Kitabı oku: «The Grim House», sayfa 4
Chapter Four.
“Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.”
The next few days passed very pleasantly. The weather was fine though rather cold, but the fresh bracing feeling of the air seemed to suit the place, and I enjoyed its invigorating effect to the full. It was before the days of bicycles, but Isabel had a little pony-cart and a sturdy, sure-footed pony, in which we managed to get over the ground in a wonderful way. Hilly roads and rough ground were no obstacles to our progress; sometimes even, we ourselves lifted the cart over some specially awkward place, the pony seeming quite to enter into the fun of the thing.
We walked, too, quite long distances now and then, and several times, both walking and driving, we passed the high walls which surrounded Grimsthorpe House, the object of so much curiosity and speculation on my part.
As Isabel had warned me, there was but little to be seen of the house itself, except from one side, where a rise in the road enabled passers-by to look down, as it were, on the place.
And worthy of its name did it look, – “grim” indeed, as it was called.
It was a square grey building, with narrow windows in straight rows. There was nothing about it in the very least picturesque or attractive, for it was far too modern to at all suggest anything mediaeval or mysterious; it was just thoroughly ugly and forbidding. Yet to me it was full of fascination. We never passed the point of view in question without my begging Isabel to stop and have a good look at it, which at last she began to be rather unwilling to do.
“I think really it is getting on your brain, Regina,” she said. “I almost wish I had never told you anything about it.”
“As if any one could have helped noticing it,” I exclaimed. “But for the neatly kept grounds” – for neat they were, so far as one could see, though with nothing ornamental about them at this season at least – “one could be tempted to think it was a prison or a workhouse.”
“Prisons and workhouses are models of neatness, I believe,” said Isabel. “But certainly these gardens could not belong to anything of the kind. And there are flowers at one side of the house later on in the year. I have an idea that the younger brother – the cripple – looks after them.”
“Have you ever seen him gardening?” I asked eagerly.
Isabel shook her head.
“Oh, no,” she replied, “I have never seen one of the family except in church.”
“I am longing for Sunday,” I said. For though I had already been more than a week at Millflowers, I had not yet been to the village church, as on my first Sunday there we had driven some miles in a different direction, by Mr Wynyard’s wish, to hear a noted preacher who happened to be visiting in that neighbourhood.
We were standing just then, Isabel and I, on the rising ground I have spoken of, and my eyes were fixed on Grimsthorpe.
“No,” I went on, “I have never seen anything so strange. It might be an enchanted – not ‘palace,’ it is too ugly for that. I don’t know what to call it. We have stood here some minutes, and there has not been the very slightest sign of life to be seen or heard. Not even a dog barking. How do they manage to make even their servants as noiseless and invisible as themselves?”
“You are drawing on your imagination a little,” said Isabel, smiling. “There is a gardener mowing the grass in that corner. See!” and she pointed it out, “and – yes! there is the baker’s cart driving up the back entrance.”
I was almost disappointed by her matter-of-factness.
“You are so desperately unromantic,” I said impatiently. “You needn’t have pointed out the gardener and the baker!” And in my own mind I thought that I would keep my curiosity more to myself in the future. “I don’t believe Isabel would at all sympathise in any plan for getting to know these people!” but in this I did her injustice.
That very evening, just as it was beginning to get dusk, Isabel was called away by her father, as not infrequently happened, to do some writing for him. I was not inclined to stay indoors, so I ran upstairs to fetch my outdoor things, telling Isabel as I went, that I was going for a stroll on my own account, to pass the time that she was with her father.
Scarcely conscious of any intention of the kind, I turned nevertheless in the direction of the mysterious house. It was too late to have climbed up the hilly road referred to; besides, the fading light would have made it impossible to distinguish anything. So I contented myself with skirting the high wall of the grounds on the side nearer the Manor-house. I had walked about three-quarters of a mile, and was beginning to think it was time to return, when, standing still for a moment in consideration, I heard, in the perfect silence which seemed to pervade the locality, the sound of approaching footsteps. I glanced round, but no one was to be seen on the road, and as the steps drew nearer and more distinct, I became aware that they were those of some one on the inner side of the wall. I stood listening more and more intently, when, to my surprise and almost alarm, a figure appeared before me on the path, several yards beyond the spot I had reached. It was that of a person who had emerged from within; the fact being, though I was not then aware of it, that there was a door in the wall a little farther on.
Half confused, half frightened by this sudden apparition, I remained motionless, in what must have appeared a bewildered way to the newcomer. But before my fears had time to increase, the sound of a voice, unmistakably that of a gentleman, reassured me. Till he was close to me it was too dusky to distinguish his features clearly, but I saw him lift his hat as he approached.
“Excuse me,” he said. “May I ask if you have possibly seen a pocket-book on the path about here? I think I must have dropped it – not far off – an hour or two ago, and very few people pass this way.”
My curiosity, as well as my sympathy, was at once awakened.
“It must be,” I thought to myself, “one of the Greys. Perhaps they come out here more than is known, for a little change. How I wish I had found the pocket-book; it might have been an opening!”
But to him I could only reply —
“No, I am sorry I have seen nothing of the kind. It has been almost too dark, though, to see it, as I have only just now come straight up the road.”
Even now, close as we were, I could not distinguish his face very clearly, for the waning light was still further decreased by clouds. I saw, however, that he was anxious and worried, though, looking at him as attentively as I dared, I was surprised to see that he was not an elderly man, as from Isabel’s description the older brother must be.
“And it cannot be the younger,” I thought, “as he is crippled, and this man walks quite easily.”
He thanked me, and passing me, again raising his hat, walked quickly along the road, down which I was about to retrace my steps.
I waited a moment or two, and then followed him at a more leisurely pace. But I had not gone more than a hundred yards or so when I saw again his figure emerging from the gloom before me. In spite of myself I felt a little afraid. The modern ghost is so very material and commonplace in appearance, by all accounts, that one may easily mistake it for a real flesh and blood personality.
“Can this path be haunted?” I asked myself, and as the stranger came nearer I involuntarily shrank up a little towards the wall.
But as he was passing, the cheerful tones of his voice dispelled my misgivings. He made an almost imperceptible pause in his quick pace, exclaiming —
“I have found it! So sorry to have troubled you!” then hurried on, doubtless to enter the grounds at the same spot whence he had emerged, and where my common-sense told me there must be a door of some kind.
“I shall make Isabel come this way to-morrow to look for it,” I said to myself, and I hurried home, eager to relate to her my exciting adventure.
She was looking out for me, walking up and down the drive.
“I could have come with you if you had waited five minutes. Papa only wanted me for a moment or two, after all. It is rather too dark for you to be out alone, and I didn’t know which way you had gone,” she said.
“O Isabel!” I exclaimed. “Something so interesting has happened;” and I quickly related the incident, my friend listening attentively.
“Was it a Grey or a ghost?” I ended up half jokingly, but Isabel’s face was full of grave consideration.
“I never heard of a ghost in or about the Grim House,” she said seriously. “But still less can I think it was one of the Grey brothers. The elder one is quite old-looking, peculiarly worn and haggard, and the other, as I have told you, though he has a sweet, calm face, is an unmistakable cripple. He walks very slowly, and generally with a crutch.”
“It is very mysterious, then,” I replied, “though I shall not feel satisfied that it was not the elder brother till I have seen him for myself on Sunday. Do let me sit where I can have a good view of them, Isabel. I promise you I will peep at them most discreetly.”
Isabel smiled, but seemed nevertheless a little disapproving.
“I hope they won’t occupy your thoughts during the whole of church-time,” she said.
“No, no,” I replied. “Of course I wouldn’t let it be so. Though naturally what has happened this evening makes me more anxious than ever to see them.”
Fortunately for my peace of mind, this day was already Friday. I had not, therefore, long to wait. Millflowers church still belonged to the old order of things. There were two or three square pews, cushioned and curtained, for the “upper ten” of the village, one of which, of course, was appropriated to the Manor-house, and another to Grimsthorpe; and Isabel kindly arranged, not without some conscientious scruples, I fear, however, that I should occupy the corner whence the melancholy quartette could best be seen. She made a little plan of the church and the pews the evening before, for my benefit.
But without anything of this kind – almost, I think, without having been on the look-out for the denizens of the Grim House at all – they would, it seems to me, at once have attracted my attention. Indeed, at the first moment, I felt surprised that every one in the church did not turn round to look at them, forgetting the many years – years more than my whole existence – during which the solemn little procession of the four sad-faced people had, Sunday after Sunday, made their way up the aisle to the gloomy old pew. No – sad I can scarcely call them all, without making one exception. The face of the younger brother was, as Isabel had said, not only sweet, but calm and peaceful in expression, though he appeared pathetically delicate, with large soft eyes and almost colourless complexion.
“He is not the guilty one, if guilty one there is,” I decided. “He is not the cause of the family unhappiness and isolation. I should say he is a sort of saint, happy to bear for the sake of others.”
Then my eyes turned to the elder brother. The sisters I had already glanced at, and found them exactly what I had expected from Isabel’s description – refined, rather insignificant-looking, inexpressibly melancholy; but the face of the senior of the party was in a sense the most interesting of all. He was evidently a strong man, well-made and originally powerful. But his frame was prematurely bent, the lines of his fine features were worn and furrowed. It was a good face, but the expression had become almost fiercely defiant and hard.
I made up my mind on the spot – I think I am naturally gifted with a certain amount of insight into character and idiosyncrasies – I made up my mind on the spot that Isabel was mistaken.
“It is the elder brother,” I mentally ejaculated, “who is at the root of it all! He is the most miserable of the four, because he feels that he has brought their trouble upon them. But nevertheless it would be very difficult to believe that that man has ever done anything mean or dishonourable.” And I felt that the personal sight of the Grey family had to me only deepened the mystery. And then a sudden recollection flashed across my mind – the man I had met, the young man who had lost his pocket-book, was not one of the group in the square pew! Who was he? A ghost, after all?
I said so to Isabel, as, the service over, we walked home. The Greys, I noticed, left their places with the very first who quitted the church, and by the time we had reached the porch, the village fly containing them was already some little way along the road.
“They always do so,” said Isabel, as she pointed it out to me, “and the people have come to understand it and fall back a little to let them pass. But as to who it was that you met the other evening, I must own, Regina, I am completely puzzled. Suppose you tell papa about it and see what he says?”
Mr Wynyard was a little behind us, talking to Mr Franklin.
“Oh, no, no,” I exclaimed, putting out a hand to stop her, as I fancied she was turning towards her father, “oh, no, Isabel. You know your father hates gossip, and he would be sure to ask why I had chosen that lonely road, and we couldn’t help letting him see that I am awfully interested in the Grim House; and then, if the least thing was said about our thinking the man was perhaps a ghost, he would never forget it – he would think it so silly.” Isabel laughed, but yielded to my wishes.
“Papa is not nearly as prosaic and prim as you think,” she said. “But I am quite sure it wasn’t a ghost, Regina.”
“Then how did he get through the wall?” I inquired.
She shook her head.
“I can’t say,” she replied. “There may be a door there. As far as I remember, the wall at that part is a good deal overgrown with ivy. And the door, if there is one, is pretty certainly very seldom used, so it may be almost invisible.”
“Let us go that way to-morrow and look,” I suggested, to which Isabel assented. “Though all the same,” I added regretfully, “if there were a dozen doors, that would not explain what the man was doing at the Grim House, or what has become of him.”
“He may have been a tax-collector,” said Isabel provokingly. She could be mischievous now and then.
“Nonsense!” I replied. “He was unmistakably a gentleman, as I have told you. And after all, they have had visitors, as you know.”
“Yes, but they came openly, and were driven to and from the station. If this were a visitor, he has managed to come and go in a most mysterious way. No, it is much more likely to have been a tax-collector. You could not see him plainly, you know.”
“Would a man like that have a private key for a private door?” I said. “Don’t be so silly, Zella.”
“Well, we need not quarrel about it till we are sure there is a door,” Isabel replied good-humouredly. “In the meantime, tell me what you think of the poor Greys, now that you have seen them for yourself?”
“I will tell you,” I replied impressively. “To begin with, the sisters are just what you said; they must have been pretty, one of them at least, in a fair, gentle way, and the younger brother’s face is almost saintly. I have got those three pretty clearly defined. But,” – and here my voice deepened, I feel sure – “the one is the elder brother! He is at the bottom of it all;” and I went on to mention what I had noticed in his expression and bearing. “Don’t you remember my telling you so even before I had any reason for it? It was an intuition.”
Isabel seemed considerably impressed.
“Yes,” she replied. “I do remember what you said; but you know, Regina, you do give the reins to your imagination sometimes, and I, I suppose, am very matter-of-fact. So you see I didn’t think very much of your idea, as you had then no grounds for it. But now I allow that it does seem probable Mr Grey’s face is all you say; it tells of cruel struggle, and endurance too, while the others rather express patience and resignation. He must – the elder one, I mean – have been very good-looking.”
“He has a very high-bred look,” I agreed. “But, Isabel, who can my stranger have been? Is it possible that there is a fifth member of the party who is kept dark altogether?”
Isabel shook her head.
“Quite impossible, I should say; besides, the man you met was young. He could not have been reared up there from boyhood.”
“He may have joined them lately,” I said; but on reflection I decided that even this was improbable. “No,” I went on, “I am sure he does not live there. There was a cheery, open-air sound in his voice. I think he was very nice-looking. Tall and a very good figure, that I am sure of.”
Suddenly Isabel gave a little exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” I cried.
“Only something that has just struck me,” was the reply. “How stupid of me not to have thought of it before. I do believe that your man, Regina, was the younger of the two visitors who came to the Grim House not long ago!”
“Why should you think so?” I asked, a little desirous perhaps that my trouvaille should be entirely my own. “Especially as you said yourself that the others came and went openly?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Isabel slowly. “It was something in your way of describing him just now that seemed to recall the man who asked me the way to the church.”
Fortunately perhaps, at this moment Mr Wynyard overtook us, and our thoughts, which were becoming too absorbed in the mysterious subject, were for the time being distracted. Not for very long, however. The next morning found us, as we had planned, starting off on a search expedition.
The door in the wall was the object of our quest, and on the way to the spot where it must be, if it existed at all, I pointed out to Isabel the exact place where I had met the stranger, and the distance down the road that he had gone to look for his lost property.
“You see,” I explained, “if he were a ghost, this would be of importance, for everybody knows that ghosts are restricted to certain limits; and after all, dusk though it was, it was rather curious that I had not noticed the pocket-book, which seemed a pretty big one, as he waved it in his hand.”
“I can’t say that what you tell of him sounds at all ghost-like,” said Isabel. “He was too prosaic surely! However, what we have to do is to find if the door was a material reality or not.”
“If it isn’t,” I said emphatically, “I shall be certain he was not a real person. And if so, there must be some legend about this path which we must set to work to disinter.”
My heart beat rather faster than usual as we approached the place in the wall whence the unknown man seemed to come out, and for a few minutes our search was unsuccessful. No door was to be seen. The growth of ivy was very thick just there. I stood back a little at last, and surveyed the wall from a short distance, and at one spot it seemed to me that there was a slight break in the line. I kept my eye as closely as possible fixed on this spot while I approached it, and pushed gently against the ivy with my hand.
Yes, I had not been mistaken; but I got a start as I suddenly felt what seemed a bit of the wall itself yielding to my touch. I started back with a little exclamation which brought Isabel to my side.
“What is it?” she exclaimed. “Have you found it?”
“I have found something,” I said, and on examining more closely, it proved to be the suspected door, overgrown with ivy indeed, practically indistinguishable from the outside, but in good order nevertheless, moving on its hinges smoothly and noiselessly.
It opened inwards of course, and, strange to say, it was open, as has been shown.
“I wonder if he forgot to lock it,” I said, “or if it is always left unfastened.”
I pushed it farther ajar as I spoke, Isabel pressing forward eagerly.
“Now,” I said triumphantly, “we shall get a peep inside the enchanted ground. This is a ‘find’ of mine. Confess, Zella, that I have done more in a few days towards unearthing the mystery than you in twice as many years.”
But Isabel looked too frightened to take the matter lightly.
“Don’t speak so loud, Regina,” she said in a half whisper; “some one may be near us, inside.”
She was quite pale with excitement, yet, timid though she was, her curiosity, as well as mine, was thoroughly awakened.
“We may as well glance in,” she went on, “if we are very, very careful. Just give a look round, Regina,” and she drew back to allow me to do so.
I obeyed her cautiously. All seemed safe; there was no one in view or within hearing.
“It is all right,” I said, withdrawing my head; “we may go in a few steps, I am sure, without danger.”
“Well, first draw-to the door a little,” said Isabel sensibly, “for fear of any passer-by noticing that it is open.”
When we found ourselves fairly within the grounds, we looked at each other before we looked at anything else. I could not repress a half-nervous laugh.
“Don’t you feel like a detective or a conspirator?” I said.
Isabel grew still more frightened.
“Oh, if you are going to begin to feel like that,” she exclaimed, “we had better go back at once. I am trembling so that I can scarcely stand.”
I was very far from wishing her to put her threat into execution, so I at once hid my nervousness and replied lightly, though still speaking in low tones —
“You are too silly! Who could blame us for glancing inside an open garden-door? And at worst, you have never said that the Grim House people were at all ogreish! See there, Isabel; do let us go as far as that clump of bushes. I have an idea that from behind them we could see the house.”
I walked on a few steps boldly, my companion following me more leisurely. My idea was correct, as we rounded the clump in question, we did come into view of the house, and – of something else too.
