MOSTYN IS SURPRISED.
On the following day Mostyn travelled down to Partingborough, in
Cambridgeshire, by a late afternoon train. He had paid a visit to
Messrs. Chester and Smithers that morning, had fully discussed his
plans with Mr. Chester, had learnt that a large sum of money would be
placed to his credit that day, and that he could draw upon the firm
for more should he require it; then he had broached a subject which
had been worrying his mind during the night.
"If the details of this extraordinary will are given to the public,"
he said, "it's very plain that my task will be made more
difficult--for me. Dealers will ask what they like for their horses
because they will know that I simply must purchase. Every swindler
in England will be on my track. I shall be exploited right and left.
That's clear, I think. Now, Mr. Chester, is it essential that the
will shall be published before my year is up?"
Mr. Chester gave the matter his very careful attention. It was
palpably a point of importance. When he spoke it was in his usual
oracular vein.
"What you say is very reasonable, Mr. Clithero, and, upon
consideration, we think we can meet you in the matter. There will be
no difficulty in realising the estate of the late Mr. Royce, since it
is mainly in American gold bonds, payable to bearer; and, since the
ultimate trusts are of such a nature that they will not come into
force for a full year, we see no reason why probate should not be
delayed for the period you require. This must, of course, be subject
to the consent of the American agents, but we do not anticipate
difficulty with them."
Mostyn felt intensely relieved, and said so. He had been dreading
the amount of public interest that would certainly have been aroused
in his undertaking. Now he would confide in Pierce and Cicely, but
in no one else.
This point settled, Mostyn took his departure, after announcing his
intention of going down to Partinborough that day. He had an idea in
his head that Mr. Royce may have had some subtle object in mind in
bequeathing him this estate, situated, as it was, so close to the
home of the Armitages. Was it perhaps Castor of which he had been
thinking--or could he have desired to throw Mostyn and Rada together?
It was impossible to guess. All Mostyn knew of his property was that
it had been rarely occupied by the American, and that the house was
an old one, only partly furnished and very much out of repair.
Mostyn studied racing literature as he travelled down in the train,
totally ignoring magazines, of which he was usually fond, and every
form of light reading. He had purchased the evening paper solely
with the object of absorbing the sporting intelligence. Ruff's Guide
and a stud book bulged prominently in the pocket of his blue serge
coat; he had promised himself that these works should be his
inseparable companions during the months to come. Oh, yes, he would
soon be well up in sporting technicalities; he laughed at himself now
as he remembered his blunders on Derby day. To have asked the age of
Hipponous--to have suggested that Hipponous should run in the
Oaks--and above all to have been taken in by that old joke about the
Waterloo Cup--his cheeks reddened even now as he thought of it.
He wished he had been able to talk it all over with Pierce, but
Pierce was still away at his father's house in Worcestershire: Mostyn
had received a letter from him that afternoon, just as he was leaving
for the station. He had perused it hastily, and then thrust it into
his pocket. Now, having time at his disposition, he drew it out and
read it for the second time.
"Poor Pierce," he muttered to himself, "poor old chap!" The letter
was not a cheerful one, as, perhaps, was to be expected. Old Mr.
Trelawny had not shown himself very amenable, this although he was
admittedly fond of Cicely for her own sake. He was a bluff old
gentleman of the old school, a thorough sportsman, and he cordially
despised John Clithero and John Clithero's doctrines. He listened
with considerable interest to the story of Mostyn's rebellion and the
refusal of the latter to submit to his father. "A brave lad!" he had
cried, "I like his spirit." He had repeated this several times,
somewhat to Pierce's annoyance, whose thoughts were concentrated upon
his own affairs.
Finally, Pierce had obtained a concession. Since Cicely would not be
twenty-one till the expiration of another twelve months, Pierce was
to wait a year without seeing or writing to the girl, and if he was
of the same mind at the end of that time, Mr. Trelawny would offer no
further opposition. Pierce might marry his sweetheart, regardless of
John Clithero's disapproval. But the year's probation was to be a
_sine qua non_.
"If you deceive me over that, my boy, there'll be a row," so the old
gentleman had asserted with a good deal of vigour and a quaint
raising of the eye-brows that was peculiar to him. "Jove, I'll cut
you off like Clithero has cut off Mostyn. Remember that. Write to
Cicely and tell her what I say--and then not another letter. That's
my decree, and you'd better stick to it."
"I can't quite make the governor out," so Pierce wrote. "He spoke
very decidedly, but there was a queer look in his eyes, as though he
thought it was rather a joke to forbid me seeing the girl I love for
a whole year. I suppose he thinks I shall find someone else in the
meantime, but I won't, and that's very certain. We shall just have
to wait the year--and that will be hard enough for both of us."
Mostyn, having read the letter with genuine sympathy, put it
carefully away, reflecting that it was strange that Pierce, like
himself, should have a year's probation before him. He had written
to his friend the night before, telling him, in confidence, something
of his accession to fortune and the conditions imposed thereon,
inviting him also to come to Partinborough Grange and talk the future
over as early as possible.
Partinborough station reached, Mostyn descended from the train and
looked about for Samuel Willis and the conveyance which he had asked
by letter to be sent to meet him. But Samuel Willis was conspicuous
by his absence, nor was there a sign of any kind of carriage on the
long level road outside the little wayside station. Could it be
possible that his letter had miscarried, and that the gardener had
not been warned of his coming?
Under these circumstances it was necessary for Mostyn to hire a cab,
and there was a delay of some twenty minutes--which Mostyn spent at
the Station Hotel--till the ramshackle old conveyance was brought
round. The little town of Partinborough, he learnt, lay about a mile
from the station, on the main road to Newmarket, and the Grange
occupied a rather isolated position another mile further on.
It was nearly seven o'clock when, having passed through the little
town and then negotiated some extremely narrow and rutty lanes, the
cab came to a halt for a moment, while the driver descended from his
box to open a wooden gate that gave access to a drive through a small
wood.
Mostyn concluded, and concluded rightly, that he was now upon his own
property. He gazed about him with curiosity. The road branched, and
the wood was denser than he had first thought. To the left there was
an incline, below which, and just visible through the thickly-massed
trees, Mostyn could discern the glimmer of a little stream. Upon the
other side the trees became gradually less dense, till between them
an open space, evidently an undulating lawn, could be distinguished.
Presently, the road made an abrupt turn in this direction, and the
house came in sight.
Even at a cursory view it was evident that Partinborough Grange was
of considerable antiquity. It was a house of no great size, but it
had many gables and was pleasantly irregular in proportion. It was
ivy-covered, too, almost to the roof, and the windows were framed
with rose creepers. The porch before which the carriage drew up was
a veritable mass of white and red blooms.
Mostyn's heart leapt delightedly within him. He had often pictured
to himself a house like this, and now his dreams were realised.
Partinborough Grange was his own--absolutely his own--and not only
the Grange, but this wide expanse of wood, this spreading lawn with
its carefully-tended flower-beds, and its pergola of roses; however
negligent Samuel Willis, the gardener, may have been in not attending
to instructions as to meeting the train, he was undoubtedly
accomplished at his craft.
Mostyn alighted from the carriage, and almost as he did so, the door
was thrown open, and a tall man, curiously thin and cadaverous of
face, made his appearance. His manner was nervous, but he spoke
civilly, and was evidently anxious to appear at his best.
"You are Mr. Clithero, sir?" he began, awkwardly. "I am Samuel
Willis."
"You had my letter?" interrupted Mostyn, seeing that the man
hesitated as though at a loss for words. "I expected that you would
have sent a cart to meet me. I mentioned the time that I should
arrive."
"Yes, sir." The man blurted out his explanation. "But unfortunately
I didn't get your letter till about half an hour ago. It was like
this, my boy, who's workin' for Colonel Marchmont at Mowbray Hall, a
couple of miles on the other side of Partinborough, met with a bad
accident last night, and me and my missus went out early this mornin'
to be with him. That's how it was, sir, that neither of us saw your
letter. It's a good thing I came back when I did. I meant to fetch
the cart and bring him home, for the doctor says he must lie up a
bit."
"I see," said Mostyn, pleasantly, evincing no annoyance
whatever--this, evidently, very much to the gardener's relief. "I
found my own way up quite safely, you see. And I am very sorry to
hear about your son--I hope he isn't seriously hurt."
Willis replied that he anticipated no danger. The boy was raw at his
work, and had carelessly damaged his foot with a scythe. The doctor
had patched him up, and he would be on the mend in a day or two; but
in the meantime, there was the necessity of driving over to Mowbray
Hall that evening to fetch both Willis's wife and his son back to the
cottage.
"You can go as soon as you have shown me over the place," Mostyn
said, "I don't the least mind being left alone--that is, if I can get
something to eat, and if there is a bed ready for me to sleep on.
What time do you expect to return?"
"Well, sir, the doctor's coming round again a little before nine, he
said. I expect we could be back at the cottage by ten. In the
meanwhile, I can arrange for your dinner, and make you quite
comfortable for the night."
"That's all right, then," agreed Mostyn, "I shall manage quite well
for myself after you have gone." He turned and settled with the
driver of his cab, paying him liberally out of the fulness of his
heart, and then requested Samuel Willis to lead the way into the
house. His luggage--such as it was, for he had not thought well to
bring much with him, being uncertain as to the length of his
stay--had already been carried into the hall.
"You know all about my having become the owner of the Grange?" Mostyn
said, as he followed the gardener. "I suppose Messrs. Chester and
Smithers gave you the full particulars."
"Yes, sir," returned the man civilly, "but we did not expect that you
would be coming down so soon, or I should have been on the look out
for a letter."
Mostyn made some complimentary remark about the garden, and then
added with a laugh, "I understood that the house was in a dilapidated
condition, a sort of ruin, in fact. I am pleasantly surprised to
find it so well kept."
"It's better from the outside than within," returned Willis, "as you
will see for yourself, sir. My wife does her best, but there's more
work than one woman can manage. There are only some four or five
rooms furnished, and the others--well, they would need a lot of doin'
up before they could be occupied. As for the garden--well, I can
manage that, and I love my flowers."
Mostyn was staring round the hall in which he stood. It was square
of shape, panelled in oak, and a gallery ran round two sides of it--a
gallery which was approached by an uncarpeted flight of stairs at the
far end. There was but little furniture, though everything that
Mostyn's eyes rested upon was quaint and old-fashioned. There were
high-backed chairs, elaborately carved, a great oaken coffer, and a
fine old grandfather's clock, the loud ticking of which sounded
pleasantly to the ear. The fireplace was large in proportion to the
size of the hall, and the hearth was broad; there were delightful
ingle nooks to either side of it. Against the opposite wall there
was an organ, a small affair, and evidently of modern make: its
pipes, which had been gilded and painted, were now discoloured, and
harmonised quaintly with the more antique decorations of the hall.
The floor was uncarpeted, but a few fine rugs, bear and tiger skins,
lay about. A large lamp was suspended in the centre, and Samuel
Willis now occupied himself with the lighting of this, for the dusk
was closing in.
There were two other rooms upon the ground floor which had been
furnished, and these were just as quaint and old-fashioned, both in
design and equipment as the hall itself. The broad oaken beams that
traversed the ceilings indicated their age. Of the two, the
drawing-room presented the greater semblance of comfort and
modernity. It had pretty chintz furniture, comfortable arm-chairs,
and the pictures on the walls were bright water-colour landscapes.
The walls themselves, above the oaken panelling, were distempered in
white, and, unlike the other rooms, there was a good carpet covering
the whole floor. The windows gave direct access to the garden, and
as it stood partly open, the scent of roses was pleasantly wafted to
Mostyn's nostrils. There were a couple of shaded lamps, which the
gardener proceeded to light, and some of the tall vases that stood
upon the mantel-piece and in other parts of the room had been filled
with bunches of great red roses; Mostyn imagined that this had been a
kindly attention upon the part of Willis, and felt grateful to the
man.
The dining-room was not altogether so cheerful an apartment. It was
panelled from floor to ceiling in oak, which in places was very
palpably rotting away. There were no pictures upon the wall, nor any
attempt at the lighter ornamentations which prevailed in the other
room; the ceiling was dingy and discoloured between the great beams
which traversed it, and the floor was carpetless--little holes
appearing here and there in the boards close against the
wainscotting--to Mostyn's mind, unpleasantly suggestive of rats. A
fine table occupied the centre of the room, and upon this a white
cloth had already been spread.
"I've done my best about your dinner, sir," Willis said
deprecatingly, "but I'm afraid, since I had no notice of your coming,
that there is not much that I can do. I don't understand cookin'----"
"Never mind," Mostyn laughed, "I can manage with anything you've got,
or can go down to the inn for the matter of that."
Willis explained that he had brought up a cold chicken and some
accessories, also that Mr. Clithero would find that there were
bottles of good wine in the cellar; if he could do with these.
Mostyn declared that he could do with these quite well. In fact, he
would need nothing else that night, and on the next day he could have
a long chat with Mrs. Willis and make all the necessary arrangements.
After this the bedrooms were explored, to reach which it was
necessary to pass along the gallery that skirted the hall. Of these
only a couple were furnished, all the other rooms being in a state of
deplorable decay.
"Mr. Royce was always going to furnish the house," Willis explained
apologetically, "but when he gave up racing he didn't seem to care to
come down any more. He took the Grange because it is near the
training stables, you know, sir. William Treves has a big place just
outside Partinborough."
The beds were made in both rooms; and Willis explained that his wife
had seen to this when she heard that the Grange had passed into other
hands, and would probably be shortly occupied. "She has tidied up
the place as well as she could," he added. "I hope you'll be all
right and comfortable, sir."
Mostyn glanced round the large airy room which he had selected, and
told himself that there was every prospect of his comfort. The room,
indeed, had not the appearance of having been long unoccupied, and
Mostyn noticed, somewhat to his surprise, that the attentive
Willis--or could it have been Mrs. Willis?--had even been thoughtful
enough to fill the vases here, as in the drawing-room, with rich and
fresh rose-blooms.
"It's awfully nice to have these flowers," he commented; "I must
really congratulate you, Willis, upon having arranged things so
comfortably for me."
A tinge of colour came into the gardener's sallow face, and he turned
away, as Mostyn thought, a little nervously.
"You're very good, sir," was all he said.
Mostyn enjoyed his dinner, impromptu meal though it was, nor did he
neglect an excellent bottle of claret that Willis produced from the
cellar. He felt quite contented and happy, nor had he any sensation
of loneliness when, a little later, he heard the dog-cart pass the
front door and knew that Willis had taken his departure. Mostyn had
told the gardener that there was no need either for him or for his
wife to return that night. Their cottage, he had learnt, lay within
the little park by which Partinborough Grange was surrounded, some
five or six minutes' walk from the house.
After a while he amused himself by once more exploring all the rooms
on the ground floor, and then he mounted to his bedroom, determined
to unpack and put everything straight for the night. After that he
thought that it might be pleasant to have a stroll amid the roses of
the now moon-lit garden.
He found, however, that it took longer to put things tidy than he had
anticipated, and, furthermore, he made one or two curious discoveries
in the room which he had determined to occupy. There was a large
hanging cupboard, and here, very much to his amusement, he came
across some articles of feminine apparel--a jacket, a cape, a straw
hat, and sundry other garments which he did not venture to examine
more closely.
"I think it must be true," he smiled to himself, "that this room has
not really been so long unoccupied. No doubt Mrs. Willis finds it
more to her taste than the cottage. Or perhaps Mrs. Willis has a
daughter," he added, as he glanced critically at the dainty straw hat
and marked the juvenile cut of the jacket. "I really don't think
that Mrs. Willis can be the owner of these!"
A little later he found a hairpin lying on the floor, and became
still more convinced that his room must have been occupied by some
member of the Willis household. The fact troubled him, however, not
at all, and he laughed to himself as he recalled the gardener's
nervousness of manner when he had drawn attention to the roses upon
the mantelpiece. "Whoever has made herself at home here," he told
himself, "must at any rate have a nice idea of comfort and the beauty
of things. I can make every allowance for people who like flowers."
He was stooping over the portmanteau which he was engaged in
unpacking, and, at that moment, it seemed to him that he heard a
faint sound in the house, as of the opening and shutting of a door.
He raised himself to his knees and listened, but all was still.
"I didn't think I was so imaginative," he muttered, after a moment.
"I suppose that comes of being alone in a half-furnished house--so
far away from everything, too." He glanced round the room and at the
open window, which looked out upon the lawn--a lawn intersected by
dark shadows and silver streaks of moonlight. "It never struck me
before, either," he went on, "that there might be a ghost at
Partinborough Grange; it's just the place for one." He laughed at
himself, not being in reality nervous, and, if anything, rather
enjoying the sense of his isolation. He decided that he would finish
his unpacking quickly, and then make his way to the garden. The
night was soft and balmy, and the air was fragrant with roses. It
would be better there than in the house.
He bent himself once more to his task, throwing out his belongings to
either side of him in the careless way of a man. Then of a sudden,
he paused, a pair of shoes in one hand, a case of razors in the
other, and listened attentively. Another moment and he had dropped
shoes and razors and started to his feet.
He did not know if he was afraid, though certainly at the first
moment a cold shiver had run down his spine, and there had been a
peculiar sensation as if perspiration were about to break out on his
brow. He felt hot and cold at the same time, and yet he was not
conscious of any actual fear.
It was such a strange thing to be happening in an empty house, and,
at first, Mostyn had hardly believed his ears. But now there was no
doubt about it--someone was in the hall, and that someone was playing
the organ.
The sound had at first come so softly that it had been really like a
breath of wind stirring in the pipes; Mostyn had thought that it must
be something of the sort, till he had remembered that there was
practically no wind that night. Yet it was possible that the sound
was due to some perfectly natural cause quite apart from human agency.
He listened with hazy ideas of the kind in his mind, until it was
evident that something like a tune--a weird, dreamy tune, certainly,
was being developed, and that it was impossible to doubt any longer
that human fingers were touching the keys of the organ.
But who could it be? Who could have broken in and disturbed his
privacy in so extraordinary a manner?
Mostyn opened the door of his room and stole out upon the balcony,
moving as stealthily as he could, anxious to see without being seen.
He did not feel afraid--he was actuated by wonder and curiosity.
The great lamp that hung from the ceiling above illuminated the hall.
Mostyn looked straight down over the banisters at the mysterious
player of the organ.
It was a girl, and, as Mostyn recognised at once, there was nothing
ghostly or fantastic about her neat and well-fitting coat and skirt,
which were of some light material. Her head was averted, and she
seemed to be allowing her fingers to roam over the keys half
unconsciously, as though she were simply giving way to her fancy.
She was wearing a hat, a neat straw, not very dissimilar to the one
which Mostyn had found in his room, and it was evidently she whom he
had heard enter the house not very long before.
Presently, as he stood there, silently staring at his strange
visitor, she turned her head, her attention attracted perhaps by the
light from the door which Mostyn had left open behind him.
Their eyes met. The girl gave a sharp scream and started up,
overthrowing the carved music stool upon which she had been seated.
It was very clear that the apparition of a man in the gallery was as
unexpected to her as was her appearance in the hall to Mostyn.
And, simultaneously with her cry, an exclamation of surprise and
wonder escaped Mostyn also. He could not help himself.
"Rada, by all that's holy," he cried. And then, involuntarily, the
girl's name came again to his lips. "Rada!"