 
Transcriber's Notes:
THE | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS OF VOLUME III. | |
| I. | WHO DID IT? |
| II. | WHAT PRISCILLA PEYTON HAD TO TELL. |
| III. | MALACHITE AND GOLD. |
| IV. | MR. CHARLES PLACKETT IS PUZZLED. |
| V. | A FRUITLESS ERRAND. |
| VI. | COUNSEL TAKEN WITH MR. MEATH. |
| VII. | A STRANGER AT THE ROSE AND CROWN. |
| VIII. | TOGETHER AT LAST. |
| IX. | IN THE DUSK OF EVENING. |
| X. | THE TRUTH AT LAST. |
| XI. | CONVERGING THREADS. |
| XII. | MORE SURPRISES THAN ONE. |
| XIII. | THE LAST MYSTERY SOLVED. |
THE
MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE.
CHAPTER I.
WHO DID IT?
Never as long as Ella Winter lives will she forget the picture that imprinted itself on her brain, as instantaneously as though it had been photographed there, at the moment when, startled by Aaron Stone's cry, she stepped out of the window of the sitting-room. On the borders of the lawn, at the foot of a large holly-bush, the leaves of which glistened brightly in the morning sun, knelt Aaron, his rugged features working convulsively, his trembling arms twined round the unconscious form of him who lay there in all the moveless majesty of death. One glance at the white set face, and Ella knew that the wanderer, whose absence had caused so much speculation, had come back at last, but that whatever secrets he might have in his keeping would remain secrets still, and would never be whispered in mortal ear. The pulses of her life stood still as she gazed in her shock of bewilderment.
The old man's voice broke the spell: he saw her standing there.
"Oh, ma'am, my dear young mistress, it is my boy! My boy come back to me--dead. There has been murder done here!"
A shudder ran through Ella. Murder! Was it true?--or was old Aaron demented?
She rushed indoors to the sitting-room, ringing its bells as they had never been rung before; and then she sank into a chair. Never had Ella Winter been so near fainting.
The servants came running in, and she strove to collect her thoughts. Some one ran to the huge bell that rang in the stable-yard, and sounded a peal upon it. It brought forth the coachman, Barnet. John Tilney came up with one of his men.
Barnet satisfied himself that Hubert Stone was really dead, also that he had in all probability been murdered; he then sped back to his stable-yard, and saddled a horse to ride forth in search of a doctor. "Fetch the nearest doctor you can find," had been Miss Winter's gasping order to him, and he hastened to obey it. By Barnet's orders the groom rode forth on another horse to summon the chief-constable from his office at Nullington.
The frightened maids had gathered round Miss Winter, when Dorothy Stone appeared in the doorway, tying her cap-strings with trembling fingers. The bells and the commotion had startled her, but she did not know what had happened. At sight of the patient, furrowed face and the dim blue eyes, just now full of anxious wonder, a great pity took the heart of Miss Winter, and the tears filled her own eyes as she went up to the old woman and led her away. No need for her to know the terrible news just yet.
Mrs. Toynbee next appeared upon the scene; she had waited to dress. Her first act was to order the white-faced servants away to their duties; her second to speak with John Tilney. It was by her directions that he and his two men--for the other man had come up now--carried the ill-fated young fellow into a room on the ground-floor. Then, with much tact and gentleness, Mrs. Toynbee succeeded in persuading Aaron, who seemed half-stupefied with grief and horror, to allow himself to be got into his own apartments by Tilney. Nothing more could be done till the arrival of the doctor and the police.
Dr. Spreckley and Mr. Chief-Constable Wade reached Heron Dyke together, driving over in a gig from the Rose and Crown. The first thing they did was to look at the dead. That Hubert Stone had been murdered a very slight examination sufficed to prove. He had been stabbed through the heart with a stiletto or some other sharp instrument. The disordered state of his attire, as well as the condition of the trimly-kept gravel walk, showed that he had not met his fate without a struggle; some desperate encounter must have taken place.
But what had brought him there? Why had he come back to Heron Dyke in the night-time?--or perhaps it might have been at the first glimmer of dawn. These were the questions that ran around. Miss Winter's thoughts, which she kept to herself, ran in somewhat a different groove. Might he not have come back by train the previous day, she asked herself, and have intended to call on her in the evening, and been afraid or ashamed to do so, and so have lingered about the grounds until it was too late? Too late also, perhaps, to gain admittance to his old rooms at the lodge? and so he had probably paced about during the night hours, and had disturbed the thief or thieves in the act of rifling the bureau Miss Winter's mind lost itself in troubled conjectures.
Examination showed that a hole had been cut with a diamond in the window of the room where the jewels lay, the window opened, and the shutters forced from their hinges. The bureau must then have been opened by means of a chisel, or other blunt instrument, and the jewels stolen from their receptacle. Most probably it was at the moment the burglar was leaving the room with his booty that he was encountered by Hubert Stone; perhaps seized by him. How the probably unequal struggle had ended was but too terribly manifest. Apparently nothing in Hubert's pockets had been touched. His watch, chain, and leather purse were all there, but no letters or papers of any kind from which a clue might be obtained as to his recent movements, or to the place from whence he had come.
"His watch has stopped at twenty minutes past two," observed Dr. Spreckley, who was making this examination with Mr. Inspector Wade. "And that may have been the time of the fatal occurrence, poor fellow. What's in here, I wonder?"
The Doctor was opening the gold locket attached to the watch-chain, as he made the last remark. And it was as well, perhaps, all things considered, that the inspector did not hear it--that he had turned momentarily away. For inside the locket was a portrait of Miss Winter. Dr. Spreckley's eyes opened, in more ways than one.
"Presuming rascal!" he involuntarily cried, apostrophising the unconscious dead. "My poor young man, you must have been more silly than I gave you credit for. I'll take possession of this, any way: no good to let the world see it," he decided, as he dexterously removed the likeness and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
"What's that?" asked the inspector, coming back.
"Only this," said Dr. Spreckley, exhibiting the empty locket.
That the person or persons who committed the robbery had also committed the murder, appeared perfectly conclusive to Inspector Wade; and so he informed Miss Winter, with whom he requested an interview. Of course she had herself drawn the same conclusion. He then asked Miss Winter whether she had the slightest suspicion with regard to the honesty of any of her servants. It was quite evident that the thieves must have had some acquaintance with the house, and knew the exact spot where to look for the jewels, and they had apparently made no attempt to obtain any other booty.
Miss Winter replied, in most decisive terms, that she had not the slightest reason to suspect the honesty of any person about her.
"But, indeed," she added, "it is impossible that any of the servants can be guilty. They were not even aware of the existence of the jewels, much less of the place where they were deposited. Those were facts known to no one save myself and Mrs. Toynbee."
The chief-constable, who had a pencil in his hand, passed it once or twice thoughtfully across his lips.
"Pardon me the remark, Miss Winter," he said, looking up, "but may I ask how it came to pass that you found no safer receptacle for this valuable amount of property than an old bureau in a sitting-room on the ground-floor--and which has a window opening to the ground? Any tyro of a burglar could force an entrance in ten minutes."
"But," she objected, "how was any burglar to know that such property was there?"
"It seems, madam, that one, at all events, did know it. It--pardon me--seems like throwing temptation in a thief's way."
"I again repeat that their being deposited there, and also that such jewels were in existence, was an entire secret between myself and Mrs. Toynbee," she replied. "Had it not been so, I should have removed them to a safer place. If you will listen a moment, Mr. Wade, I will tell you how it all came about, and how the jewels were found."
He listened as she related the facts: how she had caused this long-unopened old carved bureau to be brought downstairs to her morning-room, that she might search it for certain papers relating to the estate, which she fancied might be in existence. She failed to find the papers; but, to her intense surprise, she found, in a secret drawer, this large quantity of jewels. Mrs. Toynbee was present, and she had warned her that nothing must be said to the servants. Mrs. Toynbee fully agreed with her. After examining the jewels, they were replaced in their hiding-place, until she could see Mr. Daventry, and talk the affair over with him.
"It is impossible," concluded Miss Winter, looking at the inspector, "that the facts can have become known."
Mr. Wade, somewhat mystified, made no reply for a moment or two.
"But you cannot fail to see, madam," he urged, "that the fact of your having found the jewels must have leaked out somehow, as well as a knowledge of the place where they were placed. This burglary was no mere happy-go-lucky affair; it was evidently premeditated--carefully planned beforehand."
"It certainly does seem like it," admitted Ella. "But I assure you I cannot understand it. Mrs. Toynbee----"
"I think I had better see Mrs. Toynbee."
Mrs. Toynbee was called in, and came, full of nervous trepidation. She had been sitting upon pins and needles, as old Dorothy Stone would have expressed it, ever since Mr. Wade had been shut in with Miss Winter. The inspector noted her aspect, and took the bull by the horns. He did not say to her: "Madam, have you mentioned the fact to any one that such jewels were found?" He said, "To whom did you mention it?"
Her colour went and came; her heart was beating; her trembling fingers could not hold the needle--for she had some wool-work in her hands.
"I am afraid that I have been very thoughtless and foolish," she began, with a quaver of the voice. "Of course, I quite understood that no mention of the jewels was to be made in presence of any of the domestics, but it never struck me that the prohibition was intended to be a general one. You may remember, my dear Miss Winter, that I went to The Lilacs, in your place, on Thursday afternoon, to the tea-party. And--and, somehow--we ladies were all talking together; one topic led to another--and----"
Mrs. Toynbee broke down, from sheer nervousness.
"And you told of the finding of the jewels, and where they were deposited," spoke up the inspector.
"It was led up to," she said, excusing her self in the best way she could, and hardly able to keep from tears. "The ladies had been saying to me that I must find a country life very much lacking in excitement, after the metropolis; to which I replied that we were not always destitute of excitement, even in the country; and I--I then did speak of the jewels. But who was to imagine," she added, plucking up a little spirit, "that even the smallest danger could exist in mentioning it among ladies? They are all well-known; as trustworthy as we are."
"Do I gather, madam, that only ladies were present?" said the inspector. "No gentlemen?"
"It was a meeting for ladies only," replied Mrs. Toynbee. "One gentleman came in towards the last--Mr. Philip Cleeve. He came to fetch his mother. I remember he made a remark to the effect that the bureau was not a very safe place to leave the jewels in."
"A very sensible remark to make, under the circumstances," returned the inspector, drily. "Madam, can you give me the names of the ladies who were present?"
"Oh yes," replied Mrs. Toynbee; "we were not many--eight or ten, or so." And she succeeded in remembering all the names.
They were all well-known gentlewomen--all trustworthy, as the inspector had reason to know and believe.
"One of them must have mentioned it abroad, in the hearing of some dangerous ears," he said to himself. "Madam," he added, aloud, to Miss Winter, "I will not detain you further at present; but it may be necessary to see you again."
"Whenever you will, Mr. Wade," she sighed. "It is a dreadful thing altogether--and very mysterious. It seems to me that we have had nothing but painful mysteries for some time now at Heron Dyke."
The chief-constable glanced rather keenly at Miss Winter, in answer to this, and took his leave. As he closed the drawing-room door Mrs. Toynbee's suppressed tears burst forth.
"I am heartbroken, my dear," she sobbed--and, in truth, she did seem bitterly repentant: "perfectly heartbroken to think that any thoughtless remarks of mine should have conduced in any way to this terrible catastrophe. I never thought that anything I might say in a moment of confidence----"
"I should not have thought there was much danger in it myself," interrupted Miss Winter, kindly. "Do not distress yourself. They must have talked of it again, you see; and so it must have got about, and come to the knowledge of improper people."
"Oh dear!" wailed Mrs. Toynbee. "Yes, that is how it must have been. I wish I had known nothing about the jewels!"
Leaving her to her repentant sorrow, Ella went to see after poor Mrs. Stone.
Dorothy--she knew the worst now--was in her own sitting-room, leaning back in an easy-chair before a good fire, attired in her Sunday gown and cap--a soft black twill, trimmed handsomely with crape; a cap of white net and black gauze ribbon--for they were yet in deep mourning for the Squire. Perhaps some vague idea of its being a sort of holiday for the old woman would do no work that day--had induced her to put these best things on.
At Dorothy's age the outward signs of great emotions last but for a little while. Tears may come, but they do not flow so plentifully as in youth: the springs are deeper down, and more difficult to reach, and when found are sometimes almost dry. As age creeps on, and one or other of our loved ones drops silently from our side, it seems but such a little time till we hope to see them again, the period of separation is so short, as they are we ourselves shall so soon be, that we cannot mourn their loss with that intensity which we should have felt in youth, when the plains before us stretched to a limitless horizon, and our heartstrings were responsive to the slightest touch.
The young mistress sat down beside Dorothy, and took one of the old woman's withered hands between her own. That soft, warm, caressing touch unsealed again the fountains of the aged heart. With her other hand she lifted a corner of her apron to her eyes. For a minute or two neither of them spoke.
"What a handsome, brave lad he was, Miss Ella!" cried Dorothy at length. "Fit to be a lord's son, any day; and with as bold and masterful a spirit as any gentleman need wish to have: and now to think of him lying there, white and cold and dumb--he that had a laugh and a ready word for everybody. Alack! alack! if I could but be lying there instead of him!"
"My poor Dorothy! I do indeed feel for you."
"I knew when I saw the headless horses and the black coach that night in the park that there would be a death among us before long," she continued; "but I little thought my own bright boy would be the one to go. Ah! we never know; we never know. Though he was ill that night with his throat; and that might have whispered to me that the apparition was for him."
"Dorothy, do not dwell upon such things."
"Miss Ella, trust an old woman who has had a vast experience of life. Such signs and tokens are not sent for nothing, though some folks may laugh at you for heeding them. They are warnings from another world," added the old woman solemnly, "and some day it may be made plain to us why they are sent."
An inquest was held; some evidence was taken; and then it was adjourned for a week that the police might have time to make further investigations. They could not, as yet, learn that one suspicious person had known of the jewels.
Of all Miss Winter's friends, the one to make himself most busy was the Vicar of Nullington. An idle, easy-going man in general, Mr. Kettle could be aroused in a case like this: all his sympathies were with Miss Winter, and his curiosity was on the alert.
"After all," he observed to that young lady, one day when he was sitting with her to discuss details, "after all, the most mysterious part of the affair is not the sudden appearance of Hubert Stone on the scene. I daresay he could readily account for that, poor fellow, if he were living; perhaps he got in by the mail-train on the Sunday night, which you know passes at nearly one o'clock in the morning, and did not care to knock people up. No, the mystery lies in how the information, as to the hiding-place of the jewels, reached the cognisance of the rogue who stole them. And really, as Chief-Constable Wade justly observed, it would seem next to a certainty that the thief must be someone who had an intimate knowledge of the premises of Heron Dyke. You must see that, my dear, for yourself."
"I fear I do," sighed Ella.
"So far as people's recollection serves, Mrs. Toynbee mentioned simply that the bureau had been removed to your morning-room: Miss Winter's morning-room. Now, how should a common thief know which was Miss Winter's morning-room? It is only since the Squire died and your return that you have made it such."
"True," assented Ella.
"And altogether, taking one thing with another, I feel inclined to think it might have been no common thief who took them."
Ella lifted her eyes quickly. "Have you any suspicions?--of any one in particular?"
"No, my dear; no," he answered slowly; and, she thought, dubiously. "We can but wait. Perhaps Wade may ferret out more particulars."
But, on the same evening, when the Vicar was at home, safe within the four walls of his study, he dropped a word or two that nearly scared his daughter out of her senses. Somehow he had caught up a doubt in his own mind of Philip Cleeve.
"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Maria, in an accent of indignant horror.
"I don't say it was he, Maria; I should be very sorry to do that, or to breathe a syllable of this doubt to any one but you. Still, I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that things with regard to Philip do look somewhat suspicious--and Dr. Downes has long thought the same."
"Papa, papa!" she repeated.
"See here, child. In all the mysterious robberies that have taken place, and puzzled us for the past eighteen months, Philip has been present, beginning with Mrs. Carlyon's jewels. He was at her house the evening they were stolen; he was with Downes when he lost his snuff-box--he was with me when my purse disappeared. And, egad, if you come to that," added the Vicar, speaking rather unguardedly in his heat of recollection, "he was with Lennox and Freddy Bootle in London the night they lost things--the one his watch, the other his money."
"This is dreadful," gasped Maria. "Papa, it is not true; it cannot be. I would answer for Philip with my life."
"Very unwise of you, my dear. I have not finished. When that ridiculous woman up yonder"--pointing his finger in the direction of Heron Dyke--"blurted out the story of the jewels at Mrs. Ducie's, and where they were deposited, Philip Cleeve heard her; he was the only man present. I don't accuse him, I say, Maria, but I cannot get these truths out of my mind."
And, for answer, Maria burst into a flood of distressed tears.
The funeral of Hubert Stone took place, and was attended by half the population of Nullington. Old Aaron was chief mourner. On the coffin lay a wreath of exquisite flowers, placed there, before it left the Hall, by the hands of one by whom the past had been forgiven.
A day or two later the jury met again. Nothing fresh had been discovered. The police found out that Hubert Stone had come by train from London on the Saturday; he had stayed at a small inn a mile or two away until the Sunday evening, and had then gone out. From that hour he had never been seen alive, so far as could be traced.
The verdict returned was wilful murder against some person or persons unknown. Rewards were offered for any discovery; one by Miss Winter, another by Government.
Dr. Spreckley had taken an opportunity of giving to Miss Winter the likeness he had taken from Hubert's locket. "So foolish of the young man," he lightly remarked: "but I fancy he had as great a reverence for you, his mistress, as he had for the Squire."
"Yes," said Ella. "Thank you. Thank you very much, dear Dr. Spreckley," she earnestly added. And she put the bit of card-board in the fire there and then.
Ella had some intimate friends living close to Norwich: the Cursitors. Old Colonel Cursitor, he was hale and hearty yet, and the Squire had been companions in early life. Some of them came over and insisted upon carrying Ella back with them for a week. And she was glad to yield; to get away. Mrs. Toynbee took the opportunity to get away also, and went to stay with her sister in London.
This need not have been mentioned, but for a little matter that occurred during their absence. The servant girl, Betsy Tucker, was taken ill. Her symptoms were those of fever, and old Aaron protested that she should be got out of the house. "A pretty thing if the Hall is to be filled with typhus and what not!" he growled--for Hubert's death did not seem to have sweetened his temper. "A nice sort of wind-up that would be!"
"Let her come to me," cried Mrs. Keen, briskly, in whose hearing this was said; the landlady having gone to the Hall to see the girl. "I am not afraid it's going to be any thing infectious; I don't think it is. I knew her mother, you may remember, Mr. Stone."
Aaron closed with the offer at once. And the first news that greeted the mistress of Heron Dyke, returning from her week's visit to the pleasant city of Norwich, was that Betsy Tucker was ill of fever; and that she had been sent out of the house by Aaron, to get well, or die, at the "Leaning Gate."
Miss Winter showed herself to be very angry at the removal. But the thing was done.
CHAPTER II.
WHAT PRISCILLA PEYTON HAD TO TELL
In a cheerful room at Heron Dyke, with the morning sun shining upon it, there sat two young women, busily plying their needles: Miss Winter's maid, AdÈle, and a dressmaker, one Priscilla Peyton. Priscilla was a homely, pleasant-featured person, between thirty and forty, who had often been employed at the Hall. They were making a morning gown for the Hall's mistress.
"What am I to do?" suddenly cried Priscilla. "It is impossible to get on without cord. I thought you would be sure to have some up here, or I'd have brought it with me."
"We generally do have it--plenty of it, but it was all used up last week, Miss Peyton," replied AdÈle; a steady, dark young woman, who spoke English and French equally well.
Miss Winter came into the room at this juncture, and the difficulty was revealed to her. She said AdÈle had better go to the nearest shop, one at this end of Nullington, and buy some cord.
But to this order the dressmaker looked as if she would like to demur. "What is it, Priscilla?" asked Miss Winter. "Can you not spare her?"
"Well, ma'am, the truth is, I shall be waiting for that frilling she is hemming."
"Oh, I will finish that for you, Priscilla," readily replied the young lady, who had a natural aptitude and liking for work.
She took a seat by the window; and AdÈle departed in search of what was required. Hemming quickly at the strip of cambric, Ella talked the while to Priscilla Peyton, whom she had known--and esteemed--for years.
"It is some time since you were at work here, is it not, Priscilla?" she remarked.
"Well, it is, ma'am. With so many more maids in the house, Mrs. Stone gets done for her what I used to come to do. The last time I was here at work was when you were abroad, Miss Ella, and the poor Squire was lying ill."
"Did you see him?"
"Oh no, ma'am: oh no. Nobody used to see him then, save the doctor, and that. I was here the best part of a week, mending gowns for Mrs. Stone, and making her a new one. It was only about a fortnight before the Squire died."
Ella sighed. Priscilla Peyton, bending over her work, spoke again.
"I used to think, sitting in Mrs. Stone's parlour, how much I should like to see him once again; yes, I did, ma'am. I said so one day to Eliza; and she answered me that I might just as well wish to see the inside of the moon--that for months and months nobody had been admitted to see the Squire but those that had the pass-keys."
Ella, looking up from her work, stared at the neat brown hair and the neat white cap of the young woman, bending over hers, as if she were asking some solution to the words.
"Pass-keys?" she repeated. "What were they?"
"Keys that would open the green baize doors which the Squire had put up to shut out his rooms from the rest of the house, and which were always kept locked night and day, ma'am," replied Priscilla.
"And who kept these pass-keys?"
"There were four of them, ma'am," Priscilla said, "and four people had them, one each. Aaron Stone and poor Mr. Hubert, who is just gone; Dr. Jago had one, and the nurse."
Ella paused. "Of what nurse do you speak? My uncle never had a nurse."
"Indeed he had, Miss Ella. It was a Mrs. Dexter: sent for from London by Dr. Jago."
A nurse from London! This was the first time Miss Winter had heard of the existence of such a person at the Hall. The revelation was not palatable to her.
"How long was this Mrs. Dexter at the Hall--do you know, Priscilla?"
"It was a good while, ma'am; though I can't say exactly. I think she was here before Christmas--I am next to sure of it. Why yes--I remember now," quickly added the young woman; "she came in November. I was up here one wet November day; and while I was drying my petticoats at the kitchen fire, Phemie whispered to me that she thought the master must be worse, for they had got a London nurse in the house."
"Did this nurse remain with my uncle till the last?"
"She did, ma'am. She left the day after his death, in May."
Miss Winter said no more; she was thinking. Why was the presence of this nurse in the house kept from her?--for kept it assuredly had been. Why and wherefore had the woman's name never been mentioned to her, or the fact of her having been so long at the Hall? Her uncle had not spoken of her in his letters, or Hubert Stone in his notes.
"I saw Mrs. Dexter take her departure," resumed Priscilla, as a bit of gossip. "A lovely May morning it was, and I had gone to the station to see my little nephew off by the London train. Mrs. Dexter drove up in a fly, with a trunk and a little black bag that she carried in her hand, and I saw her get into the train. It was but the day after the Squire died; the bells were tolling for him."
And of course but two or three days before Miss Winter's return. And yet no one inmate of the Hall had informed her that this nurse had been there! It was altogether very strange.
"Did you say, Priscilla, that people at the last were not admitted to see my uncle, save those who had the pass-keys?"
"Ma'am, not for months and months. Eliza told me she did not believe a soul had been allowed to go in to see him since the past November. No matter who came--the Reverend Mr. Kettle, or any other of the Squire's old friends, they were never let go in."
"I wonder why?" involuntarily exclaimed Miss Winter.
"That I couldn't say, ma'am. Nobody could, I expect, save Dr. Jago. It must have been frightfully lonely for him, poor sick gentleman! He was never seen at all, or his footsteps heard, or the sound of his voice, Eliza said. To the girl it seemed just as though he were shut up in a living tomb."
Miss Winter asked no more questions. That something, and of set purpose, had been hidden from her; some drama enacted within those walls of which it was intended that she should know nothing, she fully believed. And there came rushing into her mind Hubert Stone's words--that if the truth were known she was no more the owner of Heron Dyke than he was. Again and again she asked herself what the truth was, and how it could be brought to light.
Ella carried her trouble to Mr. Kettle, her uncle's friend of many years. She sat with him in his study, Maria being present. She revealed to him her doubts; she hinted at Hubert's strange assertion on the wreck; she repeated what Priscilla Peyton had said, and then she appealed to him to advise her what she ought to do next.
The Vicar was not remarkable for penetration or sagacity, but he was a kindly, well-disposed man where his own ease and comfort were not in question; and if his words were sometimes weak and ineffective, he could, when required, put on a very wise and solemn air, which in itself was a comfort to those who sought his advice. But he really did not see what advice he could give now.
"I was, myself," he said, "more surprised and hurt than I can tell you that for some months before my old friend's death I was denied all access to him--I, who had been in the habit of calling at the Hall at least once a fortnight, ay, and oftener, for the last twenty years. When I found myself rebuffed one time after another, I could hardly believe that it was the Squire's own personal wish that I should not see him, although they assured me it was so. Old Aaron would usher me into a room with as much politeness as he was in the habit of showing to anybody, and would take in my message. Back he would come; or else Dr. Jago, or that sly-looking, smooth-tongued nurse, or perhaps Hubert Stone. But, no matter who came, each had the same tale to tell. The Squire had had a worse night than usual, or he was asleep, or he was too weak to-day to see anyone; whatever the excuse might be, I was never allowed to see him. It was the source of very considerable pain to me at the time, and I expressed myself rather strongly about it in my letters to Maria."
"There must have been something in all this--don't you think so, sir?" returned Ella. "Something to conceal."
"It seems like it, my dear; it used to seem like it to me. But I do not see what it could be; and I am sure I cannot imagine anything that could tend to peril your inheritance."
"Nor I," said Ella, "I wish I could. I mean I wish I could see any solution by which these doubts could be set at rest. The will was quite in order; Mr. Daventry tells me so----"
"Having been drawn up by Mr. Daventry, you may be sure of that, my dear," interrupted the Vicar.
"The only one thing, he says, that could possibly render it invalid, is my uncle having died before his birthday," continued Ella.
"And we know he did not die before it. He lived nearly a month after it."
"I--suppose--he--did live?" spoke Ella, with much hesitation.
"Did live!" echoed the Vicar, in surprise. "Why of course he did. People saw him and spoke with him. Don't you know that the other Mr. Denison's lawyer and his clerk came to the Hall two or three days subsequently to the Squire's birthday, and had an interview with him?--saw him; conversed with him. How could they have done that had he not been living? The Squire went into one of his passions, it was said, dashed his beef-tea, cup and all, into the fire, and abused the lawyer to his face."
Ella could not help a smile.
"Yes," she said, "I was told of that."
"Then, what else is there to fear? For anyone to come to you and say that if certain facts were known to the world you would not be mistress of Heron Dyke, seems to me sheer nonsense--if not malice. Were I in your place, my dear Miss Winter, I should certainly trouble myself no further in the matter."
Ella shook her head.
"All these arguments seem so cogent, so true--and yet I cannot feel satisfied. I am at a loss to know what more to do."
"Do nothing," said the Vicar, decisively. "I think you attach an exaggerated importance to the words. Some designing rascal it must have been who spoke them--wanting to swindle money out of you. Give him into custody should he apply again."
Remembering how impossible it was that he could apply again, a sad shade passed over Ella's countenance. The Vicar saw it: and of course mistook it. He knitted his brow.
"Take my advice, my dear Miss Winter, and rest satisfied," he said. "Do not try to create a mystery where none exists, save in your own imagination."
There was no more to be said. The Vicar's reasoning and advice had been much like Mr. Daventry's. Ella wished she could feel as secure as they felt.
She and Maria went out together. They were going to the Leaning Gate. As it was now decided that the fever of Betsy Tucker was not an infectious one, and as the girl was said to be getting weaker, Miss Winter considered it was her duty to go to see her. Maria had been more than once.
"What do you think, Maria, of the advice your father gave me--to let this doubt as to my inheritance rest, and be satisfied?" questioned Ella, as they walked along. "Oh that I could see my way to a little more light!"
"Light does not always come when we ask for it, or when we fancy that we need it most," answered Maria, "and yet it generally comes at the time that is best for us. You must hope that it will do so in the present case: that is, if you still feel there is something hidden that you ought to know."
"That is just the feeling which I cannot get rid of. Were you in my place, Maria, what would you do?"
"I hardly know," answered Maria, slowly. "It seems to me that you are bound to leave no stone unturned in your efforts to discover the truth, and this none the less, perhaps indeed rather the more, that the truth, when revealed, may prove disastrous to you from a worldly point of view."
"I can only wait for more light," said Ella, with a sigh. "The difficulty is, how to get the light--where to look for it."
"I perceive that," said Maria. "You can but wait and watch. Here we are!--and there's poor Mrs. Keen."
Betsy Tucker was in bed, the victim of a distressing kind of low fever. Dr. Spreckley hoped to bring her through it, but he was not sanguine. After turning and tossing for hours incessantly, Mrs. Keen informed them she had now sunk into a troubled sleep. They stood by the bed in silence, looking at the sick girl's crimson-fevered cheeks.
"She is light-headed at times," whispered the landlady, "fancying herself back at the Hall. She starts up in bed, ma'am"--turning to Miss Winter--"crying out, 'Hush! there are the footsteps in the corridor again! And now,' she'll go on, 'they are trying the door. See! see! the handle moves!' and with that, ma'am, she sinks back on the pillow and buries her head under the clothes. For my part," concluded Mrs. Keen, "I cannot help thinking it was that night's fright which has brought on the fever."
"To what do you allude?" asked Miss Winter. "Has she been frightened?"
"Why yes, ma'am. But I thought you knew of it, or I'd not have spoken. It was talked of a good deal at the Hall. She was badly frightened."
"In what way?"
"It was the night of the storm a few weeks ago," replied the landlady, vexed to have alluded to this before Miss Winter, as it seemed she did not know of it. "Betsy could not get to sleep for the noise; and between the gusts of wind, when all was momentarily still, she heard footsteps walking about the corridor outside her bedroom door. After a time she struck a light, and then, so she says, she distinctly saw the handle of her room door turn this way and that, as though somebody was trying to get in; but she had locked it on going to bed. She came down here to tell me of it the next day, and I tried to persuade her that it was nothing more than her own idle fancies that had frightened her, till at last she got quite out of temper with me. It must have taken great hold of her mind, I'm afraid, by the way she talks of it in her wanderings now."
"I never heard anything of this," remarked Miss Winter. "But I cannot understand why Betsy need have been so much frightened. She might have guessed that the footsteps were but those of one or other of the maids, unable to sleep for the storm. And what more natural than that they should turn the handle of her door, intending to keep Betsy company?"
"Yes, ma'am," assented Mrs. Keen, looking down.
"If I were to allow myself to be frightened by all the unaccountable noises I hear in the night at the Hall, especially when the wind is high, I should never care to sleep there again," continued Miss Winter. "I have no doubt that all old houses are alike in that respect, especially when many of the rooms are empty."
"Where is Susan?" interposed Maria, breaking the pause of silence.
"She is gone out to do some errands, Miss Maria. Susan is a famous help to me in nursing Betsy."
"Susan was always very gentle and patient," remarked Ella.
"And always will be, I hope, ma'am," responded Mrs. Keen. "She is a girl that has very little to say for herself, as you know, young ladies. On most points she seems as sensible as other people are, but now and then her mind seems to go vacant, just as if it couldn't quite grasp what you are telling her; and her memory is not always to be trusted. But she's a dear good girl in helping me in the house; I don't know what I should do without her."
"Does her sister's disappearance seem to prey upon her mind as much as it used to do?" and Miss Winter unconsciously lowered her voice as she put the question.
"I don't believe it is ever out of her thoughts," answered the landlady. "I know quite well what Susan is thinking about when she sits perfectly still, as she will sometimes do for half-an-hour together, staring straight before her, but without seeing anything. Katherine's name is never mentioned in her presence now. I think it best," continued Mrs. Keen, her eyes filling with tears: "though Heaven knows, my poor lost darling is rarely out of my thoughts."
"You will of course see that Betsy Tucker wants for nothing, Mrs. Keen," said Miss Winter, as the landlady attended the young ladies to the door. "I was very much vexed, as I have already told you, that she should have been sent away from the Hall: she should not have been had I been at home. Everything requisite for her shall be sent to her from my house, and one of the maids shall come this evening to watch by her for the night. We must not have you laid up."
"Oh, ma'am, please don't think of me. I am strong, and used to work. All my anxiety is lest we should not bring her through."
"Dr. Spreckley assures me that he has still good hopes of her. And he is, you know, skilful and attentive."
Ella glanced at the little garden as they left the door. That which had looked so bright and pleasant in the summer had now little to show in the faint November sunshine but bare branches, empty beds, and footpaths strewed with withered leaves.
"I think Mrs. Keen must be mistaken in fancying Betsy Tucker's illness has arisen from the fright she got the night of the storm," observed Miss Winter, after they had walked some little time in silence. "It is incredible that the mere hearing of footsteps in the corridor, and seeing her door tried, should have terrified her to any extent. Her own sense ought to have told her that what she heard was merely the footsteps of some of the other maids who could not rest on account of the storm."
"The girl was very much frightened at the time, I believe," said Miss Kettle; "though there can be little doubt the impression would have worn off but for something which she unfortunately heard a day or two later. Two of the others were conversing about it, not knowing that she was within hearing; they said to one another that it must have been the ghost walking at night--the ghost of Katherine Keen."
Miss Winter's brow knit angrily. "Who were those servants?"
"Eliza and Phemie. They had carefully kept it from the girl; and her hearing it was quite an accident. Betsy, it appears, believes in ghosts; and she confessed to Mrs. Keen she had never had one proper night's rest since, from fright."
"I suppose Mrs. Keen told you this, Maria?"
"Yes. The first time I went to see Betsy."
Miss Winter sighed. "I do not see what help there is for it. The whole affair remains as unaccountable as ever it was."
"Unaccountable, indeed," replied Maria, gravely. "At times when speaking of it, or hearing it spoken of, I turn shivery, as if I believed in the ghost myself. Here comes Susan."
The young girl, pleasant and placid-looking, was advancing with a basket of marketings. They stopped to speak to her. Miss Winter told her she was going to send one of the maids down to sit up with Betsy, and was passing onwards, when the anxious, appealing look in the girl's wan face arrested her.
"Did you wish to ask anything, Susan?"
"Oh, ma'am, if I might!--if I might!"
"Certainly you may. What is it?"
"I want to find out where they took Katherine to," spoke the girl in an urgent whisper. "Perhaps you know, ma'am; you are the mistress; and whether she is alive or dead."
"My poor Susan, I know no more about it than you do. I wish I did."
Susan clasped her hands, "I wonder how much longer we shall have to wait?"
"It may be, Susan, that we shall never know. It may be intended that we shall not know."
Susan shook her head. "I think it will all be known by-and-by, ma'am. Perhaps I shall be the one to find it out. I often wake up in the night and hear Katherine calling to me, only I can't tell where the voice comes from. I hear it oftenest in the larch plantation at the back of the Hall when the moon is at the full. But when I try to follow her voice I get bewildered with the strange fancies that seem to be dancing and whirling in my head; and sometimes I hear a laugh close behind me, and then I hurry off home and go to bed, and repeat hymns one after another till I get to sleep."
"There, run home now, Susan: your mother is waiting for you," interposed Miss Kettle with authority--for it was always best to cut off promptly these dreamy visions of Susan.
Ever obedient, Susan hastened towards the Leaning Gate, the far-away, spiritual expression dying out of her eyes. The others walked on, Maria with her gaze on the ground.
"Look opposite, Maria. There is some one you know."
Maria looked across the road, and saw Philip Cleeve, who appeared to be just as much absorbed as they were, his head bent in deep thought. He looked like Philip grown twenty years older--Philip without his elastic tread, his quick walk, his cheerful smile and greeting for everyone whom he knew. Not until he had nearly passed did he perceive Miss Winter and Maria. Happening to raise his eyes, he started, hesitated, flushed to the roots of his hair, lifted his hat, and hurried on.
Maria, too, flushed painfully, and a grieved look came into her eyes as she gravely acknowledged Philip's salutation, and walked on by Miss Winter's side.
"You and Philip have not quarrelled I hope, Maria?"
"Quarrelled--no," answered Maria with a sigh. "But he does not come to the Vicarage now; papa has forbidden it."
"He looks changed somehow."
"So I think. He spends, I believe, too much time in the billiard-room, and report talks of high play at The Lilacs with Lord Camberley and others. All these things distress me greatly."
"Naturally--if you feel a special interest in him," remarked Ella.
Again Maria's colour deepened.
"Just before I went to Leamington he asked me to be his wife."
"Did you refuse him?"
"For the time being."
"And you have not yet made up your mind to accept him?"
"No. How can I? I could never make up my mind unless papa's will went with it."
"Perhaps Philip is vexed--disheartened: and so flies to these foolish courses?"
"I don't know," sighed Maria. "It would show great weakness of mind, would it not?"
"People in love are said to be not always accountable for their actions. Poor Philip! But you love him still?"
"I never quite knew till lately what he is to me," answered Maria, in a low voice. "I have tried not to care for him, but----"
"You find that you, too, are a little weak-minded?"
"I suppose so. But he never passed me in the street before without speaking."
CHAPTER III.
MALACHITE AND GOLD
Of all days in the week, Saturday was the one most longed for by Ella Winter. The reason was that it always--or nearly always, for now and then there was a breakdown or a delay somewhere--brought her a letter from Edward Conroy. These letters were her greatest comfort in her perplexities and troubles. She read them and re-read them till she knew all their sweetest passages by heart. How she longed for his return that she might tell him everything!--for in truth she sometimes felt that the burden laid upon her was almost more than she could bear without help. Were he but here to share it with her! Absence had enabled her to read her heart in all its entirety, had endeared his image to her more day by day. Mr. Conroy was not expected in England until spring; but towards the end of November there came a letter, the contents of which filled his mistress with unexpected delight. Conroy's mission in Spain was nearly at an end, and he might be expected home in three or four weeks--in time, it might be, to eat his Christmas dinner. He did not tell her that latterly her letters had filled him with so much uneasiness that he had requested his employers to relieve him of his duties abroad, or that he had wisely made up his mind to ascertain for himself, and as quickly as possible, the exact state of affairs at Heron Dyke.
Little by little the popular excitement in connection with the murder and robbery at Heron Dyke began to subside, especially as all the efforts of the police resulted in no fresh discoveries. People had talked and wondered till there was nothing left to talk and wonder about. Fresh topics and other interests began to claim their attention. The newspapers had ceased to comment on the case, and there seemed every probability of its adding one more to the long list of undiscovered crimes.
One day Mrs. Toynbee, who had been shopping in the town, brought home a piece of news. Some one had told her that Dr. Jago was about to leave Nullington, the reason for his departure being that he had bought a more lucrative practice elsewhere. This set Ella thinking. Would it not be well, she asked herself, to see this man before he went away, and try whether she could not elicit from him something of that which she wanted to know? He had attended her uncle to the last; he must be acquainted with all that took place inside Heron Dyke during the time she was away; if any fraud had been at work it could hardly have been kept a secret from him. She disliked Dr. Jago, but it seemed to her that she ought not to let him go away without seeking an interview with him.
Next morning she finally made up her mind; so the pony-chaise was ordered round, and she was driven into Nullington. Calling at the Vicarage on her way, she took Miss Kettle into her confidence.
"Am I doing right, Maria, think you?"
"Yes, I think you are."
"Then you must accompany me. You have no objection?"
"Not the least in the world."
Dr. Jago was at home; and the young ladies, leaving the carriage with the groom, were shown into his consulting-room. Turning round from a case he was packing, the doctor changed colour, as if from annoyance, when he saw his visitors. The transitory expression passed, however; he greeted them civilly, apologising for the disorder of the place, and invited them to sit.
"I hear that you are about to quit Nullington, Dr. Jago," began Miss Winter, as she took the chair he placed.
"True, madam," he replied. "I have purchased a more lucrative practice in London. What can I have the honour of doing for you?"
"I have called to ask you a few questions, Dr. Jago. I hope you will be able to answer them."
The Doctor bowed.
"I was abroad, as you are aware, at the time my uncle died," she began; "but you saw him, I believe, in your medical capacity, up to the day of his death?"
"Yes," he replied. "I saw Mr. Denison daily; and I was with him when he died."
"The end, when it did come, was very sudden."
"Both sudden and unexpected," returned the Doctor. "I was utterly taken by surprise. I knew, of course, that Mr. Denison's disorder could have but one termination, but I had no thought that the end was so near. The heart suddenly failed in its action, and--and all was over. Only a few hours before, when I was with him, I had detected no cause for fear."
"You are aware that previously to last Christmas--in October I think it was--Dr. Spreckley, who had attended my uncle for twenty years, and who ought to have known his constitution if it were possible for anyone to know it, gave it as his decided opinion that Mr. Denison could not live far into the new year--if so long as that."
"Mr. Denison himself informed me of that opinion."
"And yet your skill prolonged his life until nearly the end of May?"
Dr. Jago bowed again, but said nothing.
"Then you, although a much younger practitioner than Dr. Spreckley, must have pursued a very much more efficient mode of treatment with your patient than that adopted by him?"
Dr. Jago shrugged his shoulders, leaned forward in his chair, and smiled faintly. "I have not the slightest wish in the world to disparage Dr. Spreckley," he said, "but it may be that he is a little old-fashioned in his ideas; it may be that he has hardly grown with the times. Medicine has made great strides during the last twenty years, and a middle-aged country practitioner, unless he be a great reader and a man of inquiring mind, would find many things taught, and many theories demonstrated in the schools of London and Paris, which were hardly as much as mooted when he was a young man."
All this seemed only fair and reasonable. In any case, Miss Winter was not prepared to refute it. She paused for a moment or two before she spoke again.
"It may or it may not have come to your notice, Dr. Jago," she said, eyeing him steadily as she spoke, "that there are certain reports flying about the neighbourhood--reports unpleasant to all concerned, but which you could no doubt put an end to if you chose to do so."
"Reports! About what, Miss Winter?" he asked quickly.
Ella paused: it seemed somewhat difficult to frame words for what she wanted to say.
"I hardly know how to put it," she said with a frank smile. "People have in some way picked up a notion that there was some deceit or fraud at work in connection with my uncle's death."
"Oh, have they?" was all the answer the Doctor made, speaking carelessly.
"It is said that for some months before Mr. Denison died he was immured away from everyone except three or four people; that he was kept under lock and key; that all his old friends were denied access to him. Also, that at the very time my letters from home informed me he was growing stronger day by day and week by week, a strange woman, some London nurse, was in the house, in regular attendance on him. People naturally ask why there should have been all this mystery unless there was something to hide. They even go so far as to hint that the master of Heron Dyke did not live to see his seventieth birthday."
Dr. Jago, despite his evident efforts, could not avoid changing countenance as Miss Winter spoke. His face turned sallow; his eyes fell. Suddenly he rose and opened the door.
"Is that you, James?" he called out. But no one answered.
"I beg your pardon," he said, resuming his seat, and quite calm now, "I thought I heard my servant knock. About this business, Miss Winter. If one were to take heed of all the idle tales set afloat by ignorant and foolish people, one would have little else to do. The late Mr. Denison was an eccentric man in many ways, as you yourself must be well aware. He was a man of strong individuality and of crotchety temper; a man who did very few things in quite the same way as ordinary people do them. There were, besides, certain peculiar features in connection with the disposition of his property, which were well known in the neighbourhood, and which acted as a magnet to the curiosity of the world. These points being granted, we have at once a foundation for the most ridiculous fancies and the most exaggerated gossip; but if we quietly set ourselves to sift these rumours, what do we find?"
Ella did not speak.
"If you will allow me, Miss Winter, I will take the case as stated in your own words. You say that for some months before Mr. Denison died he was immured away from everyone except three or four people, and kept, as it were, under lock and key. Granted; but it was done entirely at his own request. You perhaps remember something of that queer crotchet he had in his head that the precincts of the Hall, and even the Hall itself, were haunted by spies set on to watch him by certain people--his relatives, I believe, but of that I know little. This notion seemed to take fuller hold of him as his birthday drew nearer. He insisted on having his rooms shut in from the rest of the house; he decreed that only a very few individuals, those whom he could implicitly trust, should have access to him. None of the ordinary servants were to go near him; for aught he knew, he would declare, they might be spies. It was an hallucination I combated as far as I was able; but contradiction, especially on this point, only irritated him. More than once it brought on one of his fits of passion, and so undid, or partially undid, the good I was striving to do him in other ways."
This was quite feasible, probably true, and Miss Winter bowed her head in acquiescence. The Doctor resumed.
"As regards Mr. Denison's old friends being denied access to him, I must take on myself a certain measure of blame for what may seem a somewhat arbitrary proceeding. From the first I gave Mr. Denison to understand that if he adopted my mode of treatment, perfect quiet and seclusion were essential to its success, and he agreed with me without the slightest demur. But I did not at first deny him the sight of friends: it was only after the visits of some of them, when I saw how much it excited him, that I was obliged to do so. I begged him to allow his rooms to be closed to all visitors: had he admitted one he must have admitted others: I showed him how essential it was that he should be kept strictly, perfectly quiet; and he agreed. He would agree to anything, he said, if I could only succeed in keeping him alive over his seventieth birthday; and I certainly did succeed in doing that."
"Did he require the services of a nurse?"
"Undoubtedly."
"And was it necessary that she should be a stranger?"
"In my opinion he ought to have been supplied with a properly trained nurse long before I sent for one. An old woman, had in haphazard from the neighbourhood, would have been useless. No one, except we medical men and those invalids who have tried them, know how invaluable is a really qualified nurse in a sick-room."
"I believe that," said Ella, hastily. "But--why was it that the fact of this nurse having been at Heron Dyke was never mentioned to me? Neither in the letters I received from home, nor when I returned to it, close upon the departure of the nurse, was she as much as named to me."
Dr. Jago shook his head.
"I cannot enlighten you there," he answered. "I did not keep the fact from you. I neither wrote you letters nor saw you on your return. There could be no reason whatever, so far as I know, why you should not have been privy to it. What reason could there be? Possibly it may have been one of old Aaron's crotchets--for he had as many as his master--that you should not be told."
Possibly it had been: but Miss Winter still felt in a fog, plausible though all this was.
"Can you assure me, Dr. Jago, that the seeing one or two of his oldest friends would have been absolutely detrimental to my uncle? Say--for instance--the Vicar."
"Papa thought it very strange: he thinks it so still, that he was always denied admittance," interposed Maria, speaking for the first time. And the Doctor turned sharply to her with a slight frown, as though he had forgotten her presence.
"I cannot say it would have been fatally detrimental, but it might have been," he observed, in answer to Miss Winter. "He himself knew the danger of excitement, and he was as anxious as I was to guard against the possibility of it. With regard to the other report you have mentioned, Miss Winter--that Mr. Denison did not live over his seventieth birthday--it is, upon my word, too ridiculous a one to refute. Mr. Denison was seen by many people later and talked with--talked with face to face. Webb the lawyer saw him, and spoke with him about his will. Those other lawyers, men from London, had an interview with him. He was seen by no end of people, musicians and others, on his birthday night. In the face of these facts, how is it possible--pardon me the remark, Miss Winter--for you to give ear for a moment to so absurd a rumour?"
She sat in thought, not answering.
"Where was the deception--where the fraud?" he resumed. "Indeed, where was the necessity for employing any? The great object of Mr. Denison's life was attained. He had outlived his seventieth birthday, and the property was his own to will away. Fraud! It is an assertion that brings with it its own contradiction."
There was nothing more to be said, nothing more, evidently, to be learned from Dr. Jago: and with civil adieux on both sides, the ladies took their departure, the Doctor attending them to the pony-carriage and handing them into it. At that moment Dr. Spreckley passed on horseback; he stared profoundly, as much as to say, "What on earth do you do at that man's house?"--and he almost forgot to salute them.
Miss Winter sat in deep thought as they drove away. That Dr. Jago had displayed nervousness, not to say agitation, when spoken to, she had not failed to observe; it had served to deepen her conviction that something was hidden which it was intended that she, of all people in the world, should never know. And although his assertions afterwards had seemed perfectly reasonable and convincing, she could not get rid of an uneasy suspicion that the Doctor, metaphorically speaking, had been throwing dust in her eyes. Any way, she was as far off as ever, if not farther, from arriving at the truth.
"What do you think of Dr. Jago?" she abruptly asked Maria.
"I don't like him at all, Ella. His words are plausible enough, indeed too plausible, but he seems thoroughly insincere. He is a man whom I should always mistrust. Have you questioned your servants?"
"Only old Aaron. And I can get nothing from him. His reasoning is in substance the same as Dr. Jago's. Maria, I feel sure that some trickery was at work."
"I should ask the maids, Phemie and Eliza, whether they noticed anything strange. They must have been about the house much during all the time."
"I think I will. It has crossed my mind to do so, but I feared they would only make my questions into a source of gossip."
Miss Kettle paused.
"Tell me exactly what it is that you suspect."
"I do not know what to suspect, except that I have a strong idea of some unfair play having been enacted. There lies my difficulty. But that it seems so impossible, and so dreadful an idea besides, I might say that my uncle did not live to see his birthday."
Maria shivered slightly.
"Oh, Ella!"
"It is the bent my fears are taking," whispered Miss Winter. "And in that case, you know, I am not the owner of Heron Dyke."
"No, no, Ella, I cannot believe that," said Maria. "Your fears are making you fanciful."
That same evening, Miss Winter had the two maids, Phemie and Eliza, before her, and questioned them of matters respecting the Squire's last illness. What they had to tell was little more than she had heard from Priscilla Peyton. For several weeks or months previously to the 24th April, no one in the house, except the four people who were admitted behind the green baize doors, ever saw or heard anything of the Squire.
"Had you reason to think he was very ill?" asked Miss Winter.
"Ma'am, we could tell nothing," replied Phemie. "He might have been dead and buried for weeks and weeks, for all we saw or heard of him. Eliza and I used to say how strange it was: often we listened, often and often, but never got to hear him; never so much as heard him cough. Before that Mrs. Dexter came in November, I sometimes took his sago or his beef-tea to him, but never afterwards."
"How was it that you never mentioned to me that Mrs. Dexter had been here? Was it accident?
"No, ma'am, it was Aaron;" and Miss Winter could not help smiling at the turn of the sentence. "The day before you were expected home, he ordered all in the house not to talk of Mrs. Dexter: he thought it might trouble you to hear that the Squire was so ill as to need a nurse from London."
"I suppose you never penetrated beyond the green baize doors, after they were put up?"
Phemie glanced at her fellow-servant.
"Eliza did, ma'am, once. You had better tell of it, Eliza."
"Tell me all, Eliza; do not be afraid," said Miss Winter kindly, for the girl looked confused.
"If you please, ma'am, I was in the passage one day, and saw both the doors on the jar," began Eliza. "I thought it no harm to go in a few steps; but I went cautiously, thinking Mr. Stone must be there. However, I saw nobody; and then I thought Mrs. Dexter must have left them open by mistake, before she went out. She had gone into Nullington in a hurry, saying she must see Dr. Jago."
"Well? Go on, Eliza."
"I ventured in a little farther, and a little farther," continued Eliza, speaking freely now. "Everything was silent. I said to myself that perhaps the Squire was asleep, and then I thought that I should like to see him once again. The first room I came to was Mrs. Dexter's; it had been made into a chamber for her. I turned the handle softly, pushed open the door, and peeped in. There was her bed in one corner, and by the fire-place was her little round table and an easy-chair. From this room I went to the next, which was Mr. Denison's sitting-room. The door opened without making any noise. I peeped in. There was no one there. The Squire's chair stood by the hearth, but it was empty, and there was no fire in the grate; it had the look of a room, ma'am, that had not been occupied for ever so long, and somehow I turned away with a chill at my heart. The next room was the Squire's bedroom. I don't think I should have ventured to open the door of this, but I found it open already. It was standing ajar. I listened for the sound of Mr. Denison's breathing, supposing that he was asleep, but I could hear nothing. Then I pushed the door a little further open and looked in. If you'll believe me, ma'am, he was not there. No one was there."
"He must have been somewhere in the room, Eliza."