ONE SNOWY NIGHT.
One of the last houses that you passed before you began to climb the
hill into Nullington was the vicarage; a substantial red-brick
building of the Georgian era, standing a little way back from the road
in a paved fore-court, access to which was obtained through a
quaintly-wrought iron gateway. At the back of the house was a charming
terraced-garden, with an extensive view, some prominent features of
which were the twisted chimneys of Heron Dyke, and the seven tall
poplars that overshadowed the moat. Here dwelt the Rev. Francis
Kettle, vicar of Nullington-cum-Easterby, and his daughter Maria. The
living was not a very lucrative one, being only of the annual value of
six hundred pounds; but the vicar was a man who, if his income had
been two thousand a year, would have lived up to the full extent of
it. He was fond of choice fruits, and generous wines, and French
side-dishes; while indoors he never did anything for himself that
a servant could do for him. Out of doors, he would potter about in
his garden by the hour together. He was sixty years old, a portly,
easy-going, round-voiced man, who read prayers admirably, but whose
sermons hardly afforded an equal amount of satisfaction to the more
critical members of his congregation. To rich and poor alike Mr.
Kettle was bland, genial, and courteous. No one ever saw him out of
temper. A moment's petulance was all that he would exhibit, even when
called from his warm fireside on a winter evening to go through the
sloppy streets to pray by the bedside of some poor parishioner. No
deserving case ever made a direct appeal to his pocket in vain,
although the amount given might be trifling; but he was not a man who,
even in his younger and more active days, had been in the habit of
seeking out deserving cases for himself. Before all things, Mr. Kettle
loved his own ease; ease of body and ease of mind. It was
constitutional with him to do so, and he could not help it. He knew
that there was much sin and misery in the world, but he preferred not
to see them; he chose rather to shut his eyes and walk on the other
side of the way. Not seeing the sin and misery, there was no occasion
for him to trouble his mind or pain his heart about them. But if, by
chance, some heartrending case, some pathetic tale of human
wretchedness, did persist in obtruding itself on his notice, and would
not be kept out of sight, then would all the vicar's finer feelings be
on edge for the remainder of that day. He would be restless and
unhappy, and unable to settle down satisfactorily to his ordinary
avocations. He would be as much hurt and put out of the way morally,
as he would have been hurt physically had he cut his finger. It was
very thoughtless of people thus to disturb his equanimity, and cause
him such an amount of needless suffering. Next morning, however, the
vicar would be his old, genial, easy-going self again, and human sin
and wretchedness, and all the dark problems of life, would, so far as
he was concerned, have discreetly vanished into the background.
Perhaps it was a fortunate thing for the vicar that he had a
daughter--at least, such a daughter as Maria. Whatever shortcomings
there might be on the father's part were more than compensated for on
the daughter's. Maria Kettle was one of those women who cannot be
happy unless they are striving and toiling for someone other than
themselves. Her own individuality did not suffice for her: she lost
herself in the wants and needs of others. No one knew the little
weaknesses of her father's character better than herself, and no one
could have striven more earnestly than she strove to cover them up
from the eyes of the world. If he did not care to visit among the sick
and necessitous of his flock, or to have his easy selfishness
disturbed by listening to the story of their troubles, she made such
amends as lay in her power. She did more, in fact, being a sympathetic
and large-hearted woman, than it would have been possible for the
vicar to have done, had his inclinations lain ever so much in that
direction. In the back streets of Nullington, and among the alleys and
courts where the labouring people herded together, no figure was
better known than that of the vicar's daughter, with her homely
features, her bright, speaking eyes, her dress of dark serge, her
thick shoes, and her reticule. Little children who could scarcely talk
were taught to lisp her name in their prayers, and the oldest of old
people, as they basked outside their doors in the summer sunshine,
blessed her as she passed that way.
Early in the present year, the state of the vicar's health had caused
alarm, and he was ordered to the South of France. Maria could not let
him go alone, and for the time being the parish had to be abandoned to
its fate, and to the ministrations of a temporary clergyman. Maria
felt a prevision that she should find most things turned upside down
when she got back to it--which proved to be the case. She and her
father, the latter in good health, had now returned, and on the day
following their arrival, Miss Winter, all eagerness to see them, set
off to walk to the vicarage. She and Maria were close and dear
friends.
That she should be required to tell all about everything that had
happened since their absence, Ella knew; it was only natural.
More especially about that one sad, dark, and most unexplainable event
which had taken place at the Hall in February last. She already shrank
from the task in anticipation; for, in truth, it had shaken her
terribly, and a haunting dread lay ever on her mind.
About midway between Heron Dyke and the vicarage, lying a little back
from the road, was a small inn, its sign, a somewhat curious one, "The
Leaning Gate." Its landlord, John Keen, had died in it many years ago,
since which time it had been kept by his widow, a very respectable and
hard-working woman, who made her guests comfortable in a homely way,
and who possessed the good-will of all the neighbours around. She had
two daughters, Susan and Katherine, who were brought up industriously
by the mother, and were both nice-looking, modest, and good girls.
Susan was somewhat dull of intellect. Katherine was rather a superior
girl in intelligence and manners, and very clever with her needle; she
had been the favourite pupil in Miss Kettle's school, and later had
helped to teach in it. Maria esteemed her greatly, and about fourteen
months prior to the present time, when Miss Winter was wanting a maid,
Maria said she could not do better than take Katherine. So Katherine
Keen removed to the Hall, greatly to her mother's satisfaction, for
she thought it a good opening for the young girl; but not so much to
the satisfaction of Susan.
The sisters were greatly attached to one another. Susan especially
loved Katherine. It is sometimes noticeable that where the intellect
is not bright the feelings are strong; and with an almost
unreasonable, passionate tenderness Susan Keen loved her sister.
Katherine's removal to Heron Dyke tried her. She could hardly exist
without seeing her daily; and she would put her cloak on when the
day's work was done--for Susan assisted her mother in the inn--and run
up to the Hall to see Katherine. But Katherine and Mrs. Keen both told
her she must not do this: her going so frequently might not be liked
at the Hall, especially by ill-tempered Aaron Stone and his wife. Thus
admonished, Susan put a restraint upon herself, so as not to trouble
anybody too often; but many an evening she would steal up at dusk,
walk round the Hall, and stand outside watching the windows, hoping to
get just one distant glimpse of her beloved Katherine.
The time went on to February in the present year, Katherine giving
every satisfaction at Heron Dyke: even old Aaron would now and then
afford her a good word. And it should be mentioned that the girl had
made no fresh acquaintance, either of man or woman--she was thoroughly
well-conducted in every way.
Miss Winter's own sitting-room and her bedroom were in the north wing.
She had chosen them there on account of the beautiful view of the sea
from the windows. Katherine slept in a room near her. On the evening
of the fifteenth of February they were both in the sitting-room at
work; Ella was making garments for some poor children in the village
and had called Katherine to assist. Katherine had a headache; it got
worse; and at nine o'clock Ella told her she had better go to bed. The
girl thanked her, lighted her candle and went; Ella, who went at the
same time to her own room to get something she wanted, saw her enter
her chamber and heard her lock herself in: and from that moment
Katherine Keen was never seen, alive or dead. Before the night was
over, Ella--as you will hear her tell presently--had occasion to go to
Katherine's room; she found the door unlocked, and Katherine absent,
the bed not having been slept in. Her apron, cap, collar, and
neck-ribbon lay about, showing that she had begun to undress; but that
was all. Of herself there was no trace; there never had been any since
that night.
That she had not left the house was a matter of absolute fact, for old
Aaron had already locked and bolted all the doors, and there could be
no egress from it. In short, it was a strange mystery, and puzzled
everyone. Where was she? What could have become of her? The matter
caused endless stir and commotion in the neighbourhood. Old Squire
Denison, very much troubled at the extraordinary occurrence,
instituted all kinds of inquiries, but to no purpose. Every nook and
corner in the spacious house was searched again and again. Aaron
Stone, cross enough with the girl oftentimes beforehand, seemed
troubled with the rest; his wife declared openly, her eyes round with
terror, that the girl must have been 'spirited' away. The grandson,
Hubert, was in London at the time, and knew absolutely nothing
whatever of the occurrence.
But the sister, Susan, had a tale to tell, and it was a curious one.
It appeared that that same morning she had met Katherine in the
village, doing an errand for Miss Winter. Susan told her that a letter
had come from their brother--a young man older than themselves, who
had gone some years before to an uncle in Australia--and that she
would bring it to the Hall that evening. However, when evening came,
snow began to fall, and Mrs. Keen would not let Susan go out in it,
for she had a cold. Presently the snow ceased, and Susan, wrapping her
cloak about her, started with the letter. As she neared the Hall the
clock struck nine--too late for Susan to attempt to call, for after
that hour her visits were interdicted. She hovered about a short
while, thinking that haply she might see one of the housemaids
hastening home from some errand, and could send in the letter by her,
or perhaps catch a glimpse of her darling sister at her window. The
sky was clear then, the moon shining brilliantly on the snowy ground.
As Susan stood there, a light appeared in Katherine's room. She
fancied she saw the curtain pulled momentarily aside, but she saw no
more. While thus watching, Susan was startled by a cry, or scream of
terror; two screams, the last very faint, but following close upon the
other. They appeared to come from inside the house, Susan thought from
inside the room, and were in her sister's voice--of that Susan felt an
absolute certainty. A little thing served to terrify her. She ran back
home as she had never run before, and burst into her mother's kitchen
in a pitiable state. Mrs. Keen and two or three people sitting in the
inn took it for granted that the cry must have been that of some
night-bird, and the terrified girl was got to bed.
With the morning, news was brought to the inn of Katherine's strange
disappearance; and, as already said, she had never been heard of from
that day. Nothing could shake Susan's belief that it was her sister's
screams she had heard; she declared she knew her voice too well to be
mistaken. The event had a sad effect upon her mind: at times she
seemed almost half-witted. She could not be persuaded but that
Katherine was still in the house at Heron Dyke; and as often as she
could escape her mother's vigilance, she would steal up in the dark
and hover about outside, looking at the windows for Katherine--nay,
more than once believing that she saw her appear at one of them.
Such was the occurrence that had served to shake Miss Winter's nerves,
and that she was on her way now to the vicarage to be (as she well
knew) cross-questioned about.
Mr. Kettle met her with a fatherly kiss, telling her she looked
bonnier than ever, and that there was nothing to compare with an
English rose-bud. Maria clasped her in her arms. Ella took her bonnet
off and sat down with them in the bow-windowed parlour open to the
summer breeze, and for some time it was hard to say whether she or
Maria had the more questions to ask and answer. Then the vicar began,
as a matter of course, about the shortcomings in the parish during his
absence, especially about the churchwardens' difficulties with
Pennithorne--the temporary parson. That gentleman had persisted in
having two big candlesticks on the altar where no such articles had
ever been seen before, and had attempted to establish a daily service,
which had proved to be an ignominious failure, together with other
changes and innovations that were more open to objection. Ella
confirmed it all, and the vicar worked himself into a fume.
"Confound the fellow!" he exclaimed, "I'd never have gone away had I
known. Who was to suspect that meek-looking young jackanapes, with his
gold-rimmed spectacles, had so much mischief in him? He looked as mild
as new milk. And now, my dear, what about that strange affair
concerning Katherine Keen?" resumed the vicar, after a pause. "Your
letter to us, describing it, was hardly--hardly credible."
"I can quite believe that it must have seemed so to you," replied
Ella.
"Well, child, just go over it now quietly."
The light died out of Ella's eyes, and her face saddened. But she
complied with the request, not dwelling very minutely upon the
particulars. The vicar and Maria listened to her in silence.
"It is the most unaccountable thing I ever heard of," cried the vicar,
impulsively, when it was over. "Locked up in her room, and
disappeared! Is there a trap-door in the floor?"
Ella shook her head.
"The waxed boards of the room are all sound and firm."
"And she could not have come out of her room and got out of the house,
you say?"
"No. It was not possible. She had a bad headache, as I tell you, and I
told her she had better go to bed; that was about nine o'clock. While
she was folding up the child's petticoat she had been sewing at, Aaron
came into the room to say that Uncle Gilbert was asking for me.
Katherine lighted both the bed candles, which were on a tray outside,
and we left the room together. I ran into my own room and caught up my
prayer-book, for sometimes my uncle lets me read the evening psalms to
him. Katherine was going into her room as I ran out; she wished me
goodnight, went in, and locked the door."
"Locked it!" exclaimed the vicar. "A bad habit to sleep with the door
locked. Suppose a fire broke out!"
"I used to tell her so, but she said she could not feel safe with it
unlocked. She and Susan were once frightened in the night when they
were little girls, and had locked their door ever since. I went down
to Uncle Gilbert," continued Ella. "Aaron was then bolting and barring
the house-door--and, considering that he always carries away the key
in his own pocket, you will readily see that poor Katherine had no
chance of getting out that way."
"There was the backdoor," said the vicar, who, to use his own words,
could not see daylight in this story. "Your great entrance-door is, I
know, kept barred and locked always."
"Yes. Aaron went straight to the backdoor from the front, fastened up
that, and in like manner carried away the key. Believe me, dear Mr.
Kettle, there was no _chance_ that Katherine could go out of the
house. And why should she wish to do so?"
"Well, go on, child. You found the room empty yourself in the middle
of the night--was it not so?"
"Yes--and that was a strange thing, very strange," replied Ella,
musingly. "I went to bed as usual, and slept well; but at four o'clock
in the morning I was suddenly awakened by hearing, as I thought, Uncle
Gilbert calling me. I awoke in a _fright_, you must understand, and I
don't know why: I have thought since that I must have had some
disagreeable dream, though I did not remember it. I sat up in bed to
listen, not really knowing whether Uncle Gilbert had called me, or
whether I had only dreamt it----"
"You could not hear your uncle calling all the way up in the north
wing, Ella," interrupted Miss Kettle.
"No; and I knew, if he had called, that he must have left his room and
come to the stairs. I heard no more, but I was uneasy and felt that I
ought to go and see. I put on my slippers and my warm dressing-gown,
and lighted my candle; but--you will forgive me my foolishness, I
hope--I felt too nervous to go down alone, though again I say I knew
not why I should feel so, and I thought I would call Katherine to go
with me. I opened her door and entered, not remembering until
afterwards that I ought to have found it locked. The first thing I saw
was her candle burnt down to the socket, its last sparks were just
flickering, and that the bed had not been slept in. Katherine's apron
and cap were lying there, but she was gone."
"It is most strange," cried Mr. Kettle.
"It is more than strange," returned Ella, with a half sob.
"And, my dear, had your uncle called you?"
"No. He had had a good night, and was sleeping still."
"Well, I can't make it out. Was Katherine in bad spirits that last
evening?"
"Not at all. Her head pained her, but she was merry enough. I remember
her laughing early in the evening. She drew aside the curtain by my
direction to see what sort of a night it was, and exclaimed that it
was snowing. Then she laughed, and said how poor Susan would be
disappointed, for her mother would be sure not to let her come up
through the snow. Susan was to have brought up a letter they had
received from the brother."
"And what is the tale about Susan coming up when the snow was over,
and hearing screams? Did you hear them in the house?"
"No; none of us heard anything of the kind."
"But if, as I am told Susan says, it was her sister who screamed in
the room, some of you must have heard it."
"I am not so sure of that," replied Ella. "Uncle Gilbert's
sitting-room--I had gone down to him then--is very remote from the
north wing; and so are the shut-in kitchen apartments. Aaron ought to
have heard down in the hall, but he says he did not."
"Then, in point of fact, nobody heard these cries but Susan?"
"Yes; Tom, the coachman's boy, heard them. Tom had been out of doors
doing something for his father, and was close to the stables, going in
again, when he heard two screams, the last one much fainter than the
other. Tom says the cries had a sort of muffled sound, and for that
reason he thought they were inside the house. So far, poor Susan's
account is borne out."
"And the house-doors were found still fastened in the morning?"
"Bolted and barred and locked as usual, when old Aaron undid them.
More snow had fallen in the night, covering the ground well. Katherine
has never been heard of in any way since."
Mr. Kettle sat revolving the tale. It was quite beyond his
comprehension.
"In point of fact, the girl disappeared," he said presently; "I can
make nothing more of it than that."
"That is the precise word for it--disappeared," assented Ella, in a
low tone. "And so unaccountably that it seems just as if she had
vanished into air. The feeling of discomfort it has left amongst us in
Heron Dyke can never be described."
"Do you still sleep in the north wing?" asked Maria, the thought
occurring to her. "Oh no. I changed my room after that." Ella had told
all she had to tell. But the theme was full of interest, and the vicar
and Maria plied her with questions all through luncheon, to which meal
they made her stay. She left when it was over; her uncle might want
her; and Maria put on her bonnet to walk with her a portion of the
way. Their road took them past the "Leaning Gate." Mrs. Keen was
having the sign repainted--a swinging gate that hung aloft beside the
inn. A girl, the one young servant kept, stood with her arms a-kimbo,
looking up at the process. The landlady was a short, active, bustling
woman, with a kind, motherly face and pleasant dark eyes.
"How do you do, Mrs. Keen?" called out Maria, as they were passing.
Mrs. Keen came running up, and took the offered hand into both of
hers. "I heard you were back, Miss Maria, and glad enough we shall be
of it. But--but----"
She could not go on. The remembrance of what had happened overcame
her, and she burst into tears.
"Yes, young ladies, I know your kind sympathy, and I hope you'll
forgive me," she said, after listening to the few words of consolation
they both strove to speak--though, indeed, what consolation could
there be for such a case as hers?
"We had been gone away so short a time when it happened!" lamented
Maria.
"You left on the first of February, Miss Maria, and this was on the
night of the fifteenth," said Mrs. Keen, wiping her eyes with her
ample white apron. "Ah, it has been a dreadful thing! It is the
uncertainty, the suspense, you see, ladies, that is so bad to bear.
Sometimes I think I should be happy if I could only know she was dead
and at rest."
"How is Susan?" asked Maria.
"Susan's getting almost silly with it," spoke the landlady, lowering
her voice, as she glanced over her shoulder at the house. "She has all
sorts of wild fancies in her head, poor girl; thinking--thinking----"
Mrs. Keen glanced at Miss Winter, and broke off. The words she had
been about to say were these: "Thinking that Katherine, dead or alive,
is still at Heron Dyke."