A more charming place than Foxwood Court presented in the summer months when the rare and sweet flowers by which it was surrounded were in bloom, could not have been found in the Kentish county. The mansion was not very large, but it was exceedingly gay and pretty to look upon; a white building with a goodly number of large windows, those on the lower floor mostly opening to the ground, so that the terrace could be gained from the rooms at will. The terrace--a gravel walk with brilliant flower beds on either side--ran along the front and the two sides of the house. A marble step or two in four places descended to a lower walk, or terrace, and from thence there was spread out the level lawn, a wide expanse, dotted with beds of flowers, and bounded with groves of beautiful trees. The chief entrance to the house was in its centre: a pillared portico, surmounting a flight of steps that led down to the broad walk dividing the lawn. At the end of this walk between the bank of trees were the large iron gates and the lodge; and there were two or three small private gates of egress besides in the iron palisades that enclosed the grounds beyond the trees. If there was a fault to be found with the locality altogether, it perhaps was that it had too many trees about it.
The iron gates opened upon a broad highway: but one that from circumstances, now to be explained, was not much used, except by visitors to Foxwood Court. To the left of the gates a winding road led round to the village of Foxwood; it lay in front, distant about a quarter of a mile. To the right the road went straight to the little railway station: but as there was also a highway from the village to the station direct, cutting off all the round by Foxwood Court, it will readily be understood why that part of the road was rarely used. In the village of Foxwood there were a few good and a few poor houses; some shops; a church and parsonage, the incumbent an elderly man named Sumnor; Mr. Moore, the surgeon; and a solicitor, Mr. St. Henry, who was universally called in the place Lawyer St. Henry. Some good mansions were scattered about in the vicinity; and it was altogether a favoured and attractive neighbourhood.
In a small but very pretty room of Foxwood Court, at the side of the house that looked towards the railway station, and faced the north, sat Mrs. Cleeve and Miss Blake at breakfast. It was a warm and lovely June morning. The table, set off with beautiful china from the Worcester manufactories, with silver plate, and with a glass of choice flowers, was drawn close to the window, whose doors were wide open. By Mrs. Cleeve's hand lay a letter just received from her daughter, Lady Andinnian, saying that she and Karl were really commencing their journey home.
But for interference, how well the world might get on! After Karl Andinnian quitted Foxwood to rejoin his wife in London--as was related previously--Lucy had so far regained her health and strength that there was really no need for her to go, as had been arranged, to another climate. She herself wished not to go, but to take up her abode at once at Foxwood Court, and Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve seeing her so well, said they would prefer that she should remain in England. Karl, however, ruled it otherwise; and to the Continent he went with his wife. Nothing more would have been thought of this, but for Miss Blake. She was very keen-sighted, and she was fond of interference. Somewhat of love still, anger, and jealousy rankled in her heart against Karl Andinnian. Anything she could say against him she did say: and she contrived to impress Mrs. Cleeve with a notion that he, in a sort, had kidnapped Lucy and was taking her abroad for some purposes of his own. She boldly averred that Sir Karl had beenkeepinghis wife away from Foxwood by statements of the fever, and such like, false and plausible: and that he probably meant to hide her away from them in some remote place for ever.
This served to startle Mrs. Cleeve--though she only half believed it. She wrote to Sir Karl, saying that both herself and the Colonel wished to see Lucy home, and begged of him to return and take up his abode at Foxwood. Karl replied that Foxwood was not ready for them; there was no establishment. Mrs. Cleeve wrote again--urging that she and Theresa should go down and engage two or three servants, just enough to receive himself and Lucy: afterwards they could take on more at will. A few days' delay and Karl's second answer came. He thanked Mrs. Cleeve for the trouble she offered to take, and accepted it: specifying a wish that the servants should be natives of thelocality--and who had always lived in it.
"Karl wishes to employ his poor neighbours," observed Mrs. Cleeve. "He is right, Theresa. You must see how good and thoughtful he is."
Theresa could find no cause to confute this much. But she was more and more persuaded that Sir Karl would have kept Lucy away from Foxwood if he could. And we must admit that it looked like it.
Mrs. Cleeve lost no time in going down with Miss Blake to Foxwood Court. Hewitt, who had been left in charge, with an elderly woman, received them. They thought they had never seen a more respectable or thoroughly efficient retainer than Hewitt. The gardeners were the only other servants employed. They lived out of doors: the chief one, Maclean, inhabiting the lodge with his wife.
While Miss Blake was looking out for some young women servants, two or three of whom were speedily found and engaged, she made it her business to look also after the village and its inhabitants. That Miss Blake had a peculiar faculty for searching out information, was indisputable: never a better one for the task than she: and when an individual is gifted with this quality in a remarkable degree, it has to be more or less exercised. Miss Blake might have been a successful police detective: attached to a private inquiry office she would have made its fortune.
And what she learnt gave her a profound contempt for Foxwood. We are speaking of the village now: not the Court. In the first place, there was no church: or, at least, what Miss Blake chose to consider none. The vicar, Mr. Sumnor, set his face against views of an extreme kind, and that was enough for Miss Blake to wage war with. Old Sumnor, to sum him up in Miss Blake's words, might be conscientious enough, but he was as slow as a tortoise. She attended his church the first Sunday, and found it unbearably tame. There were no candles or flowers or banners or processions: and there was no regular daily service held. Miss Blake thought one might as well be without breakfast and dinner. Foxwood was a benighted place and nothing less.
Mr. Sumnor's family consisted of an invalid daughter left him by his first wife; a second wife and two more daughters. Mrs. Sumnor kept him in subjection, and her two daughters were showy and fast young ladies. The surgeon, Mr. Moore, a widower, had four blooming girls, and a sister, Aunt Diana, a kind of strong-minded female, who took care of them. The young ladies were pretty, but common-place. As to the lawyer, St. Henry, he had no children of his own, but had taken to a vast many of his dead brother's. There were many other young ladies in the vicinity; but it was an absolute fact that there were no gentlemen--husbands and fathers of families excepted; for the few sons that existed were gone out to make their way in the world. Miss Blake considered it not at all a desirable state of things, and accorded it her cool contempt. But the place showed itself friendly, and came flocking in its simple manners and hearty good will to see the Hon. Mrs. Cleeve, Lady Andinnian's mother, and to ask what it could do for her. So that Miss Blake, whether she liked it or not, soon found herself on terms of sociability with Foxwood.
One morning an idea dawned upon her that seemed like a ray from heaven. Conversing with the Miss St. Henrys, those ladies--gushing damsels with enough brown hair on their heads to make a decent-sized hayrick, and in texture it was nearly as coarse as hay--informed her confidentially that they also considered the place dead, in the matter of religion. Often visiting an aunt in London--whose enviable roof-top was cast within the shadow of a high ritualistic establishment, boasting of great hourly doings and five charming curates--it might readily be imagined the blight that fell upon them when doomed to return to Foxwood Church and plain old Sumnor: and they breathed a devout wish that a church after their own hearts might be established at Foxwood, This was the ray of light that flashed upon Miss Blake. She started at its brightness. A new church at Foxwood! If the thing were possible to be accomplished,shewould accomplish it. The Rev. Guy Cattacomb, what with prejudiced bishops and old-world clergymen, did not appear to be appreciated according to his merits, and had not yet found any active field for his views and services. Miss Blake was in occasional correspondence with him, and knew this. From being a kind of dead-and-alive creature under the benighting torpidity of Foxwood, Miss Blake leaped at once into an energetic woman. An object was given her: and she wrote a long letter to Mr. Cattacomb telling him what it was. This morning his answer had been delivered to her.
She chirped to the birds as she sat at breakfast: she threw them crumbs out at the window. Mrs. Cleeve was quitting Foxwood that day, but hoped to be down again soon after Karl and her daughter reached it.
"You are sure, Theresa, you do not mind being left alone here?" cried Mrs. Cleeve, eating her poached egg.
But Theresa, buried in her own active schemes, and in the letter she had just had from Mr. Cattacomb--though she did not mention aloud the name of the writer--neither heard nor answered. Mrs. Cleeve put the question again.
"Mind being left here? Oh dear no, I shall like it. I hated the place the first few days, but I am quite reconciled to it now."
"And you know exactly what there is to do for the arrival of Sir Karl and Lucy, Theresa?"
"Why of course I do, Mrs. Cleeve. There's Hewitt, too: he is a host in himself."
Breakfast over, Miss Blake, as was customary, went out. Having no daily service to take up her time, she hardly knew how to employ it. Mr. Cattacomb's letter had told her that he should be most happy to come to officiate at Foxwood if a church could be provided for him: the difficulty presenting itself to Miss Blake's mind was--that there was no church to provide. As Miss Blake had observed to Jane St. Henry only yesterday, she knew they might just as well ask the Dean of Westminster for his abbey, as old Sumnor for his church, or the minister for his Dissenting chapel opposite the horse-pond.
Revolving these slight drawbacks in her brain, Miss Blake turned to the right on leaving the gates. Generally speaking she had gone the other way, towards the village. This road to the right was more solitary. On one side of it were the iron palisades and the grove of trees that shut in Foxwood; on the other it was bounded by a tall hedge that had more trees behind it. A little farther on, this tall hedge had a gate in the middle, high and strong, its bars of iron so closely constructed that it would not have been well possible forill-intentioned tramps to mount it. The gate stood back a little, the road winding in just there, and was much shut in by trees outside as well as in. Opposite the gate, over the road, stood a pretty red-brick cottage villa, with green venetian shutters, creeping clematis around its parlour windows, and the rustic porch between them. It was called Clematis Cottage, and may be said to have joined the confines of Foxwood Court, there being only a narrow side-lane between, which led to the Court's stables and back premises. Miss Blake had before noticed the cottage and noticed the gate: she had wondered in her ever-active curiosity who occupied the one; she had wondered whether any dwelling was enclosed within the other. This morning as she passed, a boy stood watching the gate, his hands in his pockets and whistling to a small dog which had contrived to get its one paw into the gate and seemed to be in a difficulty as to getting it back again. Miss Blake, after taking a good look at Clematis Cottage, crossed the road; and the boy, in rustic politeness, turned his head and touched his shabby cap.
"Where does this gate lead to?" she asked. "To any house?"
"Yes, 'um," replied the boy, whose name, as he informed Miss Blake in reply to her question, was Tom Pepp. "It's the Maze."
"The Maze," she repeated, thinking the name had an odd sound. "Do you mean that it is a house, boy?--a dwelling place?"
"It be that, 'um, sure enough. Old Mr. Throcton used to live in't Folks said he was crazy."
"Why is it called the Maze!"
"Itisa maze," said the boy, patting his dog, which had at length regained its liberty. "See that there path, 'um"--pointing to the one close within the gate--"and see them there trees ayont it?"
Miss Blake looked through the interstices of the gate at the trees beyond the path. They extended on all sides farther than she could see. Thick, clustering trees, and shrubs full of leafy verdure, with what looked like innumerable paths amidst them.
"That's the maze," said the boy, "and the place is called after it. Once get among them there trees, 'um, and you'd never get out again without the clue. The house is in the middle on't; a space cleared out, with a goodish big garden and grass-plat. I've been in three or four times when old Mr. Throcton lived there."
"Did you get in through the maze?" asked Miss Blake.
"Yes, 'um; there ain't no other way. 'Twere always along of mother; she knowed the housekeeper. The man servant he'd take us through the trees all roundabout and bring us out again."
"Where does this path lead to?" was the next question, speaking of the one inside between the labyrinth and the gate.
"He goes round and round and round again," was the lucid answer. "I've heard say that a door in it leads right to the house, 'um, but nobody can find the door save them that know it."
"What an extraordinary place!" exclaimed Miss Blake, much impressed with the narration. "One would think smugglers lived there--or people of that kind."
The boy's eyes--and intelligent eyes they were--went up to Miss Blake's. He did not particularly understand what a smuggler might be, but felt sure it could not apply to Mr. Throcton.
"Mr. Throcton was a rich gentleman that had always lived here," he said. "There warn't nothing wrong with him--only a bit crazy. For years afore he died, 'um, he'd never see nobody; and the house, mother said, were kept just like a prison."
Miss Blake, very curious, looked at the lock and tried to shake the gate. She might as well have tried to shake the air.
"Who lives in it now, Tom Pepp?"
"A young lady, 'um."
"A young lady?" echoed Miss Blake. "Who else?"
"Not nobody else," said the boy.
"Why, you don't mean to say a young lady lives alone there?"
"She do, 'um. She and a old servant or two."
"Is she married or single?"
Tom Pepp could not answer the last question. Supposed, now he came to think of it, she must be single, as no husband was there. He did not know her name.
"What is she like?" asked Miss Blake.
"I've never see'd her," said Tom Pepp. "I've never see'd her come out, and never see'd nobody go in but the butcher's boy. He don't go in, neither: he rings at the gate and waits there till they come to him. A woman in a poke bonnet comes out and does the other errands."
"Well, it must be a very lively place for a young lady!" mentally observed Miss Blake with sarcasm. "She must want to hide herself from the world."
"Mother see'd her at church once with her veil up. She'd never see'd nothing like her so pretty at Foxwood."
Turning to pursue her walk, Tom Pepp, who worked for Farmer Truefit, and who was in fact playing truant for half an hour and thought it might be policy not to play it any longer, turned also, the farm lying in that direction. At that moment, Miss Blake, happening to cast her eyes across the road, saw the head and shoulders of a gentleman stretched out of one of the sash windows of Clematis Cottage, evidently regarding her attentively.
"Who is that gentleman, Tom Pepp?"
"Him! Well now, what did I hear his name was again!" returned the lad, considering. "Smith. That's it. It's Mr. Smith, 'um. He be a stranger to the place, and come here just afore Mrs. Andinnian died. It's said he was some friend of her'n."
"Rather a curious person, that Mrs. Andinnian, was she not!" remarked Miss Blake, invited to gossip by the intelligence of the boy.
"I never seed her," was the reiteration. "I've never yet seed the new master of Foxwood, Sir Karl Andinnian. It's said Sir Karl is coming home himself soon," added the boy; "him and his lady. Hope he'll be as good for the place as Sir Joseph was."
They passed on; the opposite gentleman's eyes following Miss Blake: of which she was quite conscious. Soon they came to the road on the left hand that led direct to the village. Miss Blake glanced down it, but continued her walk straight onwards, as if she had a mind to go on to the railway station. Casting her eyes this way and that, she was attracted by a pile of ruins on the other side the road, with what looked like a kind of modern room amidst them.
"Why, what's that?" she cried to Tom Pepp, standing still to gaze.
"Oh, them be the ruins, 'um," answered Tom Pepp. "It had used to be the chapel belonging to the grey friars at the monastery."
"What friars?--what monastery!" eagerly returned Miss Blake, much interested.
The friars were dead years ago, and the monastery had crumbled to pieces, and Mr. Truefit's farm was built upon where it used to stand, was the substance of the boy's answer; delivered in terrible fright, for he caught sight of his master, Mr. Truefit, at a distance.
The farmhouse lay back beyond the first field. Miss Blake glanced at it; but all her interest was concentrated in these ruins close at hand.
"Surely they have not desecrated sacred ruins by putting up a barn amidst them!" she exclaimed, as she crossed the road to explore. There were half-crumbled walls around, part of an ivied stone block that she thought must have been the basement of a spire, and other fragments.
"It's not a barn," said Tom Pepp; "never was one. They mended some o' the old walls a few years ago, and made it into a school-room, and the children went to school in it--me for one. Not for long, though. Lady Andinnian and Sir Joseph--it was more her than him--fell out with Parson Sumnor and the trusts; and my lady said the children should never come to it again. After that, the trusts built 'em a school-room in the village; and 'twas said Sir Joseph sent 'em a five-hunderd pound in a letter and never writ a word to tell where it come from. He was a good man, he was, when my lady 'ud let him be."
Miss Blake did not hear half; she was lost in an idea that had taken possession of her, as she gazed about inside the room. It was narrow, though rather long, with bare whitewashed walls and rafters above, the windows on either side being very high up.
"If this place was the chapel in the old times, it must have been consecrated!" cried she breathlessly.
"Very like, 'um," was the lad's answer, in blissful ignorance of her meaning. "Them grey friars used to eat their meals in it, I've heard tell, and hold jollifications."
Preoccupied, the sinful insinuation escaped Miss Blake. The conviction, that this consecrated place would be the very thing needed for Mr. Cattacomb's church, was working in her brain. Tom Pepp was ensconced in a dark corner, his dog in his arms, devoutly hoping his master would not come that way until he had made his escape. The ruins belonged to Farmer Truefit, the boy said. The fact being, that they stood on the land the farmer rented; which land was part of the Andinnian estate.
"Has nothing been done with the room since it was used for the school!" asked Miss Blake.
"Nothing," was the boy's reply. It was kept locked up until Lady Andinnian's death: since then, nobody, so far as he knew, had taken notice of it.
"What a beautiful little chapel it will make!" thought Miss Blake. "And absolutely there's a little place that will do for a vestry! I'll lose no time."
She went off straight to an interview with Mr. Truefit; which was held in the middle of a turnip-field. The farmer, a civil man, stout and sturdy, upon hearing that she was a relative of his new landlord's wife, the young Lady Andinnian, and was staying at Foxwood Court, took off his hat and gave her leave to do what she liked to the room and to make it into a place of worship if she pleased; his idea being that it was to be a kind of Methodist chapel, or a mission-room.
This sublime idea expanding within her mind, Miss Blake walked hurriedly back to Foxwood--for Mrs. Cleeve was to depart at midday. In passing the Maze, the interest as to what she had heard induced her to go up to the gate again, and peer in. Turning away after a good long look, she nearly ran against a rather tall gentleman, who was slowly sauntering amid the trees outside the gate. A gentleman in green spectacles, with a somewhat handsome face and black whiskers--the same face and whiskers, Miss Blake thought, that had watched her from the opposite window. He wore grey clothes, had one black glove on and his arm in a sling.
Mr. Smith took off his hat and apologised. Miss Blake apologised. Between them they fell into conversation. She found him a very talkative, pleasant man.
"Curious place, the Maze?" he echoed in answer to a remark of Miss Blake's. "Well, yes, I suppose it may be called so, as mazes are not very common."
"I have been told a young lady lives in it alone."
"I believe she does. In fact, I know it, for I have seen her, and spoken with her."
"Oh, have you!" cried Miss Blake, more curious than ever.
"When I went to receive the premium for Sir Karl Andinnian--due on taking the house," quietly explained Mr. Smith.
"And who is she?"
"She is a Mrs. Grey."
"Oh--a married woman."
"Certainly. A single lady, young as she is, would scarcely be living entirely alone."
"But where is her husband?"
"Travelling, I believe. I understood her to say so."
"She is quite young then?"
"Quite."
"Is she good-looking?" continued Miss Blake.
"I have rarely seen anyone so pretty."
"Indeed! What a strange thing that she should be hiding herself in this retired place!"
"Do you think so? It seems to me to be just the spot a young lady might select, if obliged to live apart for a time from her husband."
"Of course, there's something in that," conceded Miss Blake. "Does she visit at all in the neighbourhood?"
"I think not. I am sure not. If she did I should see her go in and out. She takes a walk occasionally, and sometimes goes to church on Sundays. But she mostly keeps in her shell, guarded by her two old domestics."
In talking, they had crossed the road, and now halted again at the little gate of Clematis Cottage. Miss Blake asked if he knew anything about the ruins she had noticed further up: and Mr. Smith (who had introduced himself to her by name in a light, gentlemanly manner) said he did not, but he had a book of the locality indoors which he would refer to, if she would do him the honour of stepping into his little drawing-room.
Rather fascinated by his courteous attentions, Miss Blake did so: and thought what a bright-looking, pretty drawing-room it was. The gentleman took off his green glasses (casually mentioning that he wore them out of doors as a protection against the sun, for his eyes were not strong) and searched for the guidebook. The book, however, proved to be chiefly a book of roads, and said very little more of the monastery and the ruins than Miss Blake had heard from Tom Pepp.
"You have hurt your arm," she at length ventured to observe, as he slowly drew it once or twice out of the sling, and seemed to use it with trouble. "Any accident?"
"An accident of long standing, madam. But the wrist continues weak, and always will continue so, next door to useless; and I wear the sling for protection."
Miss Blake took her departure; the gentleman escorting her to the garden gate with much ceremony. In fact, it almost seemed as though he wished to make a favourable impression on her.
"He is a gallant man," was Miss Blake's mental comment--"and awell-informed and pleasant one. I wonder who he is?"
But her thoughts, veering round to many other matters, at length settled themselves upon the Maze and its young lady inmate. They quite took hold of her mind and held possession of it, even to the partial exclusion of Mr. Cattacomb and the promising ruins.
In later days, Miss Blake said this must have been nothing less than instinct.
Miss Blake carried her point. In a very short space of time the little way-side room in the ruins--call it chapel, school-room, barn, what you will--was converted into a church and styled "St. Jerome." Setting to work at once with a will, Miss Blake had left not a stone unturned to accomplish her purpose. She pressed several of the young ladies in the village into the service. Nothing loth, they. Having heard of the divers merits of the Reverend Guy Cattacomb, they could but be desirous so shining a light should be secured amidst them. Miss Blake herself brought all her rare energy, her unflagging perseverance to the task. When she took a cause to heart, no woman was so indomitable as she. As may readily be supposed, a good deal had to be done to the room before it could be made what was wanted; but contrivance worked wonders. All the money Miss Blake could spare she freely applied: it was not sufficient, and she wrote to sundry friends, begging contributions. She next went, with Miss St. Henry and Miss Moore, to some of the houses in the vicinity, to every one where it might be safe to go, asking for aid. This personal canvass was not always successful. Some professed not to understand why a second church was required, and gave shillings instead of pounds. One old lady, however, had her generous instincts so worked upon by the eloquence of Miss Blake (as much as she could hear of it, for she was very deaf, and her companion declared afterwards that she believed all the while she was giving to a new industrial school possessing a resident chaplain) that she handed over a cheque for fifty guineas. Miss Blake could not believe her eyes when she saw it: and she assured the old lady that every blessing of heaven would be showered down on her in return. Miss Blake's personal friends also contributed well--and the matter was accomplished. Not only was the chapel itself set up, but the stipend of Mr. Cattacomb assured for the first few months. To do Miss Blake justice, she wished all things to be religiously right, and she never entertained a doubt that the place had once been duly consecrated. Her whole heart was in the work--always excepting a slight small corner of it that was still filled with her wrongs and Karl Andinnian.
The early afternoon sun shone down on the bright flowers, the well kept lawns of Foxwood Court, as Miss Blake stepped out of one of its windows, her walking costume perfect. She was always well dressed: but to-day her toilet was more elaborate than usual. Standing for a moment to look round at the beautiful place, at its complete order, there rose up in her heart one wild, angry thought--"But for Lucy, this would have been my own." A very mistaken assumption on Miss Blake's part, but who was to convince her of that? Banishing the thought resolutely, she walked along at a brisk pace, as if running a race with time. It was a great day this. Two events were coming off in it that stirred Miss Blake to the core. The Reverend Mr. Cattacomb was expected by the four o'clock train; and Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian would arrive at home for dinner.
Miss Blake took the way to St. Jerome's Church, a very choice bouquet of hothouse flowers in her hand. Glancing at the gate of the Maze--in regard to which place her interest had not in the least abated--she bore onwards, and soon joined some groups of ladies, who were advancing to St. Jerome's by the more direct route from the village. They had appointed to meet that afternoon and put the finishing touches to the room ere it should be seen by its pastor-- if indeed any touches remained to be done. A matter such as this could not but have excited much comment at Foxwood ever since the first day that Miss Blake took it in hand. Prudent mothers, full of occupation themselves, warned their daughters against being "led away." The daughters, whose hands were idle, rushed to the new attraction, stealthily at first, openly afterwards. They grew to be as energetic as Miss Blake herself, and were in a fervour of eagerness for the arrival of Mr. Cattacomb.
Miss Blake opened the door and allowed the rest to file in. She stayed looking at something that did not please her--a wheel-barrow full of earth lodging right against St. Jerome's outside walls.
"I should not wonder but it's that Tom Pepp who has left it there!" said Miss Blake severely. "The boy is for ever dodging about here--and brings other boys in his train. When Mr. Cattacomb----"
"Good afternoon, madam!"
Miss Blake turned at the address, and recognized Mr. Smith--his green spectacles on and his arm in a sling as usual. She had seen him once or twice since that first meeting, but he had only bowed in passing.
"May I be permitted to enter?" he asked, waving his hand at the church door.
"Oh, certainly," she replied. "Indeed I hope you will become one of St. Jerome's constant worshippers." So he went in with the crowd of ladies.
It certainly looked a sweet little place--as Jane St. Henry remarked aloud. Candles, flowers, crosses, scrolls--for Miss Blake knew exactly what would please Mr. Cattacomb. The common whitewashed walls were nearly hidden: mottoes, a painting or two, and prints lay thickly on them, all of course of a sacred character. The plain, straw-seated chairs stood pretty thickly. The other arrangements were as good as funds, time, and space had allowed. Leading off on one side at the upper end, was a small vestry; with a sort of corner box in it that was to serve as a confessional. This vestry--which used to be the place where The school children put their hats and bonnets--had an objectionable, modern window in it; before which was hung a blind of printed calico, securing the vestry's privacy from sun and gazers.
Mr. Smith might have been a travelled man, but in all his travels he had seen no place of worship like unto this. He was saying so to himself as he turned and gazed about through his green glasses. He took them off and gazed again.
"Is it not charming, sir?" asked Jane St. Henry.
"It is rather small," was the response.
"Oh, that's the worst," said the young lady. "One cannot have everything at the beginning: there must always be some drawbacks. I know a church in London, not very much larger than this, where there are three sweet little private sanctuaries: here we have only one."
"Sanctuaries?" repeated the agent, evidently not understanding.
"Confessionals. For confession, you know. We have only one here, and that is obliged to be in the vestry."
"Oh, then the placeisRoman Catholic!" said Mr. Smith, quietly. "I thought so."
He had no intention to offend: it was simply what he inferred: but Miss St. Henry gave a little shriek and put her two hands to her ears. Martha Sumnor, a free, showy girl, stepped up.
"For goodness' sake don't call it that," she said. "Papa would go on at us, for coming here, worse than he does."
Mr. Smith bowed and begged pardon. He could not help thinking this was a daughter of the vicar of the old church, but was not sure: and he wondered much.
Even so. The two daughters of Mr. Sumnor had joined St. Jerome's. They and their mother had long set the vicar at defiance.
Foxwood was deemed to be a particularly healthy place; in the summer months, invalids were wont to resort to it from the neighbouring town of Basham. To meet requirements, lodgings being scarce, a row of houses had been run up in the heart of the village, near where the old pound used to stand. They were called Paradise Row. Very pretty to look at; perhaps not quite so good to wear; stuccoed white fronts outside, lath and plaster within. If the door of one banged, the whole of the houses shook; and the ringing of a sitting-room bell was heard right and left throughout the Row.
It was in the middle house of these favoured dwellings, No. 5, kept by Mrs. Jinks, that the ladies had secured apartments for the Reverend Guy Cattacomb. The bow-windowed front parlour, and the bedroom behind it. Mrs. Jinks, familiarly called by her neighbours and friends the Widow Jinks, was beyond the middle age--to speak politely--with a huge widow's cap nearly as black as the chimney, and a huge black bonnet generally tilted on the top of it. She had deemed herself very lucky to find her rooms taken by the ladies for the new clergyman, boasting to her neighbours that it was of course a "permanent let:" but before the clergyman arrived, she had grown somewhat out of conceit of the "let," so worried was she by the young ladies. Parties of them were always calling, bringing this, that, and the other for the comfort of their expected pastor, and calling the Widow Jinks to the door a dozen times in a day.
Upon leaving St. Jerome's this afternoon, the ladies went in a body to Paradise Row, intending to await the advent of the Reverend Guy, and to see that butter and other essentials had been got in for him. Miss Blake could have dispensed with so large a party--but what was she to do?--There they were, and stuck to her. All the way to the house they had been talking of Mr. Smith; wondering who he was and why he had come to live at Foxwood. Miss St. Henry at length remembered to have heard he was a friend of the Andinnian family, and had been looking after things as agent during the absence of Sir Karl.
"An agent!" exclaimed Miss Blake, drawing herself up.
"Not a common agent, of course. Does what he does out of friendship. Here we are."
"Oh, that's very different," returned Miss Blake, giving a loud, long, important knock at the Widow Jinks's door.
"Well, thatisa shame of old Jinks!" cried Jemima Moore, in an undertone to the rest as they got admittance and went into the parlour.
For the Widow Jinks had not deemed it necessary to smarten herself up to receive her new lodger. She answered the door in her ordinary working costume: rusty black gown, huge cap, and bonnet. Her face and hands were black too, as if she had been disturbed in cleaning the pots and kettles.
"She ought to be told of it. And did you see how sour she looked?"
Miss Blake put the beautiful bouquet of hothouse flowers--which she had been guarding carefully--into a vase of water, for it was for Mr. Cattacomb they had been destined. Some light refreshment in the shape of wine and cake stood ready on the table; and Mrs. Jinks was examined as to other preparations. All was in readiness, and the ladies waited with impatience.
An impatience that at length subsided into doubt, and that into disappointment. The clock had gone ticking on; the train must have been in long ago, and it became evident Mr. Cattacomb had not come. Miss Blake walked home slightly vexed: and there she found Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian.
Things often go cross and contrary.Theyhad not been expected until later, and Miss Blake had intended to preside--if it may be calledso--at both arrivals. As it happened, she had presided at neither. It was in crossing the lawn, that Lucy, radiant, blooming, joyous, ran out to meet her.
"Good gracious!" cried Miss Blake.
"Oh, Theresa, how beautiful and happy everything is!" cried the young wife, pushing back her bonnet to give and take the kiss of greeting. "Karl has been showing me the rooms. Hewitt said you would not be long."
"But when did you come, Lucy?"
"We came in by the four o'clock train, and took a fly. Here's my husband. Karl, do you see Theresa?"
Karl was coming down the terrace steps to greet her. Miss Blake advanced coldly.
"How do you do, Sir Karl?" and the hand she put into his seemed limp and cold.Hedid not look blooming; but worn, ill, and depressed.
They entered the hall together, the rays from the coloured windows shining on them and on the tesselated floor, lighting all up with a cheerful brightness. The reception-rooms were on either side the hall: they were what Sir Karl had been showing to his wife. Lucy declared it was the prettiest house she was ever in.
"I like this room better than any of the grand ones," spoke Miss Blake, leading to the little north room she generally sat in, where we saw her breakfasting with Mrs. Cleeve.
"It shall be called your room then, Theresa," said Lucy. "Oh yes, it is very pretty," she continued, looking at the light paper, flecked with gold, the light furniture with its crimson satin coverings, the various tasty objects scattered about, and the glass doors, wide open to the terrace, to the sweet flowers, and to the smooth lawn beyond.
"I believe this was the late Lady Andinnian's favourite room," observed Karl.
"Let me see," said Lucy, stepping outside, "this must look towards the railway station. Oh yes; and Foxwood lies the other way."
Opposite to this window some steps descended to the lawn from the terrace. In very lightness of heart, she ran down and up them. Karl was talking to Miss Blake.
"There's a room answering to this in size and position on the other side the house; as of course you know," he observed. "Sir Joseph, I hear, made it his business room."
"Hewitt calls it Sir Karl's room, now," interrupted Miss Blake. "You smoke in it, don't you, Sir Karl?"
"I did smoke in it once or twice when I was staying down here during the time of my mother's illness," he replied. "But I am not a great smoker. Just one cigar at night: and not always that."
"Did I see that room, Karl?" asked his wife.
"No, Lucy. It was hardly worth showing you."
"Oh, but I shall like it better than all the rest, if it's yours."
"Come and see it then."
She put her arm within his, and he looked down on her with a smile as they went through the house. Miss Blake walked behind with drawn-in lips. Sir Karl was greatly altered in manner, she thought; all his life and spirits had left him: and he did not seem in the least glad to seeher.
The room on the other side had grey walls and looked altogether rather dowdy. Books and maps were on the shelves, a large inkstand stood on the table, and the chimney-piece was ornamented with a huge Chinese tobacco-box.
"Now, Karl, that great arm-chair shall be yours, and this little one mine," said Lucy. "And you must let me come in when I please--although I can see it is to be your business room, just as it was Sir Joseph's."
"As often as you will, my darling."
He threw open the glass doors as he spoke, stepped across the terrace, and down the steps to the lawn--for this room answered in every respect to the other. This room faced the south; the front of the house the west, and Miss Blake's favourite room the north. The sun came slantwise across the flower beds. Sir Karl plucked one of the sweetest roses, and brought it to his wife. Lucy said nothing as she took it; but Miss Blake, observant Miss Blake, saw the lingering touch of their hands; the loving glance from Lucy's eyes to his.
"Shall I show you your rooms upstairs, Lady Andinnian? If you have not been up."
"Thank you, I'll take Lucy myself," said Karl. "No, we have not been up."
The rooms they were to occupy lay in front, towards the northern end of the corridor. The bedroom was large and beautifully fitted up. Just now Aglaé had it in confusion, unpacking. Two dressing-rooms opened from it. Sir Karl's on the right--the last room at that end; Lucy's on the left: and beyond Lucy's was another bedroom. These four rooms all communicated with each other: when their doors stood open you might see straight through all of them: each one could also be entered from the corridor.
"But what do we want with this second bedroom?" asked Lucy, as she stood in it with her husband.
A full minute elapsed before he answered her, for it was the room where that strange communication, which was o'ershadowing his life, had been made to him by his mother. The remembrance of the turbulent night and its startling disclosures was very present with him, and he turned to the window, and put his head out, as though gasping for a breath of air.
"They have not made any change, you see, Lucy: I did not give orders: It was my mother's chamber during her short span of residence here. The next, that little dressing-room of yours, she made her upstairs sitting-room. Perhaps you would like to have this made into asitting-room for yourself."
"Nay, Karl, if I want to sit upstairs, there's my dressing-room. We will let this be as it is. Is that Foxwood?" she added, pointing to the roofs of houses and a church-spire in the distance.
"Yes, that's Foxwood."
"And what are all those trees over the way?" turning her finger rather towards the right: in fact to the Maze. "There are some chimneys amidst them. Is it a house?"
"Yes."
"A gentleman's house? It must be pleasant to have neighbours so near, if they are nice people. Is it occupied, Karl!"
"I--I fancy so. The truth is, Lucy,"--breaking into rather a forced laugh--"that I am as yet almost as much a a stranger here as yourself. Shall I call Aglaé? I'm sure you must want to get your bonnet off."
"Aglaé's there, you know; I am going to her. But first ofall"--clasping her arms fondly round him and lifting her sweet face to his--"let me thank you for this beautiful home. Oh, Karl! how happy we shall be in it."
"God willing!" he answered in a beseeching tone of exquisite pain. And, as he held her to him in the moment's tenderness, his chest heaved with a strange emotion.
"How he loves me," thought Lucy, passing to her own rooms. For she put the emotion down to that. "I wonder if there ever was such love before in the world as his and mine? Aglaé, I must wear white to-day."
She went down to dinner in white muslin and white ribbons, with a lily in her hair, a very bride to look at. Poor girl! it was a gala-day with her, this coming home, almost like her wedding day. Poor wife!
The only one to talk much at dinner was Lucy. Miss Blake was not in one of her amiable moods: Sir Karl and Lucy had both dressed for dinner: she had not, not supposing they would, and that helped to put her out. In this retired spot, and with her head filled with Mr. Cattacomb and St. Jerome's, Miss Blake had been almost forgetting that there existed such a thing as dressing for dinner. Karl was silent and grave as usual, just like a man preoccupied. His wife had become used to his air of sadness. She set it down, partly to the cause of the mysterious communication he had made to her the night before their marriage, and which had never since been mentioned between them, and partly to his ill-fated brother's trouble and shocking death. Therefore Lucy took the sadness as a matter of course, and never would appear to notice it.
Miss Blake began to converse at last. She spoke of St. Jerome's: telling with much exultation all that had been done. But Sir Karl looked grave. The good sound doctrines and worship of what used to be called High-Church were his own: but he did not like these new and extreme movements that caused scandal.
"You say that this St. Jerome's is on my land, Miss Blake?"
"On your land, Sir Karl: but in Farmer Truefit's occupation. The consent lay with him and he gave it."
"Well, I hope you will have the good sense not to go too far."
Miss Blake lifted her head, and asked Hewitt for some bread. Lucy's pretty face had flushed, and she glanced timidly at her husband. Remembering past days, she had not much faith in Theresa's moderation.
"When Mrs. Cleeve, knowing Lucy's inexperience and youth, suggested that I should stay here for some time after her return home, Sir Karl, if agreeable to you and to her, and I acquiesced, wishing to be useful to both of you in any way that might be, I had no conception there was not a church open for daily worship in the place. I must go to daily worship, Sir Karl. It is as essential to me as my bread and cheese."
"I'm sure I can say nothing against daily worship--to those who have the time for it," rejoined Karl. "It is notthatI fear, Miss Blake; think how beautiful the daily service was in Winchester Cathedral!"
"Oh, of course; yes," replied Miss Blake, in a slighting tone; "the cathedral service was very well as far as it went. But you need not fear, Sir Karl."
"Thank you," he replied; "I am glad to hear you say so." And the subject dropped.
The two ladies were alone for a few minutes after dinner in the North room. Lucy was standing at the open window.
"Of course you know all about the place by this time, Theresa," she suddenly said. "There's a house over there amidst those trees: who lives in it?"
"Some lady, I believe, who chooses to keep herself very retired," replied Miss Blake.
"Oh, I asked Karl, but he could not tell me: he says he is nearly as much a stranger here as I am. Theresa! I do think that's a nightingale! Listen."
"Yes we have nightingales here," said Miss Blake, indifferently.
Lucy crossed the lawn, and paced before the clusters of trees. The bird was just beginning its sweet notes. Karl came out, drew her hand within his arm, and walked with her until Miss Blake called out that the tea was waiting.
But Lucy yet was not very strong. She began to feel tired, and a sudden headache came on. When tea was over Karl said she must go to bed.
"I think I will," she answered, rising. "If you will pardon my leaving you, Theresa. Good night."
Karl went up with her and stayed a few minutes talking. In coming down he went straight to his smoking-room and shut the door.
"Very polite, I'm sure!" thought Miss Blake, resentfully.
But the next moment she heard him leave it and come towards the sitting-room.
"I will wish you good night too, Miss Blake," he said, offering his hand. "Pray ring for anything you may require; you are more at home, you know, than we are," he concluded with a slight laugh.
"Are you going to bed also, Sir Karl?"
"I? Oh no. I am going into my smoking-room. I have a letter to write."
Now Miss Blake resented this frightfully. Lucy might go to bed; it was best for her as she was fatigued; but that Sir Karl should thus unceremoniously leave her to her own company at nine o'clock, she could not pardon. As to letter writing, the post had gone out. It was evident he thought nothing of her, even as a friend; nothing.
Dropping her forehead upon her hands, she sat there she knew not how long. When she looked up it was nearly dark. Her thoughts had wandered to Mr. Cattacomb, and she wondered whether he would be arriving by the last train.
Throwing a shawl over her shoulders, Miss Blake went into the garden, and thence by one of the small private gates into the lonely road. It was still and solitary. The nightingales were singing now, and she paced along, lost in thought, past the Maze and onwards.
She had reached nearly as far as the road to Foxwood, not having met a soul, when the advance of two or three passengers from the station told her the train was in. They turned off to the village, walking rapidly: but neither of them was the expected clergyman.
"What can have kept him?" she murmured, as she retraced her steps.
There was no moon, but the summer sky was light: not much of it, however, penetrated to the sides of the road through the overshadowing trees. Miss Blake had nearly gained the Maze when she heard the approach of footsteps. Not caring to be seen out so late alone, she drew back between the hedge and the clump of trees at the gate, and waited.
To her vexation, peeping forth from her place of shelter, she recognised Sir Karl Andinnian. He was stealing along under shadow of the hedge too--stealingalong, as it seemed to Miss Blake, covertly and quietly. When he reached the gate he looked up the road and down the road, apparently to make sure that no one was within sight or hearing: then he took a small key from his pocket, unlocked the strong gate with it, entered, locked it after him again, and disappeared within the trees of the veritable maze.
To say that Miss Blake was struck with amazement would be saying little. What could it mean? What could Sir Karl want there? He had told his wife he knew not who lived in it. And yet he carried a private key to the place, and covertly stole into it on this the first night of his return! The queer ideas that floated through Miss Blake's mind, rapidly chasing each other, three parts bewildered her. They culminated in one emphatically spoken sentence.
"I should like to get inside too!"
Softly making her way across the road to enter the Court's grounds by the nearest gate, she chanced to lift her eyes to Clematis Cottage. The venetian shutters were closed. But, peering through one of them from the dark room, was a face that she was sure was Mr. Smith's. It looked just as though he had been watching Sir Karl Andinnian.