Ruth Averill moved slowly across the drawing room at Starvel, and
stood dejectedly at the window, looking out at the Scotch firs swaying
in the wind and the sheets of rain driving across the untidy lawn
before the house.
The view was even more depressing than usual on this gloomy autumn
afternoon. Beyond the grass-grown drive and the broken-down paling of
posts and wire which bounded the grounds, lay the open moor, wild and
lonely and forbidding. A tumble of dun-coloured sedgy grass with
darker smudges where rock out-cropped, it stretched up, bleak and
dreary, to the lip of the hollow in which the dilapidated old house
had been built.
To the girl standing in the window with a brooding look of melancholy
on her pretty features the outlook seemed symbolical of her life, for
Ruth Averill was not one of those whose lives could be said to have
fallen in pleasant places.
But, in spite of her unhappy expression, she was good to look at as
she stood watching the storm. Though rather under medium height she
had a charming figure and something of a presence. She was dark, as
though in her veins might flow some admixture of Spanish or Italian
blood. Her features were small and delicate, but her firmly rounded
chin gave promise of character. She scarcely looked her twenty years
of age.
But though she had the fresh vitality of youth, there was something
old-fashioned in her appearance not out of accord with her
surroundings. She wore her long dark hair piled up in great masses
over her broad forehead. Her dress was of the plainest, and in the
fashion of three years earlier. Though scrupulously neat, it was worn
threadbare. Her shoes were cracked and her stockings showed careful
darns.
For Ruth Averill was an orphan, dependent on the bounty of her uncle,
Simon Averill, for every penny. And Simon Averill was a miser.
Ruth was born in Southern France, and she had dim recollections of a
land of sun and warmth, of jolly people and bright colours. But since
she had come to this gloomy old house in the wilds of the Yorkshire
moors the joy had gone out of her life. Her companions during
childhood had been the two not very prepossessing servants and the
still less attractive gardener and out-door man. With her uncle Simon
she had nothing in common. Even at the time of her arrival he was
elderly and morose, and every day he seemed to grow more self-centred
and less approachable.
After some years a break had come in her life; she had been sent to a
boarding school. But she had not been happy there, so that when she
was “finished” she was almost glad to return to the dullness and
loneliness of Starvel.
There she had found changes. Her uncle Simon was now an invalid,
querulous and solitary, and living only for the accumulation of money.
His passion took the form of collecting actual coins and notes and
hoarding them in his safe. He made no attempt to cultivate the
friendship of his niece, and had it not been that he required her to
read to him once a day, she would have seen him but seldom.
At this time also the two old women servants and the gardener had
gone, and their places had been taken by a comparatively young married
couple called Roper. Though more efficient than their predecessors,
Ruth did not take to either of the newcomers, with the result that the
fourteen months which had passed since her return from school were
lonelier than ever.
Had it not been that Ruth had developed an interest in flowers and
gardening, she would have found herself hard put to it to fill her
life. Gardening and her friendship with a semi-invalid entomologist
who lived close by, together with occasional excursions to the
neighbouring market town of Thirsby, were the only distractions she
could count on.
But recently another factor had come into her life. She had met on a
number of occasions a young man named Pierce Whymper, the junior
assistant of an ecclesiastical architect in Leeds. Whymper was acting
as clerk of works during some renovations to the parish church at
Thirsby, and when Ruth had gone with one or two of the local ladies to
inspect the work he had been particularly attentive. He had begged her
to come again to see how the job progressed, and she had done so on
more than one occasion. Then one day she had met him walking near
Starvel, and she had invited him to come in and have tea. This visit
had been followed by others and they had made excursions together on
the moor. Though no word of love had been spoken during any of these
interviews, she knew that he was attracted to her, and though she
would hardly admit it to herself, she knew also that she would marry
him if he should ask her.
Such was the general condition of affairs in the old house of Starvel
on this gloomy September afternoon, an afternoon which was to be
remembered by Ruth as the end of her old life and the prelude to a new
existence in a different world.
As she was standing, staring mournfully out of the window, the
attendant, Roper, entered the room. She did not know then, though she
realised it afterwards, that the message he was bringing her was to be
the herald of a series of terrible and tragic happenings, so dark and
sinister and awful that had she foreseen them she might well have
cried out in horror and dismay. But she did not foresee them, and she
turned with her instinctive courtesy to hear what the man had to say.
The message, though almost unprecedented, was in itself the reverse of
alarming. Roper explained that Mr. Averill had instructed him to hand
this note, which he had received in a letter to himself, to Miss Ruth,
and to say that he hoped Miss Ruth would accept the invitation it
contained. Further, that as there would be expenses in connection with
the visit, he wished Miss Ruth to have the ten pounds enclosed in this
other envelope. She could go in to Thirsby in the morning, get any
little thing she might want, and go on to York in the afternoon.
With rapidly beating heart Ruth unfolded the dog-eared corner of the
note, which was addressed simply “Ruth,” and read as follows:—
“Oakdene,” Ashton Drive,
York. _September_ 10_th_.
“My Dear Ruth,—I hope you will allow me to address you in this way,
as your father and I were old friends. I nursed you when you were a
baby, and though we have not met for many years, I do not feel that
you are a stranger.
“This is to ask if you will come and stay here for a few days and
meet my daughters Gwen and Hilda. I do hope you can.
“Our autumn flower show opens on Wednesday, and the roses are always
worth seeing. I am sure you would enjoy it, so try to reach here on
Tuesday afternoon and you will be in time to go there with us.
“Yours very sincerely,
“Helen Palmer-Gore.”
Ruth could scarcely believe her eyes as she read this friendly letter.
Mrs. Palmer-Gore she dimly remembered as a large, kindly,
fussily-mannered woman, whom she had liked in spite of her trick of
giving unpleasantly moist kisses. But she had never visited her, or
ever been to York, and the prospect thrilled her.
But unexpected as the invitation was, it was as nothing compared to
her uncle’s attitude towards it. That he should have given her
permission to go was surprising enough, but that he should have sent
her ten pounds for her expenses was an absolute miracle. _Ten Pounds!_
_What_ a sum! Why, she had never had the tenth part of it in her
possession before! And _what_ she could buy with it! Visions of
frocks, shoes, hats and gloves began to float before her imagination.
Feeling as he did towards money, it was good of her uncle Simon. She
turned impulsively to Roper.
“Oh, how kind of uncle,” she exclaimed. “I must go up and thank him.”
Roper shook his head.
“Well, miss, I shouldn’t if I were you,” he advised in his pleasant
Scotch voice. He came from somewhere in Fife. “The master’s not so
well, as you know, and he particularly said he didn’t want to be
disturbed. I’d wait and see him in the morning before you go. You will
go, I suppose?”
“Of course I shall go, Roper.” She hesitated, undecided. “Well,
perhaps if he said that, I’d better see him in the morning, as you
suggest.”
“Very good, miss. Then I’d best arrange for a car to take you in to
Thirsby in the morning? About ten, maybe?”
“Thank you. Yes, about ten will do. And you might send a telegram to
York which I will write for you.”
The man bowed and withdrew, and Ruth gave herself up to glorious
dreams of the next few days: not so much of visiting the Palmer-Gores
and York, but of getting away from Starvel. Yes, she admitted it to
herself at last. It was to get away from Starvel that she really
welcomed the invitation. While there had been no chance of quitting
it, she had not realised how terribly bitter was her hatred of the
place. And not the place only, but of every one in it. She hated her
uncle—in spite of the ten pounds. She hated Roper with his sleek
civility, and most of all she hated Mrs. Roper, who always treated her
with a veiled insolence, as if silently taunting her because of her
dependent position. Oh, how splendid it would be to get away from the
place and everything connected with it, even for a few days! And she
determined she would use the opportunity of this visit to find out
what her chances would be of getting some job by means of which she
could support herself, so that she might never be forced to return to
Starvel or see any of its inhabitants again.
That night she could scarcely sleep from excitement, and next morning
she was ready with her shabby little suitcase long before the time at
which the car was to arrive.
She was somewhat uneasy about her uncle’s condition. For several days
he had been ailing, and when she had gone in to say good-bye to him
before leaving she had thought him looking very ill. He was asleep,
but breathing heavily, and there was something in his appearance which
vaguely disquieted her.
“I don’t think he’s at all well,” she said to Roper when she came
down. “I believe he should have the doctor.”
“I was of the same opinion, miss, and I took the liberty of calling at
Dr. Philpot’s when I went in to order your car. But the doctor’s ill.
He’s got influenza and is confined to bed. I thought of going on to
Dr. Emerson, and then I thought if it’s only influenza that’s wrong
with Dr. Philpot we might just as well wait. He’ll likely be about
again in a day or two.”
Dr. Philpot was Mr. Averill’s usual attendant. He was a youngish man
who had come to the place some three or four years earlier, and who
had already built up a reputation for care and skill. The other
practitioner, Dr. Emerson, was old and past his work, and had retired
in all but name.
Ruth paused in some perplexity.
“That’s very unfortunate. But I think you are right that if it’s only
a matter of a day or two we should wait for Dr. Philpot. I hadn’t
heard he was ill.”
“Neither had I, miss. He was all right on Thursday, for he was out
that day to see Mr. Giles.”
“So I understand. How is Mr. Giles to-day?”
“I haven’t heard this morning, miss, but last night he was far from
well. Mrs. Roper is just going up to see if there is anything wanted.”
“I’ll go round to see him on my way to Thirsby,” Ruth decided. “Can I
give Mrs. Roper a lift?”
“Thank you, miss, it would be a convenience. I’ll tell her.”
Markham Giles, the entomologist, was their nearest neighbour. He was
the son of an old friend of Mr. Averill’s and lived alone in a little
cottage half a mile away across the moor. He was a pathetic instance
of the wreckage left by the War. Never physically strong, he had been
rejected for the earlier army drafts, but when the struggle had
dragged out and the standard for recruitment had been lowered he had
again volunteered and had got through. He had served in Flanders, had
been badly gassed and wounded, and six months later had left the
hospitals the shadow of his former self. Being alone in the world and
penniless save for his pension, he had headed north to his father’s
old friend. A small cottage belonging to Starvel being then vacant,
Mr. Averill had offered it to him at a nominal rent. There he had
since lived, occupying his time by keeping bees and by studying the
insect life of the moor. On this subject he had become somewhat of an
authority, and had written articles which had attracted attention in
entomological circles. He and Ruth were good friends and she had
helped in the capture and arrangement of his specimens.
Some days previously he had developed influenza, and though he did not
seem seriously ill, he was not shaking it off. Mrs. Roper had been
kind in looking after him and Ruth also had done what she could.
Ten minutes later the two women arrived at the tiny cottage which lay
just outside the lip of Starvel Hollow, the big saucer-shaped
depression in the moor in the centre of which stood Simon Averill’s
house. Markham Giles looked worse than when Ruth had last seen him. He
lay with half-closed eyes and seemed too dull and listless to more
than notice his visitors. But he feebly thanked them for coming and
said he was quite comfortable and wanted nothing.
“If he’s not better by to-morrow, I think you should send for Dr.
Emerson,” Ruth declared as she returned to her car.
“I think so, too, miss. Very good, I’ll arrange it. And if he seems
bad to-night either John or I will come over and sit with him. I don’t
like his look this morning somehow.”
“It’s very good of you, Mrs. Roper. But I expect he’ll be all right.”
“I hope so, miss. Good-morning, miss.”
Ruth’s mind was troubled as she turned away. She had always been
intensely sorry for Markham Giles, and now she hated leaving him lying
there alone. But there was nothing that she could do, and with a half
sigh she re-entered her vehicle and was driven into Thirsby.
There she spent the morning shopping, packing her purchases in her
suitcase. This was followed by a frugal meal at the local tea shop,
and then arose the question of how she should spend the hour remaining
until train time.
She left her suitcase at the tea shop, and sallied forth.
Involuntarily her steps turned towards the church, though she assured
herself that under no circumstances would she enter the building.
There could, however, be no objection to walking past the gate.
What she would have done eventually if left to herself will never be
known, as Fate intervened and arranged her visit for her. Turning a
corner she all but ran into Mrs. Oxley, the wife of one of the local
solicitors. Mr. Oxley had charge of all Simon Averill’s business, and
on his occasional visits to Starvel he had made a point of asking for
Ruth and chatting to her in his pleasant cheery way. Mrs. Oxley she
had known for years, and had experienced many kindnesses at her hands.
They stopped to talk and Mrs. Oxley heard of the visit to York with
interest and sympathy.
“Well,” she said, “if you’re not doing anything until half-past three,
come with me to the church. Boyd, the sexton, promised to send me some
of the old flags for the rock garden, and I want to know when I’m
likely to get them.”
There was nothing for it but to go, and whether Mrs. Oxley had any
suspicion of how matters stood, or whether she was genuinely anxious
about her paving-stones, Ruth was left alone to talk to Whymper for a
good ten minutes. And the young man did not fail to improve the
occasion. It appeared that he had to go to the station to make
inquiries about a consignment of cement, so it was natural that he
should leave the church with the ladies. Mrs. Oxley, it then turned
out, had business in the opposite direction and to her great regret
was unable to accompany the others. So the task of seeing Miss Averill
off fell to Mr. Whymper.
It was with shining eyes and heightened colour that, half an hour
later, Ruth Averill sat in the corner of a third-class compartment,
while the train moved out of Thirsby. That Whymper loved her she was
now positive. It was true that he had not actually spoken of love, but
his every word and look proclaimed his feelings. He had, moreover,
insisted on telling her about his family and his position and
prospects—a good sign. As to her own feelings, she was no longer in
any doubt whatever. She loved him, and in loving him the gray clouds
that pressed down upon her life seemed to break and the rosy light of
hope to pour in through the rift.
She duly reached York and found Mrs. Palmer-Gore waiting for her on
the platform. With her for two days she spent a pleasant holiday,
enjoying the unwonted good-fellowship. The visit was to have lasted a
week, but on the afternoon of the second day, there fell the first of
the several blows that she was to experience, and her stay was brought
to an abrupt termination.
They had just sat down to lunch when a telegram was handed to her. It
was the first she had ever received. Excited and a trifle embarrassed,
she hesitated to open it.
But when in answer to Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s kindly: “Read it, dear. Don’t
mind us,” she learned its contents, all thought of herself was swept
from her mind.
It was signed “Oxley,” though whether it came from the solicitor or
his wife she could not tell. It read: “Terrible accident at Starvel.
Your uncle injured. Return Thirsby and stay night with us.”
It was characteristic of the girl that her thoughts and feelings were
all for old Simon Averill. Was the poor old man badly injured? Was he
suffering? Could she do anything to help him? It was kind of the
Oxleys to ask her to stay the night, but of course she could not do
so. She must go out to Starvel and help with the nursing. Not one
thought of the possible effect on herself of the disaster entered her
mind. That the old man might die of his injuries and that she might be
his heir never occurred to her. Nor did she repine at the cutting
short of her first real and altogether wonderful holiday.
By Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s advice she wired to the Oxleys that she would be
with them at 5.40, and after a hurried lunch she found herself once
more in the train. During the journey she had time to ponder over her
news. A “terrible accident” at Starvel! What _could_ have happened? It
must surely be bad or that ominous word “terrible” would not have been
used. She began to invent possibilities. Had her uncle taken the wrong
medicine, perhaps some awful burning stuff that would hurt him
horribly? Or had he fallen downstairs or into the fire? Or cut himself
and been unable to summon help?
She gave full rein to her imagination, but when she learned the truth
she found it vastly more terrible than anything she had thought of.
The Oxleys met her at the station, and having driven her to their
home, broke the news.
It seemed that when about eleven o’clock that morning the baker was
approaching Starvel to make his customary Thursday call, he had
noticed a faint pall of smoke hanging in the sky above the hollow. On
crossing the shoulder he had glanced down as usual into the curious
circular dell, and had instantly been overwhelmed with incredulous
amazement. There were the trees, the thin, stunted pines which
surrounded the old house, but—_the house was gone!_ The long line of
slated roof which had stood out above the trees had absolutely
vanished. No trace remained. At first sight the man thought that the
entire building had disappeared, but a closer approach revealed
blackened windowless walls surrounding a still smouldering interior,
all that remained of the old place.
No sign of life appeared about the ruins, and the horror-stricken man
was forced to the conclusion that all three occupants had lost their
lives in the flames.
He drove hurriedly into Thirsby and gave the alarm, and soon Sergeant
Kent of the local police force with some of his men, Dr. Emerson, Mr.
Oxley and a number of others were hastening to the scene. They found
matters as the baker had described, the smouldering ruins standing
gaunt and sinister at the bottom of the dell, lonely and deserted,
hidden from the surrounding country by the rim of the strange natural
Hollow.
The fire had evidently raged with extraordinary fury. With the
exception of an outhouse separate from the main building not a scrap
of anything inflammable remained. Floors, roof, staircase, window
sashes, all were gone. And in that glowing mass of red-hot débris
within the blackened and twisted walls lay, almost certainly, the
bodies of Simon Averill, and of John and Flora Roper.
Anxious that Ruth should not have to learn the terrible news from the
papers, Mr. Oxley had returned to Thirsby and sent his wire. He had
thought it best to make this only a preparation, intending that the
full story should be broken more gently on the girl’s arrival.
Ruth was terribly shocked and upset. It was the first time, since
reaching years of discretion, that she had been brought in contact
with tragedy and death, and she was appalled by its horror. She begged
to be allowed to go out to Starvel, but neither of the Oxleys would
hear of it, pointing out that a visit would only harrow her feelings,
and that she could do nothing there to help.
As the long evening dragged away she found herself hoping against hope
that Whymper would call. But there was no sign of him and she supposed
he had not heard of her return.
Sergeant Kent, however, had heard of it, and about eight o’clock he
called and asked to see her. He was a tall, rather brusque man, though
in Oxley’s presence he was polite enough. He questioned her as to the
household and its personnel, but she had nothing to tell him which
could throw any light on the tragedy.
The next day it was found possible to attempt some research work among
the ruins, and by ten o’clock a number of men were engaged in removing
the cooler portions of the débris. Ruth insisted that she must see the
place for herself, and the Oxleys, not liking to let her go alone,
drove her out in their car. But the terrible picture which met her
eyes and the thought of what lay below the sinister mound where the
men were working made her feel almost sick with horror. Her feelings
too, had changed. Gone was her hatred of the place, and particularly
of the three poor people who had met with such an appalling fate. She
felt she had been wicked to hate them. Her uncle had been a recluse
and fond of money no doubt. But in his own way he had always been kind
to her. He had opened his door to her when she was a homeless child,
and had since supported her without grudging the money she must have
cost him. And he had been ill—continuously ill; and when people are
ill they cannot help being depressed and a little trying to others.
And the Ropers, had she not misjudged them also? In their own way,
they, too, had always been kind to her. For the first time, Ruth saw
that the lives of the couple must have been as dull and gray as her
own. Though their jobs were underpaid, and rather thankless, they had
not complained. And she, Ruth, had never shown an appreciation of
their services. She saw now that she had really had no reason at all
for hating them, and when she thought of their terrible death, her
tears flowed. In silence she allowed Mrs. Oxley to lead her back to
the car and drive her to Thirsby.
On their way to the little town the second blow fell on the young
girl, and coming so quickly on the first, left her weak and trembling.
As they mounted the rim of the Hollow they saw a funeral approaching
along a converging road. It was a sorry procession; only the hearse,
and the vicar and Dr. Emerson in the former’s car. As the two ladies
drew up for it to pass, the vicar also stopped, and he and the doctor
came over to express their sympathy with Ruth.
“You will be sorry for poor Mr. Giles, also, Miss Ruth,” the vicar
went on. “I understood you were kind enough to help him in his
scientific researches.”
Ruth stared at him in horror.
“You don’t mean,” she stammered, “that Mr. Giles is—is dead?”
“He died on Tuesday, I’m sorry to say. After a short illness he passed
away in his sleep. He had no suffering. But, only thirty-six! Truly,
another tragedy of the War.”
Ruth was stunned. Markham Giles, also! To lose at one blow all four
persons whom she had known best—the only four persons in the world she
had known at all well! It was too much.
She pulled herself together, however, and insisted on following her
friend’s body to its last resting-place, but when she reached the
Oxleys’ house she broke down altogether. Mrs. Oxley put her to bed and
at last she sobbed herself to sleep.
That evening the charred remains of three human bodies were found
within the tragic walls of Starvel.