"THE MISSES GREY."
It was certainly a curious position, and now that my anxiety about Moore
had to some extent calmed down, I could scarcely help smiling to myself
as we jogged along, at the adventure which my injudiciousness and
Moore's self-will had landed us in.
The road cleared a good deal as we approached our destination. I was
able to get a better view of our companion than hitherto, while the
shade of the trees had lessened the already waning light. He was young,
under thirty, I thought to myself, decidedly pleasing in appearance, if
not exactly handsome; but what struck me the most was a shadowy
resemblance to some one I had seen, though, try as I might, I could not
succeed in remembering to whom. Once or twice I fancied I descried the
shadow of an amused smile crossing his own face, but before we stopped
at the Manor-house door his expression grew more serious.
"You quite understand," he began, "and excuse me if it is unnecessary to
remind you of it, that your own wish to--to keep all this business to
ourselves, is thoroughly agreed to, indeed desired by--Mr Grey and his
family?"
"Oh dear, yes," I replied eagerly, "and I am very thankful for it, but I
don't feel as if we had been grateful enough to him. And--" with a
little hesitation, "to yourself."
He made a slight gesture of deprecation of the latter part of my speech,
but I went on--
"If you should be writing to Mr Grey, would you be so kind as to thank
him again?"
"Certainly," he said cordially. "If I don't write it I will not forget
to _say_ it, the next time I see him," and the rather unguarded
inference of his words reminded me that letters were, so far as we knew,
unknown at the Grim House.
So I contented myself with another "thank you." I should have liked to
ask our friend's own name, but my courage failed me, and afterwards I
was glad I had not done so; it might have savoured a little of seeking
for information which had not been volunteered to us.
The hall-door stood open as we drove up to it, and one or two of the
older servants, among them the housekeeper and butler, were looking out
anxiously. Their faces cleared when they saw us, but clouded again when
I jumped out and hurriedly volunteered some explanation of our late
return, of which of course the word "accident" was the first to catch
their ears.
"Dear, dear!" said the housekeeper, "what will Master and Miss Isabel
say, with all their charges to me and Sims to take good care of you,
Miss Fitzmaurice?"
"They will certainly not say it is your fault, or Sims', Mrs Bence," I
replied; "and after all, I hope it is nothing very bad. We were very
lucky to meet this gentleman, otherwise I could not have got my brother
home nearly so quickly."
I indicated by a movement of my head in his direction our friend in
need, who was now, with the butler's assistance, extricating Moore from
the fly. Poor boy! he did look rather dilapidated! though both he and I
tacitly agreed in trying to make the best of our misfortunes. It would
have been impolitic in the highest degree to pile on the agony so as to
have led to minute or detailed inquiry on the part of the servants.
By this time the stranger had got Moore on to a comfortable seat in the
hall, where of such there was no lack.
"Now," he said, "I think the best thing I can do is to send you the
doctor as quickly as possible, I know where to find him. I should
advise you to let your brother stay where he is for a few minutes. Get
him a cup of tea, or something to pull him together a little, before you
carry him upstairs, and once there, put him to bed as quickly as
possible, and just raise the injured foot on a pillow till the doctor
sees it."
He glanced round as if to satisfy himself that he left us in good hands,
and then, before I had time to do more than shake hands, he was gone.
"A nice-spoken young gentleman," said Mrs Bence approvingly, "but I've
never seen him before. He must be a stranger in these parts. Do you
know who he--"
But I interrupted her by a shake of my head.
"I have no idea who he is," I said. "He did not tell us his name. He
has been extremely kind. I am only afraid that by stopping to help us
he has lost his train. He was on his way to the station."
"If it was the evening express for London," said Sims, taking out his
watch--Mrs Bence had gone off in quest of the prescribed cup of
tea--"he certainly has, Miss. There is a slower one an hour later; he
will be in plenty of time for that."
This information somewhat consoled me. I said nothing more, nor did
Moore. And after a while we got him upstairs and settled in bed as
comfortably as was possible under the circumstances.
The poor foot looked in very bad case when we had got it quite free, and
Mrs Bence groaned over it in much distress. But when the doctor came
our spirits rose again. It proved to be only a sprain, and not a _very_
severe one, though painful. Perfect quiet and minute attention to his
orders would do wonders, he assured me, to my great relief.
"You are alone here for the present, I understand," he said. "Mr and
Miss Wynyard are away?"
"Yes," I replied, "but only for a day or two. I believe they will be
back by Saturday."
"By Saturday," he repeated. "Ah, well--by Saturday I think you will see
great improvement. The swelling will have gone down, I hope. Let me
see! How did you say it happened? A fall, was it?"
We had not said anything at all as to how it had happened, but luckily
we were not called upon to reply, for Mrs Bence, who was a little deaf,
came just then innocently to our aid by some inquiry as to the
arrangements for the night. Should she or Sims sit up with Master
Moore?
"Oh, no--no need of it," said the doctor. "He will probably sleep far
better if he is left alone. Let him have a hand-bell within reach, and
some one near enough to hear if he rings;" whereupon my own maid, who
had been dying to be of use, came forward to suggest that she should
sleep in a small dressing-room next door, and where she would hear the
slightest sound. This was agreed to, then followed repeated directions
from the doctor as to liniments and bandages, and then at last I gave in
to Mrs Bence's reiterated entreaties that I would come downstairs and
have a bit of dinner--Moore joining his voice to hers, and promising to
eat something himself, though he owned that he was not feeling "exactly
hungry."
I was terribly tired if not hungry, and I felt grateful for the unusual
tact which made Sims and his underlings leave me alone once the good man
had satisfied himself that everything I was in want of was within reach.
I had plenty to think of; not a little to blame myself for, though
farther back than the actual events of this strange evening; still more
to be very thankful about--how easily my young brother might have been,
if not killed, at least terribly injured, crippled perhaps for life, by
no greater an accident!
And the thought brought back to my mind again the mystery of the Grim
House, made more real, more impressive, so to say, by the further
glimpse I had had of its melancholy occupants. In spite of myself and
my determination to oust all curiosity concerning them from my mind, the
picture of the quartette, at that very moment sitting, probably in
silence, around their dining-table, would force itself on to my brain.
Could the mysterious secret have had to do with the accident which
crippled the younger brother? No; somehow I felt sure it had not been
that. The sisters, I remembered Isabel telling me, had referred to it
quite simply on the one occasion when they had emerged to offer sympathy
at the vicarage. No, the mystery did not lie in that direction. Then
the words I had unwillingly overheard recurred to my memory. I had
thought I would try to forget them, but this was beyond my power, and
next best to doing so, an instinct seemed to tell me, was to remember
them accurately; and this, for I had a retentive brain, I found I could
easily do.
The mention of our own surname had naturally impressed them much more
vividly on me.
"Ernest Fitzmaurice"--who could he be? I had never heard of him, I felt
sure. Yet our name was not a commonplace one, and the great Irish
family to which we belonged were very clannish, and kept up their
knowledge of each other with considerable energy; my father did so, I
well knew; some day perhaps I might ask him if he knew of any relative
whose first name was Ernest.
"He must be a man of about father's age," I reflected, "or even a little
older, if he is a contemporary of Mr Grey's." But by this time I was
feeling very tired, very sleepy, and almost before I had finished
eating, I felt that I _must_ go to bed, if I were to be fit to take my
share in looking after and cheering poor Moore the next day.
"And I shall have to write home and tell them about it," I thought to
myself. "Oh dear, oh dear! I wish I had never heard of the Grim House.
I should like to forget its existence."
But this was not to be.
I woke the next morning considerably refreshed, and inclined to take a
more cheerful view of things. Moore, I was glad to find, had had a
fairly good night, all things considered, though his foot and ankle were
of course still very inflamed and swollen. Mrs Bence and Maple,
however, thought well of it in comparison with what it had been, and so
long as he kept it motionless, my brother said that the pain was slight.
I was just preparing to begin my letter to mother, when the sound of
wheels--I was sitting near the window of the library, which at one side
looked to the front--made me stop, my heart beating a little faster than
usual from the idea that it might possibly be Isabel and her father
returning sooner than we had expected them.
"Oh, no," I said to myself reassuringly, "of course it will only be the
doctor," though in another moment the sight of the approaching vehicle
revived my doubts and fears.
It was the fly again! I drew as near the window as I dared, while
avoiding being seen, almost expecting to catch sight of the stranger,
our good Samaritan, getting out, for it struck me that he might have had
to stay the night after all, and had come up to inquire how Moore was
getting on. But no, the driver himself got ponderously down and rang.
It was certainly neither the doctor, the Wynyards, nor the stranger!
Wild ideas rushed through my mind as to the possibility of its being
father, or Jocelyn even, though half an instant's reflection showed me
the absurdity of such a thing. Who could it be? From where I stood,
the interior of the carriage was completely hidden from view. I heard
the servant cross the hall, and as it were, _felt_ the little colloquy
that ensued when the door was opened. Then the driver turned to the fly
with the information he had received, and its occupants at last became
visible.
They were--words fail me to describe my sensations--none other than the
two little old maiden sisters from Grimsthorpe!
My first feeling was one of astonishment, my _second_ of fear! Was our
secret known, then? Had Mr Grey broken his promise? But what _was_
his promise--in a moment I recalled his words, "You may rely on us to
keep the affair to ourselves;" he had spoken in the plural. Still, what
was the meaning then of this visit, which was certain to awaken the
gossip and curiosity of the whole small neighbourhood? I felt utterly
nonplussed, but I had no time in which to think over things; I was
obliged to pull myself together as best I could, for the door was thrown
open for the announcement, "The Misses Grey," and my little-looked-for
visitors entered.
They were, at the first glance, curiously like each other, though
afterwards I discerned several points of dissimilarity. The elder of
the two--for naturally I at once so dubbed her in my own mind as she
preceded her sister--had a much stronger face--strong in its very
gentleness--though the younger was, or had been, decidedly the prettier.
Except as to eyes--I never saw lovelier eyes than those of Miss Grey
herself, as she drew near and looked up at me, for though not very tall,
I was much taller than they. And with the first glance, all my
misgivings as to the purport or unwisdom of their coming vanished.
"Miss--Fitzmaurice," she began, with a slight, the very slightest,
hesitation. "I--we--this is my sister Beatrice--could not rest without
hastening to offer our services and sympathy in this--most unfortunate
accident, which," and here her voice grew peculiarly distinct, her words
almost emphasised, "which we heard of this morning through the driver of
the fly, which fortunately was passing the spot where your brother and
you were," here she glanced at me again in a way which showed that her
eyes could be keen as well as kind, and even--I could not feel sure if
this was my fancy--not without a touch of humour in their depths. "One
of our servants had occasion to visit the village this morning, and
brought back the story, and--as I said, hearing that you were alone, we
felt we must come to inquire for you ourselves--my brothers uniting with
us in--in"--here she repeated the words--"sympathy and offers of
service."
She had held out her hand at the opening of this rather long speech. I
had of course taken it, and scarcely conscious of so doing, was still
clasping it. And as for the third time she raised her lovely kind eyes
to my face, I--it was very unconventional and undignified, and all the
rest of it, I know--I burst into tears!
"Oh, Miss Grey!" I exclaimed. "You are far, far too kind. We--we
don't--" how I longed to finish my sentence, "don't deserve it." But I
dared not, for there flashed over me the remembrance that, if I
confessed my own share in our impertinent intrusion, I should implicate
Isabel, which I had no right whatever to do, and I stopped short. My
tears, I think, standing me in good stead, as they gave a reason for my
confusion, and increased the kind woman's pity. They were genuine
enough, too, Heaven knows, for I had been putting considerable restraint
on myself to keep them back hitherto, for every sake--Moore's
especially.
I felt Miss Grey's other hand steal on to the top of mine, already in
her clasp.
"My poor child," she said,--"excuse me for calling you so--do not take
things so to heart, unless--unless, indeed, there is fresh cause for
your distress?" and now her tone was full of anxiety. "I trust your
brother is not worse? No injury to the head, or to the limbs, that did
not show perhaps at first?"
I shook my head, and now a silly feeling of wishing to laugh came over
me, when I thought of the excellent breakfast I had seen the naughty boy
upstairs despatching, and his very comfortable condition, propped up
with a story-book, at the present moment. No, my tears were not those
of anxiety about him, but of very sincere shame and distress at the
trouble we had caused these good kind people, who surely had a right to
shut themselves up in their own domain if they chose, without being
subjected to inquisitive espionage.
"Oh, no," I said at last, choking down my hysterical symptoms, "he is
going on all right. In himself he is really very well indeed, and I
_think_ his foot is improving. But you are standing all this time," and
I drew forward a chair, Miss Beatrice Grey, who looked pale and nervous,
having already sunk into a corner of a sofa.
"Jessie," she now said, speaking for the first time, and addressing her
sister, "you are forgetting the liniment."
"By no means, my dear love," replied the elder one, "I am just coming to
it," and from the folds of her mantle--a good but old-fashioned affair,
as was every part of their attire--she produced a phial, neatly wrapped
up, which she carefully unfolded. "This is a very excellent
preparation," she continued, "for external application--_external_. If
Dr Meeke has not called this morning, pray suggest it to him when he
does so. He knows it of old, though probably he did not think of it in
the present case. We distil it ourselves--my sister and I--not
having"--here she coughed a little--that tiny cough was her only sign of
nervousness--"as we have not," she resumed, "too much to do;" and here
there came a little murmur about "a quiet country life," "we amuse
ourselves with these sorts of things--distilling, and so on. We take a
great interest in herbs, and we have some rare ones."
She tapped the little bottle as she spoke.
"There are some ingredients in here which are not to be met with every
day," she said, with a funny little tone of self-congratulation, "as Dr
Meeke knows!"
I thanked her warmly, of course, promising to ask the doctor to let us
make use of her gift at once.
"And is there anything else," she went on, "that we can be of use in?"
While from the sofa there came a little echo of--"Yes, so glad to be of
use!"
I considered for a moment. It was so plainly to be seen that these good
creatures would feel real pleasure in their offer being literally
accepted.
"New milk," murmured Miss Beatrice, "to keep up his strength. It did
wonders for our dear Caryll, long ago, when he--injured his spine. New
milk with a spoonful of rum, first thing in the morning on waking."
Miss Grey--Miss Jessie I feel inclined to call her--turned a little
sharply on her younger sister.
"My dear Beatrice," she exclaimed, "you forget. Everything of that kind
of course is at Miss--Fitzmaurice's command."
"To be sure," was the reply. "Still--"
"I'm sure it would be an excellent thing," I said, as she paused, "but I
do not think there is much fear of Moore's strength failing him, though
he has been rather a delicate boy."
"I hope not," said Miss Jessie; "I hope not, indeed. Perhaps we felt
unduly anxious, for in our case it was not till several days after the
accident that the grave injury was discovered." I suppose my face must
have betrayed a little alarm at this, for she hastened to reassure me.
"If Dr Meeke is satisfied, I am sure you may feel so," she said. "He
is really a very competent man. We had no misgiving on that score; it
was only hearing of you two young things being here alone, we felt we--
must inquire at first hand."
"You have been _most_ good and kind," I said. "I shall never be able to
thank you--you _all_," after a moment's hesitation, "enough;" and though
she said nothing, I _felt_ that she understood the under-sense of my
words. I had it on the tip of my tongue to add that I hoped their
friend had caught the later train, but a moment's reflection satisfied
me that I must follow their cue, and make no allusion to the secret
which their brother and I had agreed to preserve intact.
Then they both rose, saying they had detained me long enough; I must be
anxious to rejoin my brother.
"We shall hear how he goes on," were Miss Jessie's last words, "as Dr
Meeke calls now and then at present. We have a delicate young servant
who requires care."
"Yes," I said impulsively, "and Mr Caryll Grey--I suppose he is never
very strong?"
Both faces brightened perceptibly at the mention of his name.
"His condition does not vary much," said Miss Grey in her precise way,
"and, thank God, he rarely suffers acutely. And what we should be still
more thankful for--his nature is a quite wonderfully buoyant one."
"He is so very, very good," murmured the other little sister. "Always
cheerful, always thinking of others, never of himself, dear fellow."
She lost her shyness and timidity as she spoke of him. It was really
beautiful to see. I felt as I ran upstairs, eager to confide to Moore
the details of the wonderful visit, that it was not only Mr Caryll Grey
who was "so very, very good," but that I had indeed been entertaining
angels!
Moore was of course intensely interested and excited by my story. I
think it deepened, perhaps more even than the punishment he had brought
on himself, the lesson he had received. For I heard a murmur as I
concluded, in which the words, "caddish thing to do," were audible
enough.
The doctor made his appearance shortly afterwards. He raised his
eyebrows in surprise, which he was too discreet to express otherwise,
when I related to him the visit from the Grim House, and by no means
"pooh-poohed" the use of the medicament the kind woman had brought.
"I remember it," he said. "And in more than one case of sprain I have
known it have a wonderfully good effect. Try it by all means, Miss
Fitzmaurice, now that the inflammation has begun to subside; it is just
the sort of thing we want, and you may safely continue its use, diluted
with water of course, till you have emptied the bottle."
The next two or three days passed quietly, even monotonously. Moore was
very patient, and I think I did my best to help him to be so. It was a
relief when my home letter was written, and a still greater one when an
answer to it had been received. I meant to tell mother the whole
circumstances when I saw her again, by no means exonerating myself where
I felt I had been to blame, but to enter into any explanation in a
letter would have been out of the question. Besides--and as I arrived
at this point in my cogitations a new idea struck me--had I any right to
retail what Isabel had told me in confidence, without her permission,
and would not the applying for this, risk the betrayal to her of my
agreement with Mr Grey?
"Oh dear," I thought to myself, "what a labyrinth a little indiscretion
may involve one in. I see now that I was not justified in telling Moore
about Grimsthorpe. It was not faithful to Isabel, but with his being
here on the spot and seeing the place for himself, it never struck me
before in this light. No doubt he would have heard some gossip about
it, but probably not enough to cause much curiosity. I shall really be
very glad when we are both safely back at home again, and the whole
thing forgotten, so far as ever can be. Moore has had his lesson
anyway; I am certain he would never intrude on the Greys again, even if
he were here for months. How very discreet those old ladies were! I
suppose they have learnt it, poor things." For that there was a secret,
and a very sad one, my recent experiences had in no way led me to doubt.
"By the way," I went on in my own mind, "I wonder how they knew our
name?" Then I recalled the little colloquy at the hall-door. "Of
course," I reflected, "they must have asked for the young lady who was
staying here, and naturally the footman would speak of me as `Miss
Fitzmaurice'?" and later I discovered, by a little judicious inquiry
through my own maid, that this had in fact been the case. Nor did I
make the inquiry solely through curiosity. I had noticed the almost
imperceptible hesitation in Miss Jessie's manner as she addressed me by
name, and I could not forget--it was no use pretending to myself that I
should ever do so--the mention of "Ernest Fitzmaurice" which I had
overheard. "Something to do specially with Jessie," I had gathered.
"Poor little woman! What may she not have suffered in life, and how
brave she seems!" were my last waking thoughts that night.