Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books










Transcriber's Notes:
     1. Page scan source: Google Books
        https://books.google.com/books?id=TxsCAAAAQAAJ
        (Oxford University)






THE
MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE.

A Novel of Incident.



By the Author of
"In the Dead of Night," "Brought to Light," etc.




IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.




LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1880.
[_All Rights Reserved_.]






CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

       I. GILBERT DENISON'S WILL.
      II. MRS. CARLYON AT HOME.
     III. CAPTAIN LENNOX STARTLED.
      IV. HERON DYKE AND ITS INMATES.
       V. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
      VI. ONE SNOWY NIGHT.
     VII. COMING TO DINNER.
    VIII. AT THE LILACS.
      IX. THE DOCTOR'S VERDICT.
       X. A DAY WITH PHILIP CLEEVE.
      XI. A VISIT FROM MRS. CARLYON.
     XII. FAREWELL.






THE
MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE.




CHAPTER I.
GILBERT DENISON'S WILL.


The First Gentleman in Europe sat upon the throne of his fathers, and
the Battle of Waterloo was a stupendous event that still dwelt freshly
in men's memories, when one bright August evening, Gilbert Denison,
gentleman, of Heron Dyke, Norfolk, lay dying in his lodgings in
Bloomsbury Square, London.

He was a man of sixty, and, but a few days before he had been full of
life, health, and energy. As he was riding into town from Enfield,
where he had been visiting some friends, his horse slipped, fell, and
rolled heavily over its rider. All had been done for Gilbert Denison
that surgical skill could do, but to no avail. His hours were
numbered, and none knew that sad fact better than the dying man. But
in that strong, rugged, resolute face could not be read any dread of
the approaching end. He was a Denison, and no Denison had ever been
known to fear anything.

By the bedside sat his favourite nephew and heir, whose christian name
was also Gilbert. He was a young man of three or four and twenty, with
a face which, allowing for the difference in their years, was, both in
character and features, singularly like that of his uncle. Gilbert the
younger was not, and never had been, a handsome man; but his face was
instinct with power: it expressed strength of will, and a sort of
high, resolute defiance of Fortune in whatever guise she might present
herself. This young man carried a riding-whip in his hand; on a table
near lay a pair of buckskin gloves. He wore Hessian boots with
tassels, and a bottle-green riding-coat much braided and befrogged.
His vest was of striped nankin, and he carried two watches with a huge
bunch of seals pendant from each of them; while over the velvet collar
of his coat fell his long hair. His throat was swathed in voluminous
folds of soft white muslin, tied in a huge bow, and fastened with a
small brooch of brilliants. Our young gentleman evidently believed
himself to be a diamond of the first water.

The August sun shone warmly into the room; through the half-open
windows came the hum of traffic in the streets; a vagrant breeze,
playing at hide-and-seek among the heavy hangings of the bed, brought
with it a faint odour of mignonette from the boxes on the broad
window-sills outside. A hand of the dying man sought a hand of his
nephew, found it, and clasped it. The latter had been expressing his
sorrow at finding his uncle in so sad a state, and his hopes that he
would yet get over the results of his accident.

"There is no hope of that, boy," said Mr. Denison. "A few hours more,
and all will be ended. But why should you be sorry? Is the heir ever
really sorry when he sees the riches and power, which all his life he
has been taught will one day be his, coming at last into his own
grasp? Human nature's pretty much the same all the world over."

"But I am indeed heartily sorry; believe me or not, uncle, as you
like."

"I will try to believe you, boy," said Mr. Denison with a faint smile,
"and that, perhaps, will answer the same purpose."

There was silence for a little while, then the sick man resumed.

"Nephew, this is a sad, wild, reckless life that you have been leading
in London these four years past."

"It is all that, uncle."

"Had I lived, what would the end of it have been?"

"Upon my word I don't know. Utter beggary I suppose."

"How much money are you possessed of?"

"I won a hundred guineas the other night at faro. I am not aware that
I possess much beyond that."

"And your debts?"

The young man mused a moment.

"Really, I hardly know to a hundred or two. A thousand pounds would
probably cover them, but I am not sure."

"A thousand pounds! And I have paid your debts twice over within the
last four years!"

Gilbert the younger smiled.

"You see, uncle, the schedule I sent you each time was not a complete
one. I did not care to let you know every liability."

"You did not expect me to assist you again?"

"Certainly not, sir, after the last letter you wrote to me. I knew
that when you wrote in that strain you meant what you said. I should
never have troubled you again."

"After your hundred guineas had gone--and they would last you but a
very short time--what did you intend to do?"

"I had hardly thought seriously about it. Perhaps the fickle goddess
might have smiled on me again. If not, I should have done something or
other. Probably enlisted."

"Enlisted as a common soldier?"

"As a common soldier. I don't know that I'm good for much else."

"But all that is changed now. Or at least you suppose so."

"I suppose nothing of the kind, sir," said the young man, hotly.

"As the master of Heron Dyke, with an income of six thousand a year,
you will be a very different personage from a needy young rake,
haunting low gaming-tables, and trying to pick up a few guineas at
faro from bigger simpletons than yourself."

Gilbert the younger sprang to his feet, his lips white and quivering
with passion.

"Sir, you insult me," he said, "and with your permission I will
retire."

And he took up his hat and gloves.

"Sit down, sir--sit down, I say," cried the elder man, sternly. "Don't
imagine that I have done with you yet."

"I have never been a frequenter of low gaming-houses; I have never
cheated at cards in my life," said the young man, proudly.

"You would not have been a Denison if you had cheated at cards. But
again I tell you to sit down. I have much to say to you."

Gilbert the younger did as he was told, but with something of an ill
grace. In his eyes there was a cold, hard look that had not been there
before.

"Nephew, if you have not yet disgraced yourself--and I don't believe
that you have--you are on the high-road to do so. Has it ever entered
your head to think whither such mad doings as yours must inevitably
land you?"

"I suppose that other men before me have sown their wild oats," said
Gilbert, sulkily. "I have heard it said that you yourself, sir----"

"Never mind me. The question we have now to consider is that of your
future. When you are master of Heron Dyke--if you ever do become its
master--is it your intention to make ducks and drakes of the old
property, as you have made ducks and drakes of the fortune left you by
your father?"

"Really, sir, that is a question that has never entered into my
thoughts."

"Then it is high time that it did enter them. I said just now 'If you
ever do become the master of Heron Dyke.'"

"Is that intended as a threat, sir?" asked Gilbert, a little fiercely.

"Never mind what it is intended as, but listen to me. I presume you
are quite aware that it is in my power to leave Heron Dyke to anyone
whom I may choose to nominate as my heir--to the greatest stranger in
England if I like to do so?"

"I am of course aware that the property is not entailed," said the
other, stiffly.

"And never has been entailed," said Mr. Denison with emphasis. "It has
come down from heir male to heir male, for six hundred years.
Providence having blessed me with no children of my own, by the
unwritten law of the family the property would descend in due sequence
to you. But that unwritten law is one which I have full power to
abrogate if I think well to do so. Such being the case, ask yourself
this question, Gilbert Denison: 'Judging from my past life for the
last four years, am I a fit and proper person to become the
representative of one of the oldest families in Norfolk? And would my
uncle, taking into account all that he knows of me, be really
justified in putting me into that position?'"

The elder man paused, the younger one hung his head.

"I think, sir, that the best thing you can do will be to let me go
headlong to ruin after my own fashion," was all that he said.

"You will be good enough to remember that I have another nephew,"
resumed the dying man. "There is another Gilbert Denison as well as
yourself."

"Aye! I'm not likely to forget him," said the other, savagely.

"So! You have met, have you? Well, from all I have heard of my brother
Henry's son, he is a clever, industrious, and well-conducted young
man--one not given, as some people are, to wine-bibbing and all kinds
of riotous living. Had you been killed in a brawl, which seems a by no
means unlikely end for you to come to, he would have stood as the next
heir to Heron Dyke."

Young Gilbert writhed uneasily in his chair; the frown on his face
grew darker as he listened.

"And even as matters are," resumed his uncle, blandly, "even though
you have not yet come to an untimely end, it is quite competent for me
to pass you over and nominate your cousin as my heir."

"Oh, sir, this is intolerable!" cried the young man, starting to his
feet for the second time. "To see you as you are, uncle, grieves me to
the bottom of my heart--believe me or not. But I did not come here to
be preached at. No man knows my faults and follies so well as I know
them myself. Leave your property as you may think well to do so; but I
hope and pray, sir, that you will never mention the subject to me
again."

He turned to quit the room, and had reached the door, when he heard
his uncle's voice call his name faintly. Looking back, he was startled
to see the change which a few seconds had wrought in the dying man.
His eyes were glassy, the pallor of his face had deepened to a
deathlike whiteness. Gilbert was seriously frightened: he thought the
end had come. There was some brandy in a decanter on the little table.
It was the work of a moment to pour some into a glass. Then, with the
aid of a teaspoon, he inserted a small portion of the spirit between
the teeth of the unconscious man. This he did again and again, and in
a little while he was gratified by seeing some signs of returning
life. There was an Indian feather-fan on the chimney-piece. With this,
having first flung the window wide open, he proceeded to fan his
uncle's face. Presently Mr. Denison sighed deeply, and the light of
consciousness flickered slowly back into his eyes. He stared at his
nephew for a moment as though wondering whom he might be, smiled
faintly, and pointed to a chair.

Gilbert took one of his uncle's clammy hands in his, chafed it gently
for a little while, and then pressed it to his lips. "You are better
now, sir," he said.

"Yes, I am better. 'Twas nothing but a little faintness. I shall not
die before tomorrow night." He lay for a little while in silence,
gazing up at the ceiling like one in deep thought. Then he said, "And
now about the property, Berty."

The young man thrilled at the word. His uncle had not called him by
that name since he was quite a lad. "Oh, sir, do not trouble yourself
any more about the property," he cried. "Whatever you have done, you
have no doubt done for the best."

"But I want to tell you what I have done, and why I have done it.
To-morrow I may not have strength to do so." Young Gilbert moved
uneasily in his chair. The sick man noticed it. "Impatient of control
as ever," he said, with a smile. "Headstrong--wilful--obstinate; you
are a true Denison. Measure me a dose out of that bottle on the
chimney-piece. It will give me strength."

Gilbert did as he was bidden, and then resumed his seat by the
bedside.

"It was not a likely thing, my boy, that I should leave the
estate away from you," resumed Mr. Denison; and, despite all his
self-control, a sudden light leapt into Gilbert's eyes as he heard the
words. "Notwithstanding all your wild ways and outrageous carryings
on, I have never ceased to love you. You have been to me as my own
son; as your father was to me a true brother. As for Henry, although
he is dead, there was no love lost between us. We quarrelled and
parted in anger, as we should quarrel and part in anger again were he
still alive. I do not want to think that a son of his will ever call
Heron Dyke his home."

Young Gilbert's face darkened again at the mention of his cousin's
name. As between the two brothers years ago there had been a feud that
nothing had ever healed, so between the two cousins there had arisen a
deadly enmity which nothing in this world (so young Gilbert vowed a
thousand times to himself) should ever bridge over. They were good
haters, those Denisons, and never more so than when they had
quarrelled with one of their own kith and kin.

"No, the old roof-tree shall be yours, Gilbert, and all that pertains
to it," continued Mr. Denison, "as you will find when my will comes to
be read. You will find, too, a good balance to your credit at the
bank, for I have not been an improvident man. At the same time I have
had expenses and losses of which you know nothing. But--there is a
'but' to everything in this world, you know--you will find in my will
a certain proviso which I doubt not you will think a strange one, most
probably a hard one, and which I feel sure you will at first resent
almost as if I had done you a personal injury. It has not been without
much thought and deliberation that the proviso I speak of has been
embodied in the will, but I fully believe that twenty years hence,
should you live as long, you will bless my memory for having so
introduced it."

Mr. Denison lay back for a moment or two to gather breath. His nephew
spake no word, but sat with his eyes bent studiously on the floor.

"Gilbert, as a rule we Denisons are a long-lived race," resumed the
dying man, "and but for this unhappy accident, I have a fancy that I
should have worn for another score years at the least. If you have
ever been at the trouble to read the inscriptions on the tombs of your
ancestors in Nullington Church, you must have noticed how many of them
lived to be seventy-five, eighty, and in some cases ninety years of
age. Now, what prospect or likelihood is there of your living to be
even seventy years old? Your constitution is impaired already. That
dark, sunken look about the eyes, those fine-drawn lines around the
mouth, what business have they there at your age? I tell you, Gilbert
Denison, that if you do not change your mode of life at once and for
ever, you will not live to see your thirtieth birthday. And what
probability is there that you will change it? That is the question
that I have asked myself, not once, but a thousand times. If this wild
and reckless mode of life has such fascinations for you, that it has
induced you to dissipate the fortune left you by your father, to apply
to me more than once to extricate you from your difficulties, to
involve you deeply with the money-lenders, and to bring you at length
to contemplate I know not what as a mode of escape from your troubles,
what sort of hold will it have over you when you come into the
uncontrolled possession of six thousand a year? That is a problem
which I, for my part, cannot answer."

Mr. Denison paused as though he expected a reply to his last question.
There was silence for a little while, and then the nephew spoke in a
low, constrained voice.

"I can only repeat, sir, what I said before: that you had better let
me go headlong to ruin my own way."

"Not so. I have told you already that I have made you my heir. Heron
Dyke, and all that pertains to it, will call you master in a few short
hours. It----" but here he broke off for a moment to overcome some
inward emotion. "I shall never see the old place again, and I had such
schemes for the next dozen years! Well--well! we Denisons are not
children that we should cry because our hopes are taken from us."

"Sir, is not this excitement too much for you?" asked the nephew.

But the other cleared his voice, and went on more firmly than before:

"Yes, Gilbert, the old roof-tree and the broad acres shall all be
yours, and long may you live to enjoy them. That is now the dearest
wish left me on earth."

"But the proviso, sir, of which you spoke just now?" said the young
man, whose curiosity was all aflame.

"The proviso is this: That should you not live to be seventy years of
age, the estate, and all pertaining to it, shall pass away from you
and yours at your death, and go to your cousin, the son of my brother
Henry; or to his heirs, should he not be alive at the time. But should
you overpass your seventieth birthday, though it be but by twelve
short hours, the estate will remain yours, to will away to whom you
please, or to dispose of as you may think best."

Gilbert Denison stared into his uncle's face, with eyes which plainly
said: "Are you crazy, or are you not?"

"No, Gilbert, I am not mad, however much, at this first moment, you
may be inclined to think me so," said Mr. Denison with a faint smile,
as he laid his fingers caressingly on the young man's arm. "I told you
before, that I had not done this thing without due thought and
deliberation. It is the only mode I can think of to save you from
yourself, to tear you away from this terrible life of dissipation, and
to make a man of you, such as I and your father, were he now alive,
would like you to become. I have given you something to live for; I
have put before you the strongest inducement I can think of to reform
your ways. Once on a time you had a splendid constitution, and seventy
is not a great age for a Denison to reach. In due time you will
probably marry and have a son. That son may be left little better off
than a pauper should his father not live to see his seventieth
birthday. If I cannot induce you to take care of your health for your
own sake, I will try to induce you to do so for the sake of those who
will come after you. Heaven only knows whether my plan will succeed.
Our poor purblind schemes are but feeble makeshifts at the best."

"In case I should fall in the hunting-field, sir, or----"

"Or come to such an untimely end as I have come to, eh? Should you
meet with your death by accident, and not by your own hand, the
special stipulation in the will which I have just explained to you
will become invalid, and of no effect. You will find this and other
points duly provided for. Nothing has been forgotten."

There ensued a silence. The sick man suddenly broke it.

"Perhaps some scheme may enter your head, Gilbert, of trying to upset
the will after I am dead? But you will find that a difficult matter to
do."

"Now, Heaven forbid, sir," cried the young man, vehemently, "that such
a thought should find harbourage in my brain for a single moment! You
think me worse than I am. You do not know me: you have never
understood me."

"Do we ever really understand one another in this world? We are so far
removed from Heaven, that the lights burn dimly, and we see each other
but as shadows walking in the dusk."

At this moment there was a ring below stairs, then a knock at the
chamber door, and in came the nurse. The doctor was waiting.

"You had better go now, my boy," said Mr. Denison, pressing Gilbert's
hand affectionately. "At ten tomorrow I shall expect to see you
again."

Gilbert Denison stood up and took the dying man's fingers within his
strong grasp; he gazed with grave, resolute eyes into the dying man's
face.

"One moment, sir. As I said before--you do not know me. You have seen
one side of me--the weak side--and that is all. If you think that,
when I make up my mind to do so, I cannot throw off the trammels of my
present life, almost as easily as I cast aside an old coat, then, sir,
you are quite and entirely mistaken. That I have been weak and foolish
I fully admit, but it is just possible, sir, that, young as I am, I
may have had trials and temptations of which you know nothing. How
many men before me have striven to find in reckless dissipation a
Lethe for their troubles? Not that I wish to excuse myself: far from
it. I only wish you to understand and believe, uncle, that there is a
side to my character of which as yet you know nothing."

"I am willing to believe it, Gilbert," was the answering murmur: and
once more the young man pressed Mr. Denison's hand to his lips.

When Gilbert Denison called in Bloomsbury Square the following morning
he found his uncle much weaker and more exhausted. Mr. Denison was
evidently sinking fast. Gilbert stayed with him till the end. A little
while before that end came, he drew his nephew down to him and spoke
in a whisper:

"Never forget the motto of your family, my boy: 'What I have, I
hold.'"

And before the sun rose again, Gilbert Denison the younger was master
of Heron Dyke, with an income of six thousand a year.




CHAPTER II.
MRS. CARLYON AT HOME.


Forty-five years, with all their manifold changes, had come and gone
since Squire Denison, of Heron Dyke, died in his lodgings in
Bloomsbury Square, London.

It was the height of the London season, and at Mrs. Carlyon's house at
Bayswater a small party were assembled in honour of the twenty-first
birthday of her niece, Miss Ella Winter. Mrs. Carlyon, who had been a
widow for several years, was still a handsome woman, although she
could count considerably more than forty summers. Her house was a good
one, pleasantly situated, and well furnished. She kept her brougham
and half-a-dozen servants, and nothing pleased her better than to see
herself surrounded by young people. Most enjoyable to her were those
times when Miss Winter was allowed by her great-uncle, the present
Squire Denison, of Heron Dyke, to exchange for a few weeks the
quietude of the country for the gaieties of Bayswater and the delights
of the London season. Such visits, however, were few and far between,
and were appreciated accordingly.

To-day some ten or a dozen friends were dining with Mrs. Carlyon. One
of them was little Freddy Bootle, with his little fluffy moustache,
his eye-glass, and his short-cut flaxen hair parted down the middle.
Freddy was universally acknowledged to be one of the best-hearted
fellows in the world, and one of the most easily imposed upon. He was
well connected, and was a junior partner in the great East-end brewery
firm of Fownes, Bootle and Bootle. He was in love with Miss Winter,
and had proposed to her a year ago. Although unsuccessful in his suit,
his feelings remained unchanged, and he was not without hope that Ella
would one day look on him with more favourable eyes. Ella and he
remained the best of friends. That little episode of the declaration
in the conservatory, which to him had been so momentous an affair, had
been to her no more than a passing vexation.

Another of the gentlemen whom it may be as well to introduce is Philip
Cleeve, son of Lady Cleeve, of Homedale, near Nullington. He and Miss
Winter are great friends. Philip is in love with Maria Kettle, the
only daughter of the Vicar of Nullington. What a handsome fellow he
is, with his brown curling hair, his laughing hazel eyes, and his
ever-ready smile. Ella sometimes wonders how Maria Kettle can resist
his pleasant manners and fascinating ways. There is no more general
favourite anywhere than Philip Cleeve. The worst his friends could
say of him was that he was given to be a little careless in money
matters--and his purse was a very slender one. Between ourselves,
Philip was sometimes hard up for pocket-money: though, perhaps, these
same friends suspected it not.

Dinner was over, and the ladies had returned to the drawing-room, when
Mrs. Carlyon was called downstairs, and a couple of minutes later Ella
was sent for. A gentleman had called, Captain Lennox, bringing with
him a birthday gift for Ella, from Mr. Denison, of Heron Dyke. The
Captain had accidentally met Mr. Denison the day previously, and
happening to mention that he was about to run up to London on a flying
visit, the latter had asked him to take charge of and deliver to his
niece a certain little parcel which he did not feel quite easy about
entrusting to the post. This parcel the Captain now delivered into
Ella's hands. On being opened, the contents proved to be a pair of
diamond and pearl ear-rings.

Mrs. Carlyon at once gave Captain Lennox a cordial invitation to join
the party upstairs, which he as cordially accepted. They had never met
before; but Ella had some acquaintance with the Captain and his
widowed sister, who lived with him in Norfolk. The Captain and his
sister had come strangers to Nullington some six months previously,
and finding the place to their liking, had, after a fortnight's
sojourn at an hotel, taken The Lilacs, a pretty cottage ornée. Captain
Lennox was a tall, thin, fair-haired man about forty years of age. He
had clear-cut aquiline features, wore a moustache and long whiskers,
and was always faultlessly dressed.

"How was my uncle looking, Captain Lennox?" asked Ella, somewhat
anxiously, when the ear-rings had been duly examined and admired.

"Certainly quite as well as I ever saw him look."

"I am glad of that. I had a letter from him three days ago, in which
he said that he had not felt better for years. But that is a phrase he
nearly always makes use of when he writes to me. He does it to satisfy
me. When his health is in question, Uncle Gilbert's statements are
sometimes to be taken with a grain of salt."

"Now that Captain Lennox has assured you that your uncle is no worse
than usual, you can afford to give me another week at Bayswater," said
Mrs. Carlyon.

Ella smiled and shook her head.

"I must go back next Monday without fail."

"You are as obstinate as the Squire himself," cried her aunt. "I have
a great mind to write and tell him that he need not expect you before
the twentieth."

"He will expect me back on the thirteenth," said Ella. "And I would
not disappoint him for a great deal."

"Well, well, you must have your own way, I suppose. All the same, it
is a great deprivation to me. But those good people upstairs will
think that I am lost, so come along, both of you."

At this juncture a fresh arrival was announced. It was Mr. Conroy,
special artist and correspondent for _The Illustrated Globe_, whose
vivid letters from the seat of war had been so widely read of late.
Mrs. Carlyon received him with warmth.

"I hope you have brought some of your sketches with you, as you so
kindly promised," she said, when greetings were over.

"My portfolio is in the hall," he replied. "But you must not expect to
see anything very finished. In fact, my sketches are all in the rough,
just as I jotted them down immediately after the events I have
attempted to portray."

"That will only serve to render them the more interesting. They will
seem like veritable pulsations of that awful struggle," said Mrs.
Carlyon, as she rang the bell and ordered the portfolio to be brought
upstairs. Then she introduced Conroy to her niece, Miss Winter: and he
gave a perceptible start.

"They have met before," thought Captain Lennox to himself. He was
looking on from his seat close by, and he watched narrowly for a gleam
of recognition between them. But no such look came into the eyes of
either. The Captain, who had a keen nose for anything not above board,
turned the matter over in his mind. "That start had a meaning in it,"
he mused. "There's more under the surface than shows itself at
present."

Conroy never forgot the picture that stamped itself on his memory the
first moment he set eyes on Ella Winter. He saw before him a tall,
slender girl, whose gait and movements were as free and stately as
those of a queen. She had hair of the colour of chestnuts when at
their ripest, and large luminous eyes of darkest blue. The eyebrows
were thick and nearly straight, and darker in colour than her hair.
Her face was a delightful one in the mingled expression of gravity and
sweetness--the gravity was often near akin to melancholy--that
habitually rested upon it. A forehead broad, but not very high; a
straight, clear-cut nose with delicate nostrils; lips that were,
perhaps, a trifle over-full, but that lacked nothing of purpose or
decision; a firm, rounded chin with one dainty dimple in it: such was
Ella Winter as first seen by Edward Conroy. This evening she wore a
dress of rich but sober-tinted marone, relieved with lace of a creamy
white.

"I have often wished to see her," muttered Conroy to himself. "Now I
have seen her, and I am satisfied."

Mrs. Carlyon had the portfolio taken into her boudoir so as to be
clear of the music and conversation in the larger room, and there a
little group gathered round to examine and comment upon the sketches,
and to listen to Conroy's few direct words of explanation whenever any
such were needed.

Ella stood and looked on, listening to Mr. Conroy's remarks and to the
comments of those around her, and only giving utterance to a
monosyllable now and then. "This man differs, somehow, from other
men," was her unspoken thought. "He is a man carved out by hand; not
one of a thousand turned out by lathe, and all so much alike that you
cannot tell one from another. He has individuality. He interests me."

She was taking but little apparent interest in what was going on
before her; but, for all that, she lost no word that was said. She
stood, fan in hand, her arms crossed before her, her fingers
interknit, her eyes, with a look of grave, sweet inquiry in them, bent
on Conroy's face. "Aunt shall ask him to leave his portfolio till
tomorrow," she thought, "and after these people are gone I can have
his sketches all to myself."

Conroy was indeed of a different mould from those butterflies of
fashion who ordinarily fluttered around Miss Winter. He was certainly
not a handsome man, in the general acceptation of the term. His face
was dark and somewhat rugged for a man still young, but lined with
thought, and instinct with energy. He had seen his twenty-eighth
birthday, but looked older. Edward Conroy had gone through much
hardship and many dangers in the pursuit of his profession. Already
his black hair was growing thin about the temples, and was streaked
here and there with a fine line of grey. The predominant expression
of his face was determination. He looked like a man not easily
moved--whom, indeed, it would be almost impossible to move when once
he had made up his mind to a certain course. And yet his face was one
that women and children seemed to trust intuitively. At times a
wonderful softness, an expression of almost feminine tenderness, would
steal into his dark brown eyes. Tears had nothing to do with it: he
was a man to whom tears were unknown. The sweetest springs are those
which lie farthest from the surface and are the most difficult to
reach. From the first, Ella felt that she had to contend against a
will that was stronger than her own, From the first she could not help
looking up to and deferring to Edward Conroy, as she had never
deferred to any man but her uncle. Probably she liked him none the
less for that.

When Conroy's sketches had been looked at and commented upon, the
majority of the company went back into the drawing-room. Dancing now
began, and Ella found herself engaged to one partner after another.
Conroy sat down in a corner of the boudoir next to old-fashioned,
plain-looking Miss Wallace, whom nobody seemed to notice much, and was
soon deep in conversation with her. Ella was annoyed two or three
times at detecting herself looking round the room and wondering what
had become of him. Somehow she seemed to pay less attention than usual
to the small-talk of her partners. They found her indifferent and
distrait.

"She may be rich, and she may be handsome," remarked young Pawson of
the Guards to one of his friends, "but she is not the kind of woman
that I should care to marry. She has a way of freezing a fellow and
making him feel small; and that's uncomfortable, to say the least of
it."

By-and-by Conroy strolled into the drawing-room, and Captain Lennox,
who happened to be watching Ella at the time, saw the sudden light
that leapt into her eyes the moment she caught sight of his form in
the doorway.

"She's interested in him already," muttered the Captain to himself.
"This Mr. Conroy is playing some deep game, or I am very much
mistaken. I wonder where he has met her before?"

"How do you think my niece is looking?" asked Mrs. Carlyon of Captain
Lennox, a little later on, as she glanced fondly at Ella.

"Uncommonly well," replied the Captain. "She always does look well."

"Ah no, not always. She was not looking well when she came to me."

Captain Lennox considered. He also glanced across at Ella.

"I have noticed one thing, Mrs. Carlyon--that she has at times a
strangely grave look in her eyes for one so young. It is as if she had
something or other in her thoughts that she finds difficult to
forget."

"That is just where the matter lies. How _can_ she forget? Since that
strange affair that happened last February at Heron Dyke----"

"Oh, that was a regular mystery," interrupted the Captain, aroused to
eager interest. "It is one still."

"And it has left its effects upon poor Ella. A mystery: yes, you are
right in calling it so; sure never was a greater mystery enacted in
melodrama. Ella's stay with me has, no doubt, benefited her in a
degree, but I am sure it lies in her thoughts almost night and day."

"Well, it was a most unaccountable thing. I fancy it troubles Mr.
Denison."

"It must trouble all who inhabit Heron Dyke. For myself, I do not
think I could bear to live there. Were it my home I should leave it."

Captain Lennox stroked his fair whiskers in surprise.

"Leave it!" he exclaimed. "Leave Heron Dyke!"

"_I_ should. I should be afraid to stay. But then I am a woman, and
women are apt to be timorous. If--if Katherine----"

Mrs. Carlyon broke off with a shiver. She rose from her seat and moved
away, as though the subject were getting too much for her.

A strange mystery it indeed was, as the reader will admit when he
shall hear its particulars later. But it was not the greatest mystery
enacted, or to be enacted, at Heron Dyke.

"I have a favour to ask you, Mr. Conroy," began Ella, when they found
themselves apart from the rest for a moment.

"You have but to name it," he answered, a smile in his speaking eyes
as they glanced into hers.

"Will you let your portfolio remain here until tomorrow? I want to
look at the sketches all by myself."

"They interest you?"

"Very much indeed. How I should like to have been in Paris during that
terrible siege!"

"You ought to be thankful that you were a hundred miles away from it."

"But surely I might have been of some sort of use. I could have nursed
among the wounded--or helped to distribute food to the starving--or
read to the dying. I should have found something to do, and have done
it."

"Still, I cannot help saying that you were much better away. You can
form but a faint idea of the terror and agony of that awful time."

"But there were women who went through it all, and why should not I
have done the same? My life seems so useless--so purposeless. I feel
as if I had been sent into a world where there was nothing left for me
to do."

"So long as poverty and sickness, want and misery abound, there is
surely enough to do for earnest workers of every kind."

"But how to set about doing it? I feel as if my hands were tied, and
as if I could not cut the cord that binds me."

"And yet your life is not without its interests. Your uncle, for
instance----"

"You have heard about my uncle!" she said, in her quick way, looking
at him with a little surprise.

"Yes, I have heard of Mr. Denison, of Heron Dyke. There is nothing
very strange in that."

"Ah, yes, I think I am of some use to him," said Ella, softly. "I
could not leave Uncle Gilbert for anything or anybody. And I have my
school in the village, and two or three poor old people to look after.
My life is not altogether an empty one; but what I do seems so small
and trifling in comparison with what I think I should like to do.
After all, these may be only the foolish longings of an ignorant girl
who has seen little or nothing of the world."

Mr. Bootle came up and claimed Ella's hand for the next dance. The
special correspondent's face softened as he looked after her.

"What a sweet creature she is!" he said to himself. "To-morrow I will
try to sketch her face from memory."

Philip Cleeve was one of the earliest to leave. He had complained of a
severe headache for the last hour, and had scarcely danced at all. A
little later Mr. Bootle and Captain Lennox went off arm-in-arm. They
had never met before this evening, but they seemed to have taken a
mutual liking to one another. When Conroy took his leave, Mrs. Carlyon
invited him to call again: and he silently promised himself it should
be before Ella Winter's departure for Norfolk. But, as circumstances
fell out, it was a promise that he could not keep.

Two o'clock was striking as Mrs. Carlyon sat down on her dressing-room
sofa after the departure of her last guest. Taking out her ear-rings,
she handed them to her maid, Higson.

"I am glad things passed off nicely," she remarked to Ella, who had
stepped in for a few moments' chat. "All the same, I am not sorry it's
over," she added, with a sigh of weariness.

"Neither am I," acknowledged Ella. "It would take me a long time to
get used to your London hours, Aunt Gertrude."

"That Captain Lennox seems a very pleasant man. Very stylish too; but
he--Higson, what in the world are you fidgeting about?" Mrs. Carlyon
broke off to ask.

"I am looking for your jewel-case, ma'am," was the maid's rejoinder;
"I can't see it anywhere. Perhaps you have put it away?" she added,
turning to her mistress.

"I have neither seen it nor touched it since I dressed for dinner,"
said Mrs. Carlyon. "It was on the dressing-table then. I dare say you
have put it somewhere yourself."

Higson, the patient, knew that she had not, though she made no reply.
She continued her search, Ella turning to help her. The maid's face
gradually acquired a look of consternation.

"It is certainly not here, aunt," cried Ella.

"What's that, my dear?" asked Mrs. Carlyon, with a start, rousing
herself from the half-doze into which she had fallen. "I say that
Higson must have forgotten what she did with it."

But Higson had not. She assured her mistress that the jewel-box was
left on the dressing-table. At nine o'clock, when she went in to
prepare the room for the night, she saw it there, safe and untouched.

Without another word, Mrs. Carlyon set to work herself. The
dressing-room had two doors, one of which opened into Mrs. Carlyon's
bedroom, while the other opened into the boudoir where the little
group had assembled to examine Mr. Conroy's sketches. After searching
the dressing-room thoroughly, and convincing herself that the case was
not there, the bedroom was submitted to a similar process with a like
result.

Mrs. Carlyon grew alarmed. The case had contained jewels of the value
of more than three hundred pounds, besides certain souvenirs
pertaining to dear ones whom she had lost, which no money could have
bought. As a last resource the boudoir was searched, although it was
difficult to imagine how the jewel-case could by any possibility have
found its way there. Satisfied at length that further search, for the
present at all events, was useless, Mrs. Carlyon sat down with despair
at her heart and tears in her eyes.

"Are the servants gone to bed yet?" she asked.

Higson thought not. When she came up they were clearing away the
refreshments.

"Go and call them," said her mistress, rather sharply. "But don't say
what for."

"Higson seems very much put out," observed Ella, when the maid was
gone.

"Well she may be," said Mrs. Carlyon. "She is a faithful creature, and
has been with me nearly a dozen years. _All_ my servants are faithful,
and have lived with me more or less a prolonged time," she added
emphatically. "I could never suspect one of them; but it is right they
should be questioned. I could trust them with all I possess."

The servants filed in, five or six of them, one after another; an
expression on each face which seemed to ask, "Why are we wanted here
at this uncanny hour?"

In a few quiet sentences Mrs. Carlyon detailed her loss, and
questioned each of them in turn as to whether they could throw any
light on the affair. One and all denied all knowledge of it: as indeed
their mistress had quite expected that they would do. No one save
Higson had set foot either in the bedroom or dressing-room since ten
o'clock the previous forenoon. There was nothing for it but to let
them go back. Higson, who was crying by this time, was told a few
minutes later that she too had better go: Mrs. Carlyon would to-night
undress herself. The woman went out with her apron to her eyes.

"I shan't get a wink of sleep all this blessed night," she cried with
a sob. "Hanging would be too good, ma'am, for them that have robbed
you."

Mrs. Carlyon and Ella sat and looked at each other. The uncertainty
was growing painfully oppressive. Had there been any strange waiters
in the house, they might have been suspected: but, except on some very
rare and grand occasion, Mrs. Carlyon employed only her own servants.
And those servants were above suspicion.

"Was the door that opens from the dressing-room into the boudoir
locked, or otherwise?" asked Ella.

"To my certain knowledge it was locked till past ten o'clock: and I
will tell you how I happen to know it," replied Mrs. Carlyon. "Some
time after the exhibition of Mr. Conroy's sketches I went into the
boudoir and found it empty of everybody except Philip Cleeve; he was
lying on the sofa with one of his bad headaches. Thinking that my
salts might be of service to him, I came into the dressing-room to get
them. I have a clear recollection of finding the door between the two
rooms locked then. I unlocked it, and having found the salts, I went
back and gave them to Philip; but whether I relocked the door after me
is more than I can say. Probably I did not. After a few words to
Philip I left him, still lying on the sofa, and did not go near the
boudoir again."

A pause ensued. It seemed as if there was nothing more to be said. Not
the slightest shadow of suspicion could rest on Philip Cleeve; the
idea was preposterous. Both the ladies had known him since he was a
boy, and his mother, Lady Cleeve, was one of Mrs. Carlyon's oldest
friends. And, that suspicion could attach itself to any of the guests,
was equally out of the question. Still, the one strange fact remained,
that the casket could not be found.

"We had better go to bed, I think," said Mrs. Carlyon at last, in a
fretful voice. "If we sit up all night the case won't come back to us
of its own accord."

"I am ready to say with Higson that I shan't get a wink of sleep,"
remarked Ella, as she rose to obey. "One thing seems quite certain,
Aunt Gertrude--that there must be a thief somewhere."




CHAPTER III.
CAPTAIN LENNOX STARTLED.


There were other people beside Mrs. Carlyon who had cause to remember
the night of Ella Winter's birthday party.

As already stated, Captain Lennox and Mr. Bootle left the house
together. They were walking along, arm-in-arm, smoking their cigars,
when whom should they run against but Philip Cleeve, who had bid them
goodnight half an hour before.

"Why, Phil, my boy, what are you doing here?" cried Mr. Bootle. "I
thought you were off to roost long ago."

"I am taking a quiet stroll before turning in," answered Philip. "I
thought the cool night air would do my head good, and I'm happy to say
it has."

"Then you can't do better than come along to my hotel with Mr.
Bootle," said Lennox. "Let us have one last bottle of champagne
together."

Freddy seconded the proposition; and Philip, who seldom wanted much
persuasion where pleasure was concerned, yielded after a minute's
hesitation. He had come up to London for a few days' holiday, and
there was no reason why he should not enjoy himself.

A cab was called, and the three gentlemen presently found themselves
at the Captain's rooms. There they sat chatting, and smoking, and
drinking champagne, till the clock on the chimney-piece chimed the
half hour past two. By this time they had all had more wine than was
good for them, Mr. Bootle especially so, while Philip was, perhaps,
the coolest of the three.

"We'll see him into a hansom, and then we shall be sure that he will
get home all right," whispered Lennox to Philip as they assisted
Freddy downstairs.

A hansom being quickly found, Mr. Bootle was safely stowed inside and
the requisite instructions given to the driver. Then they all shook
hands and bade each other goodnight with a promise to meet again next
afternoon.


It was near noon the next day, and Freddy Bootle was still in bed,
when some one knocked at his door, and Captain Lennox entered the
room, looking well, but lugubrious.

"Not up yet!" he said, in anything but a cheerful voice. "I
breakfasted three hours ago."

"My head is like a lump of lead," moaned Freddy, "and my tongue is as
dry as a parrot's."

"Have you any soda; and where's your liqueur-case? I'll concoct you a
dose that will soon put you right."

"You'll find lots of things in the other room: but Lennox, how fresh
you look. You might never have had a headache in your life."

"You are not so well seasoned as I am," returned Captain Lennox.
"What business do you suppose has brought me here?"

"Not the remotest idea; unless it be to gaze on the wretched object
before you."

"Oh, you'll be well enough in an hour or two. Are you aware that I had
my pocket picked of my purse while in your company last night--or,
rather, early this morning?"

Mr. Bootle stared at his friend in blank surprise, but said nothing.

"It contained all the cash I had with me," continued the Captain; "and
I must ask you to lend me a few pounds to pay my hotel bill and carry
me home."

"Was there much in it?"

"A ten-pound note, and some gold and silver."

Mr. Bootle was sitting up in bed by this time, his hands pressed to
his head, his eyes fixed intently on the Captain. "By Jove!" he said,
at last, and there was no mistaking his tone of utter surprise. "Do
you know, Lennox, that your telling me about this brings back
something to my mind that I had forgotten till now. I believe my
pocket also was picked. I have a vague recollection of not being able
to find my watch and chain when I got home this morning, but I tumbled
into bed almost immediately, and thought nothing more of the matter
till you spoke now. Just hand me my togs and let me have another
search."

Mr. Bootle examined his clothes thoroughly; but both watch and chain
were gone. The two men looked at each other in dismay. "It was the
governor's watch," said Freddy, dismally, "and I am uncommonly sorry
it's gone. Bad luck to the scoundrel who took it!"

"You had better get up and have some breakfast, and then we'll go down
to Scotland Yard. The police may be able to trace it into the hands of
some pawnbroker."

"I shall never see the old watch again," said Mr. Bootle, with a
melancholy shake of the head. "And as for breakfast--don't mention the
word."

At this juncture, Philip Cleeve came in, looking none the worse for
last night's vigil. The story of the double loss was at once poured
into his ears by Freddy. Captain Lennox noticed how genuinely
surprised he looked.

"_You_ lost nothing, I suppose?" asked the Captain, in a grumbling
tone, as if he could not get over his own loss.

"Why, no," said Philip, with a laugh. "I had nothing about me worth
taking--only a little loose silver and this ancient turnip--a family
relic, three or four generations old." As he spoke he drew from
his pocket a large old-fashioned silver watch, of the kind our
great-grandfathers used to carry, and held it up for inspection.
"Almost big enough for a family clock, is it not?" he asked, with
another laugh, as he put it away again.

There was silence for a minute or two, Lennox seeming lost in a
reverie. Then he turned to Bootle. "Do you recollect at what time
during the evening you looked at your watch last?"

"My memory as to what happened during the latter part of the evening
is anything but clear," said Freddy. "I seem to have a hazy
recollection of pulling out my watch and looking at it when the clock
in your room chimed something or other."

"That would be half-past two," interrupted Lennox.

"But I can't be quite sure on the point. How about your
purse?--portemonnaie, or whatever it was?"

"As to that, I only know that I missed it first when I came to
undress. I might have been relieved of it hours before, or only a few
minutes."

"Don't you remember two or three rough-looking fellows hustling past
us," asked Philip, "as we stood talking for a minute or two at the
street corner just before Bootle got into the cab?"

Lennox shook his head. "I can't say that I recollect the circumstance
you speak of," he answered.

"But I recollect the affair quite well," said Philip, positively. "One
of the men nearly hustled me into the gutter. Nasty low-looking
fellows they were. I think it most likely that they were the
pickpockets."

The Captain shrugged his shoulders, remarking that all he knew was
that his money was gone; he crossed the room, and began to stare out
of the window. Freddy Bootle was looking dreadfully uncomfortable.

"I am sorry that I can't join you fellows at dinner to-day," said
Philip. "From a letter I received this morning I find I must get back
home at once."

"Oh, nonsense!" both of them interrupted. "That won't do, Cleeve."

"It must do. My mother has written for me. She's ill."

"You can go down the first thing tomorrow," said Captain Lennox.

"A few hours can't make much difference," added Bootle.

Philip shook his head. "When it comes to the mother writing and
confessing she is ill--which she seldom will confess--I know she is
ill, and that she expects me. Perhaps I'll look in again on my way to
the train," added Philip, as he went out. "I have a call or two to
make first."

In the course of the day the Captain and Mr. Bootle went down to
Scotland Yard and reported their losses: though they both seemed to
feel that their doing so was little better than a farce. They dined
together afterwards, and went to the theatre.

Next day the Captain's brief visit came to an end, and he travelled
back to Norfolk.

The evening clock was striking nine as Captain Lennox reached
Nullington station. He secured the solitary fly in waiting, and told
the driver to take him to Heron Dyke. Late though it was, he thought
he would tell the Squire that his gift had reached Miss Winter safely.
What with this robbery and that, it behoved people to be cautious.
Dismissing the fly when he reached the gates of Heron Dyke, Captain
Lennox took out his cane and a small handbag, and rang at the door.

Everything looked dark about the old house. There was not a glimmer of
light anywhere. The shrill clang of the bell broke the deathlike
silence rudely. Presently came the sound of footsteps, and then a
man's voice could be heard as he grumbled and muttered to himself,
while two or three heavy bolts were slowly, and, as it were,
reluctantly withdrawn. "It's old Aaron Stone, and he's in a deuce of a
temper, as he always is," said the Captain to himself. The great oaken
door seemed to groan as it turned on its hinges. It was only opened to
the extent of a few inches, and was still held by the heavy chain
inside.

"Who are you, and what do you mean by disturbing honest folk at this
time o' night?" queried a harsh voice from within.

"I am Captain Lennox. I have just returned from London, and I should
like a few words with the Squire, if not too late."

"The Squire never sees anybody at this time o' night. You had better
come in the morning, Captain."

"I cannot come in the morning. I have a message for Mr. Denison from
his niece, Miss Winter."

"Why couldn't you say so at first?" grumbled the old man. He seemed to
hesitate for a moment or two; then he turned on his heel and went
slowly away down the echoing corridor; a distant door was heard to
shut, and after that all was silence again.

Captain Lennox turned away and whistled a few bars under his breath.
The night was cloudy, and few stars were visible. Here and there one
of the huge clumps of evergreens, in front of the house, was dimly
discernible; and against the background of clouded sky, the black
outlines of the seven tall poplars, that stood on the opposite side of
the lawn, were clearly defined. A brooding quiet seemed to rest over
the whole place, except that every now and then, borne from afar, came
the sound of a faint murmurous monotone, at once plaintive and
soothing. It was the voice of the incoming tide, as it washed softly
up the distant sands.

Captain Lennox shivered, although the night was warm and oppressive.
"What a dismal place!" was his thought. "I Would far sooner live in my
own pretty little cottage than in this big, rambling, draughty,
haunted old house--and it has a haunted look, if house ever had--and
it _is_, if all tales are true. What was that?" he asked himself, with
a start. It seemed to him that he had heard the sound of stealthy
footsteps behind him. His fingers tightened on his cane, and he peered
cautiously around: but nothing was to be seen or heard. Again came the
noise of a far-off door, and again the sound of slow, heavy footsteps
across the stone-floor of the hall. Next minute the chain was
unloosed, and the great door opened a few inches wider. Then was the
rugged face and bent form of old Aaron Stone discernible, as he
cautiously held the door with one hand, while the other held a lighted
lantern.

"You may come in," he said, in ungracious accents. "As you have
brought a message from Miss Ella, the Squire will see you; but it's
gone nine o'clock, Captain, and he never likes to be kept up past his
time--ten."

Captain Lennox stepped inside, and the door behind him was rebolted
and chained. The dim light from the lantern flung fantastic shadows on
wall and ceiling as Aaron went slowly along, but left other things in
semi-darkness. At the end of a passage leading from the opposite side
of the hall was a door, which the old man opened with a pass-key, and
they turned to the right along a narrower passage, into which several
rooms opened. At one of these doors Aaron halted, opened it, and
announced Captain Lennox.

The room into which Lennox was ushered, after leaving his handbag and
cane outside, was a large apartment, with a sort of sombre stateliness
about it which might be imposing, but which was certainly anything but
cheerful. Cheerful, indeed, on the brightest day in summer it was
hardly possible that this room could be. Its panelled walls were black
with age. Here and there a family portrait, dim and faded, and
incrusted with the accumulated grime of generations, stared out at you
with ghostly eyes from the more ghostly depths of blackness behind it.
Whatever colour the ceiling might once have been, it was now one dull
pervading hue of dingy brown. Two or three Indian rugs on the floor; a
bureau carved with leaves and flowers, from the midst of which queer
faces peeped out; two or three tables with twisted legs; an Oriental
jar or two, and a few straight-backed chairs, formed, with two
exceptions, the sole furniture of the room. The windows were high
and narrow, and three in number. They were filled with small
lozenge-shaped panes of thick greenish glass, set in lead; through
which even the brightest summer sunlight penetrated with a chastened
lustre, as though it were half afraid to venture inside. It was night
now, and in the silver sconces over the chimney-piece, and in the
silver candlesticks on one of the tables, some half-dozen wax-candles
were alight; but in that big gloomy room their feeble flame seemed to
do little more than make darkness visible. High up in the middle
window was the family escutcheon in painted glass, and below it a
scroll with the family motto: _What I have, I hold_.

The two exceptions in question were these: a high screen of dark
stamped leather, the figures on which, originally gilt, showed nothing
more than a patch here and there of their whilom lustre; and a huge
chair, which was also covered with the same dark leather. In this
chair was seated the Master of Heron Dyke. The screen was drawn up
behind him, and although the evening was close on midsummer, in the
big open fireplace, in front of which he was sitting, the stump of a
tree was slowly burning; crackling and sputtering noisily every now
and then, as though defying till the last the flames that were
gradually eating it away.

Gilbert Denison sat in this huge leather chair, propped up with
cushions, his legs and feet covered with a bear-skin. The reader at
first might hardly have believed him to be the fine young fellow he
saw in London, sitting by his uncle's death-bed, Gilbert the elder.
But forty-five years suffice to change all of us. He was a very tall,
lean, gaunt old man now: so lean, indeed, that there seemed to be
little more of him than skin and bone. His head was covered with a
black velvet skull-cap, underneath which his long white hair straggled
almost on his shoulders. He had bold, clearly-cut features, and must,
at one time, have been a man of striking appearance. His cheeks had
now fallen in, and his long, straight nose looked pinched and sharp.
His white eyebrows were thick and heavy, but the eyes below them
gleamed out with a strange, keen, crafty sort of intelligence, that
was hardly pleasant to see in one so old. He was clad, this evening,
in a dressing-gown of thick grey duffel, from the sleeves of which
protruded two bony hands, their long fingers just now clutching the
arms of the easy-chair as though they never meant to loosen their
hold again. Finally, on one lean, yellow finger gleamed a splendid
cat's-eye ring, set with brilliants.

Captain Lennox walked slowly forward till he stood close by the
invalid's chair: for an invalid Mr. Denison was, and had been for
years. The latter spoke first. "So--so! You have got back from town,
eh, and brought me a message from my little girl?" said he, looking up
at his visitor with sharp, crafty eyes. "I hope that the London smoke
and London hours have not quite robbed her of her country roses? But
sit down--sit down."

"Miss Winter could hardly look better than when I saw her the day
before yesterday," replied Captain Lennox. "She desired me to present
her dearest love to you, and to tell you that she would not fail to be
back at Heron Dyke on Monday evening next."

"I knew she would be back to her time," chuckled the Squire. "Though,
for that matter, she might have stayed another fortnight had she
wanted to."

He had a harsh, creaking, high-pitched voice, as though there were
some hidden hinges somewhere that needed oiling; and it was curious to
note that Aaron Stone's voice, probably from listening to that of his
master for so many years, had acquired something of the same harsh,
high-pitched tone, only with more of an inherent grumble in it. At a
little distance, a person not in the habit of hearing either of them
speak frequently, might readily have mistaken one voice for the other.

"I fancy, sir," said the Captain, "that Miss Winter is never so happy
as when at Heron Dyke. She strikes me as being one of those
exceptional young ladies who care but little for the gaieties and
distractions of London life."

"Aye, the girl's been happy enough here, under the old roof-tree of
her forefathers. She has been brought up on our wild east coast, and
our cold sea winds have made her fresh and rosy. She is not one of
your town-bred minxes, who find no happiness out of a ball-room or a
boudoir. But she is a child no longer, and girls at her age have
sometimes queer fancies and desires, that come and go beyond their own
control. There have been times of late when I have fancied my pretty
one has moped a little. Maybe, her wings begin to flutter, and to her
young eyes the world seems wide and beautiful, and the old nest to
grow duller and darker day by day."

His voice softened wonderfully as he spoke thus of Ella. He sat and
stared at the burning log, his chin resting on his breast. For the
moment he had forgotten that he was not alone.

Captain Lennox waited a minute and then coughed gently behind his
hand. The Squire turned his head sharply. "Bodikins! I'd forgotten all
about you," he said. "Well, I'm glad you've called to-night, Captain,
though if you had come much later I should have been between the
blankets. We are early birds at the Dyke. And she was looking well,
was she!--forgetting a bit, maybe, the trouble here. You gave my
little present safely into her hands, eh?"

"I did not fail to deliver it speedily, as I had promised. Miss Winter
will tell you herself how delighted she was with its contents."

The Squire chuckled and rubbed his bony hands. "Ay, ay, she was
pleased, was she? I shall have half a dozen kisses for it, I'll be
bound."

The Captain rose to go. "I thought you would like to hear of her
welfare, Squire, or I should not have intruded on you before tomorrow.
And also that I had carried your present to her in safety. London
seems full of mysterious robberies just now."

"It's always that; always that. I won't ask you to stay now," added
the Squire; "you must drop in and see us another time. There's not
much company comes to the Dyke nowadays. But at odd times a friend is
welcome, eh? I've been thinking lately that perhaps my pretty one
would be more lively if she saw more company: she finds it a bit
drear, I fancy, since--since that matter in the winter. You, now, are
young, but not too young; you have travelled, and seen the world, and
you can talk. So you may call--once in a way, you know, eh--why not?"

As soon as Captain Lennox had gone Aaron came in. One by one, he
slowly and with much deliberation extinguished the candles in the
sconces over the chimney-piece, but not those on the table. He then
proceeded to close and bar the shutters of the three high, narrow
windows. It was a whim of Mr. Denison to have the windows of whatever
room he might be sitting in left uncurtained and unshuttered till the
last moment before retiring for the night. "I hate to sit in a room
with its eyes shut," he used to say: and he never would do so if he
could help it.

The clatter made by Aaron roused Mr. Denison from the reverie into
which he had fallen. He lifted his head and watched Aaron bar the
shutters of the last window. "As I drove home this afternoon, master,"
said Aaron, "I saw two strangers loitering about the park gates. They
crossed the stile into the Far Meadow when they saw me, and then they
slipped away behind the hedges."

"Ay, ay--spies--spies!" said the Squire. "They are at their old tricks
again!--I've felt it for weeks. But we'll cheat them yet, Aaron--yes,
we'll cheat them yet. Why, only an hour ago, when it was growing dark,
just before you brought in the candles, as I sat looking out of the
middle window, all at once I saw a man's face above the garden wall,
staring straight into the room. I stared back at it, you may be sure.
But at the end of two minutes or so, I could bear the thing no longer,
so I up with my stick and shook it at the face, and next moment it was
gone."

"I should like to shoot them--and them that send them!" exclaimed
Aaron, viciously.

"They'll prowl about more than ever till the next eleven or twelve
months have come and gone," said the Squire. "If they could see my
coffin carried across the park to the old church, what a merry show
that would be for them!--there'd be no more spying here then. That's
ten o'clock striking. Put out the other candles and let us go."

Captain Lennox left the hall, carrying his cane and his little bag,
and set off homewards. It was a balmy June evening, and the walk
through the park would be a pleasant one. As soon as the door was shut
behind him he proceeded to light a cigar, and, after crossing the lawn
and the old bridge over the moat, he turned to the left and struck
into a narrow footpath through the park, which would prove a shorter
cut to the high road than the winding carriage-drive. Darkness and
silence were around him: the stars gave but little light. He seemed to
follow the pathway by instinct rather than by sight. It was a thinner
line of grass that wound like a ribbon through the thicker grass of
the park. His own footsteps were all but inaudible to him as he
walked.

The pathway took a sudden turn round two gnarled thorn-trees, when all
at once, and without a moment's warning, Captain Lennox found himself
face to face with a dark-hooded figure--hooded and cloaked from head
to foot--which might have sprung out of the ground, so silently and
suddenly did it appear to his sight. The Captain, bold man though he
was, felt startled, and an involuntary cry escaped his lips. The
figure was startled too--it appeared to have been gazing intently at
the windows of the house through the branches of the trees--and would
have turned to run away. But Captain Lennox took a quiet step forward,
and laid his hand upon its shoulder.

"Who are you?--and what are you doing here?" he sternly demanded.

The hood fell back, and in the dim starlight Captain Lennox could just
make out the face of a woman, young and pale, her eyes cast pleadingly
up to his own.

"Oh, sir, don't hold me!--don't keep me!" was the answer, given in a
tone of wailing entreaty, though the voice was one of singular
sweetness. "Please let me go!"

"What are you doing here?" he reiterated, still keeping his hold upon
her. "What were you peeping at the house for?"

"I am looking for Katherine," whispered the girl. "I come here often
to look for her."

"For Katherine!--and who is Katherine?" asked Captain Lennox. But the
next moment he remembered the name, as being the one connected with
that strange mystery that so puzzled Heron Dyke.

"For my sister," softly repeated the girl. "I do no harm, sir, in
coming here to look for her."

"But, my good girl, she is not to be seen, you know; she never will be
seen," he remonstrated, a shade of compassion in his tone.

"But I do see her," answered the girl, her voice dropped to so low a
pitch that he could scarcely hear it. "I have seen her once or twice,
sir; at her own window."

Perhaps Captain Lennox felt a little taken aback at the words. He did
not answer.

"People say she must be dead; I know that," went on the speaker, in
the same hushed tone. "Even mother says that it must be Katherine's
ghost I see. But I think it is herself, sir. I think she is somewhere
inside Heron Dyke."

If Captain Lennox felt a shade of something not agreeable creeping
over him, he may be excused. The subject altogether bordered on the
supernatural.

"My poor girl, had you not better go home and go to bed?" he said,
compassionately. "You can do no possible good by wandering about here
at this time of night."

"Oh, sir, I must wander; I must find out what has become of her," was
the girl's pleading answer. "I can't rest night or day; mother knows I
can't. When I go to sleep it is Katherine's voice that wakes me
again."

"But----"

"Hark! what was that?" she suddenly cried out, laying her hand
lightly, for protection, on the Captain's arm. And he started again,
in spite of himself.

"I heard nothing," he said, after listening a moment.

"There it is again; a second scream. There were two screams, you know,
sir--her screams--heard that snowy February night."

"But, my good girl, there were no screams to be heard now. It is your
imagination. The air is as still as death."

Ere the words were well spoken, the girl was gone. She had vanished
silently behind the thorn-trees. And Captain Lennox, after waiting a
minute or two, and not feeling any the merrier for the encounter,
pursued his walk across the park.

Suddenly, however, as a thought struck him, he turned to look at the
windows of the house. They lay in the shade, gloomy and grim, no
living person, no light, to be seen in any one of them.

"It is a curious fancy of hers, though," muttered the Captain to
himself, as he wheeled round again and went on his way.




CHAPTER IV.
HERON DYKE AND ITS INMATES.


The Denisons--or Denzons, as they used formerly to spell their
name--were one of the oldest families in that part of Norfolk in which
Heron Dyke was situated. They could trace back their descent in a
direct line as far as the reign of Henry the Third, but beyond that
their pedigree was lost in the mists of antiquity. Who was the first
member of the family that settled at Heron Dyke, and how he came by
the estate, were moot points which it was hardly likely would ever be
satisfactorily cleared up after such a lapse of time. The Denisons had
never been more than plain country squires. Several female members of
the family had married people of title, but none of the males had ever
held anything more than military rank. James the Second had offered a
barony to the then head of the family, and the second George a
baronetcy to the Squire of that day, but both offers had been
respectfully declined.

No family in the county was better known, either by name or
reputation, than the Denisons--the "Mad Denisons," as they were often
called, and had been called any time these three hundred years. Not
that any of them had ever been charged with lunacy, or had been shut
up in a madhouse; but they had always been known as an excitable,
eccentric race, full of "queer notions," addicted to madcap pranks and
daredevil feats, such as seldom failed to astonish and sometimes
frighten their quiet neighbours, and had long ago earned for them the
unenviable sobriquet mentioned above.

A Gilbert Denison it was who, in the reign of William and Mary,
wagered a hundred guineas that on a certain fifth of November he would
have a bigger bonfire than his near friend and neighbour, Colonel
Duxberry. A bigger bonfire he certainly had, for with his own hand he
fired three of the largest hayricks on the farm, and so won the wager.

A later Squire Denison it was who, when his father died and he should
have come into the estate, was nowhere to be found, and did not turn
up till two years afterwards. He had quarrelled with his parents and
run away from home; and he was ultimately found earning his living as
bare-back rider in a country circus. He it was who, when his friend
the clown called upon him a year or two later to beg the loan of a
sovereign, dressed the man up in one of his own suits and introduced
him to his guests at table as a distinguished traveller just returned
from the East. Old Lord Fosdyke, who sat next the clown at dinner and
was much taken with him, made a terrible to-do when he was told of the
hoax that had been played off upon him: ever afterwards he refused to
speak or recognise Mr. Denison in any way.

Two other heads of the family lost their lives in duels; one of them
by the hand of his dearest friend, with whom he had had a difference
respecting the colour of a lady's eyebrows: the other by a stranger,
with whom he had chosen to pick a quarrel "just for the fun of the
thing." There was an old distich well known to the country-folk for
twenty miles round Heron Dyke, which sufficiently emphasised the
popular notion of the family's peculiarities. It ran as under:


     "Whate'er a Denzon choose to do,
      Need ne'er surprise nor me nor you."


The existing mansion at Heron Dyke was the third which was known to
have been built on the same site, or in immediate proximity to it. The
present house bore the date 1616, the one to which it was the
successor having been destroyed by fire. There was a tradition in the
family that the whilom lord of Heron Dyke set fire to the roof-tree of
the old mansion with his own hand, hoping by such summary method to
exorcise the ghost of a girl dressed in white and having a red spot on
her breast, which would persist in rambling through the upper chambers
of the house during that weird half-hour when the daylight is dying,
and night has not yet come. He had lately brought home his bride, and
the young wife vowed that she would go back to her mother unless the
ghost were got rid of. It is to be presumed that the means adopted
proved effectual, since there seems to be no further record of the
girl in white ever having put in an appearance afterwards.

The present mansion of Heron Dyke formed three sides of an oblong
square. A low, broad, lichen-covered wall made up the fourth side,
just outside of which ran the moat, a sluggish stream some ten or
dozen feet broad, spanned by an old stone bridge grey with age. The
house, which was but two stories high, was built of the black flints
so common in that part of the country, set in some sort of cement
which age had hardened to the consistency of stone. Here and there the
dull uniformity of the thick walls was relieved by diaper-patterned
pilasters of faded red brick. The high, narrow, lozenge-paned windows
were set in quaintly carved mullions of reddish freestone, the once
sharp outlines of which were now blurred with age. The steep,
high-pitched roof was covered with blue-black tiles which at one time
had been highly glazed, but the rains and snows of many winters had
dimmed their brightness, while in summer many-coloured mosses found
lodgment in their crevices and patched them here and there with
beauty. The tall, twisted chimneys of deep-red brick lent their warmth
and colouring to the picture.

There were dormer windows in the roofs of the two wings, but none in
the main building itself. The grand entrance was reached by a flight
of broad, shallow steps, crowned with a portico that was supported by
five Ionic columns: a somewhat incongruous addition to a house that
otherwise was thoroughly English in all its aspects. In front of the
house was a large oval lawn clumped with evergreens and surrounded by
a carriage-drive. The stables and domestic offices were hidden away at
the back of the house, where also were the kitchen-garden, the
orchard, and a walled-in flower garden, into which looked the windows
of Mr. Denison's favourite sitting-room. Just inside the low, broad
wall, that bounded the moat, grew seven tall poplars, known to the
cottagers and simple fisher-folk thereabouts, as "The Seven Maidens of
Heron Dyke."

The park was not of any great extent, the distance from the moat to
the lodge-gates on the high-road to Nullington being little more than
half a mile. But it was well wooded, and had nothing formal about it,
and such as it was it seemed a fitting complement to the old house
that looked across its pleasant glades. The house was built in a
sheltered hollow not quite half a mile from the sea. It was protected
on the north by a shelving cliff that was crowned with a lighthouse.
Behind it the ground rose gradually and almost imperceptibly for a
couple of miles, till the little town of Nullington was reached. Not
far from the southern corner of the Hall, was an artificial hillock of
considerable size and some fifty or sixty feet in height, which was
thickly planted with larches. The park in front of the house swept
softly upward to its outermost wall. Beyond that, was a protecting
fringe of young larches and scrub-wood, then the ever-shifting
sand-dunes, and, last of all, the cold grey waters of the North Sea.
For miles southward the land was almost as flat as a billiard-table.
The fields were divided by dykes which had been dug for drainage
purposes, with here and there a fringe of pollard willows to break the
dead level of monotony. The sea was invisible from the lower windows
of the Hall, but there was a fine view of it from the dormer windows
in the north wing; and here Ella Winter had had a room fitted up
especially for herself. Had you ever slept at Heron Dyke on a winter
night, when a strong landward breeze was blowing, you would have been
hushed to rest by one of nature's most majestic monotones. When you
lay down and when you arose, you would have had in your ears the
thunderous beat of countless thousands of white-lipped angry waves on
the long level reaches of sand, that stretched away southward for
miles as far as the eye could reach.

When Gilbert Denison, uncle to the present Squire of Heron Dyke, died
from the results of an accident, at his lodgings in Bloomsbury Square,
and when the strange nature of his will came to be noised abroad,
there was no lack of ill-advisers, who did their best to induce the
youthful heir to contest the validity of the dead man's last
testament. But young Gilbert knew that his uncle had never been saner
in his life than when he planned that particular proviso; besides
which, he was far too proud of his family name to drag the will of a
Denison through the mire of the law courts. His uncle, who had always
been looked upon as a sober, thrifty, bucolic-minded sort of man, had
not failed to redeem the family reputation for eccentricity at the
last moment, and young Gilbert had an idea that it was just the sort
of thing he himself would have been likely to do under similar
circumstances.

To the surprise of his boon companions, he quietly accepted the
situation thus forced upon him, and determined to make the best of it.
After giving a farewell symposium to the friends who had so kindly
helped him to sow his wild oats, London saw him no more for several
years. He settled down at Heron Dyke, and became as staid and sober a
specimen of a country gentleman as a Denison was ever likely to
become. His somewhat shattered constitution was now nursed with all
due care and tenderness. If it were in the power of man to defeat that
last hateful clause in his uncle's will, he was the man to do it.

"He will be sure to choose a wife before long," said all the anxious
matrons in the neighbourhood, who had eligible daughters waiting to be
mated. But Gilbert Denison did nothing of the kind. Years went by. He
became a middle-aged man, then an elderly man, and all hope of his
ever changing his bachelor condition gradually died out. There was a
constantly floating rumour in the neighbourhood of a romantic
attachment and a disappointment when he was young; but it might be
nothing more than an idle story. It was even said that the lady had
jilted him in favour of his cousin, and that there would have been
bloodshed between the two men had not the other Gilbert hurried away
with his young wife to Italy.

It was this other Gilbert, or his descendants, who would come in for
the Heron Dyke estates, should the present Squire not live to see his
seventieth birthday. There was no love lost between the senior and
junior branches of the family. The estrangement begun in early life
only widened with years. Its continuance, if not its origin, was
probably due to the Squire's hard and unforgiving disposition. The
other side had more than once made friendly overtures to the head of
the house: but the Squire would have none of them. He hated the whole
"vile crew," root and stump, he said; and if any one of them ever
dared to darken his threshold, he vowed that he would shoot him
without compunction. It was Squire Denison's firm and fixed belief
that the spies sometimes seen around his house--for spies he declared
them to be--were emissaries of his relatives, sent to see whether he
was not likely to die before the all-important birthday.

We made the Squire's acquaintance at his interview with Captain
Lennox, after the return of the latter from London. His sixty-ninth
birthday was just over. Could he but live eleven months more, all
would be well. Ella Winter, in that case, would be heiress to all he
had to leave, for he should will it to her; and his hated cousin, and
his cousin's family, would be left out in the cold, as they deserved
to be. As everybody knew, the Squire had been more or less of an
invalid for many years; but latterly his complaint had assumed a
rather alarming character, and there were weeks together when he never
crossed the threshold of his own rooms. His disorder was a mortal
one--one that would most certainly carry him off at no very distant
date--but that was a fact known to himself and Dr. Spreckley alone.

For the last twenty years the Squire had not kept up an establishment
at the Hall in accordance with his income and position in the county.
There was Aaron Stone, his faithful old body-servant and major-domo,
and Aaron's wife, who was almost as old as he was. There was the old
couple's handsome grandson, Hubert, who was the Squire's steward,
bailiff, gamekeeper, and sometimes secretary and companion. There
were the gardener and his wife at the lodge on the Nullington road.
When to these were added a coachman, a stable-boy, and two or three
women-servants, the whole of the establishment was told. Mr. Denison
had not given a dinner-party for years; or, for the matter of that,
gone to one. Now and then an old acquaintance--such as the vicar, or
Sir Peter Dockwray, or Colonel Townson--would drop in unceremoniously,
and take the chance of whatever there happened to be for dinner; but
beyond such casual visitants, very little company was kept.

Mr. Denison had been compelled to give up horse-exercise some few
years ago. He took his airings in a lumbering, old-fashioned brougham,
which might have been stylish and handsome once. Very often nothing
occupied the shafts but a grey mare, that was nearly as lumbering as
the vehicle itself. Old Aaron could get its best paces out of it when
he drove it in the dog-cart to Nullington market and back. Ella Winter
had a young chestnut filly for riding, powerful yet gentle, for which
her uncle had given quite a fancy price. Another horse in the Squire's
stables was a big, serviceable hack, which Hubert Stone looked upon as
being for his sole use; indeed, no one but himself ever thought of
mounting it. He rode it here and there when about the Squire's
business; and sometimes, perhaps, when about his own. Better than all
else he liked to accompany Ella when she went out riding. He would be
dressed somewhat after the style of a gentleman farmer, in cut-away
coat, buckskins, and top-boots. He did not ride by the side of Ella as
an equal would have done, nor yet so far behind her as a groom. Many
were the comments passed by the gossips of Nullington when they
encountered Miss Winter and her handsome attendant cantering along the
country roads, or quiet lanes that led to nowhere in particular.

Mr. Denison was well seconded in his saving propensities by his old
servant, Aaron Stone. Aaron was born on the Heron Dyke estate, as had
been his ancestors before him for two hundred years. Thus it fell out
that, at the age of nineteen, he was appointed by the late Squire to
attend his nephew when he set out on the Grand Tour, and from that day
to the present he had never left him. There were many points of
similarity in the tempers and dispositions of master and man. Both of
them were obstinate, cross-grained men, with strong wills of their
own, and both of them were inclined to play the small tyrant as far as
their opportunities would allow. They grumbled at each other from
January till December, but were none the less true friends on that
account. No other person dare say to the Squire a tithe of the things
that Aaron said with impunity, and probably no other servant would
have put up with Mr. Denison's wayward humours and variable temper as
Aaron did. Twenty times a year the Squire threatened to discharge his
old servant as being lazy, wasteful, and good-for-nothing; and a month
seldom passed without Aaron vowing that he would pack up his old hair
trunk, and never darken the doors of Heron Dyke again. But neither of
them meant what he said.

Aaron's wife, Dorothy, had been a Nullington girl, and had heard
people talk about the Denisons of Heron Dyke ever since she could
remember anything. She was now sixty-five years old: a little,
withered, timid woman, slightly deaf, and very much in awe of her
husband. She believed in dreams and omens, and was imbued with all
sorts of superstitious fancies local to the neighbourhood and to the
Hall. Perhaps her deafness had something to do with her reticence of
speech, for she was certainly a woman of few words, who went about her
duties in a silent, methodical way, and did not favour strangers.

One son alone had blessed the union of Aaron and Dorothy. He proved to
be something of a wild spark, and ran away from home before he was
one-and-twenty. Subsequently he joined a set of strolling players, and
a year or two later he married one of the company. The young lady whom
he made his wife was reported to come of a good family, and, like
himself, was said to have run away from home. Anyhow, they did not
live long to enjoy their wedded happiness. Four years later the little
boy, Hubert, fatherless and motherless, was brought to Heron Dyke, and
then it was that Aaron Stone learnt for the first time that he had a
grandson.

The Squire was pleased with the lad's looks, and took pity on his
forlorn condition. He was sent to Easterby, and brought up by one of
the fishermen's wives, and when he was old enough he was put to a good
school, Mr. Denison paying all expenses. He always spent his holidays
at the Hall, and there it was, when he was about twelve years old,
that he first saw Ella, who was his junior by two years. Children, as
a rule, think little of the differences of social rank; at all events,
Ella did not, and she and handsome, bright-eyed Hubert soon became
great friends. Mr. Denison, if he noticed the intimacy, did not
disapprove of it. They were but children, and no harm could come of
it; and perhaps it was as well that Ella should have some one with her
besides Nero, the big retriever, when she went for her lonely rambles
along the shore, or gathering nuts and blackberries in the country
lanes. This pleasant companionship--both pleasant and dangerous to
Hubert, young though he still was--was renewed and kept up every
holiday season till the boy was sixteen. Then all at once there came a
great gap. Ella was sent abroad to finish her education, and although
she saw her uncle several times in the interim, Hubert, as it
happened, saw no more of her till she came home for good at nineteen
years of age. But before this came about, Hubert's own career in life
had been settled: at least, for some time to come. When the boy was
seventeen the Squire decided that he had had enough schooling, and
that it was time for him to set about earning his living. How he was
to set about it was apparently a point that required some
consideration; meanwhile, the boy stayed on at Heron Dyke. He was a
bold rider and a good shot. He wrote an excellent hand, and was quick
at figures. In fact, he was an intelligent, teachable young fellow,
who had made good use of his opportunities at school: moreover, he
could keep his temper well under control when it suited him to do so;
and, little by little, the Squire began to find him useful in many
ways. He himself was growing old, and Aaron got more stupid every year
that he lived. By-and-by nothing more was said about Hubert having to
earn a living elsewhere. He relieved the Squire of many duties that
had become irksome to him; and when a man of his years has once
dropped a burden he rarely cares to pick it up again. In short, by the
time Hubert was twenty years old he had made himself thoroughly
indispensable to the Squire.

No one but Hubert himself ever knew with what a fever of unrest he
awaited the coming home of Ella Winter. Had she forgotten him? Would
she recognise him after all these years? How would she greet him? He
tormented himself with a thousand vain questions. He knew now that he
loved her with all the devotion of a deeply passionate heart.

Miss Winter came at last. The moment her eyes rested on Hubert she
recognised him, changed though he was. She came up to him at once, and
held out her hand.

"When I see so many faces about me that I remember, then I know that I
am at home," she said, looking into his eyes with that sweetly serious
look of hers.

Hubert touched her hand, blushed, and stammered; although, as a
rule, there were few young men more self-possessed than he was.
At the same moment a chill ran through him. His heart seemed as
if it must break. The Ella of his day-dreams--the bright-eyed,
sunny-haired little maiden, who had treated him almost like a
brother, who had grasped his wrist when she leaped across the
runlets in the sands, who had imperiously ordered him to drag
down the tall branches of the nut-trees till the fruit was within
her reach--had vanished from his ken for ever. In her stead
stood Miss Winter, a strangely-beautiful young lady, whose face
was familiar and yet unfamiliar. As he saw and recognised this, he
saw, too, and recognised for the first time, the impassable gulf that
divided them. She was a lady, the daughter of an ancient house: he was
not a gentleman, and nothing could ever make him one, at least in her
eyes, or in the eyes of the world to which she belonged. He was a son
of the soil. He was Gurth the swineherd, and she was the Lady Rowena.
What folly, what madness, to love one so utterly beyond his reach!




CHAPTER V.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.


"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 of _her_ room," spoke the other from her
pale and frightened lips. "Miss Ella, I am _sure_ it 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.




CHAPTER VI.
ONE SNOWY NIGHT.


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 no _chance_ that 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 a _fright_, 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."




CHAPTER VII.
COMING TO DINNER.


Miss Winter sat in her low chair by the window of her sitting-room in
the north wing; for though she had abandoned her bedroom in that
quarter, she still, on occasion, sat in that. A closed book lay on her
lap, her chin was resting on the palm of one hand, and her eyes, to
all appearance, were taking in for the thousandth time the features of
the well-known scene before her. But in reality she saw nothing of it:
her thoughts were elsewhere. This was Tuesday, the day fixed for
Edward Conroy to dine at the Hall. How came it that his image--the
image of a man whom she had seen but twice in her life--dwelt so
persistently in her thoughts? She was vexed and annoyed with herself
to find how often her mind went wandering off in a direction where--or
so she thought--it had no right to go. She tried her hardest to keep
it under control, to fill it with the occupations that had hitherto
sufficed for its quiet contentment, but at the first unguarded moment
it was away again, to bask in sunshine, as it were, till caught in the
very act, and haled ignominiously back.

"Why must I be for ever thinking about this man?" she asked herself
petulantly, as she sat this morning by the window, and a warm flush
thrilled her even while the question was on her lips. She was ashamed
to remember that even at church on Sunday morning she could not get
the face of Edward Conroy out of her thoughts. The good vicar's sermon
had been more prosy and commonplace than usual, and do what she might,
Ella could not fix her attention on it. She caught herself half a
dozen times calling to mind what Conroy had said on Thursday, and
wondering what he would say on Tuesday. She had no intention of
falling in love, either with him or with any other man; on that point
she was firmly resolved. She and Maria Kettle had long ago agreed that
they could be of more use in the world, of greater service to the
poor, the sick, and the forlorn among their fellow-creatures, as
single women than as married ones; and Ella, for her part, had no
intention of letting any man carry her heart by storm.

Yet, after making all these brave resolutions, here she was, wondering
and hesitating as to which dress she should wear, as she had never
wondered or hesitated before; and when the clock struck eleven, she
caught herself saying, "In six more hours he will be here." Then she
jumped up quickly with a gesture of impatience. She was the slave of
thoughts over which she seemed to have no control. It was a slavery
that to her proud spirit was intolerable. She could not read this
morning. Her piano appealed to her in vain. Her crewel-work seemed the
tamest of tame occupations. She put on her hat and scarf, and, calling
to Turco, set off at a quick pace across the park. Perhaps the fresh
bracing air that blew over the sand-hills would cool the fever of
unrest that was in her veins. Once she said to herself, "I wish he had
never come to Heron Dyke!" But next moment a proud look came into her
face, and she said, "Why should I fear him more than any other?"

Ella Winter has hitherto been spoken of as though she were Mr.
Denison's niece; she was in reality his grand-niece, being the
grand-daughter of an only sister, who had died early in her married
life, leaving one son behind her. This son, at the age of twenty-two,
married a sister of Mrs. Carlyon, but his wedded life was of brief
duration. Captain Winter and his wife both died of fever in the West
Indies, leaving behind them Ella, their only child.

Mrs. Carlyon, a widow and childless, would gladly have adopted the
orphan niece who came to her under these sad circumstances, but Squire
Denison would not hear of such a thing. He had a prior claim to the
child, he said, and she must go to him and be brought up under his
care. He had no children of his own, and never would have any: Ella
was the youngest and last descendant of the elder branch of the
family, and Heron Dyke and all that pertained to it should be hers in
time to come, provided always that he, Gilbert Denison, should live to
see his seventieth birthday. He had loved his sister Lavinia as much
as it was in his nature to love anyone; and her son, had he lived,
would, in the due course of things, have been his heir. But he was
dead, leaving behind him only this one poor little girl. To Gilbert
Denison it seemed that Providence had dealt very hardly by him in
giving him no male heir to inherit the family honours. He himself
would have married years ago had he anticipated such a result.

For six hundred years the property had come down from male heir to
male heir, but now at last the line of direct succession would be
broken. "If Ella had only been a boy!" he sighed to himself a thousand
times: but Ella was that much more pleasing article--except from the
heir-at-law point of view--a beautiful young woman, and nothing could
make her anything else.

On the confines of the park, just as she was about to turn out of it,
Ella met Captain Lennox, who was coming to call on the Squire. It was
the first time Ella had seen him since her return from London, for the
Captain had been again from home. He had aristocratic relatives, it
was understood, in various parts of the kingdom, and was often away on
visits to them for weeks together.

"You are looking better than you were that night at Mrs. Carlyon's,"
he remarked, as they stood talking.

"Am I?" returned Ella, a rosy blush suffusing her face--for the idea
somehow struck her that Mr. Conroy's presence in the neighbourhood
might be making her look bright.

"Very much so, I think. Mrs. Carlyon was not quite satisfied with your
looks then. By-the-way," added the Captain, after a pause, "has she
recovered her jewels, that were lost that night?"

"No. She is quite in despair. I had a letter from her yesterday. You
heard of the loss then, Captain Lennox?"

"I heard of it the following day. Ill news travels fast," he added
lightly, noting Ella's look of surprise.

"How did you hear of it? I fancied you left London that day."

"No, the next. I heard of it from young Cleeve. He called on Mrs.
Carlyon that morning, and came back in time for me and Bootle to see
him off. Cleeve told us of the loss on the way to the station. It was
a time of losses, Miss Winter. I lost my purse, and poor Bootle his
watch--one he valued--the same night."

"Yes, Freddy told us of it later. He thought you were robbed in the
street."

"I know he thought so. I did at first. But our losses were nothing
compared with Mrs. Carlyon's jewels," continued Captain Lennox
rapidly, as though he would cover his last words. "And the jewel-case
was found the next day; and the thief must have walked off with the
trinkets in his pocket!"

"Just so. And they were worth quite three hundred pounds."

Captain Lennox opened his eyes.

"Three hundred pounds! So much as that! I wonder how they were taken!
By some light-handed fellow, I suppose, who contrived to find his way
upstairs amid the general bustle of the house."

"No, we think not. The servants say it was hardly possible for anyone
to do that unnoticed; Aunt Gertrude thinks the same; And the servants
are all trustworthy. It is a curious matter altogether."

Captain Lennox looked at her.

"Surely you cannot suspect any of the guests?"

"It would be uncharitable to do that," was Ella's light answer. But
the keen-witted Captain noticed that she did not deny it more
emphatically.

"What a pity that the jewels were not safely locked up!" he exclaimed.

"The dressing-room, in which they were, was locked; at least, the key
was turned--and who would be likely to intrude into it? Aunt Gertrude
remembers that perfectly. She found Philip Cleeve lying on the sofa in
her boudoir with a bad headache, and she went into the dressing-room
to get her smelling-salts, unlocking the door to enter. Whether she
relocked it is another matter."

"Did Cleeve notice whether anybody else went in while he was lying
there?"

"He thinks not, but he can't say for certain--we asked him that
question the next morning. He fancies that he fell asleep for a few
minutes: his head was very bad. Anyway, the jewels are gone, and Aunt
Gertrude can get no clue to the thief, so it is hopeless to talk of
it," concluded Ella, somewhat wearily. "How is your sister?"

"Quite well, thank you. Why don't you come and see her?"

"I will; I have been very busy since I came home. And tell her,
please, that I hope she will come to see me. Good-bye for the present,
Captain Lennox: you are going on to my uncle; perhaps you will not be
gone when I get back; I shall not be very long."

Ella tripped lightly on, Turco striding gravely beside her. Captain
Lennox stood for a minute to look after her.

"I wonder," he muttered to himself, stroking his whiskers--a habit of
his when he fell into a brown study--"whether it has crossed Mrs.
Carlyon's mind to suspect Philip Cleeve?"

After all her vacillation, Ella went down to dinner that evening in a
simple white dress. She could hardly have chosen one to suit her
better; at least, so thought Mr. Conroy, when he entered the room. The
dinner was not homely, as on the first occasion of his dining there;
Ella had ordered it otherwise. It was served on some of the grand old
family plate, not often brought to light; and the table was decorated
with flowers from the Vicar's charming garden.

But what surprised Aaron more than anything else was to see his master
dressed, and wearing a white cravat. He went about the house
muttering, _sotto voce_, that there were no fools like old fools,
and if these sort of extravagant doings were about to set in at the
Hall--soups and fish and foreign kickshaws--it was time old-fashioned
attendants went out of it. The Squire, in fact, had so thoroughly
inoculated the old man with his own miserly ways, that for Aaron to
see an extra shilling spent on what he considered unnecessary waste,
was to set him grumbling for a day.

Whether it was that Ella had a secret dread of passing another evening
alone with Conroy, or whether her intention was to render the evening
more attractive to him, she had, in any case, asked her uncle to allow
her to invite the Vicar and Maria, Lady Cleeve and Philip, and Captain
Lennox and his sister, to meet Mr. Conroy at dinner. But here the
Squire proved obstinate. Not one of the people named would he invite,
or indeed anyone else.

"That young artist fellow is welcome to come and take pot-luck with
us," he said, "but I'll have none of the rest. And why I asked him,
I'm sure I don't know. There was something about him, I suppose, that
took my fancy; though what right an invalid man like me has to have
fancies, is more that I can tell."

Conroy seemed quite content to find himself the solitary guest. Ella
was more reserved and silent than he had hitherto seen her, but he
strove to interest her and melt her reserve; and after a time he
succeeded in doing so. Once or twice, at first, when she caught
herself talking to him with animation, or even questioning him with
regard to this or the other, she suddenly subsided into silence,
blushing inwardly as she recognised how futile her resolves and
intentions had proved themselves to be. Conroy seemed not to notice
these abrupt changes, and in a little while Ella would again become
interested, again her eyes would sparkle, and eager questions tremble
on her lips. Then all at once an inward sting would prick her, her
lips would harden into marble firmness and silence. But these
alternations of mood could not last for ever, and by-and-by the charm
and fascination of the situation proved too much for her. "After this
evening I shall probably never see him again," she pleaded to herself,
as if arguing with some inward monitor. "What harm can there be if I
enjoy these few brief hours?"

Mr. Denison was more than usually silent. Now and then, after dinner,
he dozed for a few minutes in his huge leathern chair; and presently,
as though he yearned to be alone, he suggested that Conroy and Ella
should take a turn in the grounds.

Ella wrapped a fleecy shawl round her white dress, and they set out.
Traces of sunset splendour still lingered in the western sky, but from
minute to minute the dying colours changed and deepened: saffron
flecked with gold fading into sea-green, and that into a succession of
soft opaline tints and pearly greys, edged here and there with
delicate amber; while in mid-sky the drowsy wings of darkness were
creeping slowly down.

They walked on through the dewy twilight glades of the park. Conroy
seemed all at once to have lost his speech. Neither of them had much
to say, but to both the silence exhaled a subtle sweetness. There are
moments when words seem a superfluity--almost on impertinence. To
live, to breathe--to feel that beside you is the living, breathing
presence of the one supremely loved, is all that you ask for. It is
well, perhaps, that such sweetly dangerous moments come so seldom in a
lifetime.

They left the park by a wicket, took a winding footway through the
plantation beyond, and reached the sand-hills, where they sat down for
a few moments. Before them lay the sea, touched in mid-distance with
faint broken bars of silvery light; for by this time the moon had
risen, and all the vast spaces of the sky were growing brighter with
her presence.

"How this scene will dwell in my memory when I am far away!" exclaimed
Conroy at length.

"Are you going far away?" asked Ella, in a low voice.

"I received a letter from head-quarters this morning, bidding me hold
myself in readiness to start for Africa at a few hours' notice."

"For Africa! That is indeed a long way off. Why should you be required
to go to Africa?"

"The King of Ashantee is growing troublesome. We are likely before
long to get from words to blows. War may be declared at any moment."

"And the moment war is declared you must be ready to start?"

"Even so. Wherever I am sent, there I must go."

"Yours is a dangerous vocation, Mr. Conroy. You run many risks."

"A few--not many. As for danger, there is just enough of it to make
the life a fascinating one."

"Yes; if I were a man I don't think I could settle down into a quiet
country gentleman. I should crave for a wider horizon, for a more
adventurous life, for change, for----"

She ended abruptly. Once again her enthusiasm was running away with
her. There was a moment's silence, and then she went on, laughing:

"But I am content to be as I am, and to leave such wild rovings to you
gentlemen! And now we must go back to my uncle, or he will wonder what
has become of us."

Little was said during the walk back. Despite herself, Ella's heart
sank at the thought of Conroy's going so far away. She asked, mentally
and impatiently, what it could matter to her where he went. Had she
not said twenty times that tomorrow all this would seem like a dream,
and that in all likelihood she and Conroy would never meet again? What
matter, then, so long as they did not see each other, whether they
were separated by five miles or five thousand?

"Body o' me! I thought you were lost," exclaimed the Squire, as they
re-entered the room. "Been for a ramble, eh? seen the sea! Fine
evening for it. And when do you come down into this part of the
country again, Mr. Sketcher?"

"That is more than I can say, sir. My movements are most erratic and
uncertain."

"Mr. Conroy thinks it not unlikely he may be sent to Africa--to
Ashantee," said Ella, a little ring of pathos in her voice.

"Ah--ah--nothing like plenty of change when you are young. Bad
climate, though, Ashantee, isn't it? You'll have to be careful Yellow
Jack doesn't lay you by the heels. He's a deuce of a fellow out there,
from all I've heard. Eh?"

"I must take my chance of that, sir, as other people have to do."

"You talk like a lad of spirit. Snap your fingers in the face of
Yellow Jack, and ten to one he'll glance at you and pass you by. It's
the tremblers he lays hold of first."

"Why should you be chosen, Mr. Conroy, for these posts of danger?"
inquired Ella. "Cannot some one else share such duties?"

"Is it not possible that I may prefer such duties to any other? They
do not suit everyone. As it happens they suit me."

"Have you no mother or sister--who may fear your running into
unnecessary dangers?"

"I have neither mother nor sister. I have a father; but he lets me do
what seems right in my own eyes."

Mr. Denison took what for him was a very cordial leave of Conroy.

"If I am alive when you come back," he said, as he held the younger
man's hand in his for a moment, "do not forget that there will be a
welcome for you at Heron Dyke. If I am not alive--then it won't
matter, so far as I am concerned."

Ella took leave of Conroy at the door. Hardly more than a dozen words
passed between them.

"If you must go to Africa," she said, "I hope you will not run any
needless risks."

"I will not. I promise it."

"We shall often think of you," she added, in a low voice.

"And I of you, be you very sure."

Her fingers were resting in his hand. He bent and pressed them to his
lips, and--the next moment he was gone.




CHAPTER VIII.
AT THE LILACS.


Nullington was a sleepy little town, standing a mile, or more, from
Heron Dyke, and boasted of some seven or eight thousand inhabitants.
The extension of the railway to Nullington was supposed to have made a
considerable addition to its liveliness and bustle: but that could
only be appreciated by those who remembered a still more sleepy state
of affairs, when the nearest railway station was twenty miles away,
and when the Mermaid coach seemed one of those institutions which must
of necessity last for ever.

Nullington stood inland. Of late years a sort of suburb to the old
town had sprung up with mushroom rapidity on the verge of the low
sandy cliffs that overlooked the sea, to which the name of New
Nullington had been given. Already New Nullington possessed terraces
of lodging-houses, built to suit the requirements of visitors, and
some good houses were springing up year by year. Several well-to-do
families, who liked "the strong sweet air of the North Sea," had taken
up their residence there _en permanence_.

It was a pleasant walk from New Nullington along the footpath by the
edge of the cliff, with the wheat-fields on one hand and the sea on
the other. When you reached the lighthouse, the cliff began to fall
away till it became merged in great reaches of shifting sand, which
stretched southward as far as the eye could reach. Here, at the
junction of cliff and sand, was the lifeboat station, while a few
hundred yards inland, and partly sheltered from the colder winds by
the sloping shoulder of the cliff, stood the little hamlet of
Easterby. A few fishermen's cottages, a few labourers' huts--and they
were little better than huts--an alehouse or two, a quaint old church
which a congregation of fifty people sufficed to fill, and a few
better-class houses scattered here and there, made up the whole of
Easterby.

Easterby and New Nullington might be taken as the two points of the
base of a triangle, with the sea for their background, of which the
old town formed the apex. The distance of the latter was very nearly
the same from both places. About half-way between Easterby and the old
town of Nullington, you came to the lodge which gave access to the
grounds and Hall of Heron Dyke.

On the other side of Nullington, on the London road, stood Homedale, a
pretty modern-built villa, standing in its own grounds, the residence
of Lady Cleeve and her son Philip.

Lady Cleeve had not married until late in life, and Philip was her
only child. She had been the second wife of Sir Gunton Cleeve, a
baronet of good family but impoverished means. There was a son by the
first marriage, who had inherited the title and such small amount of
property as came to him by entail. The present Sir Gunton was in
the diplomatic service at one of the foreign courts. He and his
step-mother were on very good terms. Now and then he wrote her a
cheery little note of a dozen lines, and at odd times there came a
little present from him, just a token of remembrance, which was as
much as could be expected from so poor a man.

Lady Cleeve had brought her husband fifteen thousand pounds in all,
the half of which only was settled on herself; and her present income
was but three hundred and fifty pounds a year. The house, however, was
her own. She kept two women-servants, and lived of necessity a plain
and unostentatious life; saving ever where she could for Philip's
sake. That young gentleman, now two-and-twenty years old, was not yet
in a position to earn a guinea for himself; though it was needful that
he should dress-well and have money to spend, for was he not the
second son of Sir Gunton Cleeve?

For the last two years Philip had been in the office of Mr. Tiplady,
the one architect of whom Nullington could boast, and who really had
an extensive and high-class practice. Mr. Tiplady had known and
respected Lady Cleeve for a great number of years; and, being quite
cognisant of her limited means, he had agreed to take Philip for a
very small premium, but as yet did not pay him any salary. The opening
was not an unpromising one, there being some prospect that Philip
might one day succeed to the business, for the architect had neither
chick nor child.

Another prospect was also in store for Philip--that he should marry
Maria Kettle. The Vicar and Lady Cleeve, old and firm friends, had
somehow come to a tacit notion upon the point years ago, when the
children were playfellows together; and Philip and Maria understood it
perfectly--that they were some day to make a match of it. It was not
distasteful to either of them. Philip thought himself in love with
Maria; perhaps he was so after a fashion; and there could be little
doubt that Maria loved Philip with all her heart. And though she could
not see her way clear to leave the parish as long as her father was
vicar of it, she did admit to herself in a half-conscious way that if,
in the far, very far-off future, she could be brought to change her
condition, it would be for the sake of Philip Cleeve.

Midway between the old town and the new one, was The Lilacs, the
pretty cottage ornée of which Captain Lennox and his sister, Mrs.
Ducie, were the present tenants. The cottage was painted a creamy
white, and had a verandah covered with trailing plants running round
three sides of it. It was shut in from the high-road by a thick
privet-hedge and several clumps of tall evergreens. Flower-borders
surrounded the house, in which was shown the perfection of
ribbon-gardening, and the well-kept lawn was big enough for Badminton
or lawn-tennis. There was no view from the cottage beyond its own
grounds. It lay rather low, and was perhaps a little too much shut in
by trees and greenery: all the same, it was a charming little place.

Here, on a certain evening in September, for the weeks have gone on, a
pleasant little party had met to dine. There was the host, Captain
Lennox. After him came Lord Camberley, a great magnate of the
neighbourhood. The third was our old acquaintance, Mr. Bootle, with
his eye-glass and his little fluffy moustache. Last of all came
handsome Philip Cleeve, with his brown curly hair and his ever-ready
smile. The only lady present was Mrs. Ducie.

Teddy Bootle had run down on a short visit to Nullington, as he often
did. He and Philip had found Captain Lennox and Lord Camberley in the
billiard-room of the Rose and Crown Hotel--Master Philip being too
fond of idling away his hours, and just now it was a very slack time
at the office. Lennox at once introduced Mr. Bootle to his lordship,
and he condescended to be gracious to the little man, whose income was
popularly supposed to be of fabulous extent. Philip he knew to nod to;
but the two were not much acquainted. The Captain proposed that they
should all go home and dine with him at The Lilacs, and he at once
scribbled a note to his sister, Mrs. Ducie, that she might be prepared
for their arrival.

Lord Camberley was a good-looking, slim-built, dark-complexioned man
of eight-and-twenty. He had a small black moustache, his hair was
cropped very short, and he was fond of sport as connected with the
racecourse. By his father's death a few months ago he had come into a
fortune of nine thousand a year. He lived, when in the country, at
Camberley Park, a grand old Elizabethan mansion about five miles from
Nullington, where his aunt, the Honourable Mrs. Featherstone, kept
house for him.

It was at the billiard-table that he and Lennox had first met. A
billiard-table is like a sea voyage: it brings people together for a
short time on a sort of common level, and acquaintanceships spring up
which under other circumstances would never have had an existence. The
advantage is that you can drop them again when the game is over, or
the voyage at an end: though people do not always care to do that. In
the dull little town of Nullington the occasional society of a man
like Captain Lennox seemed to Lord Camberley an acquisition not to be
despised. They had many tastes and sympathies in common. The Captain
was always well posted up in the state of the odds; in fact, he made a
little book of his own on most of the big events of the year. There
were few better judges of the points of a horse or a dog than he. Then
he could be familiar without being presuming: Lord Camberley, who
never forgot that he was a lord, hated people who presumed. Lennox, in
fact, was a "deuced nice fellow," as he more than once told his aunt.
Meanwhile he cultivated his society a good deal: he could always drop
him when he grew tired of him, and it was his lordship's way to grow
tired of everybody before long.

Five minutes after they had assembled Margaret Ducie entered the room.
Lord Camberley had seen her several times previously, but to Bootle
and Philip she was a stranger. Her brother introduced them. There was
perhaps a shade more cordiality in the greeting she accorded to Bootle
than in the one she vouchsafed to Philip. Camberley, the cynical, who
was looking on, and who prided himself, with or without cause, on his
knowledge of the sex, muttered under his breath, "She knows already
which is the rich man and which the poor clerk. Lennox must have put
her up to that."

Mrs. Ducie was a brunette. She had a great quantity of jet-black silky
hair, and large black liquid eyes. Her nose was thin, high-bred, and
aquiline, and she rarely spoke without smiling. Her figure was tall
and somewhat meagre in its outlines; but whether she sat, or stood, or
walked, every movement and every pose was instinct with a sort of
picturesque and unstudied grace. She dressed very quietly, and when
abroad her almost invariable wear was a gown of some plain black
material. But about that simple garment there was a style, a fit, a
suspicion of something in cut or trimming, in the elaboration of a
flounce here or the addition of a furbelow there, that to the
observant mind hinted at the latest Parisian audacity, and of secrets
which as yet were scarcely whispered beyond Mayfair. The ladies of
Nullington and its neighbourhood could only envy and admire, and
imitate afar off.

Mrs. Ducie was one of those women whose age it is next to impossible
to guess correctly. "She's thirty if she's a day," Lord Camberley had
said to himself, within five minutes of his introduction to her. "She
can't possibly be more than three-and-twenty," was Philip Cleeve's
verdict to-day. The truth, in all probability, lay somewhere between
the two.

Whatever her age might be, Lord Camberley had a great admiration for
Mrs. Ducie, but it was after a fashion of his own. He was thoroughly
artificial himself, and rustic beauty, or simplicity eating bread and
butter in a white frock, had no charms for him. He liked a woman who
had seen and studied the world of "men and manners;" and that Mrs.
Ducie had travelled much, and seen many phases of life, he was
beginning by this time to discover. He was on his guard when he first
made her acquaintance, lest he might be walking into a matrimonial
trap, artfully baited by herself and her brother; for Lord Camberley
was a mark for anxious mothers and daughters: not but that he felt
himself quite capable of looking after his own interests on that
point. Still, however wide-awake a man may believe himself to be, it
is always best to be wary in this crafty world; and very wary he was
the first three or four times he visited The Lilacs. He was not long,
however, in perceiving that, whatever matrimonial designs Margaret
Ducie might or might not have elsewhere, she was without any as far as
he was concerned; and from that time he felt at ease in the cottage.

Captain Lennox's little dinners were thoroughly French in style and
cookery. They were good  without being over-elaborate. Camberley's
idea was that the pretty widow, despite her white and delicate hands,
was oftener in the kitchen than most people imagined. When dinner was
over, the gentlemen adjourned to the verandah to smoke their cigars
and sip their coffee; while in the drawing-room, the French windows of
which were open to the garden lighted only by one shaded lamp,
Margaret sat and played in a minor key such softly languishing airs,
chiefly from the old masters, as accorded well with the September
twilight and the _far niente_ feeling induced by a choice dinner.

Philip Cleeve felt like a man who dreams and is yet awake. Never
before had he been in the company of a woman like Mrs. Ducie. There
was a seductive witchery about her such as he had no previous
knowledge of. It was not that she took more notice of him than of
anyone else--it maybe that she took less; but he fell under the
influence of that subtle magnetism, so difficult to define, and yet so
very evil in its effects, which some women exercise over some men,
perhaps without any wish or intention on their part of doing so. In
the case of Philip it was a sort of mental intoxication, delicious and
yet with a hidden pain in it, and with a vague underlying sense of
unrest and dissatisfaction for which he was altogether unable to
account.

After a time somebody proposed cards--probably it was Camberley--and
as no one objected, they all went indoors.

"What are we going to play?--whist?" queried Lennox, while the servant
was arranging the table.

"Nothing so slow as whist, I hope," said his lordship. "A quiet hand
at 'Nap' would be more to my taste."

"How say you, gentlemen? I suppose we all play that vulgar but
fascinating game?" said the Captain.

"I know a little of it," answered Bootle.

"I have only played it once," said Philip.

"If you have played once, it's as good as having played it a thousand
times," said Camberley, dogmatically. "I'm not over-brilliant at cards
myself, but I picked up Napoleon in ten minutes."

"Shilling points, I suppose?" said Lennox.

Camberley shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing, and they all sat
down.

There was an arched recess in the room, fitted with an ottoman. It was
Mrs. Ducie's favourite seat. Here she sat now, engaged on some piece
of delicate embroidery, looking on, and smiling, and giving utterance
to an occasional word or two between the deals, but not interrupting
them.

Philip Cleeve, notwithstanding that he was less conversant with the
game than his companions, and that the black eyes of Mrs. Ducie would
persist in coming between him and his cards--he could see her from
where he sat almost without a turn of his head--was very fortunate in
the early part of the evening, carrying all before him. He found
himself, at the end of an hour and a half's play, a winner of close on
three sovereigns, which to a narrow pocket seems a considerable sum.

"This is too sleepy!" cried Camberley at last. "Can't we pile up the
agony a bit, eh, Lennox?"

"I'm in your hands," said the Captain.

"What say you, Mr. Bootle?" queried his lordship. "Shall we turn our
shillings into half-crowns? That will afford a little more excitement,
eh?"

"Then a little more excitement let us have by all means," answered
good-natured Freddy, who cared not whether he lost or won.

But now Philip's luck seemed at once to desert him. What with the
extra wine he had taken, and the glamour cast over him by the
proximity of Mrs. Ducie, his judgment became entirely at fault. In
half an hour he had lost back the whole of his winnings; a little
later still, his pockets were empty. It is true he only had two
sovereigns about him at starting, so that his loss was not a heavy
one; but it was quite heavy enough for him. He was hesitating what he
should do next--whether borrow of Bootle or Lennox--when all at once
he remembered that he had money about him. In the course of the day he
had collected an account amounting to twenty pounds, due to Mr.
Tiplady, and it was still in his possession. He felt relieved at once.
There was a chance of winning back what he had lost. With a hand that
shook a little he poured out some wine and water at the side-table,
and then sat down to resume his play.

When the clock on the chimney-piece chimed eleven, Lord Camberley
threw down his cards, saying he would play no more, and Philip Cleeve
found himself with a solitary half-sovereign left in his pocket.

He got up, feeling stunned and giddy, and stepped out through the
French window into the verandah. Here he was presently joined by the
rest. Lennox thrust a cigar into his hand, and they all lighted up.
The night was sultry; but after the warmth of the drawing-room such
fresh air as there was seemed welcome to all of them. They went slowly
down the main walk of the garden towards the little fish-pond at the
end, Camberley and Mrs. Ducie, for she had strolled out too, being a
little behind the others.

"I am going to drive my drag to the Agricultural Show at Norwich next
Tuesday," said his lordship to her. "Lennox has promised to go. May I
hope that you will honour me with your company on the box seat on the
occasion?"

"Who is going beside yourself and Ferdinand?" she asked.

"Captain Maudesley, and Pierpoint. Sir John Fenn will probably pack
himself inside with his gout."

"But the other ladies--who are they?"

"Um--well, to tell you the truth, I had not thought about asking any
other lady."

"Ah! Then, I'm not sure that I should care to go with you, Lord
Camberley. Five gentlemen and one lady--that would never do."

"Let me beg of you to reconsider----"

"Pray do nothing of the kind. I would rather not."

"I am awfully sorry," said his lordship, in something of a huff.
"Confound this cigar! And confound such old-fashioned prudish
notions!" he added to himself. "I'd not have thought it of her."

She walked back, after saying a pleasant word or two, and fell into
conversation with Philip Cleeve. He seemed distrait. She thought he
had taken enough champagne, and felt rather sorry for the young
fellow.

"Do you never feel dull, Mrs. Ducie," he asked, "now that you have
come to live among the sand-hills?"

"Oh no. The people I have been introduced to here are all very nice
and kind; and then I have my ponies, you know; and there's my music,
and my box from Mudie's once a month; so that I have not much time for
ennui. My tastes are neither very æsthetic nor very elevated, Mr.
Cleeve."

"They are at least agreeable ones," answered Philip.

As Philip Cleeve walked home a war of feelings was at work within him,
such as he had never experienced before. On the one hand there was the
loss of Mr. Tiplady's twenty pounds; which must be made good tomorrow
morning. He turned hot and cold when he thought of what he had done.
He knew it was wrong, dishonourable--what you will. How he came to do
it he could not tell--just as we all say when the apple's eaten and
only the bitter taste left. He must ask his mother to make good the
loss; but it would never do to tell her the real facts of the case. He
should not like her to think him dishonourable--and she was not well,
and it would vex her terribly. He must go to her with some sort of
excuse--a poor one would do, so utterly unsuspicious was she. This was
humiliation indeed. He was almost ready to take a vow never to touch a
card again. Almost; but not quite.

On the other hand, his thoughts would fly off to Margaret Ducie and
her thousand nameless witcheries. There was quite a wild fever in his
blood when he dwelt on her. It seemed a month since he had last seen
and spoken with Maria Kettle--Maria, that sweet, pale abstraction, who
seemed to him to-night so unsubstantial and far away. But he did not
want to think of her just now. He wanted to forget that he was engaged
to her, or as good as engaged. Though some innate voice of conscience
whispered that, if he valued his own peace of mind, it would be well
for him to keep out of the way of the beautiful ignis fatuus which had
shone on his path to-night for the first time.




CHAPTER IX.
THE DOCTOR'S VERDICT.


It was just about this time that Squire Denison, dining alone, was
taken ill at the dinner-table. Very rarely indeed was Ella out at that
hour, but it chanced that she had gone to spend a long evening with
Lady Cleeve. The Squire's symptoms looked alarming to Aaron Stone and
his wife; and the young man, Hubert, went off on horseback to
Nullington, to summon Dr. Spreckley.

The Doctor had practised in Nullington all his life. He was a man of
sixty now, with a fine florid complexion; he was said to be a lover of
good cheer and to have a weakness for the whisky bottle; though nobody
ever saw him the worse for what he had taken. He had a cheerful,
hearty way with him, that to many people was better than all his
physic, seeming to think that most of the ills of life could be
laughed away if his patients would only laugh heartily enough. Mr.
Denison had great confidence in him; and no wonder, seeing that he had
attended him for twenty years. Dr. Spreckley was not merely the
Squire's medical attendant, but news-purveyor-in-general to him as
well. Now that the Squire got out so little himself and saw so few
visitors at the Hall, he looked to Spreckley to keep him _au courant_
with all the gossip anent mutual acquaintances and all the local
doings for a dozen miles round; and Spreckley was quite equal to the
demands upon him. During the past year or two Mr. Denison had
experienced several of the sudden attacks; but none of so violent a
nature as was the one this evening. Dr. Spreckley's cheerful face
changed when he saw the symptoms, and the look, momentary though it
was, was not lost on the sick man.

"Where's Miss Winter?" asked the Doctor, somewhat surprised at her
absence.

"Miss Ella's gone to Lady Cleeve's for the evening, sir," answered
Mrs. Stone, who was in attendance.

"And a good thing too," put in the Squire, rousing himself. "Look
here--I won't have her told I've been ill. Do you hear--all of you? No
good to worry the lassie."

Dr. Spreckley administered certain remedies, saw the Squire safely
into bed, and stayed with him for a couple of hours afterwards, Aaron
supplying him with a small decanter of whisky. The symptoms were
already disappearing, and Dr. Spreckley's face was hopeful.

"You'll be all right, Squire, after a good night's rest," said he,
with all his hearty cheerfulness. "I'll be over by ten o'clock in the
morning."

When Ella returned, as she did at nine o'clock, nothing was told her.
"The master felt tired, and so went to bed betimes," was all Mrs.
Stone said. And Ella suspected nothing.

While she was breakfasting the next morning--her uncle sometimes took
his alone in his room--Aaron came to her, and said the master wanted
her. Ella hastened to him.

"Why! are you in bed, uncle dear?" she exclaimed.

"One of my lazy fits--that's all; thought I'd have breakfast before I
got up. Why not? Got a mind for a walk this fine morning, dearie?"

"Yes, uncle, if you wish me to go anywhere. It is a beautiful
morning."

"So, so! one should get out this fine weather when one can: wish my
legs were as young to get over the ground as they used to be. I want
you to go to the vicarage, child, and take a letter to Kettle that
I've had here these few days. It's about the votes for the Incurables,
and it's time it was attended to. Tell him he must see to it for me
and fill it up. Mind you are with him before ten o'clock, and then
he'll not be gone out."

"Yes, uncle. I will be sure to go."

"And look here, lassie," added the Squire; "if you like to stay the
morning with Maria, you can. I shan't want you; I shall be pottering
about here half the day."

Having thus got rid of his niece, the coast was clear for Dr.
Spreckley. True to his time, the Doctor drove up in his ramshackle old
gig.

"You are better this morning; considerably better," he said to his
patient after a quiet examination. "That was a nasty attack, and I
hope we shan't have any more of them for a long time to come."

"I was worse, Doctor, than even you knew of," said Mr. Denison. "The
wind of the grave blew colder on me yesterday evening than it has ever
blown before. Another such bout, and out I shall go, like the snuff of
a candle. Eh, now, come?"

"We must hope that you won't have another such bout, Squire," was Dr.
Spreckley's cheerful answer.

"Is there nothing you can prescribe, or do, Doctor, that will
guarantee me against another such attack?" asked Mr. Denison, with
almost startling suddenness.

Dr. Spreckley put down the phial he had taken in his hand, and faced
his patient.

"I should be a knave, Squire, to say that I could guarantee you
against anything. We can only do our best and hope for the best."

Mr. Denison was silent for a few moments, then he began again.

"Look here, Spreckley; you know my age--on the twenty-fourth of next
April I shall be seventy years old. You know, too, what interests are
at stake, and how much depends upon my living to see that day."

"I am not likely to forget," said the Doctor. "These are matters that
we have talked over many a time."

"Do you believe in your heart, Spreckley, that I shall live to see
that day--the twenty-fourth of next April?"

The question was put very solemnly, and the sick man craned his long
neck forward and stared at the Doctor with wild hungry eyes, as though
his salvation depended on the next few words.

The physician's ruddy cheek lost somewhat of its colour as he
hesitated. He fidgeted nervously with his feet, he coughed behind his
hand, and then he turned and faced his patient. The signs had not been
lost on the Squire.

"Really, my dear sir, your question is a most awkward one," said
Spreckley, slowly, "and one which I am far from feeling sure that I am
in a position to answer with any degree of accuracy."

"Words--words--words!" exclaimed the sick man, turning impatiently on
his pillow. "Man alive! you can answer my question if you choose to do
so. All I ask is, do you _believe_, do you think in your own secret
heart, that I shall live to see the twenty-fourth of April? You can
answer me that."

"Are you in earnest in wishing for an answer, Mr. Denison?"

"Most terribly in earnest. I tell you again that another turn like
that of last night would finish me. At least, I believe it would. And
I might have another attack any day or any hour, eh?"

"You might. But--but," added the Doctor, striving to soften his words,
"it might not be so severe, you know."

"There are several things that I want to do before I go hence and am
seen no more," spoke the Squire in a low tone. "You would not advise
me to delay doing them?"

"I would not advise you, or any man, to delay such matters."

"You do not think in your heart that I shall live to see the
twenty-fourth of April--come now, Spreckley!"

The Doctor placed his hand gently on Mr. Denison's wrist, and bent
forward.

"If you must have the truth, you must."

"Yes, yes," was the eager, impatient interposition. "The truth--the
truth."

"Well, then--these attacks of yours are increasing both in frequency
and violence. Each one that comes diminishes your reserve of strength.
One more sharp attack might, and probably would, prove fatal to you."

"You must ward it off, Spreckley."

"I don't know how to."

The Squire lifted his hand slightly, and then let it drop on the
coverlet again. Was it a gesture of resignation, or of despair? His
chin drooped forward on his breast, and there was unbroken silence in
the room for some moments.

"Doctor," said Mr. Denison then, and his tones sounded strangely
hollow, "I will give you five thousand pounds if you can keep me
alive till the twenty-fifth of April. Five thousand, Spreckley!"

"All the money in the world cannot prolong life by a single hour when
our time has come," said the surgeon. "You know that as well as I, Mr.
Denison. Whatever human skill can do for you shall be done; of that
you may rest assured."

"But still you think I can't last out--eh?"

The Doctor took one of his patient's hands and pressed it gently
between both of his. "My dear old friend, I think that nothing short
of a miracle could prolong your life till then," and there was an
unwonted tremor in his voice as he spoke.

Nothing more was said. Dr. Spreckley turned to the door, remarking
that he would come up again later in the day.

"There's no necessity," said the Squire, with spirit, as if he took
the fiat in dudgeon and did not believe it. "No occasion for you to
come at all to-day. I am better; much better. I should not have stayed
in bed this morning, only you ordered me."

"Very well, Squire."

Mr. Denison lay back on his pillow and shut his eyes as the door
closed on his friend and physician. Aaron Stone, coming into the room
a little later, thought his master was asleep, and went out without
disturbing him. An hour later Mr. Denison's bell rang loudly and
peremptorily. The Squire was sitting up in bed when Aaron entered the
room, and the old man marvelled to see him look so much better in so
short a time. "An hour since he was like a man half dead, and now he
looks as well as he did a year ago," muttered Aaron to himself. There
was, indeed, a brightness in his eyes and a faint colour in his
cheeks, such as had not been seen there for a long time; and his voice
had something of its old sharp and peremptory tone.

"Aaron, what do you think Dr. Spreckley has been telling me this
morning?" he suddenly asked.

"I'm a bad hand at guessing, Squire, as you ought to know by this
time," was the somewhat ungracious answer.

"He tells me that I shall not live to see the twenty-fourth of next
April."

Aaron's rugged face turned as white as it was possible for it to turn;
a small tray that he had in his hands fell with a crash to the ground.

"Oh! master, don't say that--don't say that!" he groaned.

"But I must say it: and what's more, I feel it may be true," returned
the Squire.

"I can't believe it; and I won't," stammered the old servant: who,
whatever his faults of temper might have been, was passionately
attached to his master. Aaron had never seriously thought the end was
so near. The Squire had had these queer attacks, it was true: but did
he not always rally from them and seem as well as ever? Why, look at
him now!

"Spreckley must be a fool, sir, to say such a thing as that! Had he
been at the whisky bottle?"

"I forced the truth from him," spoke the Squire. "It is always safest
to get at the truth, however unpalatable it may be. Eh, now?"

"I'm fairly dazed," said the old man. "But I don't believe it. When
you go, master, it will be time for me to go too."

"It's not that I'm afraid to go," said the Squire--"when did a Denison
fear to die?--and Heaven knows my life has not been such a pleasant
one of late years that I need greatly care to find the end near. It's
the property, Aaron--this old roof-tree and all the broad acres--you
know who will come in for them if I don't live to see next April."

The old serving-man's mouth worked convulsively; he tried to speak but
could not. Tears streamed down his rugged cheeks. Pretending to busy
himself about the fireplace, he kept his back turned to the Squire.

"If it were not for that, I should not care how soon my summons came,"
continued Mr. Denison; "but it's hard to have the apple snatched from
you at the moment of victory. I would give half that I'm possessed of
to anyone who would insure my living to the end of next April. Why
not?"

"What's Spreckley but an old woman? he don't know," said Aaron. "Why
don't you have some of the big doctors down from London, sir? Like
enough they could pull you through when Spreckley can't."

The Squire laughed, a little dismally.

"You seem to forget that I had a couple of bigwigs down from London on
the same errand some months ago. They and Spreckley had a
consultation, and what was the result? They fully endorsed all that he
had done, and said that they themselves could not have improved on his
method of treatment. It would not be an atom of use, old comrade, to
have them down again. That's my belief."

It was not Aaron's. He had no particular opinion of Spreckley--and he
was fearfully anxious.

"Poor Ella! Poor lassie!" murmured the Squire, very gently. "I always
hoped she would be the mistress of Heron Dyke when I was gone.
But--but--but----" He broke off. He could not speak of it. Things just
now seemed very bitter, grievously hard to bear.

"Won't you get up, master?"

"Not just now. You can come in by-and-by, Aaron," replied the Squire:
and Aaron crept out of the room without another word.

The sitting-room of Aaron Stone and his wife was a homely apartment,
opening from the kitchen. To this he betook himself, shut the door
behind him, and sat down in silence. Dorothy had her lap full of white
paper, cutting it out in fringed rounds to cover some preserves that
had been made. Happening to look at her husband, she saw the tears
trickling fast down his withered cheeks.

Dorothy's eyes and mouth alike opened. She gazed at him with a mixture
of curiosity and alarm. Not for twenty years had she seen such a
sight. Pushing back her silver hair under her neat white cap, she
dropped the scissors and the paper, and sat staring.

"What is it?" she asked in a faint voice, picturing all kinds of
unheard-of evils. "Anything happened to the lad, Aaron?"

"The lad" was Hubert, her grandson. He was very dear to Dorothy:
perhaps not less so to Aaron. Aaron did not answer; could not: and, as
if to relieve her fears, Hubert came in the next moment.

"Why, grandfather, what on earth has come to you?" cried the young
man, no less astonished than Dorothy.

With a half sob, Aaron told what had come to them: the trouble had
taken all his crusty ungraciousness out of him. The master was going
to die. Spreckley said he could not keep him alive until next April.
And Miss Ella would have to turn out of Heron Dyke to make way for
those enemies, the other branch. And they should have to turn out too;
and he and Dorothy, for all he knew, would die in the workhouse!

An astounding revelation. No one spoke for a little while. Then
Dorothy began with her superstitions.

"I knew we should have a death in the house before long. There's been
a winding-sheet in the candle twice this week; and on Sunday night as
I came over the marshes three corpse-candles appeared there, and
seemed to follow me all the way across. I didn't think it would be the
Squire, though: I thought of Bolton's wife."

Bolton was the coachman, and his wife was delicate.

"Hush, granny!" reproved Hubert; "all that is nonsense, you know. Why
does not the Squire call in further advice?" he added after a pause.
"Spreckley's not good for much save a gossip."

"I asked him why not," said Aaron; "but he seems to think his time is
come. If they could only keep him alive till next April, he says:
that's all he harps upon."

"And I am sure there must be means of doing it," cried Hubert. "What
one medical man can't do, another may. I have a great mind to call in
Dr. Jago--saying nothing about it beforehand. He is wonderfully
clever."

"The master might not forgive you, Hubert."

"But if the new man could prolong his life!" debated Hubert. "I'll
think about it," he added, catching up his low-crowned hat.

He walked across the yard in his well-made shooting-coat that a lord
might wear, and whistled to one of the dogs. The two housemaids stood
in what was called the keeping-room, ironing fine things at the table
underneath the window. They looked after the young man with admiring
eyes. He held himself aloof from them, as a master does from a
servant, but the girls liked him, for in manner to them he was civil
and kind.

"Is he not handsome?" cried Ann. "And aren't both the old people proud
of him?"

"What do you think I saw last night?" said Martha in a low tone, as
Hubert Stone disappeared through the green door leading to the
shrubbery. "I was coming home from that errand to Nullington, when,
out there in the park, hiding behind a tree and peering at our windows
here, was a grey figure that one might have taken for a ghost--poor
Susan Keen. She did give me a turn, though."

"I wonder they don't stop her watching the house at night in the way
she does," returned Ann, shaking out one of Mrs. Stone's muslin caps.
"It gives one a creepy feeling to have her watching the windows like
that--and to know what she's watching for."

"You know what she says, Ann!"

"Yes, I know; and a very uncomfortable thing it is," rejoined the
younger servant. "If she sees Katherine at the window----"

"She told me again last night that she does see her," interrupted the
elder; "has seen her three times now, in all. She says that Katherine
stands at the window of her old room, in the moonlight."

Ann began to tremble; she was nearly as superstitious as old Dorothy.

"Don't you see what it implies, Martha? If Katherine is seen at the
window, she must be in the house, that's all. I wish they'd have that
north wing barred up!"

"You are ironing that net handkerchief all askew, Ann!"

"One has not got one's proper wits, talking of these ghostly things,"
was Ann's petulant answer, as she lifted the net off the blanket with
a fling.

Hubert, meanwhile, was going down to the shore. What he had learnt
troubled him in no measured degree, and his busy brain was hard at
work. If only this fiat, which threatened evil to all of them, might
be averted!

The tide was out, and he walked along the sands, flinging his stick
now and again into the water for the dog to fetch out, as he recalled
what he had heard about the almost miraculous skill of this Dr.
Jago; who was said, nevertheless, to be an unscrupulous man in his
remedies--kill or cure. Could he keep that life in Mr. Denison, which,
as it appeared, Dr. Spreckley could not? These bold practitioners were
often lucky ones. If Jago----

Hubert Stone halted, both in steps and thought. There flashed into his
mind, he knew not why, something he had read in an old French work,
recently bought: for the young fellow was a good French scholar. It
was a case analogous to Mr. Denison's--where a patient had been kept
alive, in spite of nature--or almost in spite of it. The means tried
then, which were minutely described, might answer now. Hubert's breath
quickened as he thought of it. For two hours he slowly paced the
sands, revolving this and that.

A strange look of mingled excitement and determination sat on his face
when he got back to the Hall. Mrs. Stone lamented to him that the
dinner was over, meaning their dinner, and was all cold now. Hubert
answered that he did not want dinner; but he wanted to see the Squire
if he were alone. Yes, he was alone; and he seemed pretty well now.
And not a word was to be breathed to Miss Ella about his illness:
these were the strict orders issued.

When Hubert went in he found the Squire seated in his easy-chair in
front of the fire. He looked very worn and thin, but his eyes were as
resolute and his lips as firmly set as they had ever been.

"After what my grandfather told me this morning I could not help
coming to see you, sir," said Hubert. "This is very sad news; but I
hope that it is much exaggerated."

"There's no exaggeration about it, boy. You see before you, I fear, a
dying man. Come now!"

"I am very, very sorry to hear it."

"Ay--ay--good lad, good lad! Some of you will miss me a bit, eh?"

"We shall all miss you very much, Squire: we shall never have such a
master again. Of course, sir, I know that your great wish all along
has been to live till your seventieth birthday had come and gone.
Surely you will live to see that wish fulfilled!"

"That's just what I shan't live to see, if Spreckley's right,"
answered the Squire, and his face darkened as he spoke. "For my life I
care little; it has been like a flickering candle these few years
past. It's the knowledge that the estate will go away, from my pretty
birdie, to a man whom I have hated all my life, that tries me. It is
like the taste of Dead Sea apples in my mouth."

Hubert drew his chair a little nearer--for he had been bidden to sit.

"If you will pardon me, sir, for saying it, I do not think you ought
to take what Dr. Spreckley says for granted. You should have better
advice."

"The London doctors have been down once--and they did me no good.
They'd not do it now. And there'd be the trouble and expense incurred
for nothing."

"I was not thinking of London doctors, sir, but of one nearer
home--Dr. Jago."

"Pooh! They say he is a quack."

Hubert Stone bent his head, and talked low and earnestly--describing
what he had heard of Dr. Jago's wonderful skill.

"I--I know a little of medicine myself, sir," he added; "sometimes I
wish I had been brought up to it, for I believe I have a natural
aptitude for the science, and I read medical books, and have been in
hospitals; and--and I think, Squire, that a clever practitioner who
knows his business could at least keep you alive until next April. Ay,
and past it. I almost think _I_ could."

Mr. Denison smiled. The idea of Hubert dabbling in such things tickled
him.

"Well, and how would you set about it?" he demanded in pleasant
mockery.

Hubert said a few words in a low tone; his voice seemed to grow lower
as he continued. He looked strangely in earnest; his face was dark and
eager.

"The lad must be mad--to think he could keep me alive by those means!"
interrupted the Squire, staring at Hubert from under his shaggy brows,
as though he half thought he saw a lunatic before him.

"If you would only let me finish, sir--only listen while I describe
the treatment----"

"Pray, did you ever witness the treatment you would describe--and see
a life prolonged by it?"

Without directly answering the question, Hubert resumed the
argument in his low and eager tones. Gradually the Squire grew
interested--perhaps almost unto belief.

"And you could--could doctor me up in this manner, you think!" he
exclaimed, lifting his hand and letting it drop again. "Boy, you
almost take my breath away."

"Perhaps I could not, sir. But I say Dr. Jago might."

Squire Denison sat thinking, his head bent down.

"Do you know this Dr. Jago?" he presently asked. "Have you met him?"

"Once or twice, sir. And I was struck with an impression of his inward
power."

"Well, I--I will see him," decided the Squire. "And if he thinks he
can--can keep life in me, I will make it worth his while. Why, lad,
I'd give half my fortune, nearly, to be able to will away Heron Dyke
out of the clutches of those harpies, who look to inherit it, and who
have kept their spies about us here. You may bring this new doctor to
me."

A glad light came into Hubert's face: he was at least as anxious as
his master that Heron Dyke should not pass to strangers.

"Shall I bring him tomorrow, sir?"

"Ay, tomorrow. Why not? Spreckley will be here at ten; let the other
come at noon. But look you here, lad: not a word to him beforehand
about this idea of yours, this new--new treatment. I'll see him
first."


The clock was striking twelve the following day when Dr. Jago rang at
the door of the Hall. He was a little, dark-featured, foreign-looking
man of thirty, with a black moustache and a pointed beard, and small
restless eyes that seemed never to look stedfastly at anything or
anybody, imparting an impression of being always on his guard. He had
come to Nullington about a year ago, a stranger to everyone in it, and
had started there in practice. His charges were low, and his patients
chiefly those who could not afford to pay much in the shape of
doctors' bills. But Dr. Spreckley was an elderly man, and Dr. Downes
might be considered an old man, so there was no knowing what might
happen in the course of a few years. Meanwhile Theophilus Jago
possessed his soul in patience, and made ends meet as best he could.
It was a great event in his life to be sent for by the Master of Heron
Dyke.

"You are Dr. Jago, I think?" began the Squire, who was again in bed;
and the Doctor bowed assent.

"I and my medical attendant, Dr. Spreckley, have had a slight
difference of opinion. In all probability he will not visit me again,
and I have sent for you in the hope that we may get on better together
than Spreckley and I did."

"I am flattered by your preference, sir. You may rely upon my doing my
best to serve you in every way."

"Probably you may have heard that I have been ill for a long
time--people will talk--and, as a medical man, you most likely are
aware of the nature of my complaint?"

Dr. Jago admitted this.

"I had a bad attack two days ago. Yesterday I asked Spreckley whether
I should last over the twenty-fourth of next April. He told me that I
could do so only by a miracle. He says I can't live, and I say that I
must and will live over the date in question."

"And you have sent for me to--to----?"

"To keep me alive. Spreckley can't do it. You must. Now, don't say
another word till you have examined me."

Not another word did Dr. Jago utter for a quarter of an hour, beyond
asking certain questions in connection with the malady. This over, he
sat down by the bedside and drew a long breath.

"Well, what's the verdict? Out with it," added the Squire grimly, the
old hungry, wistful look rising in his eyes.

"I suppose you want to hear the truth and nothing but the truth, Mr.
Denison?" said Dr. Jago.

"That is precisely what I do want to hear. Why not?"

"Then, sir, I think it most probable that Dr. Spreckley is correct. I
fear I can only confirm his opinion."

There was a moment or two of silence.

"Then you say, with him, that I shall not live to see the
twenty-fourth of April?"

"There is, of course, a possibility that you may do so," replied Dr.
Jago, "but the probabilities are all the other way. I am very sorry,
sir, to have to tell you this."

"Keep your sorrow until you are asked for it," returned the Squire,
drily. "Perhaps you will pour me out half a glass of that Madeira. I
am not so strong as I should like to be."

Dr. Jago did as he was requested, and then sat down and waited.
Turning on him with startling suddenness, the sick man seized him by
the wrist with a grip of iron, to pull him closer, and spoke with a
grim earnestness.

"Look here, Jago, it's not of any use your telling me, or a thousand
other doctors, that I shall not live to see April. I must and will
live till then, and you must see that I do: you must keep me in life.
Man! you stare as if I were asking you to kill me, instead of to cure
me."

Dr. Jago tried to smile. He evidently doubted whether he had to deal
with a lunatic.

"Pardon me, Mr. Denison," he said, "but in your condition you must
avoid excitement. Perfect quiet is your greatest safeguard."

The sick man shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, well, you are perhaps right. You know my young
secretary--Hubert Stone?"

"A little."

"And I dare say you think him a shrewd, clever young fellow, eh! But
he is more clever than you think for, and has dabbled in many a
curious science; medicine for one. He--listen, Mr. Physician--he has
suggested a mode of treatment by which he believes I may be kept
alive. Come now."

Dr. Jago's face expressed a mixture of surprise and incredulity not
unmingled with sarcasm. Mr. Hubert Stone would indeed be a very clever
gentleman if he could keep life in a dying man.

"_I_ do not know of any such treatment, Mr. Denison."

"Possibly not. But I suppose you are open to learn it?"

"If it can be taught me."

"Well, you go into the next room. Hubert is there, I believe, and will
explain it to you better than I can. I never bothered my head about
physics. When the conference is over come back to me."

Half an hour had elapsed--quite that--and the Squire was growing
impatient, when Dr. Jago returned. He was looking, very grave.

"Will the treatment answer?" he cried out impatiently, before the
Doctor could speak.

"It might answer, Mr. Denison; I do not say it would not. But--it is
dangerous."

"And what if it is dangerous? I am willing to risk it--and I shall pay
you well. What! you hesitate? Why, I have heard say that dangerous
remedies are not unknown to you; that with you it is sometimes kill or
cure."

"In a desperate case possibly. Not otherwise."

"And have you not just told me mine is desperate?"

"True."

"Then you will take me in hand. Bodikins!--if I were telling you to
give me a dose of prussic acid as you stand there, you could but look
as you are looking. See here. Listen. I will have these--these
remedies tried, young man, and by you. I know your skill. I will give
you five hundred pounds at once; and I will make it up to two thousand
if you carry me over to the twenty-fifth of April."

"I accept the terms," said Dr. Jago, awaking from a reverie, and
speaking with prompt decision now his mind was made up. To a
struggling practitioner the money looked like a mine of gold: and
perhaps Squire Denison's imperative will influenced his. "And I hope
and trust I _shall_ be able to carry you over the necessary period,"
he added with intense earnestness. "My best endeavours shall be
devoted to it."

Outside the door Hubert Stone was waiting, anxiety in his eyes.

"Yes, I have consented," said Dr. Jago, in answer to their silent
questioning. "If we succeed--well. But I cannot forget the risk. And
these hazardous risks, if they be discovered, are fatal to the
reputation of a professional man."

"Take the book home with you, and study the case well," said Hubert,
putting a volume, in the Doctor's hand. "Some little risk there must
of course be, but I think not much. It succeeded there: why should it
not succeed with Squire Denison?"

That evening Dr. Spreckley received a letter, written by Hubert Stone
in his master's name, dismissing him from further attendance at Heron
Dyke. The Squire added a kind message and enclosed a cheque; but he
very unmistakably hinted that Dr. Spreckley was not expected to call
again, even as a friend. Two doctors who held opposing views, and who
pursued totally opposite modes of treatment, had better not come into
contact with each other.




CHAPTER X.
A DAY WITH PHILIP CLEEVE.


When Philip Cleeve opened his eyes the morning after his visit to The
Lilacs it took him a minute or two to collect his thoughts, and call
to mind all that had happened during the previous evening. In the cold
unsympathetic light of early morn his overheated fancies of the
preceding night seemed to have little more substance in them than a
dream. He could not quite forget Margaret Ducie's liquid black eyes,
or the fascination of her smile; but the glamour was gone, and he
thought of them as of something that could never trouble his peace of
mind again. "It was that champagne," thought Philip. "I had more of it
than was good for me."

There was, however, one very tangible fact connected with the doings
of the preceding night which would not allow itself to be forgotten.
He had gambled away Mr. Tiplady's twenty pounds, and it would have to
be his disagreeable duty this morning to ask his mother to make good
the loss. Mentally and bodily he felt out of sorts, and out of humour
with himself and the world. Very little breakfast did he eat. Lady
Cleeve only came down when it was getting time for him to set out for
the office. She asked a little about his visit of the previous
evening, and also after Freddy Bootle, who was rather a favourite of
hers.

"Bootle has promised to dine here tomorrow," said Philip. "This
evening I dine with him at the Rose and Crown." He left his seat and
went to the window. The disagreeable moment could be put off no
longer. Going behind Lady Cleeve's chair, he leaned over and kissed
her. "Mother, I am going to ask you to do a most preposterous thing,"
he said.

"Not many times in your life, dear, have you done that," she answered.
"But what is it?"

"I want you to give me twenty-five pounds."

"Twenty-five pounds is a large sum, Philip--that is, a large sum for
me. But I suppose you would not ask me for it unless you really need
it."

"Certainly not, mother. I need it for a very special purpose indeed."

"Can you tell me for what?"

"No," said Philip, in a low tone. "It--it is for some one," he rather
lamely added.

"You are going to lend it! Well, Philip, if it is for some worthy
friend who is in want, I will say nothing," said Lady Cleeve, who had
implicit confidence in her son. "You shall have the money."

Philip's face was burning. He turned to the window again.

"Do you know that next Tuesday will be your birthday, Philip?" asked
his mother. "You will be twenty-two. How the years fly as we grow old!
Your asking for this money brings to my mind something which I did not
intend to mention to you till your birthday was actually here; but,
there is no reason why I should not tell you now. Can you guess,
my dear boy, what amount I have saved up, and safely put away for
you in Nullington Bank? But how should it be possible for you to
guess?"--Philip had turned by this time, and was staring at his
mother.

"I have saved up twelve hundred pounds," continued Lady Cleeve. "Yes,
Philip, twelve hundred pounds; and on the day you are twenty-two the
amount in full will be transferred into your name, and will become
your sole property."

"Mother!" was all that the young man could say in that first moment of
surprise. Then he took her hand and kissed it.

She smiled, and stroked his curls fondly.

"I need hardly tell you, Philip, that the hope I have had, all along,
was that my savings might ultimately be of use in advancing your
interests in whatever profession you might finally choose. You have
now been two years with Mr. Tiplady, and I gather that you are quite
satisfied to remain with him. I have had a little quiet chat with Mr.
Tiplady: you know that he and I are very old friends. I named to him
the amount I had lying by me in the bank, and hinted to him that he
might do worse than take you into partnership. His reply was that he
had never hitherto thought about a partner, but that the idea was
worth consideration, more especially as he had some thought of
retiring from business in the course of a few years. There the matter
was left, and I have had no talk with him since, but I think the
opening would be a most excellent one for you."

"Twelve hundred pounds seems a lot of money to hand over to old
Tiplady," said Philip, with rather a long face.

"Why 'old' Tiplady, dear? He is younger than I am," said Lady Cleeve,
with a faint smile. "His business is excellent and superior, as you
know; one in which, if you join him, you may rise to eminence. Mr.
Tiplady seemed to doubt whether twelve hundred pounds was a sufficient
sum to induce him to take you into partnership. And of course it seems
ridiculously small compared with the advantages. But I suppose he
thinks your connections would go for something--and he is too well off
for money to be an object with him. At first you would take but a
small share."

Philip shrugged his shoulders and whistled under his breath.

"We can talk of that another time," he said. "How can I thank you
enough, mother mine, for this wonderful gift? You are a veritable
fairy queen."

In truth, he could not think where so much money had come from. Twelve
hundred pounds! He knew the extent of his mother's income and what
proportion of it, of late years, had found its way into his own
pocket; but he did not know that his mother, in view of some such
contingency as the present one, had begun to save and pinch and put
away a few pounds now and again even before her husband's death--many
years before. The magic of compound interest had done the rest.

Philip Cleeve carried a light heart with him that morning as he set
out for the office, and the twenty-five pounds given him by his
mother. He had not only got out of his present difficulty easily and
without trouble, but in a few short days he would be a capitalist on
his own account; he would be one of those favoured mortals, a man with
a balance at his banker's, and a cheque-book of his own in his pocket.
He could hardly believe in the reality of his good fortune. As for
handing over _in toto_ to Mr. Tiplady the sum that was coming thus
unexpectedly into his possession--it was a matter that required
consideration, very grave consideration indeed. But he would have
plenty of time to think about that afterwards.

As he crossed the market-place, he stopped to look in the window of
Thompson, the jeweller. There was a gold hunting-watch lying in it
that he had often admired. In a few days, should he be so minded, he
might make it his own. And that pretty signet ring. The price of it
was only five guineas, a mere bagatelle to a man with twelve hundred
pounds. Hitherto he had never worn a ring, but other young men wore
such things, and there was no reason now why he should not do the
same. A minute or two later he passed his tailor.

"Good-morning, Dobson," he said with a smile. "I shall look you up in
a day or two."

Having to pass the Rose and Crown Hotel on his way to the office, he
thought he might as well look up Freddy Bootle. But that gentleman was
not yet downstairs, so Philip set out again. As he passed Welland's,
the florist, he saw two magnificent bouquets in the window. All at
once it struck him that it would not be amiss to pay a morning call at
The Lilacs and present Mrs. Ducie with one of the bouquets. Without
pausing to reflect, he entered the shop. He was waited on by pretty
Mary Welland, the florist's lame daughter, by whose deft fingers the
flowers had been arranged. After a little smiling chat, he and Mary
being old acquaintances, he chose one of the bouquets and had it
wrapped up in tissue paper. The price was half a guinea, but to
Philip, in the mood in which he then was, half a guinea seemed a
matter of little moment.

Philip had started on his way again, when he encountered Maria Kettle.
They both started as their eyes met, and a guilty flush mounted to
Philip's brow. Maria at once held out her hand, and her glance fell on
the bouquet in its envelope of tissue paper. All in a moment it
flashed into Philip's mind that to-day was Maria's birthday. There was
little more than the difference of a week between their ages.

"Good-morning, Philip," began Maria. "Papa and I have been wondering
what had become of you. You have only been to see us once since we got
back."

"The fact is," said Philip in a hesitating way, very unusual with him,
"I have been much engaged--Bootle is here now, too, and he has taken
up a good deal of my time. But I have not forgotten that this is your
birthday, Maria, and----" here he paused and looked at the bouquet.
"In fact, I was on my way to----" then he hesitated again and held out
the bouquet.

"You were on your way to the vicarage," said Maria, with a smile, "and
these pretty flowers are for me. I know they are pretty before I look
at them. It was indeed kind of you to remember my birthday."

Philip felt immensely relieved.

"Accept them with my love, Maria," he whispered, and at that moment he
felt that he loved her very dearly. Then he pressed one of her hands
in his, and spoke the good wishes customary on such occasions. A
bright, glad look came into Maria's eyes, and her pale cheek flushed
at Philip's words. He turned and walked a little way with her, and
then they parted.

Philip sighed as he turned away. What an air of quiet goodness there
was about Maria! How sweet and saintly she looked in her dress of
homely blue, with the sunlight shining on her!

"If she had lived five hundred years ago, her face would have been
painted as that of some mediæval saint," muttered Philip to himself.
"She is far away too good to be the wife of such a shuffling,
weak-minded fellow as I am."

When he reached the florist's shop on his way back to the office, the
remaining bouquet was still in the window. He hesitated a moment, and
then went in.

"I will take that other bouquet, if you please, Miss Welland," he
said: but Mary noticed that there was no smile on his face this time,
as she tied up the flowers. Philip set off in the direction of The
Lilacs. He was dissatisfied with himself for what he had done, there
was a sore feeling at work within him, and yet his steps seemed drawn
irresistibly towards the roof that sheltered Margaret Ducie.

He had got half-way to the cottage when he was overtaken by Captain
Lennox in his dog-cart.

"'Morning, Cleeve," called out the Captain; "where are you off to in
such a hurry?"

"I didn't know that I was in a hurry," said Philip as he faced round,
while that wretched tell-tale flush, which he could not succeed in
keeping down, mounted to his face. "The fact is, I was on my way to
the cottage," he added. "I thought that I might venture to call on
Mrs. Ducie and ask her acceptance of a few flowers."

"And she will be very pleased to see you, I do not doubt," answered
Lennox. "I am on the way home myself; so jump up and I will give you a
lift."

When they reached the cottage they found Mrs. Ducie practising some
songs which she had just received from London. She wore a dress of
some soft, creamy material embroidered with flowers, with ornamental
silver pins in her hair and a silver snake round one of her wrists.
She accepted Philip's flowers very graciously.

"How charmingly they are arranged," she said; "and with what an eye
for artistic effect. I must try to paint them before they begin to
fade."

Philip begged that he might not interrupt her singing; so she resumed
her seat at the piano, and he stationed himself behind her and turned
over the leaves of her music. Now that he was here and in her
presence, and so near to her that he could have stooped and touched
her hair with his lips, the infatuation of last night crept over him
again with irresistible force. He was like a man bewitched, from whom
all power of volition seems stolen away. She looked even more
beautiful this morning in the soft cool twilight of the drawing-room
than when seen by lamplight yesterday evening. Nowhere had he seen a
woman like her, or one who exercised over him such a nameless but
all-powerful charm. By-and-by she persuaded him to sing too.

At last Philip remembered that he must go. The office was not pressed
for work just now, and Mr. Tiplady had given him a partial holiday
during Bootle's stay: but Philip felt that there was reason in all
things. Moreover, Tiplady was away himself to-day.

"When the cat's away," laughed Captain Lennox, upon Philip's saying
this.

"I can drive you into the town if you like, Mr. Cleeve," said Mrs.
Ducie, who had just reappeared, dressed for going out. "My ponies are
at the gate."

Philip accepted the offer gladly.

"I shall see you later in the day," were Lennox's last words to him as
he was driven away.

Mrs. Ducie was an accomplished whip, and had a thorough mastery over
her high-spirited ponies. Very few minutes sufficed to bring the party
to Nullington. They had slackened their pace a little while a load of
timber drew out of the way, when Maria Kettle stepped out of a
chemist's shop just as they were passing the door. She saw Mrs. Ducie
and Philip, and at the same moment they recognised her. A look that
was partly surprise and partly trouble came into her eyes; but she
bowed gravely and passed on. Mrs. Ducie smiled and bowed; Philip,
colouring furiously, greeted Maria with an awkward nod, and then
turned away his head. How thoroughly ashamed of himself he felt!

"What a charming young lady Miss Kettle is," said Mrs. Ducie, a minute
later.

Philip gave a keen look at his companion's face, but there was nothing
to be read there.

"I was not aware that you knew Miss Kettle," he said a little stiffly.

"I have had the pleasure of meeting her three or four times since her
return, and Ferdinand and I attend church regularly. I never met
anyone who with so much goodness was so entirely unaffected."

It was like heaping coals of fire on Philip's head for him to have to
listen to these words. Nothing more was said till the carriage drew up
for Philip to alight. Mrs. Ducie held out her hand.

"I hope we shall see you at the cottage again soon, Mr. Cleeve," she
graciously said. "I assure you that both to my brother and myself your
visits will always be a pleasure."

Philip replied suitably, and went his way. He was grievously annoyed
at having been seen by Maria Kettle in the act of driving out with
Mrs. Ducie; yet he could not forget how charming the latter was, and
how kindly she had received his flowers.

Scarcely had he at length entered the office when Freddy Bootle came
in, asking him to take holiday for the rest of the day. The old clerk,
Mr. Best, manager in Mr. Tiplady's absence, was agreeable to it.
Philip was a favourite of his, and there was not much doing.

Away went Philip and his friend gaily, arm-in-arm. Philip's heels were
always light where pleasure was concerned. After eating some luncheon
at the Rose and Crown, they adjourned to the billiard-room. Only then
did it occur to Philip that the bank-notes his mother had given him in
the morning were in his pocket still. He ought to have handed them
over to Mr. Best: he had meant to do so, but other matters had put it
out of his head.

Lord Camberley and Captain Lennox came in to dinner, in answer to the
invitation of Mr. Bootle. Afterwards they all sat talking, over their
coffee and cigars. Captain Lennox, the thought striking him, inquired
of Bootle whether his lost watch had turned up.

"Not it," said Freddy. "It will never turn up, any more than your
purse will. It was an odd thing, when one comes to think of it, that
Mrs. Carlyon should have been robbed on the same night. Just as if the
same thief had done it all!"

Lord Camberley pricked up his ears.

"How was it?" he asked. "What were the robberies?" And Mr. Bootle
related them.

"Pretty good cheek--to leave the case under the curtains and walk off
with the baubles!" observed his lordship. "I suppose it was too big to
carry away?"

"Too big to carry away unobserved, and too big to be stowed away in a
coat, I take it," said Captain Lennox. "How large was it, Cleeve?--you
saw it, I think. The fellow must have disposed of the articles about
his pockets."

"How large?" repeated Philip, who was sitting with his chair tilted
and his head thrown back, puffing forth volumes of smoke in silence,
"oh--about _that_ large"--making a movement with his hand. "Just give
me my coffee-cup, will you, Freddy?"

Later, the party sat down to cards. They began by playing Napoleon, as
on the previous evening; but this was changed for the still more
dangerous game of Unlimited Loo. At neither one game nor the other was
Philip Cleeve anything like a match for those experienced players,
Camberley and Lennox, and he grew nervous and excitable. When the
party broke up Philip had not only lost the twenty-five pounds given
him in the morning by his mother, but fifteen pounds more, for which
Lord Camberley held his IOU. As for Freddy Bootle, he did not much
care for cards, and he played with a severe indifference to either the
smiles or frowns of fortune: if he lost, it was a matter of little
consequence to him; if he won, it was a few sovereigns more in the
pocket of a man who had already more money than he knew what to do
with.

Philip rose from the table with haggard eyes, flushed face, and
trembling hands.

"I will redeem my scrap of paper in the morning," he remarked to his
lordship.

"All right, old man: you will find me in the billiard-room about four
o'clock," answered Camberley. "Only look here, there's no need to be
in such a desperate hurry, you know."

He had a dim suspicion that Philip was not over well-off in money
matters.

"I shall be in the billiard-room at four," retorted Philip with some
hauteur.

He resented the implication in Camberley's words--that perhaps it
might not be convenient to pay the fifteen pounds so quickly. His
poverty was a matter that concerned no one but himself.

As he walked home alone under the cold light of the stars, and went
back in memory to the events of this evening and the last, they seemed
to him nothing more than a wretched phantasmagoria, in which only the
ghost of his real self had played a part. He was a loser to the extent
of forty pounds. And where was he to raise the twenty-five pounds for
Tiplady, or the fifteen for Camberley?

There was only one way--by applying to his friend Bootle. It was a
disagreeable necessity, but Philip saw no help for it. Bootle was rich
and generous, and would lend him the money in a moment. It would only
be needed for a few days. The very first cheque he drew, after coming
into that twelve hundred pounds, should be one to repay Freddy.

And, thus easily settling his difficulties, Mr. Philip finished up by
vowing to himself that he would never touch a card again.




CHAPTER XI.
A VISIT FROM MRS. CARLYON.


Dr. Spreckley felt like an angry man. When he read Squire Denison's
curt note--curt as to the part of his dismissal--his first impulse was
to go up to the Hall and demand an explanation from his old friend and
patient. He had been forced into a corner as it were, had been driven
into telling a certain disagreeable truth, and now he was discarded
for having done so, and a young practitioner of less experience and no
note, was taken on in his place! It was very unjust. But Dr. Spreckley
never did anything in a hurry. He put the Squire's note away, saying,
"I'll sleep upon it."

On the morrow he found that Dr. Jago was really in attendance on the
Squire. Dr. Spreckley met him on his way thither in a hired one-horse
fly, and received a gracious wave of the hand by way of greeting.
"I'll not interfere," exploded the old Doctor in the bitterness of his
heart; "I'll never darken Denison's doors again. Unless he sends for
me," he added a minute later. "And for all the good _he_ can do
him"--with a contemptuous glance after Jago--"that won't be long
first."

Meanwhile, at the Hall, the Squire was soothing and explaining the
change to Ella, who regarded it with dismay.

"I don't like Dr. Jago, Uncle Gilbert. And Dr. Spreckley was our
friend of many years."

"And why don't you like Dr. Jago, lassie?"

"I don't know. There's something about him that repels me; it lies in
his eyes, I think. I never spoke to him but once."

"When you know more of him, you will like him better," returned the
Squire. "I am not sure that _I_ like him much, personally. But if he
cures me--what shall you say then? Come now!"

"I would say then that I should like him for ever," replied Ella,
laughing.

"Well, child, he is hoping to do it. And I think he will."

"Is this true, Uncle Gilbert?"

The Squire patted her cheek.

"What a disbelieving little girl it is! Jago is a wonderfully clever
man, Ella; there's no doubt of that: he has studied in foreign
schools, and he is about to try an entirely new kind of treatment upon
me. He thinks it will turn up trumps, and so do I!"

Ella drew a long, relieved breath.

"Oh, I am so glad, dear uncle! I will make him welcome whenever he
comes."

"It is a month to-day since I was outside the house," went on the
Squire. "Jago tells me that he shall get me out again in three or four
days. The man is a man of power; I see it--I feel it. Give him
opportunity, and he will make a great name for himself. We will go
about again as we used to, Ella; you and I. Why not?"

Ella's heart leaped; she believed the good news. Her uncle had seemed
very poorly indeed lately, but she did not suspect he had any
incurable malady, or that he was in any danger.

Dr. Jago came to Heron Dyke day after day. In a short while the Squire
was walking about the grounds, leaning on Ella's arm or on Hubert
Stone's; and he would be seen again driving through Nullington, his
niece seated by his side. Ella had grown to think kindly of Dr. Jago;
but that old vague feeling of dislike or distrust she could not quite
get rid of. "There is a look in his eyes I never saw in the eyes of
anyone else," she said to herself. "He interests me, and yet repels
me."

"The Squire will last out yet to will away his property; ay, and
longer than that," cried the gossips of the neighbourhood, as they
watched the improvement in him. "It will take more than two doctors to
kill a Denzon."

And thus October came in. About the middle of that month the Squire
sent an invitation to Mrs. Carlyon. It was partly in answer to a
letter received from her--in which she told them that a certain
projected plan of hers, that of going abroad for the winter, was still
in abeyance, for she did not much like the idea of going alone. Higson
would attend her of course; but who was Higson?--what she needed was a
friend.

"She shall take you, Ella," said the Squire, after the letter of
invitation was despatched.

"Take me, uncle! Oh dear, no!"

"And why not, pray, when I say yes?"

"I could not leave you, Uncle Gilbert."

"Oh, indeed! Could you not, lassie?"

"Suppose you were to be taken ill--and I ever so many hundred miles
away! Oh, uncle dear, how could you think of it!"

"Well, I hope I am not likely now to be taken ill. Jago is doing me a
marvellous deal of good. Don't fear that. I should like you to go
abroad for the winter, lassie, and if Gertrude Carlyon goes, we--we
will see about it."

Mrs. Carlyon arrived in due course. It had previously been arranged
that, if she did go abroad, she should come to them for a short visit
first. It seemed to her that she saw a great change for the worse in
Mr. Denison; but she was discreet enough to keep her thoughts on the
matter to herself, and chose rather to congratulate him on looking so
well.

"Ay," said he, complacently, "the new doctor understands me."

"And don't you think Dr. Spreckley did?" asked Mrs. Carlyon.

"Not of late. Spreckley could not do for me what this man will do."

On the second day of her visit, when they were alone, the Squire
questioned Mrs. Carlyon about her plans for the winter.

"Have you decided on them, Gertrude?" he asked.

"Not quite," she said. "I suppose, though, I shall go abroad, probably
to the South of France. This climate tried my chest severely last
winter."

"Ay, I remember. Best for you to go out of it for the next few
months."

"An old friend of mine, Mrs. Ord, had decided to accompany me, and now
circumstances have intervened to prevent it. That is why I hesitate. I
don't care to go so far without a companion."

"You shall take Ella. Come now."

Mrs. Carlyon looked up eagerly.

"Take Ella! Are you in earnest?"

"Never more so. Why not? I had meant to make you and London a present
of her for the winter: if you go abroad, so much the better. It will
be the greater change for her--and she needs change."

"I shall certainly no longer hesitate if I may have Ella," spoke Mrs.
Carlyon, gladly. "But--I should probably stay away four or five
months."

"If you stay away six months it would be all the better. To tell you
the truth, Gertrude," he continued, seeing Mrs. Carlyon look
surprised, "I do not intend my pretty one to be here during the dark
months, and you must take her out of my hands. She has never been
quite the same since that curious affair up yonder"--pointing over his
shoulder in the direction of the north wing.

Mrs. Carlyon began to understand.

"You mean--about Katherine Keen?"

"Ay. Since the girl disappeared----"

"What a most extraordinary thing that was!" interrupted Mrs. Carlyon.
"Can you in any way account for it, Squire?"

"There's no way at all of accounting for it. Bodikins, no!"

"I meant, have you any private theory of your own--as to what can have
become of her?"

"I know no more what could have become of her than _that_," returned
the Squire, touching his stick, and then striking it on the ground to
enforce emphasis. "It has troubled me above a bit, Gertrude, I can
tell you. She was as nice and inoffensive a young girl as could be.
Only the day before she disappeared she ran all across the garden to
me to put my umbrella up, because a drop or two of rain began to fall.
You can't think what a modest, kind, good little thing she was."

"I always thought it," assented Mrs. Carlyon. "And I esteem her
mother; she is so hard-working and respectable. What a trial it must
have been for her, poor woman! I shall call and see her before I
leave."

"Ay. Why not? Well, it is altogether a very mysterious and unpleasant
thing to have happened in this old house, and my pretty lassie, I see,
does not forget it. She seems to mope, and to get a bit melancholy now
and then. I fancy her eyes are not so bright as they used to be; she
doesn't talk so much, or sing so much about the house. It's just as if
there was always something hanging over her."

"Of course she must have a change," spoke Mrs. Carlyon.

"She was all the better for her visit to London in spring, but she was
not long enough away," went on the Squire. "You know how lonely we are
here. My health won't allow of my seeing much company, and Ella
doesn't seem to care about extending her acquaintances. It will be
horribly dull for her here this winter, with nobody in the house but a
sick and cantankerous old man. I wish she could get right away out of
England for six or eight months. She would come back to us next spring
as merry as a blackbird. Why not, now?"

"I need not say how glad I should be to take Ella with me," said Mrs.
Carlyon. "But there's one question--would she go?--would she leave
you?"

"Odds bodikins!" cried the Squire, angrily, "is the child to set up
her will against mine--and yours? It is for her good--and, go she
must."

"Do you think you are in a state to be left for a whole winter alone?"
debated Mrs. Carlyon, remembering how greatly she at first thought him
changed. "Will Ella think it?"

"I! why I am twenty per cent, better than I was a month ago. There's
no fear for me. And, if I became ill at any time, couldn't you be
telegraphed to? I say that Ella must have a change for her own sake;
and what I say I mean. Come now!"

"Yes; it would no doubt be better for her," assented Mrs. Carlyon,
slowly: but, Mr. Denison thought, dubiously.

"Look here, Gertrude: for a woman you've got as sharp a share of sense
as here and there one," cried he, lowering his tone as he bent forward
towards her. "People have set up all kinds of superstitious notions
about the affair; the women here hardly dare stir out of their
kitchens after dusk. I find a notion prevails that Katherine is still
in the house--is seen sometimes at her window at night. Now, as she
can't be in the house alive, you--you must see what that means--folks
are such fools, the uneducated ones. But, I put it to you,
Gertrude--with this absurd nonsense being whispered about the house,
whether it is fit the lassie should spend her winter in it? Eh, now,
come!"

He glanced keenly for a moment at Mrs. Carlyon, as if to see whether
his words impressed her. And they certainly had.

"No, it is not," she assented, speaking firmly, "and I will take her
out of it. But--you speak of the young women-servants, I suppose,
Gilbert? It is not at all seemly that they should be allowed to say
such things. See Katherine at her window! How absurd! What next?"

"And profess to hear weird sounds about the passages, whisperings, and
such like," added the Squire, as if he had pleasure in repeating this.

"What is Dorothy Stone about, to allow it?"

"Dorothy is worse than they are: she always was the most superstitious
woman I ever knew. Not a step dare she stir about the house now after
dark. Old Aaron is in a rare rage with her; threatens to shake her
sometimes," added the Squire with a grim smile.

"There _can't_ be anything in it, you know, Gilbert."

"I don't know," he answered: and Mrs. Carlyon stared at him. "After
the disappearance of Katherine into--into air, as may be said, one may
well believe any marvel. Eh, now?" continued the Squire. "At any rate,
Gertrude, it seems to me that we may forgive these poor ignorant
people who do believe. But, to go back to the question: Heron Dyke is
getting an ill name for mystery, see you, and I do not choose that my
innocent lassie shall pass the winter in it."

"Quite right; I perceive all now, and I will take her out of it,
Gilbert. At least for two or three of the dark months."

"Two or three months won't do," cried the Squire, testily. "It would
be of no use. She must not come back until the days are long and
bright."

"Well, well, I see how anxious you are for her," said Mrs. Carlyon;
who, however, could hardly feel it right to let him be so long alone.
"In any case, you would like her to be home before your birthday."

The Squire did not answer. He seemed to be struggling with some inward
emotion, and a curious spasm shot across his face. Mrs. Carlyon half
rose from her chair, but sat down again.

"Why before my birthday?" said he, at length. "It's no more to me than
any other day. I never make a festival of it as some idiots do--as if
it was something to rejoice over. She needn't come back for my
birthday unless I send for her. I shall be sure to send if I want
her."

"If you became worse--or weaker--you would send?"

"Ay, ay--why not? Don't we always want our dear ones with us in
sickness? Not but, what with Jago's treatment, I seem to have taken a
new lease of life. Look here: I should like the child to see Italy."

"And so she shall. And she will enjoy it, I am sure, provided she can
make her mind easy at leaving you. Ella is not like other girls; she
is more reasonable," added Mrs. Carlyon. "Look at some flighty young
things--thinking of nothing but of getting married."

"Bodikins! the women are generally keen enough after that, nowadays.
Ella never seems to care for the young fellows. Young Hanerly wanted
her, came to me about it; but she'd have nothing to say to him.
Whomsoever she marries, he will have to change his name to Denison.
None but a Denison must inherit Heron Dyke."

The thought occurred to Mrs. Carlyon--and it was on the tip of her
tongue to say it--that Ella's husband might not inherit Heron Dyke. If
the ailing man before her did not live to his next birthday, it must
all pass away from Ella. But she kept silence.

"I suppose you never by any chance hear from your cousin Gilbert?" she
presently asked, the train of thought prompting the question.

Mr. Denison's face darkened; a cold, hard look came into his eyes. He
turned sharply round and faced his questioner, but she was directly
regarding the smouldering logs on the hearth.

"Hear from my cousin Gilbert!" he said in deep harsh tones. "And pray
why should I want to hear from him? I would sooner receive a message
from--from the commonest beggar. He would never have the impudence to
write to me. Body o' me! Gilbert, forsooth! He has his spies round the
place night and day, I know that; watching and waiting for the moment
the breath will go out of me. But they will be deceived--they and
their master: yes, Gertrude Carlyon, I tell you that they will be
deceived! I am not dead yet, nor likely to die. I shall live to see my
seventieth birthday--I know it, I feel it--and not one acre of the old
estates shall go to that man!"

He spoke with strange energy. It was evident that the old hatred
towards his cousin still burned as fiercely in his heart as it had
done forty years before.

"I am afraid that son of his will prove no credit to the name he
bears," Mrs. Carlyon remarked after a pause: and the Squire looked up
but did not speak. "I am told that some time ago he had a terrible
quarrel with his father. They separated in anger, and he has not been
home since. He is supposed to have enlisted as a common soldier and
gone out to India."

Mr. Denison gave a sort of savage snarl.

"Ay, ay, that's good news--rare news," he said. "I would give that boy
a thousand pounds to keep him away from his father if I only knew
where he was--two thousand to anyone who could point out his grave. An
only son too. Ah, ah! Rare news!"

At that moment Dr. Jago came in. When he saw the Squire's face, he
looked anything but pleased.

"Madam," said he to Mrs. Carlyon, "this must not be. If Mr. Denison is
to get permanently better, he must be kept free from excitement. It
might counteract all the good I am doing him."


Mrs. Carlyon proposed a walk to Ella that lovely October afternoon,
after making an inquiry or two in the household about the unpleasant
topic touched on by the Squire. The air was mellow and gracious; and
they took their way to the sands, seating themselves on the very spot
where Ella had once sat with Edward Conroy. Never did she sit there
but she thought of him; of what he had said; of his looks and tones.
She wondered whether he was in Africa; she wondered when she should
hear of him.

It was low water, and where the vanished tide had been was now a tract
of firm yellow sand with hardly a pebble in it; excellent to walk
upon. Not till the solitude of the shore was about them did Mrs.
Carlyon say a word to her companion on the subject that she had to
break to her--their journeying together abroad.

Ella was astonished, hurt; perhaps even a little indignant. Could her
uncle really wish her to leave him and to go away for so long when he
needed companionship and care? Mrs. Carlyon quietly soothed her,
persuaded, reassured her; and finally told her that it was _best it
should so be_.

Allowing her niece to go in alone, Mrs. Carlyon turned her steps
towards the little inn--the Leaning Gate. She had her curiosity about
the doings of that past snowy night in February, just as other people
had. The conversation with the Squire and with Dorothy Stone only
served to whet it, to puzzle her more than ever, if that were
possible; and to enhance her sympathy for poor Katherine's family.

Mrs. Keen was waiting upon a customer who had halted at the inn for
the day; Susan had taken her work into the garden. Mrs. Carlyon found
her there seated on a rustic bench; she was hemming some new chamber
towels. It was a large and pretty garden, filled with homely flowers
in summer and with useful vegetables. A great bush of Michaelmas
daisies was in blossom now, near the end of the bench. Susan sat
without a bonnet, and the sunlight fell on her smooth brown hair, so
soft and fine, just the same pretty hair that Katherine had: indeed,
there had been a great resemblance between the sisters. She looked
neat as usual--a small white apron on over her dark gown, a white
collar at the neck. When she saw Mrs. Carlyon she got up to make her
courtesy, and the tears filled her mournful grey eyes. That lady sat
down by her and began to speak in a sympathising tone of the past
trouble.

"It is not past, ma'am," said Susan, in answer to a remark; "it never
will be."

"My good girl, I wanted to talk to you," said Mrs. Carlyon; "I came on
purpose. What I have heard about you grieves me so much----"

But here she stopped, for Mrs. Keen came running from the house to
greet the visitor. The landlady was a comely woman with ample
petticoats and a big white apron.

Naturally, there could be only the one theme of conversation. The
tears ran down Mrs. Keen's ruddy cheeks as they talked. Susan was
pale, more delicate-looking than ever, and her eyes, dry now, had a
far-off look in them. How greatly she put Mrs. Carlyon in mind of
Katherine that lady did not choose to say.

"I can understand all your distress, all your trouble," spoke she in a
sympathising tone. "And the _uncertainty_ as to what became of her
must be harder to bear than all else."

"_Something_ must have interrupted her when she had just begun to
undress; that seems to be evident, ma'am," said the mother. "She had
taken off her cap and apron, her collar and ribbon--and all else that
she had on disappeared with her. The question is, what that something
could be. Susan thinks--but I'm afraid she thinks a great deal that is
but idleness," broke off the mother, with a fond pitying glance at the
girl.

"What does Susan think?" asked Mrs. Carlyon.

Susan lifted her white face to answer. The vacant look it mostly wore
was very perceptible now; her tone became dull and monotonous.

"Ma'am," she said, "I think that when Katherine had just got those few
things off, somebody came to her door, and--and----"

"And what?" said Mrs. Carlyon, for the girl had stopped.

"I wish I knew what. I wish I could think what; but I can't. Some days
I think he must have taken her out of the room, and some days I think
he killed her in it. It fairly dazes me, ma'am."

"Whom do you mean by 'he'?" again questioned Mrs. Carlyon, wondering
whether the girl had anyone in particular in her mind.

"It must have been some stranger, some wicked man that we don't
know--or a woman," answered Susan, slowly. "Miss Winter had gone down
then, and was out of hearing."

"But there was no stranger at Heron Dyke that night, either man or
woman," objected Mrs. Carlyon. "Only the women-servants, old Aaron,
the Squire, and Miss Winter."

"Somebody might have been hid in the house. She'd not go out of the
room, ma'am, of her own accord."

"Not unless she had something to go for," said Mrs. Carlyon; "though I
do not see what it was likely to be," she slowly added. "Or, if she
did go out, why did she not go back again?"

"Ma'am," spoke the landlady, "against that theory there's the fact
that she left the candle behind her. Miss Winter found it burnt down
to the socket. If she had gone out of the room she would have taken
the light with her."

"It is a great mystery," mused Mrs. Carlyon. "What could have become
of her? Where can she be?"

"She was hurt in some way, or else frightened," said Susan. "Screams
of terror, those two were, that I heard."

"With regard to those screams," returned Mrs. Carlyon, "the singular
thing is that no one else heard them; no one in the house."

"Tom Barnet heard them, ma'am, the coachman's boy," interposed the
mother, smoothing down the sleeve of her lilac cotton gown. "I can't
think there's any doubt but that the screams came from Katherine. I'd
give--I'd give all I'm worth to know where she is, dead or alive."

"She is inside Heron Dyke!" cried Susan, her voice taking a sound of
awe.

"Nonsense," somewhat impatiently rebuked Mrs. Carlyon. "You ought to
know that it cannot be, Susan."

Susan lifted her patient face, a pleading kind of look on it.

"Ma'am, she's there; she's there. I've seen her at the window of her
room in the moonlight; it's three times now."

"Run in, Susie; I thought I heard the gentleman's bell," spoke her
mother, and Susan gathered up her work and went. But Mrs. Carlyon saw
it was only a ruse to get rid of her.

"She is growing almost silly upon the point, ma'am," Mrs. Keen began;
"thinking she sees her sister at the window. I believe it's all fancy,
for my part; nothing but the reflection of some tree branches cast on
the window-blind by the moon."

"Why don't you forbid her going up to Heron Dyke in the dark?"
sensibly asked Mrs. Carlyon. "It cannot be good for her."

"Because, ma'am, I'm feared that if I did, her mind would quite lose
its balance," replied the mother. "I do stop her all I can; but I dare
not do it quite always. The going up there to watch the windows for
Katherine has become like meat and drink to her."

Mrs. Carlyon sighed. Throughout the interview the landlady had never
ceased to wipe her tears away; they rose in spite of her. It was
altogether a very distressing case, and Mrs. Carlyon wished it had
occurred anywhere rather than at Heron Dyke.

"I suppose Katherine had no trouble? She was not in bad spirits?" she
remarked.

"She had no trouble in the world that I know of; there was none that
she could have. Susan met her in Nullington the morning of the very
day it happened, and she was as blithe as could be. Miss Winter was
making some underthings for the poor little neglected Tysons, and
found she had not got enough material to cut out the last, so she sent
Katherine for another yard of it, charging her to make haste. Well,
ma'am, Susan met her, as I tell you; and, as Katherine was going back
to the Hall, she saw me standing at the door here. 'I hear you have
heard from John, mother,' she called out; and her face was bright and
her voice cheerful as a lark's; 'Susan says she will bring me up the
letter this evening.' 'Come in for it now, child,' I answered her.
'No,' she said, 'if I came in I should be sure to stop talking with
you, and Miss Winter is waiting for what I've been to fetch. You'll
let Susan bring it up this evening, mother.' 'If the weather holds
up,' I answered, glancing at the skies, which seemed to threaten a
fall of some sort; 'but her cold hangs about her, and I can't let her
go out at night if rain comes on.' With that she nodded to me and ran
on laughing; she used to think it a joke, the care I took of Susan.
No, ma'am," concluded the mother, "my poor Katherine was in no trouble
of mind."

Mrs. Carlyon went back to the Hall full of thought. One thing she
could not understand--how it was, if Katherine had screamed, that she
should have been heard out of doors, and not indoors. And Mrs.
Carlyon, that same evening, when she was dressing for dinner, sent
Higson for Dorothy Stone, telling the maid she need not come back; and
she put the question to Dorothy.

Mrs. Stone went into a twitter forthwith. The least allusion to the
subject invariably sent her into one. No, the cry had not been heard
indoors, she answered. Neither by the master nor Miss Ella, who were
shut up in the oak sitting-room, nor by her and the maids in the
kitchen. But the north wing was ever so far off, and she did not think
they could have heard it. The only one about the house was Aaron, and
he ought to have heard it, if any scream had been screamed.

"And he did not hear it?" spoke Mrs. Carlyon.

"Aaron heard nothing, ma'am," replied the housekeeper. "The corridors
and passages, above and below, were just as silent as they always are,
inside this great lonely house at night; and that's as silent as the
grave. Aaron was locking up, and could well have heard any scream in
the north wing. He was longer than usual that night, as it chanced,
for he got his oil, and was oiling the front-door lock, which had
grown a bit rusty. Had there been any noise in the north wing,
screaming, or what not, he could not have failed to hear it: and for
that reason he holds to it to this day that there was none; that the
screams Susan Keen professed to hear were just her flighty fancy."

"And do you think so, Dorothy?"

"Ma'am, I don't know what to say," answered the old woman, pushing
back her grey hair, as she was apt to do when in a puzzle of thought.
"I should think it was the girl's fancy but for Tom Barnet. Tom holds
to it that the two screams were there, sure enough, just as Susan
does; the last a good deal fainter than the first."

"There's the dinner-gong!" exclaimed Mrs. Carlyon, as the sound boomed
up from below. "And none of my ornaments on yet. Clasp this bracelet
for me, will you, Dorothy. We will talk more of this another time. Dr.
Jago dines here to-night, I hear: what a fancy the Squire seems to
have taken to him!"




CHAPTER XII.
FAREWELL.


The day of departure was here, bringing with it Ella's last afternoon
at Heron Dyke for several weeks, or it might be, for several months to
come. Her uncle's will in the matter, combined with Mrs. Carlyon's,
had conquered her own. Dr. Jago added his influence in the shape of a
warning, that his patient must on no account be irritated by
contradiction or he would not be answerable for the consequences.

Ella felt that there was no other course open to her than to yield;
but she cried many bitter tears in secret. She did not want to leave
home at all just now, although ten days or a fortnight in Paris might
have proved a pleasant change. But to go away for a whole winter, and
so far away too, was certainly something that she had never
contemplated. It was true that Mr. Denison seemed better in health,
much better; but, for all that, she had a presentiment which she could
not get rid of, that if she left him now she should never see him
again in this world. Still, she had to obey her uncle's wishes.

And now the last afternoon was here, and waning quickly. She had
bidden farewell to Maria Kettle, to Lady Cleeve, and all other
friends; she had taken her last walk along the shore, her last look at
the garden and grounds, each familiar spot had been visited in turn;
and it seemed to her as though she were bidding them farewell for
ever. She and Mrs. Carlyon were going up to London by the evening
train; they would spend a couple of days in town and then cross by the
Dover boat.

Through the leaden-paned windows of Mr. Denison's sitting-room the
rays of the October sun shone wanly, lighting up a point of panelling
here and there, or lending a momentary freshness, a forgotten grace,
to one or other of the faded portraits on the walls. As the sick man
sat there in his big leathern chair, his dim eyes wandered now and
again to the motto of his family where, lighted by the sun, it shone
out in colours blood-red and golden high up in the central window.
There was a ring of worldly pride in the words, of the strength and
the glory of possession. "What I have I hold." How much longer would
he, the living head of the house, continue to hold anything of that
which earth had given him? Already the cold airs of the grave blew
about him: already he seemed to hear the dread words, "Ashes to
ashes," while from the sexton's clay-stained fingers a little earth
was crumbled on to his coffin lid. "What I have I hold." Vain mockery!
when the grim Captain whispers in your ear, and bids you follow him.

Ella sat on a low hassock at her uncle's knee. One of her hands was
tightly grasped in his, while his other hand stroked her hair fondly.
It was a gaunt and bony hand, and seemed all unfitted for such loving
usages. They spoke to each other in low tones, with frequent pauses
between. To any stranger there, who could have heard their voices but
not their words, it would have seemed as if they were discussing some
trivial topic of every-day life. But both Ella and the Squire had
determined that they would keep a strict guard over their feelings.
Neither of them would let the other see the emotions at work below,
though each might guess at their existence. Dr. Jago had warned the
young lady to make her parting as quiet a one as possible: excitement
of any kind was hurtful to his patient. Mr. Denison's proud hard
nature could not entirely change itself, even at a time like the
present; besides which, he wanted to make the separation as little
distressing to Ella as might be. It maybe that he felt that if she
were to break down at the last moment and betray much emotion, his own
veneer of stoicism might not prove of much avail.

"I think, Uncle Gilbert, you understand clearly the arrangements made
for our communicating with each other while I am away?" said Ella.

"I think so, my pretty one. You can go over them again if you like."

"I will write to you once a week, and send you a telegram as often as
we leave one place for another. Hubert Stone will write to me in your
name every Monday to save you from fatigue; and you must write
sometimes yourself. Should your health change in the slightest degree
for the worse, he will telegraph to me without a moment's delay."

"That's it: I shan't forget," said Mr. Denison. "What with this
telegraphing, and one thing or another, it will seem as if you were no
farther away than the next village."

"I shall feel that we are very far apart," said Ella. "You forget what
a long time it takes to travel from Italy to Heron Dyke."

"Nothing like the time it used to take when I was a young spark. I
remember when I went the grand tour as it was called--but there,
there, we have something else to talk about now. Anyhow, railroads are
a wonderful invention."

There were twenty things on Ella's tongue that she would have liked to
speak of, but that it might be more wise to refrain from. Dr. Jago's
warning words rarely left her thoughts.

"Be sure to wrap yourself up warmly when you go out in the carriage,
uncle."

"Ay, ay, dearie, I won't forget."

"I shall come back to you the first week in the new year. Two months
will be quite long enough to be away from home."

"We have agreed to see about that, you know, my lassie. I will send
you word when I feel that I want you, and then you will come. Not
before, I think--not before."

It was a topic that Ella dared not pursue further. She kissed his hand
with tears in her eyes. He patted her cheek lovingly.

"Oh! why does he persist so strongly in sending me away?" she thought.
"Hubert let fall a word--an inadvertent one, I think--the other night,
that they feared I should be melancholy in this gloomy old house in
the winter. It is gloomy now, but I could have put up with that very
well."

"If I get on as famously for the next month or two as I have for the
last three weeks," said the Squire, "I shall be able to drive to the
station and meet you when you come home. And then when the sun comes
out warm next spring, I can take your arm, and we can walk again in
the peach alley as we used to do. Why not?"

Was there something wistful in his voice, as he spoke thus, that
caused Ella to glance up quickly into his face.

"Are you sure, uncle, that you are really as much stronger and better
as you say you are?" she asked quickly, and with ill-concealed
anxiety.

One of his old suspicious flashes came into his eyes, but it died away
next moment.

"Am I sure, dearie? Why--why, what makes you ask that? You can
see for yourself that I'm better. Yes, Jago's making another man of
me--another man."

"Tell me the truth, uncle," she exclaimed passionately, "_why_ is it
that you are driving me away? I am sure there is some special reason
for it."

For a moment or two the Squire did not answer: his face was working
with some inward excitement, his fingers, stroking the hand he held,
trembled visibly.

"The house is getting uncanny, child," he said at last, "and I won't
suffer my pretty one to be in it through the dark months. Before
another winter comes round, perhaps the mystery will be solved; I hope
it will be. Any way, we shall by that time have become more reconciled
to it."

"But, uncle----"

"No objection, my dear one. You have never made any to my will yet,
and you must not begin now. Understand, child: I am sending you away
for _the best_; the best for you and for me; and you must be guided by
me implicitly, as you ever have been."

Ella sighed--and would not let him see her tears.

The yellow sunlight faded and vanished from the gloomy room, the old
portraits on the walls shrank farther back into the twilight of their
frames and were lost to view, the log on the hearth crackled and
glowed more redly bright as darkness crept on apace, and still those
two sat hand in hand, speaking a few words now and then, but mostly
silent. At length the moment of departure came, the carriage was at
the door, and Mrs. Carlyon entered, ready for travelling.

The Squire grasped the back of his chair with one hand; he was
trembling in every limb. Mrs. Carlyon bade him goodbye quietly and
without fuss. He kissed her, and held her hand.

"Gertrude," he said, "into your hands I commit my one earthly
treasure. I charge you with the care of it. Never forget!"

Ella clung to him, and laid her head upon his breast. His rugged
features worked convulsively. He lifted her face tenderly between his
hands and kissed her several times.

"Let me stay with you, uncle. Why drive me away?" she said
imploringly.

For a moment there came into his eyes a gleam of agony terrible to
see: it was a look which Ella never forgot.

"No--no--it must not be: I am doing for the best," he repeated,
in a hoarse whisper; "I tell it you. Farewell, my sweetest and
best--farewell. Go now--go now," he whispered, as he sank into his
chair and pointed to the door.

Hubert Stone, looking every inch a gentleman, attended them to the
station, sitting on the box with Barnet. Higson went inside with the
ladies. At the station, Ella took Hubert aside for a private word.

"You will be sure not to forget your instructions, Hubert?"

"I shall not forget one of them, Miss Ella," was his answer. "You may
rely upon that."

"You must watch my uncle narrowly. Should you see the approach of any
change in him, telegraph to me. Question your friend, Dr. Jago,
continually of his state. Say nothing to my uncle. I will take the
responsibility if you send for me. You will always know where we are,
for I shall keep you well informed."

The young man bowed. He was afraid to let his eyes meet hers: she
might perhaps have fathomed the burning secret that lay half hidden
there--his passionate love.

"I trust you, Hubert; remember that: I have only you to trust to now
at Heron Dyke. And now, goodbye."

Hubert clasped the hand she extended to him. And the next moment he
assisted her into the carriage.

"Ah, if I might dare to think it would ever be!" he groaned, watching
the train as it puffed out of the station. "And, I do think it may, I
fear, more than is wholesome for me; for the hope is little short of
madness."

At that time the county of Norfolk had been startled from its
propriety by the ill-judged action of a young lady belonging to the
family of one of its magnates. She had married one of her father's
men-servants. Hubert Stone lit his cigar, and quitted the station to
return home, thinking of this. Strange to say, he saw in it some
encouragement for himself.

"If Miss G. can stoop to marry a low fellow like that, surely there's
nothing so very outrageous in my aspiring to Ella Winter! I am well
educated; I can behave as a gentleman; I am good-looking. There's
nothing against me but birth--and fortune. She will have enough of the
latter if she comes into Heron Dyke--and if Jago's clever, I expect
she will. Any way her fortune will be a fair one, for the Squire must
have saved hoards of money. She can well afford to dispense with money
in whomsoever she may marry: and if she can only be brought to
overlook the disadvantage of my birth----"

"Good-evening, Mr. Stone. And how's the Squire?"

Hubert's dreams were thus cut short. He answered the question
mechanically, and stopped to talk to the chance acquaintance who had
accosted him.

Meanwhile Ella and Mrs. Carlyon were speeding London-ward as fast as
the Great Eastern Railway could carry them. At Cambridge there was a
stoppage for two or three minutes. Suddenly Mrs. Carlyon uttered an
exclamation of surprise.

"Ella, look! Look there! that is surely Mr. Conroy. He is looking for
a seat."

Ella bent forward. The next moment Mr. Conroy recognised them. He
advanced to the carriage window, and raised his hat.

"Who, in the name of wonder, expected to see you here?" exclaimed Mrs.
Carlyon, as she held out her hand. "I thought you were in Ashantee."

"It is one of my privileges to turn up in unexpected places," he
answered. Then he shook hands with Ella and inquired after Mr.
Denison.

"Were you looking for a place?--are you going to town?" asked Mrs.
Carlyon. "If you don't mind travelling with unprotected females,
there's plenty of room here."

And, thanking her, into the carriage stepped Edward Conroy, with the
frank look and smile that Ella remembered so well.

"Well, if he is not a cool one!" thought the discerning Higson to
herself. "I'd not mind answering for it that in some way he got to
know Miss Ella would be here, and came down from town on purpose to
meet her. I can read it in his eyes. There's no answering for what
these venturesome young gents will do!"

"And will you kindly explain to us, Mr. Conroy, what business you have
to be in England when you ought to be sketching black people out in
Africa?"

"Within twenty-four hours of the time I was to have sailed, I received
a telegram informing me that my father was dangerously ill. Under the
circumstances, I could not sail; I had to go to him instead. I stayed
some time with him, left him better, and then found that Dempster had
been sent in my place."

"And a very fortunate thing too."

Conroy laughed.

"You lack enterprise, Mrs. Carlyon. I am afraid that you would never
do for a special correspondent. Do you expect to make a long stay in
London this time?" he asked, turning to Ella.

"We intend starting for the Continent the day after tomorrow,"
answered Mrs. Carlyon. "You had better come and dine with us tomorrow
evening: there will be no one but ourselves and Mr. Bootle."

"I shall be very happy to do so," replied Conroy. "What place are you
going to make your head-quarters while you are away?"

"I had some thoughts of San Remo, but we shall probably be birds of
passage and not stay long in any one place."

Conroy saw that Ella was silent, and guessed the parting with her
uncle had been a sad one. What he did not know was, how sweet his
presence and company were to her. She had been thinking of him that
very day--thinking of him sadly as of one whom she might never see
again; and now he was here, sitting opposite to her. What rare chance
had brought him?--She did not talk much, she was satisfied to hear his
voice and see his face; at present she craved nothing more. The
journey she so much dreaded had all at once been invested with a
charm, with an unexpected sweetness, which she never tried to analyse:
enough for her that it was there.

Conroy saw the ladies into their carriage at the London terminus, and
bade them goodbye till the following evening. Then he lighted a cigar
and set out to walk to his rooms in the Adelphi. He was in a musing
mood, debating some question with himself as he walked along.

"Shall I tell Mrs. Carlyon a certain secret, or shall I not?" he
thought. "Would she keep it to herself? No, no; better be on the safe
side," he presently decided: "and the time is hardly ripe to tell it
to anyone. What would Squire Denison say if it were whispered to him?"

On this very evening, while these ladies were on their way to London,
a strange thing happened at Heron Dyke.

It was about eight o'clock. Fitch the saddler had come up from
Nullington about some little matter of business, and Aaron Frost sent
one of the housemaids to fetch him a certain whip that was hanging up
in the hall. As Martha left the room with her candle she met her
fellow-servant, Ann, and the latter turned to accompany her. The girls
never cared to go about the big house singly after dark. They went
along chattering merrily, and thinking of anything rather than
unpleasant subjects. Martha was repeating a ludicrous story just told
in the kitchen by the saddler, and could hardly tell it for laughing.

As in many old mansions, round three sides of the entrance-hall there
ran an oaken gallery, some twenty feet above the ground, from which
various doors gave access to different parts of the house. This
gallery was reached from the hall by a broad and shallow flight of
stairs.

"How cold this place always strikes one," exclaimed Ann, as they
entered the hall.

"It would want many a dozen of candles to light it up properly,"
remarked Martha.

Having found the whip, they turned to retrace their steps, when
Martha, happening to glance up at the gallery, gave utterance to a low
cry, and grasped her companion by the arm. Ann's eyes involuntarily
followed the same direction, and a similar cry of intense terror burst
from her lips.

They saw the face of the missing girl--the face of Katherine Keen,
gazing down upon them from the gallery. The face was very pale; white
as that of the dead. The figure was leaning over the balustrade of the
gallery, and its eyes gazed down into theirs with a sad, fixed, weary
look. It seemed to be clothed in something dark, pulled partly over
its head and grasped at the throat by the white, slender fingers. For
fully half a minute, the two girls stood and stared up at the figure
in sheer incapability, and the figure looked sadly down upon them. At
length it moved--it turned--it took a step forward, and the servants,
both of them, distinctly heard the sound of a faint far-away sigh.
Could it be possible that the figure meant to come downstairs? The
spell that had held the girls was broken; with low smothered cries of
terror they turned and fled, clinging to each other.

How the one dropped the whip and the other the candle, and how
they at length gained the kitchen, and burst into it with their
terror-stricken faces and their unhappy tale, they never knew. Fitch
the saddler gazed in open-eyed amazement, as well he might; the deaf
and stolid cook looked in from the cooking-kitchen--in which congenial
place she preferred to sit, surrounded by her saucepans.

The girls sobbed forth all the dismal story. Their mistress, Mrs.
Stone, flung her apron over her head as she listened, and sank back in
her chair in dismay equal to theirs. But old Aaron was so indignant,
so scandalised, at what he called their senseless folly, that he lost
his breath in a rage, and gave each of them a month's warning on the
spot.



END OF VOL. I.

________________________________________________________
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.

_Y. S. & Sons_.