If we knew more than is possible for us of what is passing at a
distance, we should find so-called "coincidences" much more frequent
then we have at present any idea of. That very evening when the family
party in the Waldrons' drawing-room was discussing the old legends of
the Osberts, the conversation at Silverthorns between Lady Mildred and
her niece had taken the same direction.
Claudia Meredon was not looking quite as bright and well as usual, and
her aunt was becoming aware of it.
"You are so silent, child," she said, half reproachfully, "and I like
you to talk. It was one of your attractions to me at the first that you
were not one of those stupid, half-bred, or not-at-all-bred girls who
think good manners consist in staring at their elders, and never
answering anything but `yes' and `no' and `if you please.'"
Claudia laughed.
"Then you don't approve of--
"`Hold up your head, turn out your toes,
Speak when you're spoken to, mend your clo'es,'
"Aunt Mildred?" she said.
"Yes, I do," said the old lady, testily. "There's a medium in all
things. I detest impertinent little chatterboxes of children. But
you're not a child now, Claudia, and you have plenty of sense and
knowledge in your head; you are quite able to talk very intelligently
and agreeably if you choose. I only hope you are not going to turn into
a book-worm. Are you working too hard?"
"No, aunt, I don't think so," said Claudia. "And you know how I enjoy
my lessons. And the teaching at Miss Lloyd's is really very
interesting."
But she gave a very little sigh as she spoke.
"Then what's the matter with you? Are you ill? I hope you're not
home-sick. Or do any of those girls at Miss Lloyd's annoy you in any
way? You can't deny that you're not in your usual spirits."
"No," Claudia allowed, "I don't feel quite as merry as usual; but I'm
sure I'm not ill. And I'm not home-sick: if I were it would be too
silly, when I know that what you are doing for me now is to make it
possible for me to be a real help to them all at home. Perhaps,
however, I am just a _very_ little what people call home-sick. It isn't
the girls at school--I have very little to do with them."
"All the better," said Lady Mildred. "They cannot be much worth
knowing."
"Perhaps most of them are rather commonplace," Claudia allowed. "There
is only one--the one I told you of, Charlotte Waldron--who interests me
at all particularly. But I don't think I interest her, so though we do
all the same lessons we scarcely ever speak to each other," and again
Claudia sighed a little.
"You are a goose," said her aunt. "I believe you would like to make
friends with the girl, and have her adoring you and gushing over you."
Claudia could not help laughing a little. The idea of cold, proud
Charlotte "gushing" over any one, over herself especially, struck her as
curiously incongruous.
"She's not at all that sort of girl, Aunt Mildred," she said.
"So much the better," repeated Lady Mildred again. "And whatever she is
or is not," she went on, "remember, Claudia, I gave you fair warning
that I could have no school-girl friendships."
"Of course, aunt, I know that quite well. Don't think I am dreaming of
such things. I really and truly don't quite know why I don't feel as
bright as usual."
It was as she said. She did not understand herself. Hitherto, though
her life had been in some respects a hard and even anxious one,--for she
had shared her parents' cares and struggles, and the mode of living at
the rectory had been of almost Spartan simplicity,--there had been no
complications. Duties had been clear and straightforward, to Claudia's
genial and loving nature they had gone hand in hand with her greatest
delight--that of serving and helping those about her. But now it was
different: she felt herself misunderstood and disliked; she felt she was
almost giving reason for this, and yet what could she do? The little
kindnesses and overtures of good will which her mother had assured her
she could find opportunity for without violating her aunt's wishes had
been rejected almost with scorn. She was beginning even faintly to
suspect that her earnest and conscientious school-work, or rather the
success with which it was crowned, was rousing against her feelings
which she could not endure to suspect the existence of in the hearts of
others. Yet here again what could she do? It must be right to do her
best, to profit to the utmost by the opportunities her aunt's goodness
was giving her, even if it made her companions--though, to tell the
truth, the word was in Claudia's mind represented by Charlotte Waldron
alone--dislike and almost hate her. Yet it was so painful, so new; and
to have to face these problems for the first time, when for the first
time she was alone and with no one to reprove or advise her, did seem
hard. For it would have been impossible to express all her difficulties
clearly in a letter, even had she not felt that it would be disloyal to
her aunt, and cruel to the anxious hearts at home, to attempt to do so.
"No," she repeated, as Lady Mildred did not at once speak, "I don't
quite know why I don't feel as usual. Perhaps I am working a very
little too hard. If it were summer I am sure I should be as merry as
ever--it must be too lovely here in summer, Aunt Mildred."
"But you get plenty of fresh air--it is a good drive into Wortherham and
back every day?"
"Oh, yes, and I do _so_ enjoy it. You don't know how nice it is. I am
so glad papa managed to teach me to drive quite as a child, though I
never had anything like Kelpie to drive before. She is such a darling,
Aunt Mildred."
Claudia's face lightened up with the thought of her pony's perfections.
Lady Mildred looked at her: she saw that when the momentary glow faded
the girl seemed again pale and tired-looking.
"My dear, do you sleep well?" she said suddenly.
"Not _very_ well, perhaps," Claudia admitted.
"You're not nervous--you don't mind being alone?"
"Oh, no," said Claudia; "I have always had a room alone since I was
quite a little girl."
"Yes; but at home, in a smaller house, where you all seem nearer
together, it is different. You are quite sure you are not nervous here?
Don't be afraid of saying so if you are. No one has been telling you
nonsense about this house being haunted, or anything of that kind?"
A light broke over Claudia's face, which had been growing rather
bewildered-looking.
"It is very kind of you to have thought of it, Aunt Mildred," she said.
"But indeed I am not the least nervous in that way. I have not slept
well partly perhaps because I have been thinking so much about my
lessons. I do so want to show them at home that I am doing well, and
the examinations and all that will be coming on soon."
"Don't overdo it," said Lady Mildred. "Your father and mother--and I,
for that matter, if you care about me in that way--will be perfectly
satisfied that you have done your best, without any prizes or things of
that kind."
"There is only one prize given at Christmas," said Claudia, "and that is
a German one that the master gives himself. I do dreadfully want to get
it. Mamma is so anxious about my German."
"Well, don't overwork yourself, my dear. It would be very unlucky if
you were to fall ill here--you that have always been so strong. It
would reflect badly on me, or on Silverthorns, if you lost your rosy
cheeks here. And to some of those girls, doubtless, prizes must seem
matters of life or death--many of them probably are training for
governesses."
"Some perhaps may be," said Claudia; "but I think many of them,
particularly some of the least refined, are very rich. And I don't
think any of them can wish for this prize more than I do. Think what it
would be to send it home! But, Aunt Mildred," she went on in a
different tone, "as you see I'm not nervous, I wish you would tell me
more about the ghost."
"I know very little about, the story, my dear," Lady Mildred replied.
"Mr Osbert, my husband, disliked its being spoken about, and I did not
care to hear. There was some nonsense about the ghost being heard or
seen at the time of the old squire's death, which annoyed him. I fancy
it was set about by some cousins who had no right to the place, but
tried to claim something, and they wanted to make out that the ghost was
on their side."
"How very absurd, and how wrong!" said Claudia. "Yes; I know very
little about it however. The ghost is supposed to be the spirit of a
very ruffianly old Osbert, who cannot rest in peace."
"He haunts the tower, doesn't he?" said Claudia. "Old Peebles, the
gardener, told me that, one day when I was asking him if there were
owls' nests up there. He said he `durstn't take upon himself to disturb
them, nor anything else about the tower, and he couldn't say.'"
"Ah, yes, you see that explains it all. No doubt there have been owls
there for generations, and if no one ever disturbs them they have it all
their own way. We have never used those rooms much--the rooms in the
lower part of the tower, I mean."
"But they are dear old rooms. The one the servants call the chintz room
might be made delightful. I should not be the least afraid to sleep
there," said Claudia.
"Well, if ever the house is more full of guests than it is likely to be
in my time," said Lady Mildred, who was particularly amiable to Claudia
that evening, "you shall move there and try how you like it. We have
often used it as a sort of bachelor's room or odd spare room--it is
easily put in order. And, by the bye, you would have no reason to fear
the ghost, Claudia. He only appears to, or is heard by--I don't know
which--members of the Osbert family. They must have Osbert blood in
them."
"How disappointing!" Claudia replied. "I shouldn't care so much for
sleeping in the tower if that's the case."
"Well, go and sleep in your own bed now, and let me see you looking
better to-morrow. It is getting late," said her aunt.
Claudia kissed her and said good night, and went off. She felt
brightened by the talk with Lady Mildred. It was not often that the old
lady was so genial and sympathising.
"It was really _very_ kind of her to think of my being perhaps
frightened at night," she said to herself. "Very few grown-up people
think of such things. If it had been poor Alix now--I don't believe
Alix will ever be able to sleep in a room alone."
She was up-stairs by this time on the large first floor landing, which
at one side was separated from the oldest part of the house by a door
and short passage. Claudia looked at the door.
"I wonder now if I should be frightened if I slept in the tower," she
thought. "I hardly think so. Yet it must be queer and lonely up in
that empty room. I wonder if it's at all moonlight to-night. I've a
great mind to run up just for a moment. I'll leave this door open, so
that if I _am_ frightened I can rush down at once."
And half laughing at her own temerity, Claudia opened the door, propping
it ajar, for it was a spring one, by the aid of a chair on the wide
landing, and running along the passage, began the ascent of the stairs.
A few steps led to the chintz room, the door of which, imperfectly
latched, was rattling somewhat uncannily, as if some one were trying to
get out. But Claudia did not stop to close it--she hastened on, up the
two flights, to the tower room itself. The staircase was dark save for
some light from below, whence, too, came the sounds of the servants
moving about and speaking in the distance, for on the ground floor of
this wing were some of the offices in regular use. Claudia was not
sorry to hear the murmurs--it seemed less "ghosty." But as she opened
the tower room door and entered, it banged to behind her--and then it
seemed indeed as if she were far away from everybody, up there with the
moonlight and the owls.
For moonlight there was, though of but a faint and fitful kind. There
was frost about, though as yet no snow had fallen this winter, and the
outside world looked grim and unadorned, as Claudia went to the window
and gazed out. Except where here and there a ray of light fell on the
evergreen trees in the avenue, all seemed black and lifeless.
"How dreary," she thought with a little shudder. "I can't help pitying
the ghost if his rambles are restricted to this melancholy room. I
wonder what he did that was so wicked," and her eyes rested
unconsciously on the drive, seen here and there in patches of light and
dark through the trees, down which poor Bridget Osbert so many, many
years ago had crept away, sobbing and broken-hearted. Claudia had never
heard the story, Lady Mildred herself did not know it, but as the girl
stood and gazed a strange sensation--not of fear, but of pity and
sadness--came over her; and suddenly her thoughts reverted to the
mention made by her aunt of the cousins who had been disappointed in
their expectations, some of whom apparently had held the last
communication on record with the Osbert ghost.
"Poor things," she thought; "I feel sorry for them. Perhaps they had
some rights, after all. It must be hard to part with an old place like
this, or to give up hopes of having it if one has expected it. There is
something strange in the thought of inhabiting the very spot where one's
ancestors have lived for hundreds of years. It must seem so full of
them--permeated with their feelings and actions. If they had been bad
people, I think it would seem rather dreadful. I wonder why I feel this
so much to-night. Standing here, I could almost fancy I was an Osbert--
and I feel certain some of them have been very unhappy. I do feel so
sorry for I don't know whom! If the ghost appeared I really think I
should have courage to ask if I could do anything for him--poor ghost."
But nothing appeared, no sound broke the perfect stillness, save a low
rustling wail from the wind as it came round the corner. And the
moonlight faded again, and Claudia turning from the window saw that the
room was almost perfectly dark, and for the first time a slight feeling
of fear came over her. She hurried to the door, and was glad to see as
she opened it that the light from the large landing shone faintly up the
stairs. And in another moment she had run down, and was smiling at her
own trepidations in the cheerful security of her own room.
"I am not so _very_ brave after all," she said to herself.
And as might have been expected, her dreams that night were rather
troubled. They seemed full of Charlotte Waldron and Herr Marklestatter,
but the German teacher had the face of Charlotte's father, whom Claudia
had seen but once and for a moment only, the evening he came out to
Silverthorns on business, and he seemed to be begging Claudia to do or
not to do something. And just as she was consenting, and Mr Waldron
was saying, "It is all for the poor ghost's sake, you know," she heard
what she fancied in her dream to be a sudden cry of distress, and
starting up in bed, found that the wind had got up, and was howling
round the house, and that her door had blown open with a loud noise.
Still, though the next morning was dreary and stormy in the extreme,
Claudia looked and felt better than for some time past.
"You don't look as if ghosts or anything else had been troubling you,"
said Lady Mildred; "but it is far too stormy for Kelpie this morning.
You must have the brougham."
And Claudia, while she thanked her, smiled to herself as she wondered
what her aunt would have said to her visit to the tower room the night
before.