THE MISTRESS OF HERON DYKE.
Although many of the county families and leading people of the
neighbourhood were away in London or abroad when Miss Winter took
possession of her inheritance, a goodly number still remained who were
not long in making their way to Heron Dyke to pay their respects to
its mistress. More carriages passed through the lodge-gates during the
first few weeks after Squire Denison's death than had been seen there
for a dozen years before. Everybody was anxious to court the heiress;
some, who did not know her previously, to make her acquaintance. Ella
had not bargained to have her privacy thus speedily invaded by a mob
of fine people; but Mrs. Carlyon told her with a smile that she was
now one of the magnates of the county, and that having accepted the
position she must take the responsibilities with it.
"You can make your escape whenever you please, by coming to me in
London, you know, Ella," she said: and said it rather frequently.
The world seemed to take it for granted that Miss Winter would marry.
As yet there was no rumour of her being engaged, but as there were
several eligible men, bachelors, in the neighbourhood, speculators
were much exercised in their minds as to the chances of this, that, or
the other one becoming the favoured individual. They all fervently
hoped that Mrs. Carlyon would not drag her niece away to London, as
she seemed to wish to do, or else there would be no knowing what might
become of her. It would be dreadful for such a prize to fall to the
lot of a stranger.
Ella bore quietly on her way, never dreaming of the social
machinations of which she was the central figure. At present she
scarcely went anywhere; her loss was too recent; and she thought she
might be spared a little time before plunging into the vortex of that
social power, called Society.
Meanwhile the grand old house began to put on a different appearance.
Whether Ella would have entered on desirable improvements so soon,
cannot be told, but Mrs. Carlyon urged it. Painters and paperhangers
took possession. Rooms were unlocked and thrown open to the daylight
that had been shut up for years. Not the north wing. Some feeling, of
which she did not speak, caused Ella to leave that untouched. New
furniture, sober in look and in keeping with the old mansion, but very
handsome withal, was ordered down from London. Inside and out, the
Hall was renovated and put in thorough repair. The green baize doors,
that had caused so much speculation, were taken away. The garden-paths
were regravelled, and new flower-beds laid out. John Tilney was more
busy than he had ever been before, although he had two men under him
now. Two or three servants were added to those indoors, much to the
indignation of Aaron Stone, and also of his wife, Dorothy, who could
only think with and be led by her husband. They would have preferred
that the old state of things should go on for ever; Aaron, in his
mind, resenting it as a personal insult that they did not.
"It's all along o' that Mrs. Carline!" he grumbled to his wife. "Miss
Ella, bless her, would never have made changes of her own accord. I
don't like it, mark you, and I wish she was gone."
"Miss Ella would be but lonely without her aunt just now," Dorothy
ventured to answer deprecatingly.
"Waste and extravagance!--them's the words," burst out Aaron. "More
servants here indoors; more on 'em out; and a spick-and-span new
carriage from London. The old Squire's hair would stand on end if he
could put his head out of his coffin and take a quiet look round."
But if Aaron did not like "Mrs. Carline"--as he chose to call her in
domestic privacy--neither did she like him; and it was the old man's
hair that might have stood on end, instead of the Squire's, had he
heard the advice that lady one day gave her niece. There was something
about Aaron himself that Mrs. Carlyon had always disliked, and his
sour temper and general crustiness of manner did not tend to soften
her impression.
"My dear Ella, I suppose you will now pension off old Aaron Stone and
his wife?"
Ella looked up in surprise.
"I have not thought of doing anything of the kind. I have never
thought about it at all."
"It is time you did. They are growing old and infirm; they belong to
the past. Quite anomalies, they seem, in a modern establishment."
"No one could be a more faithful servant than Aaron was to my uncle.
They were together for nearly fifty years. I could not think of
parting from him, Aunt Gertrude," added Ella, with a heightened
colour.
"As you please, of course, child. He is a most cross-grained old man;
everybody must admit that. He lords it over the other servants as if
he were master of the house. They cannot like it: and it is hardly the
thing, I think, for you to oblige them to put up with it. It might
have been all very right in your uncle's time; but that is over."
"It is Aaron's manner only that is in fault, Aunt Gertrude; we are all
used to that, and nobody minds it. He bears a heart of gold under that
rugged exterior."
Mrs. Carlyon shrugged her shoulders. Ella smiled.
"You don't seem to believe in the gold, then!"
"No, I do not, Ella. That he was a truly faithful servant to your
uncle I admit--all praise to him for it!--but whether he is as
faithful to others, I cannot say. There is a curious secretiveness of
manner about him now that I don't like, and don't pretend to account
for. However, we will leave all that and go to another phase of the
question. Has it never struck you, my dear, that the old couple may
wish to retire from service, and would think it only proper and kind
on your part to suggest it to them? They may be hoping and waiting for
you to make such a proposal--of course, accompanied by a promise of
your countenance for their remaining days."
Ella paused, revolving the suggestion.
"You have put the case in a new light, certainly, aunt," she said,
"one that I confess I never glanced at. I do not believe Aaron has any
wish to leave me, any thought of it; or Dorothy either: all the same,
it is a point that must be inquired into."
Ella lost no time. That same day, upon Aaron's coming into the room
where she sat alone, she bade him wait--she had something to say to
him. Very considerately she spoke: nevertheless, it seemed to strike
the old man dumb. His hands shook. His lips quavered.
"You don't want to get rid of me sure-ly, Miss Ella!" he cried when
she had finished. "It can't be. I know I'm old; and old folks be not
counted of much use, nowadays; but--but the Squire would never have
driven me away from the old home. I'll go to the workhouse to-morrow,
if you wish it, ma'am--and no place else will I go to if I leave
here--and I'll never come out of it again. No, never, till they bring
me out feet foremost."
Ella felt quite sorry for him; sorry for having spoken. She began to
speak of what she had meant to do, but he interrupted her:
"I'll be nobody's pensioner; not even yours, Miss Winter. Many a time
I've told the Squire I'd not be his. While I'm able to work I will
work; and I mean to work on for you, ma'am, my strength permitting it.
Time enough for me to leave you when that's gone--but I hope it's my
life that will go first. I was faithful to my master, Miss Ella, and
I'll be faithful to my mistress."
Ella held out her hand to him.
"Do you suppose I do not know that you are, my good old Aaron! But you
should not talk of the workhouse. The Squire left you an annuity; he
left you also some money. I shall add to it----"
"No, ma'am. Do you suppose I wanted the bit o' money his will gave to
me? Not I. I have settled it on the boy--Hubert--every penny of it: as
well as the few pounds I and my wife have saved. As to the annuity, I
won't touch it."
Ella smiled, and did not contradict him. And so the question of the
old servant's going was set at rest. But Aaron was not himself for
days afterwards.
Hubert Stone's services were retained, at any rate for the present. He
had had the management of the farm property and other matters for so
long, that Miss Winter could not well have done without him. Neither
had she any wish to dismiss him; he was an efficient steward, and she
of course had no suspicion of his attachment to herself. She put him
on a different footing, assigning to him a handsome salary, and
decreeing that he should live away from the Hall, though a room in it
would still be occupied by him as an office for his account-books and
papers. It was supposed that he would take suitable apartments at
Nullington; he might have had the best there; or perhaps set up a
pretty home for himself with a man and maid to wait on him. Hubert did
neither. To the intense surprise of the community he made an
arrangement with John Tilney to enter on his spare bedroom and
sitting-room--for the lodge was a commodious dwelling--and took up his
abode there, Mrs. Tilney waiting on him as on any other gentleman.
Hubert had to see his young mistress almost daily about one matter of
business or another, but he was careful to maintain towards her a
suitable reserve. Nothing could be better than his manner. It would
never do to betray the smallest sign of the volcano of passion that
was surging within him.
Very little had been said between Ella and her aunt respecting the
fright the latter got on the night of the Squire's funeral. The topic
was an unpleasant one; and they ignored it by mutual consent. The only
person spoken to about it was Dr. Spreckley: and it may be said that
that arose from inadvertence.
A week or two subsequent to the Squire's death, one of the maids,
Eliza, took a sore throat; it threatened to be a bad one, and Miss
Winter sent for the good old doctor. Dr. Jago's attendance at the Hall
had ceased with the Squire's death. Dr. Spreckley got the message late
in the day, and it was evening when he started for Heron Dyke, glad
and proud enough to be once more summoned there in his medical
capacity.
Leaving his gig in the yard, he entered the house by the side-door,
ignoring ceremony as of old, and went at once to Miss Winter. She and
Mrs. Carlyon had just finished dinner, and were sitting at dessert.
Hearing what was the matter the Doctor went off to see Eliza,
promising to return to them and report.
"It is rather severe," said he, when he came back, "but there's
nothing dangerous about it. I'll come up again in the morning."
"Sit down, Doctor," said Ella, "and take a glass of wine."
He drew a chair to the fire; the evening was damp and chilly, and a
fire had been lighted for dinner. Ella and Mrs. Carlyon turned from
the table to sit with him, and they talked of this and that as he
sipped the wine.
"As you are here, Dr. Spreckley, I think I will ask you to give me a
little medicine; an alterative, or something of that kind," observed
Mrs. Carlyon presently, in a pause of the conversation.
"Ah!" cried the Doctor. "What's amiss?"
"My liver is out of order, I fancy. I had a severe bilious attack
after that fright, and I am not right yet."
Dr. Spreckley turned his head to her rather sharply. "What fright?" he
asked.
Mrs. Carlyon glanced across at Ella. She had spoken without thought.
"I really see no reason why we should not tell you," she resumed,
after a minute's consideration. "In fact, I have observed to Ella once
or twice that it might be better if we did mention it to some discreet
friend. Not that anything can be done."
And Mrs. Carlyon forthwith related the whole story of her fright in
the dusky corridor. Dr. Spreckley listened attentively.
"What it was I know not, Doctor: whether man or woman, ghost or
goblin. A silent shadowy form glided past me, imparting to me the most
intense terror, and vanishing almost as soon as it had passed."
"One of the young servants, ma'am," emphatically spoke the Doctor.
"No. Every inmate of the house was in the kitchen, or about it, as I
have told you. I saw them all when I ran down. Whoever or whatever it
was, it was not a servant."
"Could it have been young Stone? Had he gone upstairs for any
purpose?"
"No, no, no. Hubert Stone would not have been gliding about the
corridors in that silent, stealthy manner. Hubert Stone was not at
home that evening; he was spending it with Dr. Jago."
"True," nodded the Doctor. He remembered that Hubert had gone out with
Jago after the reading of the will, the same mourning coach conveying
them to the latter's residence.
"Was this in the north wing?" he asked.
"I do not know," answered Mrs. Carlyon. "Ella thinks it was. I took
the wrong turning in the dark and lost myself, and goodness knows
where I got to."
"It must have been the north wing," interposed Ella. "The stairs my
aunt ran down lead direct from it."
"Ah," said the Doctor, "that north wing has managed to get up a weird
name for itself, and the minute any of you get into it, your common
sense leaves you. I am not speaking of you, ma'am," he added to Mrs.
Carlyon, "but of the house in general;" and, dropping the subject, he
proceeded to question her about her ailments.
"One of the wenches got up there; 'twas nothing else," thought the
Doctor, as he left the ladies and went away. "Were I Miss Winter, I'd
have that wing turned inside out."
Walking round to the stable-yard, his way led him past the kitchen
windows. It was growing dusk then, but the fire lighted up the room.
He saw Dorothy Stone bending over the fire, stirring something in a
saucepan. Dr. Spreckley walked straight into the kitchen.
"Oh, sir, how you frightened me!" cried Dorothy, turning round with a
start.
"You are easily frightened," retorted the Doctor. "Are you mulling
wine there?"
"Law, sir! Wine! I be making Eliza a drop o' thin arrowroot; she
thought she could sup a spoonful or two. She has had nothing all day,
poor thing! and you said she was to be kept up."
"Keep her up by all means. Put a little brandy in the arrowroot. Look
here, Mrs. Stone: you remember the evening of the Squire's funeral?"
The question startled Mrs. Stone more than his entrance had done. She
clapped the saucepan upon the top of the oven, stepped backwards, and
looked at Dr. Spreckley.
"Whatever do you ask me that for, sir?"
"Do you remember it?--the evening of the day the Squire was buried?"
"Indeed and I do, sir. It's not so long ago."
"Was anyone of the servants up in the north wing that evening at dusk,
walking about the passages there?"
"Mercy be good to us!" ejaculated the old woman, sinking on a chair.
"Now do be sensible!" cried the Doctor, testily. "I ask you a simple
question: can't you answer it? Was either of the girls--say Eliza, or
that other one--what's her name?--Phemie--was either of them in the
north wing that evening, prancing about it?--What in the world are you
twittering at?"
"I can't hear that wing spoke of without going into a twitter," said
Dorothy, with a half sob. "As to the girls being up there--no, sir,
you may rely on that. Not one of them would go up there at dusk to
save her life: nor alone by daylight either. Was anything seen there
that night, sir, or heard?"
"Never you mind that now: if there was, it's over and done with. Then,
so far as you know, none of the household went up?"
"That I could answer with my life."
"Well, good-evening, Mrs. Stone; there's nothing to be afraid of. Take
a drop of brandy yourself," he kindly added.
"There's more to be afraid of in this house than the world knows of,
Dr. Spreckley--and has been for some time past. It's an uncanny
place--though I dare not say as much before my husband. As to that
north wing"--she broke off with a shiver. "The other housemaids left
because of what they saw and heard there: and these are getting as
frightened as they were."
Down sat Dorothy as the surgeon went out, and flung her apron over her
face in a kind of despair. Naturally superstitious, the events in the
Hall had but rendered her more so. She lived a life of fear and
trembling, believing that if by ill-luck the ghost--Katherine
Keen's--appeared to herself some unlucky night, she should die of it.
How greatly these questions of Dr. Spreckley had augmented her
terrified discomfort, she would not have liked to confess.
Mrs. Carlyon did not feel much more comfortable than Dorothy in the
lonely old house on the Norfolk coast. Ever since the night of the
Squire's funeral she had wished to get away from it to a more cheerful
place; but she could not yet attempt to leave Ella.
It was when the bright summer weather began to give place to a
suspicion of autumn, that Mrs. Carlyon found she must really go;
matters in London at her own home needed her. She told Ella that she
could not leave her alone, and proposed a chaperon. Ella, who had
independent opinions of her own, demurred: she was quite old enough to
take care of herself, and quite capable of doing it. But her aunt was
inflexible; the proprieties and usages of society must on no account
be ignored. Ella perforce yielded, and a suitable lady was sought for.
It was just at this time that Mr. Conroy once more made his appearance
at Heron Dyke. After the reading of the Squire's will, Mr. Daventry,
the Nullington lawyer, had despatched a letter to the office of the
"Illustrated Globe," apprising Mr. Conroy of the legacy bequeathed
him. For some cause or other the young man had not been able to attend
to it until now. He came to Nullington, saw Mr. Daventry, and thence
walked to Heron Dyke to pay his respects to its mistress.
It was well that Mrs. Carlyon chanced to be looking out of the window
when the servant announced Conroy's name. Had she seen Ella's face at
that moment, it is probable that a certain vague suspicion, which some
time ago had taken root in her mind, would have been turned into a
certainty. As it happened, she saw nothing.
Conroy stayed but an hour with them; the ladies were engaged out for
the latter part of the day. They invited him to spend the morrow at
the Hall.
He came accordingly, in time for luncheon. Afterwards the carriage was
brought round, and they started to visit the ruins of a certain famous
castle some dozen miles away. Hubert Stone, looking from his office
window, himself unseen, watched them set out. A raging fever of
jealousy and unrest was burning in his veins. This Conroy was the one
man whom he feared and hated; and yet, if he had been asked to state
his reasons for feeling thus towards him, he would have found it
difficult to do so. He could only have said that he had dreaded and
disliked him from the first. It was Hubert's white face and jealous
eyes that Conroy had seen peering from behind the yews into the
Squire's sitting-room that first evening he spent at the Hall. It was
Hubert himself, peering in, whom the Squire had more than once taken
for a spy. Jealousy often lends insight to love, pricking it on to
finer issues than it would ever attain to without such stimulus, and
this it was that had enabled Hubert Stone to divine that these two
people loved each other almost before they were themselves conscious
of it. Yes, he hated and feared Edward Conroy. No sooner had the
carriage started to-day than he put away his books and papers and
wandered out into the park, a moody and miserable man. He strolled
about for some hours, neither knowing nor caring whither. At length
the sound of a distant clock, striking five, warned him that the party
from the Hall might be expected back before long. He knew by which
road they would return, and he made his way to an overhanging bank,
screened by trees and a thick hedge, close to which they must pass. He
wanted to see them again, although he knew well that the sight would
only add to his wretchedness.
At length the landau appeared in sight. Hubert parted the boughs
carefully and peered through his leafy screen. Miss Winter and Mrs.
Carlyon sat together, with Conroy on the opposite seat. Hubert's eyes
devoured them. Conroy was leaning forward and talking to Ella, on
whose face rested a brightness and animation such as Hubert had not
seen there since her uncle's death. A minute later, and a turn of the
road hid them from view. Hubert paced about in his rage, and at length
walked back to the Hall, a still more miserable man than he had left
it. His heart was a prey to the direst thoughts. Love, hatred,
jealousy, and despair swayed him by turns, one mood alternating
swiftly with another. Had it been a moonless midnight instead of an
August evening, and had Edward Conroy and he met by chance in some
lonely spot, one of the two would never have left that spot alive.
Lights blazed from the windows of one of the smaller drawing-rooms now
generally made use of, which had been re-furnished. It was yet empty,
dinner not being over. Two gentlemen had been invited to meet Mr.
Conroy--the Vicar and Philip Cleeve.
Into this lighted drawing-room went Hubert: he knew not why. He felt
like a man who was being urged forward by some unseen power towards a
goal of which as yet he was but dimly conscious, but from which no
exercise of his own will could turn his footsteps aside.
Lost in a reverie, he did not hear the ladies approach until it was
too late to escape. On the impulse of the moment he hid himself behind
the folds of the heavy velvet curtains that shrouded the deep
embrasures of the windows. The guests soon followed them. Mrs. Carlyon
and the Vicar settled down to a game of backgammon, Philip amused
himself with a book of photographs and a magnifying glass, and Ella,
at Conroy's request, sat down at the piano, he hovering round her the
while and turning over her music.
From his hiding-place Hubert could see nothing, but nearly all the
conversation, especially that which took place at the piano, was
audible to him, and this latter was all that he cared to hear. At
times Conroy was so close to him that by stretching out his hand he
could have touched him. He stood there as immovable as if cut in
stone, with white face and passion-charged eyes, listening to the soft
words of his rival, and to the still softer accents that responded to
them. Yet the words themselves were commonplace enough; it was the
hidden something in their tone that lent them their sweet
significance. If Hubert Stone had expected to overhear any lover-like
confidences, in which people who are trembling on the verge of the
great confession are sometimes wont to indulge, he was mistaken.
"Mrs. Carlyon tells me that you have promised to spend a week or two
in London with her a little later on," said Conroy.
"Yes, I have," answered Ella.
"You will find London deserted, I fear."
"So much the better. I never care for a crowd."
"Mrs. Carlyon has been so good as to give me a general invitation to
call upon her. I hope I shall see you during your stay."
All Ella's heart leapt into her face at these words. She turned away
her head under the pretence of looking at the others.
"It is quite a treat to watch the Vicar play backgammon: he seems to
give his whole mind to the game," she said, and then she turned to
Conroy again. "You have the fortune to be a great favourite with my
aunt, Mr. Conroy," she went on. "I am sure she will be very pleased to
see you in town, and--so shall I. If you will look in the canterbury,
and find me that piece by Schubert which you said you liked so much
when you were here last, I will play it for you again this evening."
The piece was played, and then they fell to talking again. Conroy
asked Ella whether she really meant to inhabit the Hall during the
winter.
"Yes; why not?" was the answer. "I love the old place. It is my home,
and that means everything."
"Very true, Miss Winter--I should think as you do. May I ask," added
Conroy, speaking on the impulse of the moment, and without due
thought, "whether any light has been thrown on the fate of that
missing girl, who--who was so mysteriously lost here?"
"None whatever," answered Ella sadly, the gladness dying out of her
eyes. "A mystery it is, and a mystery it seems likely to remain. I
need scarcely say that it is a great trouble to me. The worst is, the
poor sister, Susan, who is not very bright in intellect, is still
beset by the hallucination, for I can term it nothing else, that on
moonlight nights her sister may sometimes be seen gazing out of her
bedroom window; and she comes up to, as she fancies, look at her.
Nothing can shake her fixed belief that Katherine, either alive or
dead, is still hidden somewhere in the Hall."
"It is strange how the girl's mind should have become so thoroughly
imbued with such an idea."
Ella could not repress a shudder. Might there not, after all, be some
foundation for poor Susan's wild fancies? Whose hands had covered up
the looking-glass in Katherine's bedroom? Whence had come and whither
had vanished that figure which the two housemaids had seen gazing down
upon them from the gallery? How account by any reasonable theory for
the fright undergone by Mrs. Carlyon? It was a mystery that weighed
upon Ella day and night; a burden from which her mind could never
entirely free itself. Many people under like circumstances would have
shut up the old house and made a home elsewhere, but to Ella it seemed
that if the fate of the missing girl were ever to be cleared up it
must be cleared up on the spot; and on the spot she determined to
remain.
Something was said about a picture in the adjoining room--Philip
Cleeve declaring that one of the photographs resembled it. The three
younger members of the party went into the room to solve the question,
leaving Mrs. Carlyon and the Vicar at their game. Hubert Stone saw his
chance; he made a bold stroke, emerged from his hiding-place, silently
crossed the room, and quitted it.
"Who on earth was that?" exclaimed the Vicar.
"Who was what?" asked Mrs. Carlyon, who sat with her back to the
windows and saw nothing.
"Some tall young fellow crossed the room from the window. How did he
come in? It looked like Hubert Stone. Yes; I am sure it was he."
"Oh, then he had probably come in to ask some question or other of his
mistress; and seeing visitors here, went out again," decided Mrs.
Carlyon with composure. "A well-mannered young man, very, that; might
be taken by anyone for a gentleman."
And so the evening came to an end, and Mr. Conroy departed again.
The next departure was that of Mrs. Carlyon. But not before a chaperon
had been fixed upon for the young mistress of Heron Dyke.
Their choice fell upon a Mrs. Toynbee; who was engaged, and arrived at
the Hall. She was a slender, sedate-looking lady of fifty, the widow
of a certain Major Toynbee. Her credentials were unexceptionable, and
her terms high. Ella did not much like her; but, as she said to
herself, we can't have everything just as we like it in this life. She
was kind and gracious to Mrs. Toynbee, as she was to everyone, and
that lady soon made herself at home.
Meanwhile Mr. Hubert Stone was having, as the schoolboys say, rather a
bad time of it. That Conroy was in love with Miss Winter and she with
him, seemed to him clear as the light of day. Could he frustrate this
love? he would ask himself as he paced restlessly the solitary glades
of the park. He knew something which was unknown to them: a great
secret, which neither of them so much as dreamt of. Could he make use
of this knowledge, dangerous though it might be, to part them? He
believed he might. Anyway, it was a thing to be thought of.