"Isabel," I exclaimed, "I must go home;" and I told her what my letter
contained.
Isabel looked greatly distressed.
"Oh, no, Regina," she replied, "you cannot leave us yet. You have been
here barely a fortnight, and you were to stay five or six weeks at
least. I should feel so unhappy if you left just now," she went on,
"for--I don't quite know how it is--I feel as if I had been rather
disagreeable to you about that tiresome old Grim House, but I am sure I
didn't mean to be so. Only--"
"You are quite right," I replied; "quite right not to do anything that
you are at all afraid might vex your father;" at which Isabel's face
cleared. She little suspected that I was saying to myself that I, not
being Mr Wynyard's daughter, was not restricted in the same way.
"I am so glad," she said, "that you see it that way now, for that _is_
my principal reason, though it is true too that I am naturally cowardly
in some ways. I have not got your spirit and love of adventure. But as
to your going home now, it really cannot be thought of. We must plan
something. Stay! I have got an idea. Wait here a moment, Regina; I
will be back directly."
She ran off to look for her father, I felt sure. We were sitting in the
drawing-room; it was nearly tea-time, and in a few moments she
reappeared, followed by Mr Wynyard, her face fall of pleasure.
"It is all right," she began. "I knew it would be. Regina, Moore is to
come here as soon as it can be managed. Father says so."
"Yes," Mr Wynyard agreed, "it is by far the best solution of the
difficulty. There is no fear of infection. Isabel has had all these
childish illnesses long ago--and you too, Regina, I suppose? Otherwise
your mother would not think of your returning home to meet your
brother."
"Yes," I answered, "Moore and I, and Horry, I think, had scarlet fever
and all these things together. It would be quite delightful to have
Moore here, if you are sure he would not be at all in the way. He is
really not a tiresome kind of boy, I must say."
"No, indeed," exclaimed Isabel. "We saw that at Weissbad, when he was
so often alone with you and me, Regina, and quite content with our
society."
"In some ways," I said, "the others call me more of a boy than him at
home;" and I reddened a little, feeling half ashamed of the confession
before Mr Wynyard. But he did not seem to mind it; rather the other
way indeed.
"It would do Zella no harm to have a little of the boy element instilled
into her," he said with a smile. "But there is no time to be lost in
arranging this new plan. Let me see! Must Moore go home first? Yes, I
suppose it is on the way."
"I think it would be better," I replied. "Winchester is really only a
short way from home, and he is sure to want to pick up things there. I
do hope father won't think it too far for him to come for so short a
time."
"It need not be so short a time, as far as we are concerned," said Mr
Wynyard hospitably. "But of course the boy will have to get back to
school again whenever he can. I'll tell you what," he went on, "I will
write to your father myself, which I think will ensure Moore's being
allowed to come."
"Oh, thank you," I said gratefully, and indeed I felt so.
"Your father is _very_ kind," I said to Isabel when we were by
ourselves. "I am getting to feel much less afraid of him."
Isabel looked pleased at this.
"I told you so," she said. "I can't imagine being afraid of him unless
I knew I was doing something wrong."
Her words recalled our discussion about the Grim House.
"I know," I thought to myself, "who _would_ sympathise with me about it
to the full, and that's Moore. I wonder if I dare tell him."
Then another warning returned to my mind--that of Jocelyn.
"How curious that he should have thought of such a possibility as
Moore's coming here," I said to myself. "I feel half inclined to look
at things from the `Kismet' point of view. `What is to be, will be.'
If Moore's coming here helps me to go on with my investigations without
involving Isabel, which I now see I have no right to do, it will seem as
if it was all _meant_. That's to say, if I make up my mind to tell him
about it, in spite of Jocelyn's fatherly advice."
And in my heart I think I knew that I should never have the resolution
to keep the fascinating subject to myself, once Moore was on the spot.
All came to pass as we had hoped. Moore arrived, brimful of delight,
and very much inclined to think the epidemic at school an unlimited
subject of congratulation. He was looking very well, I was pleased to
see--altogether in a mood for viewing everything with rose-coloured
spectacles.
"This _is_ a jolly place, Regina," he confided to me when we were
strolling about the first morning after his arrival, I acting
"cicerone," as Isabel was engaged in her housekeeping cares. "Now I
hope you'll give me some credit for knowing what I'm about when I make
friends with people! Do you remember how angry you were that day at
Weissbad when I came in and told you I had been speaking to the
Wynyards? Even mother looked rather funny about it."
"What nonsense!" I exclaimed. "Angry! I wasn't the least angry! I
was only rather shy at the idea of making new acquaintances."
"And the Paynes," Moore resumed, "they were thoroughly nice people too.
By-the-bye, Reggie, I forgot to tell you that Leo, the youngest, is
almost sure to come to my `house' next term. I knew that he was down
for Winchester, but I had no idea we'd be together. It isn't quite
certain yet--it depends on a vacancy."
"That will be nice for you," I replied, half absently. Not that I had
not taken in what he said, but that his mention of the Payne family had
recalled to me Rupert's talk of sensational stories, "facts stranger
than fiction," which had come to his knowledge, and I began wishing that
I could see him again to talk over the Millflowers mystery, now that I
had seen for myself the Grim House and its inhabitants. But on that
occasion I did not allude to it to Moore.
For some days our pleasantest anticipations were realised. Moore proved
a great acquisition in our drives and walks. Mr Wynyard encouraged to
the full everything of the kind, and gratified me more than once by
saying that active exercise in the open air, and all that sort of thing,
was "so good for Isabel."
"A little roughing it would really do her no harm," he said. "She is as
unselfish and conscientious as she can be, but life has been in some
ways perhaps too sheltered for her. I don't know how she could ever
stand alone, as she may have to do any day," he added with a little sigh
which touched me.
"But you are not at all old, Mr Wynyard," I said, rather brusquely
perhaps. "You can't be older than father, and we look upon him as--oh!
quite a young man. Then, too, Margaret, Mrs Percy, and her husband are
devoted to dear Zella!"
"Yes," he agreed, "but still the best of brothers and sisters are not
like a parent, and I suppose, to confess the truth, I have spoilt Zella
a little. Circumstances seemed to make it inevitable."
I knew that he alluded to his wife's death, so I said no more. But the
effect of this little conversation was, I now see, somewhat to increase
my own self-confidence, and rather to lead me to think more than
heretofore that in some ways Isabel was babyish, and almost morbid in
her scrupulous conscientiousness.
Between us, with the best intentions in the world, her father and I at
this juncture went rather to an extreme with poor Isabel. She was very
far from being as strong as I constitutionally, and when she hung back,
as happened now and then, from any scheme of long walks or drives, which
Moore and I, in spite of his past delicacy, felt quite equal to, we
urged her joining us, Mr Wynyard always endorsing what was said.
"You mustn't be lazy, my dear child," he would say rallyingly; "now that
you have got companions you must profit by them."
And she always gave in, accusing herself of want of energy and spirit,
when in reality she was not fit for what she attempted.
I have often felt sorry, now that years and greater experience have
taught me better--I have often felt sorry to think of the efforts dear
little Isabel must have made in order to keep up with us and to please
her father. But after all, no very great harm was done, for the poor
child caught cold one day through getting drenched in a thunderstorm,
which necessitated a visit from the doctor, who had known her all her
life, and who pronounced her decidedly "below par."
Any suggestion of chest danger terrified Mr Wynyard, for Zella's mother
had died of consumption; so her catching cold was probably a benefit in
disguise, as it put a stop once for all to her forcing herself to do
more than she was able for. She took it to heart so much, that Moore
and I felt on our mettle to prove to her, and indeed also to Mr
Wynyard, who blamed himself almost unduly, that we could manage to amuse
ourselves very well indeed in spite of our regret at her absence. For
fully a week she was not able to go out at all, and during that week--
well, I must narrate what happened circumstantially.
I think it was on one of our expeditions before Isabel fell ill, and not
many days after his arrival, that Moore, on our return to Millflowers
one evening down the hill-road, noticed the Grim House for the first
time. Hitherto I had not mentioned it to him. I think I was secretly a
little afraid of awakening his curiosity on the subject, and conscious
that if I talked of it at all, I should probably be tempted to tell him
all I knew.
He stopped short, I remember, at the point on the road whence the best,
in fact the only, view of the place was attainable.
"What a gloomy-looking house!" he exclaimed. "It might be a small
prison or a private lunatic asylum."
"On the contrary," said Isabel. "Such places, asylums at least, are
now-a-days very cheerful-looking, I believe."
"But what _is_ the place?" he asked, and Isabel told him, shortly
enough, that it was a private residence, though its inhabitants kept
very much to themselves, and then she changed the subject. Something in
her tone, however, must have struck him, though she said so little, for
afterwards, when we were alone--I cannot quite remember if it were the
same day, or not till we were again passing the spot--he alluded to it.
"Is there anything queer about that house?" he inquired. "Isabel seemed
mysterious! Is it haunted or anything of that kind? How jolly it would
be if it were," and his eyes gleamed. "I'd find my way into it somehow,
and make the fellows stare at my adventures when I get back to school."
"No," I said cautiously, "it is not haunted;" but my tone--perhaps I did
it purposely--only stimulated his inquisitiveness.
He glanced at me suspiciously.
"It is _something_, then?" he exclaimed. "And you know about it, and
don't mean to tell me! It's too bad! You know you can trust me if it's
a secret."
"It isn't exactly a secret," I replied. "But if I do tell you, Moore,
you must promise me--solemn word of honour--that you'll not--"
I stopped and hesitated. It was rather difficult to say what I wanted
him to promise, for the very suggestion that he was _not_ to think of
doing certain things was enough to put them into his head.
"Promise you what?" he asked, seeing my hesitation.
"Well," I resumed, "that you won't do anything in the way of trying to
discover the mystery--for a mystery there is--without telling me."
The word was enough. The boy would have promised me anything and
everything under its fascinating influence.
"Of course I will," he replied. "Honour bright! So fire away, Regina."
So I did as he asked, and before we reached home, my brother was as
fully versed in the whole details of the queer story as I was myself,
inclusive of my own bit of adventure, the advent of the stranger; not to
speak of a very fair amount of entirely groundless speculations which I
had got into the habit of indulging in.