Kitabı oku: «The Bond of Black», sayfa 6
With that he opened the glass doors of the cabinet, took forth the little casket and opened it.
Inside there was nothing but ashes. They were white ashes, similar to those I had found in my own rooms after Aline had departed!
“Good God!” I gasped, scarcely believing my own eyes. “What was in this box before?”
“When I opened it last week, sir, there was a rosary, such as the Roman Catholics use. It belonged to my master’s grandmother, he once told me. She was a Catholic.”
I turned the ashes over in my hand. Yes, there was no doubt whatever that it had been a rosary, for although the beads were consumed yet the tiny lengths of wire which had run through them remained unmelted, but had been blackened and twisted by the heat. There was one small lump of metal about the size of a bean, apparently silver, and that I judged to have been the little crucifix appended.
“It’s extraordinary!” I said, bewildered, when I reflected that this fact lent additional colour to my vague theory that Aline might have visited Roddy before his death. “It’s most extraordinary!”
“Yes, sir, it is,” Ash replied. “But what makes it the more peculiar is the fact that about a year ago I found a little pile of ashes very similar to these when I went one morning to dust the master’s dressing-table. He always kept a little pocket Testament there, but it had gone, and only the ashes remained in its place. I called him, and when he saw them he seemed very upset, and said – ‘Take them out of my sight, Ash! Take them away! It’s the Devil’s work!’”
“Yes,” I observed. “This is indeed the Devil’s work.”
The mystery surrounding the tragic affair increased hourly.
I examined the brass box, and upon the lid saw a strange discolouration. It was the mark of a finger – perhaps the mark of that mysterious hand, the touch of which had the potency to consume the object with which it came in contact. I placed the box back upon the table, and could not resist the strange chill which crept over me. The mystery was a more uncanny one than I had ever heard of.
“Now tell me, Ash,” I said at last. “Did your master ever entertain any lady visitors here?”
“Very seldom, sir,” the man answered. “His married sister, Lady Hilgay, used to come sometimes, and once or twice his aunt, the Duchess, called, but beyond those I don’t recollect any lady here for certainly twelve months past.”
“Some might have called when you were absent, of course,” I remarked.
“They might,” he said; “but I don’t think they did.”
“Have you ever seen any letters that you’ve posted addressed to a lady named Cloud?”
He reflected, then answered —
“No, sir. The name is an unusual one, and if I’d ever seen it before I certainly should have remembered it.”
“Well,” I said, after some minutes of silence, “I want you to come with me and try and find a lady. If we do meet her you’ll see whether you can identify her as a person you’ve seen before. You understand?”
“Yes,” he replied, with a puzzled look. “But are we going to see the woman whom the police suspect visited my master while I was absent?”
“Be patient,” I said, and together we went out, and re-entering the cab drove up to Hampstead.
The mystery of my friend’s death was becoming more inexplicable. Therefore I had resolved to seek Aline, and at all costs demand some explanation of the extraordinary phenomena which had taken place in Roddy’s rooms as well as in my own.
Chapter Nine
Mrs Popejoy’s Statement
“Is Miss Cloud at home?” I inquired of the maid, as Ash stood behind in wonder.
“She doesn’t live here, sir,” replied the girl.
“Doesn’t live here?” I echoed dubiously. “Why, only a short time ago I saw her enter here!”
“Well, sir, I don’t know her. I’ve never heard the name.”
“Is Mrs Popejoy in?” I inquired.
“Yes, sir. If you wish to see her, please step inside.”
We both entered the hall, the usual broad passage of a suburban house, with its cheap hall-stand, couple of straight-backed wooden chairs, and a long chest in imitation carved oak. The girl disappeared for a few moments, and on returning ushered us into the dining-room, where we found a rather sour-looking old lady standing ready to greet us. She was about sixty, grey-haired, thin-faced, and wore a cap with faded cherry-coloured ribbons.
“Mrs Popejoy, I believe?” I exclaimed politely, receiving in return a bow, the stiffness of which was intended to show breeding. Then continuing, I said: “I have called on a rather urgent matter concerning your niece, Miss Aline Cloud; but the servant tells me she is not at home, and I thought you would perhaps tell me where I can find her without delay.”
“My niece!” she exclaimed in surprise. “My poor niece died ten years ago.”
“Ten years ago!” I gasped. “And is not Miss Cloud your niece?”
“I have no niece of that name, sir,” she answered. “The name indeed is quite strange to me. There must be some mistake.”
“But your name is Popejoy,” I exclaimed, “and this is Number sixteen, Ellerdale Road?”
“Certainly.”
“Truth to tell, madam,” I said, “I have called on you in order to assure myself of a certain very extraordinary fact.”
“What is it?”
“Well, late on a certain night some weeks ago I accompanied Miss Cloud, the lady I am now in search of, to this house. I sat in the cab while she got out, and with my own eyes saw her admitted by your maid. This strikes me as most extraordinary, in lace of your statement that you know nothing of her.” The old lady reflected.
“What cock-and-bull story did she tell you?” she inquired quickly. “Explain it all to me, then perhaps I can help you.”
There was something about Mrs Popejoy’s manner that I did not like. I could have sworn that she was concealing the truth.
“Well,” I said, “I met Miss Cloud at a theatre, and she told me that you and another lady had accompanied her; that you had got separated, and being a stranger in London she did not know her way home. Therefore I brought her back, and saw her enter here.”
The old lady smiled cynically.
“My dear sir,” she said, “you’ve been very neatly imposed upon. In the first place, I have no niece; secondly, I’ve never entered a theatre for years; thirdly, I’ve never heard of any girl named Cloud; and fourthly, she certainly does not live here.”
“But with my own eyes I saw her enter your door,” I said. “I surely can believe what I have seen!”
“It must have been another house,” she answered. “There are several in this road similar in appearance to mine.”
“No. Number sixteen,” I said. “I looked it up previously in the Directory and saw your name. There can be no mistake.”
“Well, sir,” snapped the old lady, “I am mistress of this house, and surely I ought to know whether I have a niece or not! What kind of lady was she?”
“She was young, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and very good-looking. She had lived in France previously, at Montgeron, near Paris.”
“Ah!” the old lady cried suddenly. “Why, of course, the hussy! Now I remember. It is quite plain that she duped you.”
“Tell me,” I exclaimed eagerly. “Where is she now?”
“How should I know? She wasn’t my niece at all. A few weeks ago I advertised in the Christian World for a companion, and engaged her. She came one afternoon, and said that coming from France she had left all her luggage at Victoria. She was exceedingly pleasant, took tea with me, and afterwards at her request I allowed her to go down to Victoria to see about her boxes. That was about six o’clock, but she did not return until nearly two o’clock in the morning, and when I questioned her she said that she had been unable to find the office where her luggage had been placed, and had been wandering about, having lost her way. I didn’t believe such a lame story, and the consequence was that she left after a week, and I haven’t seen her since.”
I stood dumbfounded.
“That’s a strange story, sir,” observed Ash, who was standing near.
“It’s amazing!” I said. “And it complicates matters very considerably.”
Turning to Mrs Popejoy, I inquired —
“When you corresponded with her, to what address did you write?”
“To a village post-office somewhere in the Midlands. It was a funny name, which I can’t remember.”
“Do you recollect the county?”
“No. I didn’t put the county. The first letter I wrote was to initials at the office of the newspaper; and in reply I received a letter from Paris, with a request that further letters might be addressed to Miss – what was her name? – Cloud, at this post-office.”
“Then to you she gave her name as Cloud?” I said quickly.
“Yes. At first when you mentioned it I did not recollect. Now I remember.”
“Then you have no idea where she is now!” I said.
“Not the slightest,” the old lady snapped. “I was very glad to see the back of the hussy, for I believe she was no better than she should be, staying out till that hour of the morning. I told Ann to turn out the gas and go to bed, but it seems that she didn’t, and waited up till that unearthly hour. And do you know what,” continued old Mrs Popejoy in a confidential tone, “I believe that there was something very mysterious about her. I have a very shrewd suspicion that she meant to rob me, or do me some evil or other.”
“Why?” I asked eagerly. “What mystery was there surrounding her?”
“Well,” she responded after some little hesitation, “I was very glad indeed when she went off in a flounce, and I hope she’ll never darken my door again. You may think me very timid, but if you had seen what I discovered after she had gone you’d have been of my way of thinking.”
“What did you discover?” I asked, surprised.
“Well, in her bedroom there was, in a small silver box, an old ring that my late husband had prized very much. It had belonged to one of the Popes, and had been blessed by him. The relic was no doubt an extremely valuable one.”
“And when she went?” I asked.
“When she went I had a look round her room to see that nothing had been taken, but to my surprise I found the ring and the box actually burnt up. Only the ashes remained! There was a picture of the Virgin also in the room, an old panel-painting which my husband had picked up in Holland, and what was most extraordinary was that although this picture had also been wholly consumed, the little easel had been left quite intact. Some Devil’s work was effected there, but how, I can’t imagine.”
This was certainly a most startling statement, and the old lady was evidently still nervous regarding it. Did it not fully bear out what had already occurred in my own rooms and in those of the man whose life had so suddenly gone out?
“Do you think, then, that the picture was deliberately burned?” I inquired.
“I examined the ashes very closely,” she replied, “and found that by whatever means the picture was destroyed, the table-cloth had not even been singed. Now, if the picture had been deliberately lighted, a hole must have been burned in the cloth; but as it was, it seemed as though the picture, which the Roman Catholics hold in such reverence, had been destroyed by something little short of a miracle.”
“Have you preserved the ashes?”
“No,” responded the old lady; “Ann threw them into the dustbin at once. I didn’t like to keep them about.”
“And what is your private opinion?” I asked, now that we had grown confidential.
“I believe,” she answered decisively, “I believe that the hussy must have been in league with the very Evil One himself.”
Such was exactly my own opinion, but I had no desire to expose all my feelings, or confess the fascination which she had held over me by reason of her wondrous beauty. It was strange, I thought, how, evil though her heart, she had uttered those ominous warnings. True, I had loved her; I had adored her with all the strength of my being; but she in return had only urged me to love my Platonic little friend Muriel. She who held me powerless beneath her thrall had, with self-denial, released me in order that I might transfer my affections to the bright-eyed woman who was wearing out her heart at Madame Gabrielle’s; she had implored me to cast her aside, and thus escape the mysterious unknown fate which she predicted must inevitably fall upon me.
The reason why she had forbidden me to call at Mrs Popejoy’s, or to address a letter there, was now quite plain. She had deceived me, and I could trust her no further.
Yet had she actually deceived me? Had she not plainly told me that she was an evil-doer, a malefactor, one whose mission was to bring ill-fortune to her fellow-creatures. Yes, Aline Cloud was a mystery. More than ever I now felt that she was the possessor of some unknown subtle influence, some unseen supernatural power by which she could effect evil at will.
“I suppose,” I said, in an endeavour to allay the nervous old lady’s fears, “I suppose there is some quite ordinary explanation for the strange occurrence. Many things which at first appear inexplicable are, when the truth is made plain, quite ordinary events. So it was, I suppose, with the picture and the ring which were consumed by what appears like spontaneous combustion.”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve thought over it a great deal, but the more I think of it, the more extraordinary it seems.”
“I regret to have troubled you,” I said. “I must try and find her at whatever cost, for the matter is a most important one. If you should by any chance come across her again, or if she visits you, I should be obliged if you would at once communicate with me,” and I handed her a card.
“Certainly, sir,” she replied. “The hussy entirely misled you, and I should like to be able to fathom the mystery how my picture and ring were reduced to ashes. If I ever do see her again, depend upon it that I’ll let you know.” Then, with woman’s curiosity, pardonable in the circumstances, she asked, “Is the matter on which you wish to speak to her a personal one?”
“It is, and yet it is not,” I responded vaguely. “It concerns another person – a friend.”
With that I shook her hand, and accompanied by Ash, walked out and left the house.
As we drove back down the Hampstead Road I turned to the valet and said —
“Do you remember whether a tall, dark, shabby-genteel man in a frock-coat and tall hat – a man with a thin, consumptive-looking face – ever called upon your master?”
I was thinking of Aline’s companion, and of their remarkable conversation. At that moment it occurred to me that it might be of Roddy they had spoken, and not of myself. Did he urge her to kill my friend? Ash reflected deeply.
“I don’t remember any man answering that description,” he responded. “After he became a Member of Parliament one or two strange people from his constituency called to see him, but I don’t recollect anybody like the man you describe. How old was he?”
“About forty; or perhaps a trifle over.”
The man shook his head. “No,” he declared, “I don’t think he ever called.”
“When your master sent you out with the note that morning had you any suspicion that he meant to receive a secret visitor? Now, don’t conceal anything from me. Together we must fathom this mystery.” He hesitated, then turning to me, answered —
“Well, to tell the truth, sir, I did.”
“What caused you to suspect?”
“First, the letter being unaddressed was a rather curious fact,” he responded slowly. “Then, I was to meet a lady whom he did not describe further than that she was youngish, and would wear a bunch of flowers. All this appeared strange, but my curiosity was further aroused because he had dressed more carefully than he usually did in a morning, as though visitors were coming.”
“Was he down at the House on the previous night?”
“Yes, sir; I took a telegram down there, and delivered it to him in the Lobby. He opened it, read it, and uttered a bad word, as if its contents annoyed him very much. Then I returned, and he arrived home about half an hour after midnight. I gave him some whiskey and soda, and left him smoking and studying a big blue-book he had brought home with him.”
“Have you any suspicion that the telegram had any connection with the mysterious lady whom you were sent to meet?”
“I’ve several times thought that it had. Of course I can’t tell.”
A silence fell between us. At last I spoke again, saying —
“Remember that all you have heard to-day must be kept secret. Nobody must know that we have been to Mrs Popejoy’s. There is a mystery surrounding this lady named Cloud, and when we get to the bottom of it we shall, I feel certain, obtain a clue to the cause of your poor master’s death. You, his faithful servant, were, I feel assured, devoted to him, therefore it behoves us both to work in unison with a view to discovering the truth.”
“Certainly, sir; I shall not utter a single word of what I have heard to-day. But,” he added, “do you believe that my poor master was murdered?”
“It’s an open question,” I replied. “There are one or two facts which, puzzling the doctors, may be taken as suspicious, yet there are others which seem quite plain, and point to death from natural causes.”
Then, having given him certain instructions how to act if he discovered anything further regarding the mysterious Aline, he alighted at the corner of Cranbourne Street, while I drove on to my own rooms, full of saddest memories of the man who had for years been one of my closest friends.
Chapter Ten
In Duddington
When the winter rains made London dreary, rendering the Strand a veritable quagmire, and when the shops began to display Christmas cards and Christmas numbers, I went South, as I did each year, accompanied by my married sister and her husband, in search of sunshine. I knew the Riviera well. I had enjoyed the rather dull exclusiveness of Cannes; I had stayed one season at the Grand at Nice and capered through Carnival in a clown’s dress of mauve and green; I had spent a fortnight once in Mentone, that paradise of the consumptive; and I had paid some lengthy bills at the Hotel de Paris at Monte Carlo. My brother-in-law, however, had taken a little white villa on the olive-clad hillside at Beaulieu, which we found was on the verge of everything.
But to me life on the Riviera soon becomes tiresome. A couple or three visits to “the Rooms;” a “five o’clock” or two at La Reserve; tea in a wicker chair in the entrance-hall of that colossal hotel, the Excelsior, at Cimiez, which is patronised by Her Majesty; a dinner at the London House at Nice, and one at the Hermitage at “Monty,” and I become tired of the ever-azure sea, of the Noah’s Ark gardens, of the artificiality and of the constant brightness of the Riviera “season.” I long for my old English home in the country where, in the springtime, all the beauties of the outdoor world come to one with a sense of novelty after the winter’s cold and frost.
Therefore at the end of March I returned, passing through London, and travelling down to my father’s place at Tixover, which was, as always, my pleasant home.
What though the trees were still leafless, and the flowers few; every day, almost every hour, fresh green buds were swelling and opening in the balmy air; the delicate pink of the almond blossom was flushing the bare twigs in the kitchen-garden, primroses were coyly showing themselves in the coppices and hedgerows, as I drove along from Stamford, while in the sheltered places in the woods as I passed I saw sheets of wild hyacinths, “like strips of the sky fallen,” delicate snowdrops, and a wealth of daffodils.
As I drove along that morning through Worthorpe and Colly Weston to Duddington, the quaint little old Northamptonshire village within a mile of which lies Tixover Hall, it was, though a trifle chilly after the Riviera, one of those bright days which make even the elderly feel young and sprightly again; days on which even the saddest among us are influenced by the infectious brightness of the atmosphere. At no other season of the year is there that delicious sensation of life, of resurrection in the very air, as the grey old earth awakens from her winter sleep and renews her youth again.
As the old bay mare trotted down the short, steep hill from the cross-roads, and Banks was telling me all the gossip of the countryside – how my old friend Doctor Lewis, of Cliffe, had taken to cycling, how an entertainment had been held at the schools, and how somebody in the Parish Council had been making himself obnoxious – we suddenly entered Duddington, the queer old village with its rows of comfortable, old-fashioned cottages, with their attics peeping from beneath the thatch. In the air was that sweet smell of burnt wood peculiar to those peaceful Midland villages, and as we passed the inn, and turning, crossed the bridge which led out to the right to Tixover, a couple of villagers pulled their forelocks as a token of respect, I felt tired after two days of incessant travelling, nevertheless there was about that old-world place a home-like feeling, for I had known it ever since I had known myself. Those elderly people who peered out of their cottage doors as we passed, and who gave me a merry, laughing greeting, had known me ever since the days when my nurse used to take me for drives in the donkey-cart, while those broad, green meadows on either side of the wandering river had belonged to my family for generations.
A mile away, along a straight road with gradual ascent, a belt of firs came into view, and away through the trees I could distinguish the old, red chimneys of the Hall, the house which for three centuries past had been the residence of my ancestors. Then a few moments later, as we turned into the drive, our approach was heralded by the loud barking of Bruce and Nero, whose ferocity was instantly calmed when I alighted at the door and met my mother at the foot of the great oak staircase.
The old place, with its wide, panelled hall, its long, big rooms, its antiquated furniture – rather the worse for wear perhaps – and its wide hearths where wood fires were still burning, had an air of solidity and comfort after the stuccoed and painted villa at Beaulieu, where the salon with its gilt furniture was only large enough to hold four people comfortably, and the so-called terrace was not much wider than the overhanging eaves.
Yes, Tixover was a fine old place, perhaps not architecturally so handsome as many residences in the vicinity, yet my father, like his father and grandfather before him, did not believe in modernising its interior, hence it was entirely antique with genuine old oak of the time of the first Charles, – queer old high-backed chairs, covered with time-dimmed tapestry that had been worked by hands that had fallen to dust in the days before the Plague devastated London. The old diamond-panes set in lead were the same as in the turbulent days when the Roundheads assembled about Stamford and Cromwell camped outside Cliffe. There was everything one could desire at Tixover – fishing in the river which ran through the grounds, shooting in those extensive woods on the Stamford Road, hunting with the Fitzwilliam pack, who several times in the season met at the cross-roads, a mile and a half away, while the roads, although a trifle hilly, were nevertheless almost perfect for cycling.
But when a man has broken his home ties and lives in London, to return to the home of his youth is only pleasant for a limited period. Tixover was a quiet, restful place, but after a month it generally became dreary and dull, and I usually left it with a sigh of relief, and returned to London eager to get back to my own chambers, my club, and the men I knew. Why it was I could never tell. I suppose it is the same with all other men. To those who like town life the country is only tolerable for a time, just as those who set out with a determination to live abroad generally return after a year or so, wearied and homesick.
I found life at home just as even and undisturbed as it had been since my sister Mary had married and I had left to live in London. My parents aged but slowly, and were both still active, therefore I was warmly welcomed, and as that evening I sat in the old familiar drawing-room, with its dingy paintings, its crackling wood fire, and its rather uncomfortable chairs in comparison with my own soft saddlebag ones, I related how we had spent the season on the Riviera; of our excursions to Grasse and Aspremont, of my brother-in-law’s luck in winning two zeros in succession, and of my own good fortune in being invited on a week’s yachting trip around Corsica and back to Cannes. My parents were interested in all this, for they once used to go to Nice regularly to escape the winter, in the days before the Paillon was covered in or the public gardens were made. Now, however, they no longer went South, preferring, as they put it, the warmth of their own fireside.
It was not surprising. To elderly people who are not in robust health the long journey is fatiguing, while to the invalid “ordered abroad” by irresponsible doctors, the shaking up on the P.L.M. proves often the cause of sudden and fatal collapse.
Of Muriel I had heard but little. I had written to her twice from Beaulieu, and sent her an occasional box of flowers from one of the well-known florists in Nice, yet her letters in return were merely brief notes of thanks, and I feared that perhaps I had annoyed her by too long neglect. There seemed in her letters a tone of complaint which was unusual; therefore, I began to reflect whether it would not be as well to take a trip to town shortly, to see how Simes was keeping my rooms, and entertain her to the usual little dinner at Frascati’s.
In the days immediately succeeding my return to Tixover, I drove about a good deal, visiting various friends in the vicinity and making dutiful calls upon my mother’s friends. It was always my custom, too, to call upon some of my father’s older tenants; the people who had been kind to me when I was a mischievous lad. I found that such informal visits, where I could drink a glass of fresh milk or homemade wine, were always appreciated, and, truth to tell, I found in them some very pleasant reminiscences of my youth.
One afternoon, when I came in from driving to Oundle, I found my mother taking tea with a stranger, in the pleasant, old-fashioned drawing-room, the mullioned windows of which looked out upon a broad sweep of well-kept lawn, bounded by the river and the meadows beyond.
“Ah! Here’s Clifton!” my mother exclaimed as I entered, and at that moment the man who was sitting with her taking tea turned and faced me.
“Let me introduce you. Mr Yelverton, our new curate – my son Clifton.”
“Why, Jack!” I cried, wringing his hand, “and it’s actually you – a clergyman!” And I gazed at his clerical garb in blank amazement.
“Yes, it’s me,” he answered cheerily. “I certainly didn’t think that I should ever get an appointment in your country.”
“But how is it?” I cried, after I had explained to my mother how we had been chums at Wadham.
“I never thought you’d go in for the Church.”
“Nor did I,” he admitted, laughing. “But I’m curate of Duddington, and this is my first visit to your mother. I had no idea that this was your home. There are many Cleeves, you know.”
He was a merry, easy-going fellow, this old college companion of mine, a veritable giant in stature, fair, with a long, drooping moustache that a cavalry officer might have envied, broad shouldered, burly, a magnificent type of an Englishman. As he stood there towering above me, he looked strangely out of place in his long, black coat and clerical collar. An officer’s uniform would have suited him better.
I had left Oxford a couple of terms before he had, and on going abroad lost sight of him. He had been accredited by all as a coming man on account of his depth of learning. When I had last seen him, some six years before, he was living in Lincoln’s Inn, and reading for the Bar.
I referred to that occasion when we had met in the Strand, and he replied —
“Yes, but I preferred the Church. My uncle, you know, is Bishop of Galway.”
Then I recollected that such was the case. He had no doubt been induced to go in for a clerical life by this relative. Maternal uncles are responsible for a good deal in shaping a man’s career.
“Well, you’re always welcome to Tixover, my dear old fellow,” I said, “and I’m sure my mother will always be very pleased to see you.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Any friend of Clifton’s is always welcome here. I hope you won’t treat us formally, Mr Yelverton, but look in and see us whenever you can spare time.”
Yelverton thanked her warmly, and as I took my tea I began to chat about the parish, about the shortcomings of his predecessor, an abominable young prig who lisped, flirted outrageously, thought of nothing but tennis, and whose sermons were distinct specimens of oratorical rubbish. To all the countryside he was known as “Mother’s darling,” an appellation earned by the fact that his mother, a fussy old person, used to live with him and refer to him as her “dear boy.”
But Jack Yelverton was of an entirely different stamp – a manly, good-humoured, even-tempered fellow who had no “side,” and whose face and figure showed him to be designed as a leader among men. At college he had been noted for his careful judgment, his close and diligent studies of abstruse subjects, and his remarkable grasp of things which even the Dons found difficult. Yet he was an inveterate practical joker, and more than once got into an ugly scrape, from which, however, he always managed to ingeniously wriggle out.
I was extremely glad to find my old friend installed in Duddington, for during the years that had passed I had often wondered what had become of him. More than once poor Roddy, who had been one of us at Wadham, had expressed a wish that we could find him, for we had all three been closest friends in the old days. And yet he had actually been appointed our curate and spiritual adviser, and had come to visit Tixover without knowing it was my home.
We laughed heartily over the situation.
He told me how he had taken lodgings with Mrs Walker, a cheerful old soul who lived at a pleasant cottage halfway up the village street, an old-fashioned place with a flower-garden in front and a little paved walk leading up to the rustic porch. Assisted by her daughter, old Mrs Walker had lodged curates in Duddington for many years, knew all their wants, and was well versed in the diplomatic treatment of callers, and the means by which her lodger could be prevented from being disturbed when working at his sermon.
