Breakfast-time the next morning found the brother and sister at table by
themselves, for Mrs Littlewood, of late, did not make her appearance
much before noon.
"How did you sleep, Madeleine?" asked Horace. "Nothing disturbed you, I
hope?"
"Why do you ask? I am not given to bad nights. I slept very well,
except that I think one never sleeps quite as soundly the first night in
a new place," she replied.
"H'm-m!" murmured her brother, but there was a good deal of meaning in
the inarticulate sound, and a decidedly mischievous sparkle in his eyes
when she again addressed him and he was obliged to look up.
"Horace," she said, "you have some reason or motive for asking how I
slept! You must tell it to me. Are you only wanting to tease, or is
there something that you've kept to yourself about this house? Is it
supposed to be haunted?"
Mr Littlewood's face put on an expression of preternatural gravity, but
Madeleine knew him too well to be deceived by this.
"Don't be silly," she said. "I believe you are trying to invent
something just to frighten me. I know your little ways of old. If
there had been--" she hesitated.
"What?" asked her brother.
"I was going to say anything real," she replied: "if there had been
anything real of the kind, you would not have let us take the house, or
rather Ryder Morion would not have done so without warning us."
"Perhaps he doesn't know," said Horace mysteriously, with a shake of his
head which expressed more than his words.
"Tell me at least what you know," rejoined his sister, rather
impatiently.
"Will you first promise me," he replied, really in earnest, "that you
won't mention it to mother? Though she is so strong-minded, I honestly
don't think she'd like it, not having been well lately."
Madeleine nodded in acquiescence.
"I promise," she replied; "but do be quick."
"Well," he said, "to tell you the truth, up to now I know very little,
but I mean to find out more, and I hope you will help me. It has
something to do with an old story of the place being left away from the
other branch of the family, to whom it had been promised by an
ancestress. _She_, as far as I can make out, is credited with
conscientious remorse for her misdeeds or non-deeds, and walks about a
certain part of the grounds in the stupid way that ghosts always do.
There, now, that is really all I know; but I am not inventing." And
Madeleine felt satisfied that he was speaking in good faith, as his
story tallied with the allusions made by Mr Morion, that last time she
had seen him in London, to some ancient family complications. "I know
you've good nerves," Horace went on, "and it may add a spice of
excitement to our time here!"
"But how are we to find out more?" asked Madeleine. "It would never do
to be cross-questioning the people about; that might annoy Ryder Morion
seriously. Who told you what you do know?"
"Two or three people," he replied. "The old vicar knows the whole
story, I strongly suspect, but I couldn't get much out of _him_. The
best people to apply to, but we must do it carefully, are the Miss
Morions--the other Morions, you know, at the cottage over there,"
inclining his head as he spoke in the direction alluded to.
Madeleine's interest increased.
"Would they not mind talking about it?" she asked. "Family ghosts are
ticklish subjects sometimes, and in this case there really is some sore
feeling still existent, it appears."
Horace looked up in surprise.
"How do you know that?" he inquired.
And then she told him what had passed between her and Mr Morion on the
subject.
"The daughters, at least one of them," said her brother, "I know would
not mind talking about it to us privately. She has half promised to
tell me all she knows; but I certainly would be very sorry to allude to
it to the father, or to their mother, for that matter. They are both so
peculiar, though quite different."
"Well, I hope we shall get to know the girls," replied Madeleine,
"whatever the parents are."
"That reminds me," said Horace, in a would-be offhand tone, "I was to
tell you that Lady Emma hopes to call on my mother. Will you tell her
so? She surely won't mind having to know these people, the only ones
really in the place that there would be any question of knowing. Of
course there are others farther off, at the other side of the county,
or, indeed, some in the next county, nearer at hand, whom we know
already, the Thurles and the Laughtons--the Scoresbys are almost too far
off to count--and these we can arrange to see or not, as we like, later
on."
Madeleine's expression was somewhat dubious.
"Of course, when Lady Emma comes, mamma must see her, and return the
call," she said; "but there, as far as mamma is concerned, the
acquaintance would probably end. She really does want--mamma, I mean--
to be perfectly quiet here. Anything more than that, Horace, I can
scarcely answer for." And she watched with some curiosity the effect of
her words.
A shade of disappointment crossed his face--as to that there was no
doubt--but he threw it off quickly.
"I don't see that that matters," he said. "The old bear and his wife--a
very submissive wife, too, I should imagine her--wouldn't interest my
mother, or be interested themselves. I believe they ask nothing more
than to be left alone. But as regards the daughters--to tell you the
truth, Maddie, I can't help being very sorry for them, and it would
really be kind of you to cheer them up a little."
"I have no objection," said Madeleine cordially; "on the contrary, it
would be a pleasure and interest to me to make friends if--you are sure
you are not reckoning without your host, Horace?--if--I was going to
say--these girls, on their side, would care about it."
"I am sure they would," said her brother.
"I don't know," Madeleine went on. "The way they have lived may make
them extra shy--proud--I don't know what to call it!--ungetatable. But
I promise you to do my best, and that carefully in every way. I don't
want mamma to begin warning me against flying into sudden friendships!--
at my age it is absurd; but then, mamma never remembers that I am no
longer in my first youth."
As she said the words, something in her mind seemed to contradict them,
and gradually she recalled what gave her this feeling. It was the
remembrance of her mother's remark the afternoon that Mr Morion had
called, as to her no longer having the excuse of "early youth" for
thinking she could set other people to rights.
"I wonder what made her say that?" thought Madeleine to herself, but
Horace's next words put the subject out of her head.
"I don't think you need anticipate any holding back on their side," he
said. "Certainly not on the part of--two of them. The youngest _is_
almost childlike, and the eldest, oh! she is really charming and out of
the common. I am sure you will take to her."
"And why do you except the middle one?" asked Madeleine.
"I don't feel as if I could judge of her," he said indifferently. "She
seems a changeable sort of girl."
"And they are all pretty, more or less, I think you said?" continued his
sister.
"I don't know that I did say so, though--well, yes, I suppose they are.
But Miss Morion is the sort of person whose looks you forget in what you
feel she must be in herself, and the others--they really are so
atrociously dressed!" he broke off rather ruefully, and yet with a
little laugh. "You won't be hypercritical, Maddie, but I don't know
about my mother."
Madeleine was standing looking out of the window by this time. For a
midwinter day it bade fair to be a very pleasant one. The sky was
clear, though the lights were thin, and in the air there was a decided
touch of frost.
"I am glad to be here at last," she said. "You are not doing anything
to-day, I hope, Horace--shooting or anything? For I want you to show me
all over the place."
"I've kept free on purpose for that," he answered. "Shall we go out at
once?"
"No," replied Madeleine, with some regret in her tone, "I don't think
that would quite do. Mamma may want me. I had better wait until after
luncheon, except for a mere stroll near the house. And in the first
place I want to see something of the house itself. Is this the only
dining-room?" glancing around her as she spoke.
"Yes," Horace answered; "none of the rooms are very large, except the
hall and the library. That is really the most curious room. I can't
make it out: it seems disproportionately big, and perfectly filled with
books, the most modern of which must be fifty years old, I should say.
Lots of rubbish among them, no doubt, and probably some of value if we
had an expert to look them over."
"Long ago," said Madeleine, "no books were considered rubbish. They
cost too much, and the bindings were so heavy that they took up much
more room. Let us go and have a look at them. Just ring the bell to
let the servants know that they can come in."
Horace led the way through a little anteroom, on the opposite side of
which high doors led into the two drawing-rooms--all the rooms at
Craig-Morion were lofty--down a short passage leading into a longer and
wider one, then up two or three shallow steps to a sort of little dais
or landing railed round with heavily carved balusters. Then, with a
certain air of proprietorship, he threw open the heavy oaken door facing
them, and stood back for his sister to pass in.
She gave a little cry of surprise.
"Yes," she said, "this is quite a unique room. And oh! what a musty
smell, Horace!"
The mustiness was quickly accounted for. Up to a certain height the
walls were lined with books, except at one end, where two long painted
windows looked out on to a dark and gloomy path among the shrubberies.
The room, even in full daylight, would have been almost dark had these
windows been its only source of illumination. But this was not the
case, for the walls rose to the full height of that part of the house,
and the arched roof was completed by a glazed dome, through which some
rays of wintry sunshine lighted up the dusty old volumes into an almost
uniform tint of orange-brown which would have delighted the eyes of many
a painter.
"I wonder," continued Madeleine, "if possibly in old pre-Reformation
times this was a private chapel?"
"How clever of you to think of it!" said Horace. "It never struck me
before, but it may very well have been so, I should say, though I am no
archaeologist. We will suggest it to Ryder when he comes down. That
gloomy walk," and he crossed to one of the windows as he spoke, "is the
short cut through the grounds to the church, which stands just outside
the park wall. So the chaplain, if chaplain there was, must have found
it convenient, as you see there is a door in this window."
He opened it, and Madeleine looked over his shoulder at a short flight
of broken, moss-grown steps leading to the ground.
"_What_ a gloomy place!" she said, with a little shiver, caused partly
no doubt by the sharp air which met her, "and how long and straight the
walk is! I should _not_ like, Horace, I confess, to pace up and down
here in the twilight, and scarcely, indeed, at any time of the day--it
can never be anything but twilight here!"
"They call it the `Laurel Walk,'" said her brother. "It is--" but he
stopped short, and Madeleine, who had retreated inside the room again,
did not notice his breaking off.
"It's too gloomy here," she said. "Why isn't there a fire? A huge fire
would mend matters a little and be good for the books too, though the
room does not seem damp, I must say."
"No," Horace replied, "the whole place is wonderfully dry. You see, it
has splendid natural drainage from standing so high. There is a fire
once a week or so, I believe, but we can have one every day if you like,
though I fear the books, if there _are_ any valuable ones, are gone past
redemption with the long neglect."
"I should like to get to the brighter part of the house--the other
side," said Madeleine, moving towards the door by which they had
entered; but, to her surprise, Horace crossed the room to the other
corner--that farthest from the windows, and appeared to be fumbling
among the book-shelves.
"Oh come," she said impatiently, "it is so cold, and I don't want my
first impression of the house to be a gloomy one."
"Nor do I," he answered; and then, glancing in his direction, Madeleine
was almost startled by a sudden glow of light and warmth behind him.
"You don't call _this_ gloomy," he proceeded, and Madeleine, hastening
forward, saw that his apparent fumbling among the books had in reality
been the feeling for a spring, by which to open a door, concealed by
rows of "dummy" volumes, which now stood wide open, giving access to a
cosy and inviting looking sanctum or smaller library, where a splendid
fire was burning, and where, moreover--for this was at an angle of the
building--the morning sun penetrated brightly, through windows facing
east and south.
"Oh, how charming!" cried Madeleine, hurrying over to the fireplace.
"Is this where you have established yourself, Horace?"
"Yes," he replied, "hence my intimate acquaintance with the library, and
the short cut down the Laurel Walk. This is one of the jolliest rooms
in the house, and you see I've got all my own belongings here already.
And you don't know all its attractions yet! There is a hidden door in
the corner here too, opening on to a private staircase up to a couple of
capital rooms--bedroom and dressing-room--which I've taken possession
of. They communicate as well with the main part of the house, where all
your rooms are. But it is jolly, isn't it? I don't believe Ryder has
any idea how comfortable this old place might be."
He seemed as pleased as any school-boy with his new quarters; and
Madeleine, on her side, was girl enough to enter into the little
excitement in connection with their temporary home with equal zest. She
insisted on following her brother up the little staircase to see his
other rooms, then down passages and across landings to the main
staircase, down which they came again to visit the drawing-rooms. Of
these there were two, on the whole the most attractive rooms on the
ground floor, for they had windows on both sides, and though their
furniture was somewhat scanty and quaint, and there was naturally an air
of unusedness about them, Madeleine's quick eye soon decided that with a
little rearrangement, some high-growing plants and ferns here and there,
books, photographs, and so on, it would be easy to give them a homelike
and gracious aspect.
"I thought," said Horace, "that mother could probably use the smaller
one as a sort of boudoir, and if you want a den of your own, Maddie,
there's rather a nice little corner room close to where you are,
upstairs. A plainly furnished little place, as you prefer, I know, for
your various avocations, which don't always find favour in the maternal
eye."
Madeleine laughed.
"Show it to me," she said. And upstairs again they went. The little
room was greatly approved of. "Yes," agreed Madeleine, "it is just what
I like. Not so very little, after all--large enough to have a friend or
two at tea privately. You must hunt me up a few more chairs and a sofa
from somewhere. Yes, this room is a capital idea. I can bring in any
botanical spoils, or cut out my poor work, without fear of annoying
mamma by my untidiness."
"You _are_ very untidy, you know," said Horace, who had all a soldier's
precision and orderliness. "I don't mean in your dress, of course, but
I do sometimes sympathise with mother."
"Oh, don't preach, Horace!" answered his sister, for her untidiness was
an old story. "By-the-by, are there any poor people about here?"
"Scarcely any in the place itself," said Horace. "But there is a queer
fishing village not far off, the old vicar tells me, full of attraction
for the artistic as well as the philanthropic. The people keep very
much to themselves, and are delightfully picturesque, awfully dirty, and
generally barbaric."
"Why doesn't he look after them, then?" said Madeleine rather sharply.
"Poor old chap," answered Horace, "he can't. He would if he could, even
though it isn't his business. But he has plenty of _work_ in his own
parish, even though there's very little actual poverty."
"Of course," said Madeleine, "the cure of souls is the same
responsibility whether it concerns the well-to-do or the poor. What is
the name of the fishing village?"
"Scaling Harbour. The people are supposed to be partly of Spanish
descent," said her brother, "and they look like it."
"Is there no church, then, or mission-room, or anything?" inquired
Madeleine.
Horace shook his head.
"Certainly no church; and mission-rooms don't seem to have found their
way up here. The parson at Craig Bay _should_ look after it, I suppose!
He is certainly not overburdened with money, though."
"And whom does the place belong to?" asked his sister.
"Partly to Ryder," Horace replied, as if rather tired of the subject.
"You can tackle him about it--you generally have a crow of some kind or
other to pick with him, it seems to me."
Madeleine flushed a little.
"Don't say that," she began. "To tell you the truth, I fear I have
already annoyed him rather about his `absenteeism' as regards this
place."
Horace laughed.
"Upon my word, Maddie," he said, "no one can accuse you of not having
the courage of your opinions. It isn't everybody--not I, I confess, for
one--who would venture to pull up Ryder Morion for anything he does or
does not do, or choose to do."
Madeleine still looked annoyed.
"I think it must run in the family," she said, in a tone of irritation.
"What--and what family?" inquired her brother.
"Bearishness," she replied curtly--"bearishness in the Morion family, of
course." Horace shrugged his shoulders.
They were crossing the landing to go downstairs again; but at that
moment Mrs Littlewood's maid met them with a request that Madeleine
would go to her mother's room for a moment. So, telling her brother
that she would join him in a few minutes for their projected stroll
round the house, she left him, to do as she was asked.