud. Maria clasped her in her arms. Ella took her bonnet off and sat down with them in the bow-windowed parlour open to the summer breeze, and for some time it was hard to say whether she or Maria had the more questions to ask and answer. Then the vicar began, as a matter of course, about the shortcomings in the parish during his absence, especially about the churchwardens' difficulties with Pennithorne--the temporary parson. That gentleman had persisted in having two big candlesticks on the altar where no such articles had ever been seen before, and had attempted to establish a daily service, which had proved to be an ignominious failure, together with other changes and innovations that were more open to objection. Ella confirmed it all, and the vicar worked himself into a fume.
"Confound the fellow!" he exclaimed, "I'd never have gone away had I known. Who was to suspect that meek-looking young jackanapes, with his gold-rimmed spectacles, had so much mischief in him? He looked as mild as new milk. And now, my dear, what about that strange affair concerning Katherine Keen?" resumed the vicar, after a pause. "Your letter to us, describing it, was hardly--hardly credible."
"I can quite believe that it must have seemed so to you," replied Ella.
"Well, child, just go over it now quietly."
The light died out of Ella's eyes, and her face saddened. But she complied with the request, not dwelling very minutely upon the particulars. The vicar and Maria listened to her in silence.
"It is the most unaccountable thing I ever heard of," cried the vicar, impulsively, when it was over. "Locked up in her room, and disappeared! Is there a trap-door in the floor?"
Ella shook her head.
"The waxed boards of the room are all sound and firm."
"And she could not have come out of her room and got out of the house, you say?"
"No. It was not possible. She had a bad headache, as I tell you, and I told her she had better go to bed; that was about nine o'clock. While she was folding up the child's petticoat she had been sewing at, Aaron came into the room to say that Uncle Gilbert was asking for me. Katherine lighted both the bed candles, which were on a tray outside, and we left the room together. I ran into my own room and caught up my prayer-book, for sometimes my uncle lets me read the evening psalms to him. Katherine was going into her room as I ran out; she wished me goodnight, went in, and locked the door."
"Locked it!" exclaimed the vicar. "A bad habit to sleep with the door locked. Suppose a fire broke out!"
"I used to tell her so, but she said she could not feel safe with it unlocked. She and Susan were once frightened in the night when they were little girls, and had locked their door ever since. I went down to Uncle Gilbert," continued Ella. "Aaron was then bolting and barring the house-door--and, considering that he always carries away the key in his own pocket, you will readily see that poor Katherine had no chance of getting out that way."
"There was the backdoor," said the vicar, who, to use his own words, could not see daylight in this story. "Your great entrance-door is, I know, kept barred and locked always."
"Yes. Aaron went straight to the backdoor from the front, fastened up that, and in like manner carried away the key. Believe me, dear Mr. Kettle, there was nochancethat Katherine could go out of the house. And why should she wish to do so?"
"Well, go on, child. You found the room empty yourself in the middle of the night--was it not so?"
"Yes--and that was a strange thing, very strange," replied Ella, musingly. "I went to bed as usual, and slept well; but at four o'clock in the morning I was suddenly awakened by hearing, as I thought, Uncle Gilbert calling me. I awoke in afright, you must understand, and I don't know why: I have thought since that I must have had some disagreeable dream, though I did not remember it. I sat up in bed to listen, not really knowing whether Uncle Gilbert had called me, or whether I had only dreamt it----"
"You could not hear your uncle calling all the way up in the north wing, Ella," interrupted Miss Kettle.
"No; and I knew, if he had called, that he must have left his room and come to the stairs. I heard no more, but I was uneasy and felt that I ought to go and see. I put on my slippers and my warm dressing-gown, and lighted my candle; but--you will forgive me my foolishness, I hope--I felt too nervous to go down alone, though again I say I knew not why I should feel so, and I thought I would call Katherine to go with me. I opened her door and entered, not remembering until afterwards that I ought to have found it locked. The first thing I saw was her candle burnt down to the socket, its last sparks were just flickering, and that the bed had not been slept in. Katherine's apron and cap were lying there, but she was gone."
"It is most strange," cried Mr. Kettle.
"It is more than strange," returned Ella, with a half sob.
"And, my dear, had your uncle called you?"
"No. He had had a good night, and was sleeping still."
"Well, I can't make it out. Was Katherine in bad spirits that last evening?"
"Not at all. Her head pained her, but she was merry enough. I remember her laughing early in the evening. She drew aside the curtain by my direction to see what sort of a night it was, and exclaimed that it was snowing. Then she laughed, and said how poor Susan would be disappointed, for her mother would be sure not to let her come up through the snow. Susan was to have brought up a letter they had received from the brother."
"And what is the tale about Susan coming up when the snow was over, and hearing screams? Did you hear them in the house?"
"No; none of us heard anything of the kind."
"But if, as I am told Susan says, it was her sister who screamed in the room, some of you must have heard it."
"I am not so sure of that," replied Ella. "Uncle Gilbert's sitting-room--I had gone down to him then--is very remote from the north wing; and so are the shut-in kitchen apartments. Aaron ought to have heard down in the hall, but he says he did not."
"Then, in point of fact, nobody heard these cries but Susan?"
"Yes; Tom, the coachman's boy, heard them. Tom had been out of doors doing something for his father, and was close to the stables, going in again, when he heard two screams, the last one much fainter than the other. Tom says the cries had a sort of muffled sound, and for that reason he thought they were inside the house. So far, poor Susan's account is borne out."
"And the house-doors were found still fastened in the morning?"
"Bolted and barred and locked as usual, when old Aaron undid them. More snow had fallen in the night, covering the ground well. Katherine has never been heard of in any way since."
Mr. Kettle sat revolving the tale. It was quite beyond his comprehension.
"In point of fact, the girl disappeared," he said presently; "I can make nothing more of it than that."
"That is the precise word for it--disappeared," assented Ella, in a low tone. "And so unaccountably that it seems just as if she had vanished into air. The feeling of discomfort it has left amongst us in Heron Dyke can never be described."
"Do you still sleep in the north wing?" asked Maria, the thought occurring to her. "Oh no. I changed my room after that." Ella had told all she had to tell. But the theme was full of interest, and the vicar and Maria plied her with questions all through luncheon, to which meal they made her stay. She left when it was over; her uncle might want her; and Maria put on her bonnet to walk with her a portion of the way. Their road took them past the "Leaning Gate." Mrs. Keen was having the sign repainted--a swinging gate that hung aloft beside the inn. A girl, the one young servant kept, stood with her arms a-kimbo, looking up at the process. The landlady was a short, active, bustling woman, with a kind, motherly face and pleasant dark eyes.
"How do you do, Mrs. Keen?" called out Maria, as they were passing.
Mrs. Keen came running up, and took the offered hand into both of hers. "I heard you were back, Miss Maria, and glad enough we shall be of it. But--but----"
She could not go on. The remembrance of what had happened overcame her, and she burst into tears.
"Yes, young ladies, I know your kind sympathy, and I hope you'll forgive me," she said, after listening to the few words of consolation they both strove to speak--though, indeed, what consolation could there be for such a case as hers?
"We had been gone away so short a time when it happened!" lamented Maria.
"You left on the first of February, Miss Maria, and this was on the night of the fifteenth," said Mrs. Keen, wiping her eyes with her ample white apron. "Ah, it has been a dreadful thing! It is the uncertainty, the suspense, you see, ladies, that is so bad to bear. Sometimes I think I should be happy if I could only know she was dead and at rest."
"How is Susan?" asked Maria.
"Susan's getting almost silly with it," spoke the landlady, lowering her voice, as she glanced over her shoulder at the house. "She has all sorts of wild fancies in her head, poor girl; thinking--thinking----"
Mrs. Keen glanced at Miss Winter, and broke off. The words she had been about to say were these: "Thinking that Katherine, dead or alive, is still at Heron Dyke."