They had left the outskirts of the town behind, and were bowling along a
tree-hung road, which in summer would have been a green tunnel. The
brown woods stood out above the whitened landscape, sombre in their
winter nakedness, but always beautiful, over beyond an open, snow
powdered stubble. Then between coverts of dark firs, where pheasants
crowed, flapping their way up to their nightly roost. Past a hamlet
embedded in tall, naked trees, then more dark firwoods interstudded with
birch where the heathery openings broke the uniform evergreen--then out
again for a space--on a bit of heathery upland which would be glowing
crimson in golden August.
"You can see around here for a bit," said Mervyn, pointing with his
whip. "Away there on the ridge, that tower is Lower Gidding, so called,
presumably because Upper Gidding, ten miles away, is about two hundred
feet lower down to the sea level. Beyond that last wooded ridge but
one, is my shop--our shop I mean."
"It's lovely," replied the girl looking round with animation, and taking
in the whole landscape.
"Yes, perfectly lovely. And look. Here's the sunset I told you we were
going to get."
On the north eastern sky line, an opaque bank of clouds had heaved up--a
bank of clouds that seemed to bode another snowfall. The sun, sinking
in a fiery bed, away in the cloudless west, was touching this--and lo,
in a trice, the mountainous masses of the rising cloud-tier were first
tinged, than bathed in a flood of glowing copper red. Between, the long
tongues of dark woodland stood out from the whitened ground. The bark
of a dog, from this or that distant farmhouse, came up clear on the
silent distance, and then from this or that covert, arose the melodious
hoot of owls, answering each other.
"What a picture!" cried the girl, turning an animated face upon her new
guardian. "Heavens, what a picture! And to think that this time
yesterday I was staring at a row of hideous black chimney pots under a
hideous murky sky. Not only yesterday, but day after day before! And--
Uncle Seward, you _live_ in the midst of _this_!"
Mervyn smiled to himself, then at her, and his smile was a very good one
to behold.
"Yes, dear, I do," he answered gently. "And now you are going to as
well."
Down a steep road between dark woods, then an opening. A long reach of
ice cleft their depth; then a sudden quacking as several wild duck
sprang upwards from an open hole by the sluice, and swished high above
their heads.
"Wild duck, aren't they?" cried the girl, turning her head to watch
them, then looking up the frozen expanse. "Why it might be some lake in
the middle of the backwoods of Canada, such as one reads about."
"Yes, so it might. I can tell you you haven't come into exactly a tame
part, even in our southern counties, which reminds me that I didn't
sufficiently rub it into you that you would have to--well--er--rough it
a bit."
"If you had, that would have made it better still," was the answer. "I
prefer country places that are not too civilised."
"That's fortunate," rejoined Mervyn with a pleased smile, "for you'll be
exactly suited as far as that goes, in my shack."
Up another steep bit of road at a foot's pace. It was quite dusk now,
but a golden moon, at half, rising over the tree-tops, threw a glitter
upon the frosty banks. Quite close by an owl hooted.
"Oh, but this is too lovely for anything," cried Melian. "By the way,
what on earth are people talking about when they talk about the hoot of
an owl being dismal. Why, it's melodious to a degree."
"Great minds skip together, dear. That's just what I think."
In his own mind the speaker was thinking something else; thinking it
too, with a great glow of satisfaction. They would get on splendidly
together. All her ideas, so far expressed, were the exact counterpart
of his own. What a gold mine he had lighted on when he had opened
Violet Clinock's letter but a couple of days back. Then he became aware
that Melian had turned, with a quick movement, and was gazing at him
with a curious--he even fancied half-startled--look.
"That was exactly one of father's expressions," she said slowly. "And--
do you know, Uncle Seward, you _are_ so like him."
"Am I, dear?" was the answer, made very gently. "All the better,
because then I shall be all the more able, as far as possible, to
replace him. But--here we are--at home."
The waggonette had topped the rise, and was now descending a similarly
wood-fringed road. On the left front extended another long, narrow,
triangular expanse of ice; set in its sombre, tree-framed encasing.
Below the broad end of this a light or two gleamed.
Old Joe and his ancient spouse were there to receive them, and did so
with alacrity. It was a tacit part of the bond that they were not to be
required to remain at Heath Hover after dark, but on this occasion they
were stretching a point; partly through motives of curiosity in that
they were anxious to see what the new arrival was like; partly, that
with the house well lighted up, and the bustle and stir of preparation,
and the advent of some one young, and therefore presumably lively, on
the scene, the idea of shadowy manifestations didn't seem in keeping
somehow.
"Why, this is ripping," cried Melian as she obtained her first view of
the old living-room. The deep, old-fashioned grate with its wide
chimney was piled high with roaring logs, and a bright lamp on the table
lighted up the low-beamed, whitewashed ceiling, and even the dark,
red-papered walls. "Why, it's a typical old-world sort of place. Ought
to have a ghost, and all that kind of thing."
At this remark the venerable Judy, who was hobbling about putting some
finishing touches to the table, stopped and stared. Then, shaking her
head, she hobbled out again.
"What's the matter with the old party, Uncle Seward?" said Melian, whom
this behaviour struck. But she looked up too soon--just in time to
catch her uncle's frown in fact. "Is there one?" she added suddenly,
and pointedly.
"Good Heavens, child. Every blessed house that wasn't built the day
before yesterday, that isn't reeking with raw plaster and new cement, is
supposed to carry a ghost, especially in the country, and standing in
lonely solitude in the middle of woods like this. Throw in a deep
old-fashioned fireplace and some oak panelling and there--you've got
your Christmas number at once."
Telepathy may be bosh or it may not. At any rate, to Melian Seward, the
lightness of her uncle's tone, together with the annoyed look she had
caught upon his face, and the sudden perturbation of the old woman at
her remark, did not carry conviction. She felt certain that there was
some story attaching to the place.
"What a jolly old door," she remarked, catching sight of the one in the
corner, half hidden as it was, behind a curtain. "Why it looks quite
old. Oh, but it is good," going over to it with her quick, rapid habit
of movement. "And the lock! Why it's splendid. What is it, Uncle
Seward? Sixteenth century, at least?"
Mervyn looked at her, and strove not to look at her queerly.
"I don't know what date it is," he said. "It leads down to an old
vault-like cellar, which probably was used for storing wine. It isn't
now, because I'm too poor to have any wine to store. At least, I mean,
darling,"--catching the expression with which she looked up--"I can't
afford to run wine cellars, but,"--and then came in a little
embarrassment--"I'm not quite too poor to be able to offer a home to
my--stranded little niece, shall we say?"
The additional term of endearment had struck her. She looked at him in
the lamplight, standing erect and beautiful.
"Dear Uncle Seward," she said. "I can't say anything--except that--I
don't know how it is--there seems to have come something since I met
you--since I heard from you. Why, you bring back my dear old father to
me at every turn. You are so like him. You have the same expressions--
everything. And yet--you were not even brothers."
"Cousins, though. Nearly the same thing. Kiss me, child. You haven't
yet. You know--all the public squash on the station platform."
She did, and in the act it seemed as if her dead father--dead under the
impression that he could serve her interests best by so dying--were
alive and speaking within this room. Even in the quiet, contained
voice, she seemed to recognise his.
It may have been imagination, but Mervyn seemed to think she could not
withdraw her attention from the old nail-studded, shaded door in the
corner. She kept looking at it even while they were talking. He
remembered his vigil on the night of the rescue. Heavens! was this
beastly, deluding mesmeristic effect going to hold her too, now at the
first few minutes of her arrival? Then a diversion occurred. A cry
from Melian suddenly drew his attention.
"What's this? Oh you little sweet. Here come to me, little
pooge-pooge!"
The little black kitten had suddenly landed itself, without notice, upon
the white tablecloth, where it squatted, purring.
"Oh, you sweet little woolly ball--where did you come from?" cried
Melian, picking up the tiny creature and stuffing it into the hollow of
her cheek and neck. "Uncle Seward, did you get this on purpose for me?
Tell me."
Her cheeks were pink with animation, and her blue eyes shone.
"No, dear. That's a special child of my own, since it's little life
began. It is with me always. I'm glad you've taken to it."
"Taken to it? I should think so. Now you're going to be jealous, Uncle
Seward. I'm going to appropriate it. Oh, what a sweet little beast!"
holding it up under the armpits. But the kitten growled
expostulatingly.
"`Beast'? But it's human," laughed Mervyn. "Well, you shall have it,
dear. Poogie--there's your new owner. See? My nose is clean out of
joint. I can take a back seat."
Again Melian started, and momentarily grew grave.
"Poogie." That too was one of her father's expressions. She looked
again at her uncle. Bright as the lamplight was, still it was
artificial light, and under it the likenesss was more and more
emphasised, in fact, startling.
"Come upstairs, child, and I'll show you your room. It's right next to
mine, so you've only to bang on the wall--if you want--I mean--er--if
you were to get nervous in the middle of the night, in a strange place."
"But what on earth should I get nervous about?" exclaimed the girl, in
round-eyed wonderment.
"Oh, nothing. But the sex is given that way, so I only thought I'd tell
you, that's all. Now, you can find your way down, and we'll have dinner
when you're ready."
Left alone, Melian proceeded to look round the room. It was small but
cosy, with two cupboards let into the wall. A bright fire burned in the
grate, and four lighted candles made a full and cheerful glow. The
window she noticed was rather small, and looking out of this, under the
light of the moon, she again took stock of the house. The windows at
the projecting ends, unoccupied, seemed to stare lifelessly. The house
was too much below the level of the sluice to allow a view of the pond,
but the outline of the woods towered up against the frosty stars, and
the hoot of owls and the high up quacking of flighting duck, sounded
upon the stillness. A feeling of intense peace, of intense thankfulness
came over her. She had found a very haven of rest she felt already, and
her newly acquired relative--well--she was sure she was going to get
very fond of him indeed.
Soon she betook herself downstairs, and cosy and bright indeed the room
looked. A roast fowl lay temptingly upturned and surrounded by shreds
of bacon, and the potatoes were beautifully white and flowery. The
little black kitten was playing riotously with a cork tied to the end of
a string which always hung from the back of one of the armchairs.
"Well, child, I hope you've brought an appetite with you," said Mervyn,
as they sat down. "You'll have to be fed up. `Plain but wholesome,'
you know, as the school prospectuses used to say."
"Yes, I've brought one. I feel miles better already." And then she
talked on--telling him about her life of late, and its ups and downs.
But of her earlier life she seemed to avoid mention.
And Mervyn, encouraging her to talk, was furtively watching her. The
animation which lit up her face, bringing with it a tinge of colour, the
gleam of the golden hair in the lamplight, the movement of the long,
white, artistic fingers--there was no point in the entrancing picture
that escaped him. Indeed, he had been lucky beyond compare, he decided,
when Violet Clinock's letter had found him; and again and again as he
looked at Melian, he made up his mind that she was there for good,
unless she got tired of it and of him and insisted on leaving. But he
would not think of that to-night.
They got up at last, and Mervyn drew two big chairs to the fire. Then
he lighted his pipe. The kitten in the most matter of course way jumped
upon Melian's lap and curled up there.
"There you are," laughed her uncle. "My nose is out of joint the first
thing. It used to prefer me for a couch, but I don't quarrel with its
taste."
So they sat on and chatted cosily. At last, bedtime came. Then Melian
remarked on the circumstance that the table hadn't been cleared.
"No. It won't be, till to-morrow morning," was the reply. "Old Judy
has taken herself off long ago. I told you you'd have to rough it--eh?
You see she and old Joe are the only people I can get to do my outlying
work, and they hang out in a cottage the other side of the hill--beyond
the first pond we passed. The young ones won't stay on the place--find
it too lonely, they say. So there you are."
"Yes. I'm going to turn to and do things," answered Melian decisively.
"Well, never mind about beginning now," he said, lighting her candle and
preceding her to her room. "Look, here's a handbell. If you want
anything, or are feeling lonely or `nervy' in the night, ring it like
the mischief--and I'll be there. Good-night, dear."
"Good-night, Uncle Seward," and she kissed him affectionately.
Mervyn returned to the living-room and re-lighted his pipe. His gaze
wandered to the shadowy door in the corner. Was its tradition really
and completely upset? That strange manifestation, as to which he was
hardly yet prepared to swear to as entirely an optical delusion--had
presaged good to somebody, in that by keeping him awake he had been able
to save the life of the stranger. But then the stranger had died
immediately afterwards, under mysterious circumstances, and had this not
befallen why then he, John Seward Mervyn would never have become aware
of the existence or propinquity of his niece. And what a find that
was--a young, bright, beautiful presence to irradiate the shadows of
this gloomy old haunted grange. No room for any melancholic, fanciful
imaginings with that about.
And yet--and yet--it may be that he was not quite easy in his mind. Not
for nothing had he shown her that clearly ringing handbell, and laid
emphasis on the unhesitating use of it.