"To begin with," I said, "the very name of the place--I don't mean its
proper name, but the corruption of it, for the whole neighbourhood calls
it the `Grim House'--is enough to rouse one's curiosity!" And then I
went on to relate the strange circumstances I had been told of.
My brother listened attentively, and with evident interest.
"What a queer story!" he said. "It suggests all manner of hidden
tragedies. What a life for those poor men, even if they have done
anything to deserve it! I can't help pitying them more than the
sisters."
"The younger one is dreadfully delicate," I said, "so perhaps his life
any way would have been a dull one. He is crippled somehow. I had the
feeling that the elder brother, the eldest of them all, was the cause of
their imprisoned life. But Isabel maintains that they are all suffering
together for some one else. I do wonder if it will ever be explained!"
"There must be many mysteries," said Jocelyn, "that are never cleared
up, but certainly this is a very curious one. Don't let Moore hear of
it if there is any chance of _his_ ever going to the place; he could
never rest contented till he got inside the Grim House. He'd be scaling
the walls, and goodness knows what all, and would certainly get himself
into trouble."
"I don't think that he or any one could feel more curiosity about it
than I do," I said. "Isabel has got accustomed to it in all these
years, but even _she_ says she has fits of wondering and wondering about
these queer people."
"And possibly," said Jocelyn thoughtfully, "possibly the root of it all
is nothing very terrible. The poor things may have got morbid about it,
whereas if they could make up their minds to consult some outsider it
might all be put right. It is extraordinary how brooding over troubles
magnifies and increases them."
Jocelyn was wise beyond his years, and what he said impressed me.
"It seems a pity that no one--Mr Wynyard, for instance, or the
clergyman of the place, if he is a sensible man--tries to help them," I
said. "I know I couldn't live beside four miserable-looking people for
twenty years without trying to gain their confidence."
"It may have been tried," remarked my brother. "But of course that sort
of thing cannot be forced. It would require great tact and experience.
Don't go on thinking about it too much, Reggie, or it will get on your
brain; and whatever you do, don't attempt any investigation of the
secret."
I did not reply. To tell the truth, words had added a new incentive to
my great wish to unravel the mystery. What a good work it would be to
get these poor lives out into the sunshine again! I was very young and
very self-confident in some ways, and I did not then know that the
onlookers whom I had tacitly reproached with indifference had already
done their best in the direction of offering help.
The next day my brothers left us, and but for the anticipation of the
pleasure in store for me which Jocelyn had told me of, I should have
felt very low-spirited indeed. The morning following turned my hope
into certainty. Mother opened a letter at the breakfast-table whose
contents she read with evident satisfaction. In it was enclosed a note
in Isabel's handwriting which mother passed on to me. It was quite
short, just expressing her pleasure at the prospect of seeing me "so
soon," and a few words added as a postscript increased my own excitement
and satisfaction in the prospect of my visit to Millflowers. These were
the words:--"I am doubly glad you are coming now," she wrote, "because
something very strange, or rather unusual, has happened in connection
with our local mystery, and I do so want to tell you about it. I am
afraid I am a gossip at heart!"
I felt my face grow red with eagerness. Mother watching me, naturally
attributed my excitement solely to pleasure at the invitation.
I thought you would be delighted, she said, full of sympathy _as_ usual.
"I have purposely not spoken of it to you before till it was quite
settled. There was a little uncertainty about Isabel's plans, as her
sisters had talked of taking her away to pay some visits, but in the end
this has been given up. So it is all right. You will start about this
day week with Maple. It is rather a long journey, but Mr Wynyard has
let me know all the trains. You will get there by daylight."
"Oh, I shouldn't mind how late I travelled with Maple," I said, for my
maid had been with us since my childhood; though indeed, to tell the
truth, my love of adventure would have found a good deal of attraction
in the idea of travelling quite alone.
And the next few days passed quickly and pleasantly, mother sharing to
the full my own happy expectations.
It _was_ a long journey, for the Wynyards' home was as decidedly in the
North as ours was in the South. But I enjoyed it, especially when we
got into a part of the world that was quite new to me. For though I had
travelled so much, there had been no great variety in our movements,
which had always been southwards. My own country was but little known
to me.
The evening was drawing in when we reached our last stopping-place, the
nearest station to Millflowers, by name Scart Bridge. And here a
pleasant surprise awaited me, for on the platform stood Isabel herself,
all smiles and welcome--"prettier than ever," I thought to myself as I
kissed her.
"How nice of you to have come yourself," I said, "for it is a long
drive, isn't it?"
"Not so very long, after all," she replied. "I always enjoy meeting
people so much--it is not like seeing them off. _You_ have had a long
journey, though," she went on. "Aren't you very tired?"
"Not a bit," I replied. "It has all been so new to me. I have never
been in this sort of country before."
By this time we were seated in the waggonette, which Isabel informed me
she had assured her father I should much prefer to a close carriage.
"It is really not cold now," Isabel went on. "The evenings are getting
quite long. And it is so nice, on coming to a new place, to know
something of your surroundings at once, don't you think? In a brougham
one sees nothing."
I looked about me with the greatest interest. It was the "North
Country" unmistakably. Wild and hilly, bare to some extent, though here
and there we caught sight of short stretches of forest land, for during
a great part of the drive to Millflowers the view was very extensive.
But the aspect of things in general was not cold or repellent, even to
my southern eyes, for I saw the country to advantage in the clear sweet
light of a mild spring evening.
"I think it is delicious," I said enthusiastically. And as after a time
we came to a great stretch of moorland, I grew even more enthusiastic.
"Oh how charming!" I exclaimed. "It seems so beautifully free and
open--the air is so exquisitely fresh and scented--yes, is it not
scented, Isabel?"
"_I_ always fancy it is," she replied, "though it is too early in the
year yet for the scent--the gorse! O Regina! you should see it when the
gorse and heather are out!"
"Yes," I agreed. "It must be lovely. But do tell me," I went on, for
my thoughts in those days were very erratic, "shall we pass the Grim
House on our way? And O Isabel! do tell me what has happened there!
You alluded to something in your letter."
A slight, the very slightest touch on my foot, and a glance at my
friend's face checked me. I remembered that we were not alone, for
Maple was in the waggonette with us, and I felt ashamed of my stupid
indiscretion.
"You mean Grimsthorpe?" said Isabel quietly. "No, we do not pass that
way. Not that there is much to see if we did; it is a very ugly house,
though an old one. Indeed the houses about here are rarely picturesque,
though I think ours is pretty inside, and so is the vicarage. There are
no other at all large houses near us. Millflowers, you know, is a very
tiny village. Did I ever tell you what some people believe to be the
origin of the name?" she added with a smile. But I could see that my
questions had made her a little uncomfortable and that she was anxious
to change the conversation.
"No," I replied, feeling rather small. "I have wondered about it once
or twice. It _is_ an odd name."
"There is a legend," Isabel said, "that long, long ago some French
refugees settled in this out-of-the-way part of the world, and set to
work to distil `scented waters' from the sweet-smelling plants and
flowers--there is any quantity of thyme about here--they found, and that
to their production they gave the name of `Millefleurs'--a name still
used for a well-known scent, of course. At that time there were only
two or three cottages where our village now is, and the story goes that
these poor French people's secret gave its name to the place, getting
corrupted into `Millflowers.'"
"How curious! I wonder if it is true," I said.
Isabel seemed dubious as to this.
"Papa says it sounds rather as if the story had been made up to suit the
name," she said.
"Then is your own house not _very_ old?" I inquired.
"Not very--about eighty or a hundred years old," she replied. "It was
originally just a sort of shooting-box--for our family has owned land
about here for longer than that--and then my great-uncle took it into
his head to enlarge it and make it his home. Grimsthorpe House is
older; _it_ was originally a large farmhouse--indeed it is not, to look
at, much better than that now, though the grounds are extensive."
We had crossed the moor by this time, and the rest of the way was along
a more sheltered road bordered with trees, and here and there a glimpse
of cultivated fields, altogether a different kind of landscape, more
like what I was accustomed to at my own home, and a few minutes more
brought us to the entrance of the Manor-house as the Wynyards' place was
now called.
As we passed through the lodge-gates, Isabel leant towards me and
whispered--
"The Grim House is half-a-mile farther on, on the edge of another part
of the moor."
Her father was standing at the front door to receive us. His welcome
was most cordial and courtly, but I felt even more strongly than before
that it would be very difficult for me to be at ease with him; and so I
said, in other words, to Isabel when we were alone in the room she had
taken me up to. A charming room it was, with windows on two sides, from
one of which a peep of the moorland, with rising ground in the distance,
was to be had, as Isabel pointed out to me.
"Yes," I said, as I threw myself into a tempting arm-chair, "it is all
delightful; only, Isabel, I do wish I didn't feel so shy of your
father!"
Isabel laughed.
"I can't understand it," she said. "I mean, I can't understand your
feeling _shy_ of him. He is so exceedingly kind and gentle. At the
same time--" she hesitated.
"What?" I asked quickly.
"I _could_ understand," she replied, "feeling afraid of him if one had
done anything wrong--more afraid than if he were severe. When I was a
small child and got into scrapes, as all children do sometimes, his look
of almost perplexed distress made me feel worse, far worse, than if he
had scolded me in a commonplace way."
"O Isabel!" I exclaimed, "you are making me feel far more frightened
than before! I must be _awfully_ careful while I'm here not to shock
Mr Wynyard in _any_ way. But I am so thoughtless and forgetful; and
that reminds me how stupid it was of me to allude to the Grim House
mystery before Maple."
"Yes," said Isabel, "I thought it best to give you a hint. I was sure
you wouldn't mind; for the best of servants gossip, and I should not
have liked your maid to tell our servants that you and I had been
talking about the Greys, though she is pretty sure to hear something
about them while she is here. But, dear Regina, you really mustn't take
up the idea that papa is alarming! He is so pleased to have you here,
and has said to me more than once that he hoped you would make me less
of `an old woman,' which he says I am in danger of becoming. I get
anxious about the housekeeping and things like that, and sometimes papa
says I am not enough out of doors."
My spirits rose at this. I asked nothing better than to be out of doors
from morning till night in this beautifully wild district.
"Your father won't have to complain of your leading too quiet a life if
he leaves you to me," I said laughingly. "And the very first time we go
out, Isabel, you will promise, won't you, to show me the Grim House!
And oh!" I went on, "you haven't yet told me what has happened there
just lately."
"It sounds so little to tell," said Isabel; "but if you could realise
the utter isolation of these poor people, you would understand the
sensation it has made. It is simply that they have had visitors for the
first time in the memory of man!"
"What sort of visitors?" I asked eagerly.
"Two men--gentlemen--an old and a young one! They stayed at Grimsthorpe
one night. They drove up in a fly from the station, and it fetched them
again the next morning. You see I have kept my eyes and ears open as
regards the mystery, for your benefit."
"Did you see these men?" I asked.
"I am not quite sure, but I think I did see one of them," was the reply.
"I had been in the village, and coming home I met a stranger who asked
me the way to the church. Our church is rather curious; nobody quite
knows how it came to be there, it is so big a church for so tiny a
place."
"What was he like?" I inquired, thinking to myself that I should have
been much more excited over the incident than Isabel appeared to be.
"It was almost dusk," she answered. "But his voice was a very pleasant
and cultivated one. He was young, and I think good-looking. I was half
inclined to ask him if he was a stranger in the neighbourhood or
something of that sort, for I saw he had come down a path which only
leads to the Grim House, though it wasn't till the next day that we
heard of the wonderful event. It was Strott, of course, who told me of
it!"
"I wonder who he was!" I said thoughtfully. "It certainly makes the
whole still more interesting if they are beginning to have any
communication with the outside world."
"There is one thing," said Isabel, "that I forgot to tell you. They
really must be good people, for on one occasion they did break through
their rule of never leaving their own grounds. It was when little Tony
at the vicarage fell off a haystack and they feared for his life; he was
insensible for many hours, and his mother was in despair. That same
afternoon the fly drove up to the vicarage, and, to Mrs Franklin's
astonishment, the Misses Grey were announced! She could scarcely
believe her ears, and she has often told me that the very excitement of
their coming did her good."
"How very queer it is that you forgot to tell me of it before!" I could
not help interrupting.
"I just did forget," said Isabel calmly. "You see we are so used to the
Grim House strangeness that it doesn't strike us in the same way as it
strikes you."
"And what were they like?" I asked, "and what had they come for?"
"To express their sympathy, and find out if they could be of any use,"
said Isabel. "Mrs Franklin was greatly touched. Of course their faces
were quite familiar, but she had never heard their voices before. She
said they were very, very gentle and apologetic, and pathetically timid.
There were tears in their eyes, and they murmured something about being
so fond of children, and that their own younger brother had had an
accident as a boy, which had injured him lastingly. There was nothing
they could do to help, though Mrs Franklin said she wished she could
have invented something. She thanked them, of course, heartily, and the
next day they sent down for news of Tony, by that time out of danger,
and Mrs Franklin began to hope it would lead to some intercourse with
these poor sad ladies. But no; the Grim House closed up again, and from
that day to this they have never been seen except at church."
"Then it appears that the only way to decoy them out of their den would
be for some of you to get very ill, or have an accident or trouble of
some kind," I said rather thoughtlessly.
Isabel gave a little shiver.
"Don't talk of such things!" she exclaimed. "I am afraid I am naturally
rather cowardly. I don't know if you have found that out yet, Regina?
You mustn't despise me for it. Margaret consoles me by saying that she
thinks it was the effect on my nerves of mamma's sudden death. I was
such a little girl at the time, and it was so terribly sad--seeing her
apparently quite well one evening, and being told the next morning that
I should never see her again."
"Did you _not_ see her?" I asked in a lowered voice. Sorrow of this
kind had never come near our happy family circle, and the mere allusion
to it filled me with awe.
Isabel shook her head.
"No," she replied. "They thought it better not, but I am not sure that
it was so. Margaret says she looked lovely. I could not understand it;
she seemed to have disappeared, and yet I was frightened to ask any one
about it. For nights and nights I lay awake wondering where she had
gone, or rather _how_ she had gone; for of course they assured me that
she was in a happy world. But it was so dreadful to me that she had
gone without saying good-bye. I think I scarcely believed what I was
told."
"Poor little Zella!" I said tenderly. "I think indeed it was enough to
shake your nerves."
There was no more time for talking, as at that moment the dressing-bell
sounded. But the conversation had left its mark on me. All through the
evening, which was a very bright and pleasant one, and during which my
shyness in Mr Wynyard's presence began to fade a little--all through
that first evening the thought of the poor "Grey ladies," as I had begun
to call them to myself, never left me. The picture of them in their
pathetic timidity touched me curiously. And how good they must be to
have made such an effort as that of going to the vicarage because there
was trouble there!
And when I went to bed my meditations took an even more definite shape.
"I wonder how those four poor things are spending this evening," I
thought. "So near us and yet so far off. I wonder if they have a piano
or anything of that sort to pass the time. It _would_ be a good work,
surely it would be, to get to know them, and break down the dreadful
barrier they have placed round themselves. It seems so probable that
they are exaggerating their troubles, whatever these may be."