AN INTRUDER.
It was all true. Richard left Dorracleugh early next morning. Those who
have experienced such a separation know its bitterness, and the
heartache and apathy that follow.
I was going to be left quite alone, and mistress at Dorracleugh for
three weeks at least; perhaps for twice as long. Mr. Blount was to leave
next day for France, to pay a visit of a fortnight to Vichy. Sir Harry
Rokestone, a few days later, was to leave Dorracleugh for Brighton.
Nothing could be kinder than Sir Harry. It was plain that he suspected
nothing of the real situation.
"You'll be missing your hit of backgammon with Lemuel Blount," he said,
"and your sail on the mere wi' myself, and our talk round the tea-table
of an evening. 'Twill be dowly down here, lass; but ye'll be coming soon
where you'll see sights and hear noise enough for a dozen. So think o'
that, and when we are gone you munnon be glumpin' about the house, but
chirp up, and think there are but a few weeks between you and Brighton
and Lunnon."
How directly this kind consolation went to the source of my dejection
you may suppose.
So the time came, and I was alone. Solitude was a relief. I could sit
looking at the lake, watching the track where his boat used to come and
go over the water, and thinking of him half the day. I could walk in the
pathway, and sit under the old beech-tree, and murmur long talks with
him in fancy, without fear of interruption; but oh! the misgivings, the
suspense, the dull, endless pain of separation!
Not a line reached me from Richard. He insisted that while I remained at
Dorracleugh there should be no correspondence. In Golden Friars, and
about the post-office, there were so many acute ears and curious eyes.
Sir Harry had been gone about three weeks, when he sent me a really
exquisite little enamelled watch, set in brilliants; it was brought to
Dorracleugh by a Golden Friars neighbour whom he had met in his travels.
Then, after a silence of a week, another letter came from Sir Harry. He
was going up to London, he said, to see after the house, and to be sure
that nothing was wanted to "make it smart."
Then some more days of silence followed, interrupted very oddly. I was
out, taking my lonely walk in the afternoon, when a chaise with a
portmanteau, a hat-box, and some other luggage on top, drove up to the
hall-door; the driver knocked and rang, and out jumped Richard Marston,
who ran up the steps, and asked the servant, with an accustomed air of
command, to take the luggage up to his room.
He had been some minutes in the hall before he inquired whether I was in
the house. He sat down on a hall-chair, in his hat and great-coat, just
as he had come out of the chaise, lost in deep thought. He seemed for a
time undecided where to go; he went to the foot of the stairs, and
stopped short, with his hand on the banister, and turned back; then he
stood for a little while in the middle of the hall, looking down on his
dusty boots, again in deep thought; then he walked to the hall-door,
stood on the steps in the same undecided state, and sauntered in again,
and said to the servant:
"And Miss Ware, you say, is out walking? Well, go you and tell the
housekeeper that I have come, and shall be coming and going for a few
days, till I hear from London."
The man departed to execute his message. Richard Marston had paid the
vicar a visit of about five minutes, as he drove through the town of
Golden Friars, and had had a very private and earnest talk with him. He
seemed very uncomfortable and fidgety. He took off his hat and laid it
down, and put it on again, and looked dark and agitated, like a man in a
sudden danger, who expects a struggle for his life. He went again to the
foot of the stairs, and listened for a few seconds; and then, without
much ado, he walked over and turned the key that was in Sir Harry's
study-door, took it out, and went into the room, looking very stern and
nervous.
In a little more than five minutes Mrs. Shackleton, the housekeeper, in
her thick brown silk, knocked sharply at the door.
"Come in," called Richard Marston's voice.
"I can't, sir."
"Can't? Why? What's the matter?"
"You've bolted it, please, on the inside," she answered, very tartly.
"I? I haven't bolted it," Richard Marston answered, with a quiet laugh.
"Try again."
She did, a little fiercely; but the door opened, and disclosed Richard
Marston sitting in his uncle's easy chair, with one of the newspapers he
had bought in his railway carriage expanded on his knees. He looked up
carelessly.
"Well, Mrs. Shackleton, what's the row?"
"No row, sir, please," she answered, sharply rustling into the room, and
looking round. She didn't like him. "But the door was bolted, I assure
you, sir, only a minute before, when I tried it first; and my master,
Sir Harry, told me no one was to be allowed into this room while he's
away."
"So I should have thought; his letters lying about--but I found the door
open, and the key in the lock--here it is; so I thought it safer to take
it out."
The old woman made a short curtsey as she took it, dryly, from his
fingers; and she stood, resolutely waiting.
"Oh! I suppose," he said, starting up, and stretching himself, with a
smile and a little yawn, "you want me to turn out?"
"Yes, sir, please," said Mrs. Shackleton peremptorily.
The young gentleman cast a careless glance through the far window,
looked lazily round, as if to see that he had not forgotten anything,
and then said, with a smile:
"Mrs. Shackleton, happy the man who has such a lady to take care of his
worldly goods."
"I'm no lady, sir; I'm not above my business," she said, with another
hard little curtsey. "I tries to do my dooty accordin' to my conscience.
Sorry to have to disturb you, sir."
"Not the least; no disturbance," he said, sauntering out of the room,
with another yawn.
He was cudgelling his brains to think what civility he could do the old
lady, or how he could please or make her friendly; but Mrs. Shackleton
had her northern pride, he knew, which was easily ruffled, and he must
approach her very cautiously.