Lovell’s International Series
OF
MODERN NOVELS.

Other books by well-known authors are in course of preparation, and will be published at regular intervals.

⁂ The above published in cloth; price per volume, $1.00.

FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANY,
142 and 144 Worth Street, New York.

St. Cuthbert’s Tower

BY

FLORENCE WARDEN

Author of “The House on the Marsh,” “Scheherazade,” “A Witch of the Hills,” Etc., Etc.

NEW YORK
FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANY
142 and 144 Worth Street

Copyright, 1889,
BY
JOHN W. LOVELL.

Contents

CHAPTER I.

Rishton Hall Farm was let at last. Lord Stannington had had it on his hands a long time, and had offered it at a lower and ever lower rent. It was an open secret that John Oldshaw, who had a long lease of Lower Rishton Farm at the other end of the village, had expected the Rishton Hall lease to drop into his hands at last for a very trifling rent indeed. He was a careful man; the property under his hands throve; and he was fond of saying that his lordship would make a better bargain by letting him have the land at £10 an acre than by letting another man have it at £15. However, Lord Stannington had apparently thought otherwise; at any rate, when a stranger appeared upon the scene and offered him a fair rent for the land without any haggling, they came to terms without delay, and John Oldshaw found that his hoped-for bargain had escaped him.

This West Riding farmer was not a nice person to deal with when he was disappointed. He drove over to Sheffield to the agent’s office, and stamped into that gentleman’s presence, his square, heavy face purple with ill-suppressed rage.

“Na then, Maister Garrett, be pleased to tell mah if yender’s true as Ah hear, that Rishton Hall Farm’s let to a stranger?” he bellowed, thumping the table with his broad fist, and glaring at the agent with the unreasoning fierceness of an angry bull.

Mr. Garrett was a slight, fair man of uncertain age, whose light eyes were accustomed, by long practice, to read men pretty accurately.

“Quite true, Mr. Oldshaw,” he answered, civilly, with imperturbable coolness. “It was let a fortnight ago; and the new tenant comes in—let me see—” referring to his papers—“on the 16th; this day week in fact.”

“And dost tha’ knaw, Maister Garrett, that Ah’re had ma mahnd set on Rishton Hall Farm for this twelvemonth and mair?”

“How could we know it, Mr. Oldshaw, since the farm’s been in the market more than twice that time, and we have never had any intimation from you of a wish for it?”

“We Yarkshiremen doan’t do thing’s in a hurry. But every mon in t’ village knawed Ah’d set ma heeart on t’ farm, and noo Ah’m to be t’ laughin’-stock o’ a’ t’ feeals i’ t’ coontry, and Rishton Farm let ower ma yead to a stranger as nawbody’s ever heeard on!”

And the farmer gave an apoplectic snort of malignant anger.

“Oh, but that is not the case, Mr. Oldshaw,” said the agent as quietly as ever; “Mr. Denison, the gentleman who has taken the farm, is a friend of friends of his lordship, and in every way a tenant of the most desirable kind.”

John Oldshaw calmed down suddenly, and into his small, bloodshot blue eyes there came a satisfied twinkle.

“A gentleman, ye say. A gentleman’s got the farm!” in a tone of the deepest contempt. “Thank ye, Maister Garrett, Ah’m quite satisfied. It’s not for me to grumble at his lordship, then. Ah can pity him. The’ never was t’ gentleman barn could do any good at farming, and if a gentleman barn’s got Rishton Hall Farm, all t’ ill I wish his lordship is—may t’ gentleman barn stick to’s bargain.”

And with these words, uttered in a tone of fierce triumph, the farmer, who had not removed his hat on entering the office, turned and stalked out with every appearance of enjoying, as he had intimated, a complete revenge.

The village of Rishton boasted two inns, both of the most unpretending kind. The larger and more important of these was the Chequers, a stone building of the simplest kind of architecture, to which were attached numerous small outbuildings, forming three sides of a quadrangle for Mr. Tew’s gig and Mrs. Tew’s hens. The Chequers stood just outside the gate of Rishton Hall Farm, and its windows commanded the approach from Matherham, the nearest market town, which was three miles away. On the 16th of January, the day of the expected arrival of the new tenant of Rishton Hall, John Oldshaw took up his stand at one of the inn windows, watching with malevolent eyes for the approach of his rival. It was a bitterly cold day, grey overhead and black under foot; and the frost, which had held for three days, was growing harder as the afternoon wore on. John Oldshaw, with a sense of keen disappointment, had at last to acquiesce in the general belief that the new tenant would not come to-day.

“If he’s coom as far as Matherham he’ll stop there t’ night, Maister Oldshaw,” said Tew, the landlord, a small man, ruled by his wife. “T’ ground’s too slaippery for e’er a horse to stand on, lettin’ alone t’ road’s all hill and dale ’tween this and Matherham. Besides, t’ awd house is as bare as a barn; he’d never coom till he’d sent some stuff to put in it, and a coople o’ servants to set it to rights a bit.”

“Well, it ain’t ma way o’ doin’ things, to neame wan day for coomin’ and then to coom another,” said Oldshaw, contemptuously. “But, then, Ah’m naw gentleman, and my lord Stannington ’ll mighty soon wish as he could say same o’ t’ new tenant, Maister Tew.”

Mr. Tew could not afford to have an independent opinion in the presence of the great man of the village, with that miserable Cock and Bottle, not five hundred yards away, gaping for first place as the hostelry of the elite.

“It’s ta mooch to expect to get another tenant like you, Maister Oldshaw,” he said, discreetly.

It was by this time nearly four o’clock, and the grey day was already beginning to darken towards a black evening when Mat Oldshaw, the farmer’s oldest son, who had been sent by his father to the top of the hill on the look-out, re-entered the inn at a pace somewhat faster than his usual shambling gait. He was a tall, round-shouldered lad of about twenty, with fair hair and a weather-tanned face, whose heavy dulness was for the moment lightened by a passing gleam of great excitement.

“Weel, Mat, hast seean a ghoost?” asked his father.

“Naw, feyther; but there’s a cab coomin’ down t’ hill——”

“So Maister Gentleman’s coom, has he?” shouted the farmer, triumphantly; and he had seized his stout ash stick, and was making with ponderous strides for the door, as if with the intention of inflicting bodily chastisement on the insolent new comer, when his son interposed, blushing a deep brick-red to the roots of his hair.

“Eh, but feyther,” he stammered, turning the door handle uneasily, and dividing his glances between the floor, the window, and his father’s boorish face, “it’s na t’ gentleman; it’s nobbut twea lasses.”

After which admission, he fell to blushing more violently than before.

“Twea lasses?” echoed Oldshaw, incredulously.

“Hey, feyther. An’ wan o’ them’s got a feace lik’ a rose.”

“Feace lik’ a rose?” thundered the farmer. “Doan’t thee daze tha dull wits lookin’ at wenches’ faces, for Ah tell tha Ah’ll have na son o’ mine hangin’ aboot t’ Hall noo.”

“She bain’t na lass for t’ likes o’ mea, feyther; yon lass is a leady,” said the lad, simply.

If the stranger’s fair face had not, as his father suggested, dazed his dull wits already, the young man would surely have had the tact to restrain these rash words, which fanned the flame of his father’s coarse malevolence.

“A leady! A foine leady! ta foine for any son o’ mine? Ah tell thee, feeal, t’ day’ll coom when tha foine leady’ll wish she wur good enoo for t’ loikes o’ thee; and good enoo she shall never be—tha heears?”

Though the young man’s head was bent in a listening attitude, and he assented in the meekest of gruff voices, the father guessed that this deep attention was not all for his discourse, when the sound of hoofs and wheels on the hard ground outside attracted him to the outer door, which he reached in time to see a luggage-laden cab slowly descend the hill and pass the inn door, giving time for a look at the two young faces inside. Mistress and maid evidently; both bright, eager, and rather anxious. The former met full the surly stare of the farmer, and she drew back her head as if a blast of chilling wind had met her on her approach to her new home. The little maid, who had rosy cheeks and what one may call retrousse features, was less sensitive, and she looked out to resent this cold unwelcome with a contemptuous toss of the head.

“They’re reg’lar savages in these parts, Miss Olivia,” she said, in a slightly raised tone. “I only hope we may be uneaten by the time the master comes!”

The cab had passed the front of the inn, and was rounding the sharp turn which led up a slight ascent through the open farmyard gate, when suddenly, without any warning except a few rough jolts over the uneven ground, it turned over on its side, to the accompaniment of shrill screams from one female throat, and a less loud but more plaintive cry from the other. Mat Oldshaw, who was standing on the inn doorstep behind his father, made a spring forward to help them. But the elder man, with a movement quicker than one would have expected from his clumsy form and ponderous gait, grasped his arm with a violence which made the lad reel, and giving him a push back against the wall of the house, said, in a low, thick voice—

“Doan’t thoo meddle with what darn’t concern thee. Wheer there’s so mooch cry, there ain’t mooch hurt, tak’ ma word for’t.”

“Feyther!” said Mat, indignantly, entreatingly. Then he was dumb, for even through his not over-bright brains came a suspicion that this accident was perhaps not wholly unexpected by one of its witnesses.

As this brief scene passed between father and son, a man in a short frieze coat, knickerbockers, gaiters, and deer-stalker cap, who had quickened his pace down the hill into a run on seeing the accident, looked full into the faces of both men with a keen, shrewd expression as he dashed by.

“It’s parson Brander, o’ S’ Cuthbert’s, feyther. He heeard thee,” said the young man in a husky, awed whisper.

“An’ wha not? Ah’d loike to see sik as him say a word to me!” said the farmer, in a loud voice of boastful contempt.

And the attitudes respectively of father and son, the one of contemptuous disgust, the other of awestruck respect, represented the two views most commonly taken in the country-side of the Reverend Vernon Brander, vicar of Saint Cuthbert’s.

Before the last disdainful word was out of John Oldshaw’s mouth, the new comer had opened the cab door, and extricated the two girls from their unpleasant position. The maid was uppermost, but she was a little creature, and had probably inflicted far less inconvenience on her more massively built mistress than that young lady would have inflicted on her had their positions been reversed. Her rosy cheeks had lost their color, and from her forehead, which had been cut by the broken glass of the carriage window, blood was trickling down.

In answer to the gentleman’s inquiries as to whether she was hurt, she said in a trembling voice that she didn’t know yet, and begged him to get her mistress out. This he at once proceeded to do, and was rewarded by the thanks of a young lady whom he at once decided to be one of the handsomest girls that this or any other country ever produced.

Olivia Denison was indeed an unchallenged beauty, and had occupied that proud position almost ever since, twenty years ago, she had been pronounced to be “a lovely baby.” She was tall—of that cruel height which forces short admirers, on pain of looking ridiculous, to keep their distance; of figure rather massive than slender, with a fair skin, a fresh color, dark hair, blue eyes, and a winning expression of energy and honesty which gave to the whole face its greatest charm. For the moment, however, the rose color had left her cheeks, too, and her lips were drawn tightly together.

“You are hurt, I am afraid,” said the stranger, with concern.

“I’ve only—pinched—my finger,” she answered, trying to laugh.

But the effort of speaking brought the tears to her eyes, much to her indignation. For she was brave, and she liked to have the credit of it.

“Let me see,” said he, with kindly authority.

She presented her right hand, from which he drew the glove very gently, disclosing bruised and slightly discolored finger tips.

“They do hurt a little, but it’s nothing very dreadful. I don’t know how I did it,” she said.

“Lucky it’s no worse,” said the stranger, kindly. “Now for the lad.”

The young driver was looking ruefully at the overturned vehicle. He proved to have escaped with no worse damage than a battered hat. Lucy, the maid, who had ascertained that her head was still on her shoulders, had bound up her cut forehead with her handkerchief, and was scolding the driver for his carelessness as she pointed to the scattered luggage. The traces having broken as the cab fell, the horse had sustained very little hurt, so that, on the whole, the accident had been without tragic consequences. The rescuer took hold of the girl, and shook her by the arm.

“Now, don’t you think, considering all things, you might find some better use for your tongue than scolding. You might have been upset a mile away on the road, instead of which you are turned out comfortably at your own door. For, I suppose, you are coming to the Hall?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Lucy, abashed, but still rather mutinous, not having the least idea that she was speaking to a clergyman.

“So that the real sufferer by this spill is neither you nor your mistress, but the poor lad who has driven you safely more than three miles over a very dangerously slippery road, and who will perhaps get discharged by his master for having injured the cab. Your mistress does not scold you for half an hour if you break a plate.”

“Yes she does, sir,” fired up Lucy, so unexpectedly that Mr. Brander involuntarily glanced with surprise at the young lady. “Oh, not Miss Olivia,” added the little maid almost indignantly; “it’s Mrs. Denison I mean.”

“Well, then, if you find the habit so unamiable in Mrs. Denison, as I see you do, you should take the greatest care not to fall into it yourself,” said the vicar, suppressing a smile.

Then he turned again to the lady.

“Is everything ready for your coming?” he asked, doubtfully.

For he had passed the house that morning, and found it deserted, mildewed, and shuttered-up as usual.

“No, nothing,” said the girl. “We’ve come on in advance to prepare things for papa and mamma and the rest,” she added rather tremulously.

The frightful immensity of the undertaking perhaps struck her now for the first time, as she stood, still shaking from the shock of the accident, staring at the smokeless chimneys and shuttered windows of the new home. Mr. Brander looked from one girl to the other, very sorry for both, wondering what kind of idiots the parents could be to send two inexperienced young lasses to grapple with all the difficulties of installation.

“And the furniture? I suppose that has come?” he suggested, dubiously.

“Oh, I hope so,” said the girl, anxiously.

“I’ll ask at the inn here. If it has come they will have seen it pass. And Mrs. Tew will give you both a cup of tea. You don’t mind going into an inn, do you? It’s a very respectable place.”

“Oh, no; of course we don’t,” said Miss Denison. “Indeed, it is very, very kind of you to take so much trouble for us.”

“Trouble! Nonsense. It’s a splendid excitement. As far as I am concerned, I should like a pair of travellers overturned here once a week.”

He beckoned to Lucy, and led them the few steps back to the inn door. John Oldshaw was still standing in a defiant attitude on the doorstep, whence he had watched the proceedings with malicious interest. His son was still peeping out, sheepish and ashamed, from behind him.

“Here, Mat, will you run round to Mrs. Wall’s—tell her that Miss Denison has come, and ask for the key of the Hall?” said he. “And then you might lend me a hand to take some of the lady’s trunks into the house.”

Mat’s face brightened and flushed.

“All right, sir,” he said, and tried to push past his father.

But the elder man blocked the doorway with his arms, and stood like a rock.

“Nay,” he said, obstinately; “Mat doesna’ stir at tha’ bidding. Help the wenches thasel’; thoo’s used to ’t.”

Olivia drew back; she was shocked, frightened, by the dogged ferocity of the farmer’s face and by the sudden expression of some strong feelings—whether anger or anguish she could not quite tell—which for a moment convulsed the features of her unknown companion. As for Oldshaw’s coarse words, the strong Yorkshire dialect rendered them unintelligible to her. They, however, roused the spirit of the phlegmatic Mat.

“For shame, feyther!” cried he, in a voice which was a new terror for the young lady whose champion he thus declared himself to be. “Maister Brander, Ah’ll go loike a reace horse.”

And ducking his long body under his father’s left arm with an unceremonious roughness which shook that mighty man from his dignity, he touched his cap to Olivia with oafish respect, and ran off down the lane past the Hall barns with the best speed of his long legs.

“We won’t go in there, thank you very much,” said Olivia, when Mr. Brander had come back to the spot to which she had retreated. “I could not pass that man; I would rather not go near him.”

“Will you wait here while I find out about the furniture, then?”

“Please promise not to quarrel with that horrid man about his rudeness to us. I can see he is one of those people who can’t help being rude and horrid, just as some other people can’t help being unselfish and kind,” said the girl, shyly, but with much warmth. “Will you please promise?”

“Yes,” said he, simply, looking into her face with a grave, straightforward expression of interest and, as it seemed to her, of gratitude which surprised and touched her.

Then he turned without another word, almost as if afraid to say another word, and going back rapidly to the inn, passed the farmer, who sullenly made way for him, and disappeared into the house. When he came back, his face was full of deep concern of a different kind.

“I bring bad news,” he said to the girls, who, mistress and maid, were shrinking together in their desolation. “I am afraid your furniture has not come, and—they say they haven’t a room to spare in the inn for to-night. But if Mrs. Tew could see you and speak to you herself——”

“I wouldn’t stay in the house,” burst out Olivia, indignantly. “If we can only get into the Hall, Lucy and I can manage very well indeed.”

“But the place is sure to be hideously damp, and there are no carpets; in fact, there’s nothing,” said Mr. Brander, in dismay.

“The resources of the feminine mind are infinite,” said Olivia, who was again blinking behind her veil. “Here comes the old woman who has the keys, I suppose. I shall get her to take us in for a little while—at least, she’ll have a cottage and a fire somewhere or other. And perhaps while we are waiting there the furniture will come.”

Mr. Brander looked at her with renewed compassion. He thought this last a forlorn hope.

“Don’t be disappointed if it doesn’t come yet,” he said, encouragingly. “Old Sarah Wall will do her best for you, I’m sure, and all the better if she doesn’t see me talking to you. For you won’t hear any good of me from her.”

And before Olivia could detain him to pour out again the thanks for his kindness with which her heart was overflowing, he had raised his hat with a sudden cold withdrawal into himself, and turning with the rapidity of the most accomplished athlete, disappeared along the road which led through Lower Rishton, leaving her overwhelmed with surprise at the abrupt change in his manner and with desolation at this unexpectedly sudden loss of their only friend.

CHAPTER II.

Old Sarah Wall, the key-bearer, who now came ambling up at a very slow pace, holding her hand to her side, and muttering feebly as she moved, was a poor exchange, Olivia thought, for the masculine friend who had ended his kindly services so abruptly. He had not even waited, as he had intimated an intention of doing, to see the luggage safely moved into the house. Mrs. Wall looked very cross and not too clean. Scarcely deigning to glance at the strangers, she muttered, “This way!” and then fell to groaning as she led the way through the farmyard up to the house.

Olivia paused to look despairingly at her scattered trunks, and to give a kindly word of comfort to the unlucky cab driver, who was still occupied in estimating the damage done to his vehicle, and his chances of getting it back to Matherham that night. As she did so she heard a footstep on the hard ground beside her, and found the shamefaced and blushing Mat at her side.

“Ah’ll get t’ luggage in seefe, never fear,” said he, in a voice so gruff with excessive bashfulness that poor Olivia thought him surly, and shrank back with a cold refusal of his services rising to her lips.

Mat thought she identified him with his father and so hastened to offer a neat apology for that gentleman’s conduct.

“Feyther’s a pig,” said he. “Boot he wunna harm ye! an’ Ah’ll do what Ah can to mak’ oop for him being so rough.”

And he shouldered one trunk and caught up another, and strode along towards the house, whistling to himself with the defiant carelessness of one who feels he has done a bold stroke. The lady and her attendant followed, somewhat soothed by this little show of friendliness.

Even in the midst of her feelings of desolation and disappointment, in spite of the keen cold and of the forlorn, blind look which shuttered and shut-up windows, broken chimney pots, and untrimmed ivy gave to the house, Olivia could not look quite without admiration and a youthful sense of delight in the picturesque at the old Hall. The body of the house was a long, plain, two-storeyed building, with a flagged roof and a curious wide, flat portico, supported by two spindleshank wooden windows, beneath which three stone steps, deeply hollowed out and worn by generations of feet, led to the front door. At the west end a gabled wing, flag-roofed like the rest, ran back from the body of the house; and at right angles to this there jutted out westwards a second small wing of the same shape. In these, the oldest portions of the house, traces of former architectural beauties remained in stately Tudor chimneys and two mullioned windows, round which the ivy clustered in huge bushes, long left neglected and untrimmed. At this end of the building a little garden ran underneath the walls, protected from the incursions of intrusive cows by a wall which began towards the back of the house by being very high and ended towards the front by being very low. From the wall to the house the garden had been shut in by palings and a little gate; but these were now much broken and decayed, and afforded small protection to the yews and holly bushes, the little leafless barberry tree and the shabby straggling evergreens, which grew thickly against the weather-stained walls of the old house, choking the broken panes of the lower windows as the ivy did those of the upper ones. It was this western end that was visible from the road, the view of the front being obscured by a long stone-built barn, very old, and erected on foundations older still, about which hung traditions of monkish days.

If she had seen it at any other time, Olivia would have been crazy with delight at the thought of living in such a place; and even now, cheerless as the immediate prospect was, it gave her a gleam of comfort to reflect that, if she did have to pass the night without any bed amongst the rats, the ancestors of those rats had scampered over the place in the time of Queen Elizabeth.

With some difficulty, Mrs. Wall turned the key in the rusty lock and admitted them. It seemed that she had a grievance in the fact that she had not known on what day they were to arrive. As a matter of fact, she was one of those persons who are never prepared for anything, but Olivia had had no means of learning her peculiarities, and so she met the old woman’s complaints in a humble and apologetic spirit which increased Mrs. Wall’s arrogance.

The entrance hall was low-roofed and square; the walls were covered with a cheap and commonplace paper, the wainscoting and the banisters of the broad staircase were of painted wood. This was the portion of the house which had suffered most during its decadence. Olivia, examining everything with an eye keen to discover the good points to be made the most of in her new home, found that where the paint had worn off the staircase and wainscot dark oak was revealed underneath, and she rashly uttered an exclamation of horror at the vandalism of the farm’s late occupants.

“The idea of spoiling beautiful dark oak with this horrid paint! Why, the people who did it ought to be sent to penal servitude!”

Mrs. Wall was scandalized.

“T’ fowk ’as lived here last liked t’ place clean,” she said, severely. “It’ll nivver look t’ same again as it did, wi’ a clean white antimacassar stitched on to ivery cheer, an’ wax flowers under glass sheades in a’ t’ parlor windows. An’ t’ parlor a’ways as neat as a new pin, so ye wur afreaid a’most to coom into ’t. Ah, ye meen talk o’ yer gentlefowk, but they’ll nivver mak’ it look t’ same again!”

Olivia had opened the door to the right, and throwing wide the shutters of one of the three large windows, revealed a long, low-ceilinged room, used as the living room by the late farmer’s family, and having at the further end a wide, high, old-fashioned fireplace, the mouldings of which had been carefully covered with whitewash, now smoked-begrimed and worn into dark streaks. The shutters and the wainscoting, which in this room was breast high upon the walls, had been treated in the same way. Olivia uttered a groan, and turned to the door, afraid of uttering more offensive remarks. Then they went upstairs, and opened the doors of a lot of little meanly papered bedrooms which formed the upper storey of this part of the house. Having allowed the new comers to examine these, while she remained sniffing in the passage, Mrs. Wall shuttled hastily back to the staircase.

“Stop!” cried Olivia, as the old woman placed one downtrodden shoe on the second step; “we haven’t seen the other part of the house at all. Where does this lead to?”

And she peered into a crooked passage which led into the first of the two older wings.

Mrs. Wall paused with evident reluctance.

“There’s nowt yonder but t’ worst o’ t’ bedrooms; ye’ve seen t’ best,” she grumbled.

But Olivia was already exploring, followed by Lucy; and the old woman, with much reluctance, brought up the rear. The passage was quite dark, and very cold. The tallow dip which Mrs. Wall carried gave only just enough light to enable the explorers to find the handles of the doors on the left. One of these Olivia opened, not without difficulty; for the floor was strewn with lumber of all sorts, which the last occupier of the farm had not thought worth carrying away. The walls of this room, which was very small, were panelled right up to the low ceiling; and the panelling had been whitewashed. A second chamber in this passage was in a similar condition, except that the panelling had been torn down from two of the four walls, and its place supplied by a layer of plaster. Holding up her skirts very carefully, Olivia stepped across the dusty piles of broken boxes, damaged fireirons, and odds and ends of torn carpet with which the floor of this room also was covered, and looked through the dusty panes of the little window.

“Now you’ve seen a’,” said Mrs. Wall, rather querulously. “An’ t’ lad downstairs ’ll be wanting to know wheer to put t’ things.”

She was retreating with her candle, when Olivia stopped her again.

“No,” she said, eagerly, “we’ve not seen all. There’s a wing of the house we have not been into at all; and I can see through the little window, on this side of it, some curtains and a flower vase with something still in it. It doesn’t look empty and deserted like the rest. I must get in there before I go down.”

But Mrs. Wall’s old face had wrinkled up with superstitious terror, and it was only by force of muscle that the young girl succeeded in cutting off her retreat.

“Na’,” she said, her voice sinking to a croaking whisper. “I canna tak’ ye in theer. An’—an’ t’ doors are locked, ye see,” she added, eagerly, as Olivia, still grasping her conductress’ arm, in vain tried the door at the end of the passage, and one on the left-hand side, at right angles with it.

“Well, but why are they locked?” asked the young girl, impatiently, her rich-toned, youthful voice ringing sonorously through the long-disused passage. “The whole place is ours now, and I have a right to see into every corner of it.”

“Oh, Miss Olivia, perhaps we’d better go back—go downstairs—for to-day,” suggested the little maid Lucy, rather timorously behind her.

Mrs. Wall’s nervous tremors were beginning to infect the poor girl, who was, moreover, very cold, and was longing for some tea. But her young mistress had at least her fair share of an immovable British obstinacy. Finding that both doors were firmly locked and that there was no key to either forthcoming, she flung the whole weight of her massive and muscular young body against the door on the left, until the old wood cracked and the rusty nails rattled in the disused hinges.

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Sarah Wall, petrified by the audacity of the young amazon. “Shoo ’ll have t’ owd place aboot our ears!”

“Take the candle, Lucy,” said Olivia, imperiously, perceiving that the dip was flaring and wobbling in an ominous manner in the old woman’s trembling fingers.

Lucy obeyed, frightened but curious. Her mistress made two more vigorous onslaughts upon the door; the first produced a great creaking and straining; at the second the door gave way on its upper hinge, so that the girl’s strong hands were able to force the lock with ease. She turned to the guide in some triumph.

“Now, Mrs. Wall, we’ll unearth your ghost, if there is one. At any rate, we’ll get to the bottom of your mystery in five minutes.”

But she did not. Pressing on to the end of a very narrow, unlighted passage in which she now found herself, Olivia came to a second door; this opened easily and admitted her into a large chamber, the aspect of which, dimly seen by the fading light which came through a small square window on her left, filled her brave young spirit with a sudden sense of dreariness and desolation.

For it was not empty and lumber-strewn, like the rest of the rooms she had entered. The dark forms of cumbrous, old-fashioned furniture were discernible in the dusk; the heavy hangings of a huge four-post mahogany bedstead shook, as a rat, disturbed by the unwonted intrusion, slid down the curtain and scurried across the floor. As she stepped slowly forward on the carpet, which was damp to the tread, and peered to the right and left in the gloom, Olivia could see strange relics of the room’s last occupant; the withered remains of what had been a bunch of flowers on a table in front of the little window; an assortment of Christmas cards and valentines, all of design now out of date, and all thickly covered with brown dust, fastened with pins on to the wall on each side of the high mantle-piece; even a book, a railway novel, with its yellow boards gnawed by the rats, which she picked up rather timorously from the floor, where, by this time, it seemed to have acquired a consecrated right to lie.

Still advancing very slowly, Olivia reached the opposite side of the room, where her quick eyes had perceived the barred shutters of a second and much larger window. With some difficulty she removed the bar, which had grown stiff and rusty, and, drawing back the heavy shutters, revealed the long, stone-mullioned window, with diamond panes, which had been such a picturesque feature of the house from the outside. The thick, untrained ivy obscured one end of it, but enough light glimmered through the dirt-encrusted panes for Olivia to be now quite sure of two things of which she felt nearly sure before—namely, that this was the best bedroom in the house, and that, for some mysterious reason, this chamber, instead of being dismantled like the rest, had been allowed to remain for a period of years almost as its last occupant had left it. Almost, but not quite; for the bedding had been removed, the covers to the dressing-table and the gigantic chest of drawers, and the white curtains which had once hung before the shuttered window.

On the other hand, a host of knicknacks remained to testify to the sex, the approximate age, and the measure of refinement of the late owner. More railway novels, all well-worn; flower vases of an inexpensive kind; two hand mirrors, one broken; a dream book; a bow of bright ribbon; a handsome cut-glass scent bottle; these things, among others, were as suggestive as a photograph; while the fact that this room alone had been studiously left in its original state, and even furnished in accordance with it, threw a new and more favorable light on the taste of that mysteriously interesting somebody whose individuality made itself felt across a lapse of years to the wondering new comer.

Olivia Denison was not by any means a fanciful girl. She had been brought up by a step-mother—a mode of education little likely to produce an unwholesome forcing of the sentimental tendencies. She was besides too athletic and vigorously healthy to be prone to superstitious or morbid imaginings. But as she stood straining her eyes in the fading daylight to take in every detail of the mysterious room, the panelling, which in this apartment alone was left its own dark color, seemed to take strange moving patterns as she looked; the musty, close air seemed to choke her; and faint creakings and moanings, either in the ancient woodwork or the loose-hanging ivy outside, grew in her listening ears to a murmur as of a voice trying to speak, and miserably failing to make itself understood. She was roused by a shrill cry, and found Lucy, whose fear for her mistress had overcome her fear of this desolate room, shaking her by the arm and pulling her towards the door.

“Oh, Miss Olivia, do come out—do come out! You’re going to faint; I’m sure you are. It’s all this horrid room—this horrid house. Oh, do come and write, and tell master it’s not a fit place for Christians to come to, and he’d never prosper if he was to come here, and nor wouldn’t none of us, I’m positive. Do come, Miss Olivia, there’s a dear. It’s fit to choke one in here, what with the rats and the damp, that it is. And if we was to stay here long enough we’d see ghosts, I know.”

Olivia laughed. No phantom had terrors for her, however strong an impression half-guessed realities might make upon her youthful imagination.

“Don’t be afraid, Lucy,” she said, encouragingly. “We’ll soon frighten the ghosts away by letting a little fresh air into these musty rooms. Here, help me.”

Half reassured by her resonant voice, the maid accompanied her to the larger window, still clinging to her arm, but more for companionship than with the idea of affording support to her mistress, who had recovered her self-command. Together they succeeded in throwing open both windows to their full extent, not, however, accomplishing this without a shriek from Lucy as a great bird flew out of the hanging ivy and almost flapped against their faces in his confusion at this unusual disturbance. They both felt a sense of relief as the keen but fresh outside air blew into the long-closed room, dispersing the mouldy, musty smell of damp hangings and decaying wood. Even the old woman, who had stood all this time in the doorway, apparently engaged in muttering incantations over her tallow dip, but really transfixed by this audacity of young blood, drew a long breath as the rush of fresh air reached her, and gathered courage to ask “what they were after doin’ now?”

“Were ‘after’ ransacking every corner of this old ghost run, turning it upside down and inside out, and chasing away the last shadow of a bogey,” answered Olivia, cheerily. “Here’s another room to look into.”

Crossing the room with a light step, she opened the door of the second of the closed-up apartments. This chamber also had escaped the dismantling of the rest of the house, but it contained very little that would have been worth taking away. It was lighted by three small windows, all much broken, and all hung with limp rags which had once been muslin curtains, gaily tied up with blue ribbons, which were now almost colorless with dust and damp. The floor was covered with matting, which smelt like damp straw, and had evidently afforded many a meal to the rats now scurrying behind the woodwork, which in this room was much decayed and in far from good repair. A plain deal table, from which the cover had been removed; two limp wicker chairs with ragged cushions; an empty birdcage; a fanciful wicker kennel for a lapdog; these were nearly all that were left of the furniture. Olivia inspected everything with eager but silent interest, and then turned suddenly to Sarah Wall, who had again followed them as far as the door, preferring even the eerie passage of the bedroom to solitude outside.

“Who lived in these rooms last?” she asked.

But the candle nearly fell from Mrs. Wall’s hand as, for all answer, she withdrew into the desolation of the deserted bedroom rather than face the eager questioner again.

Olivia was not to be put off so easily. She followed precipitately, and, changing the form of her attack, said—

“How long is it since these rooms were shut up, Mrs. Wall?”

The guide’s eyes shifted about, refusing to meet those of the young girl.

“Twea year’; same as rest o’ t’ house,” she answered, in a grumbling tone.

“Only two years! It wasn’t shut up long before the family went away, then?” said Olivia, incredulously.

“Not as Ah knaws on,” answered Sarah Wall.

Miss Denison hated an untruth with the impetuous loathing of an honest nature. She would have liked to shake this wretched old woman, who would not be candid on a subject which could not be of the slightest importance to her. Perhaps her companion got an inkling of this inclination, for she turned and beat a hasty retreat along the narrow passage which led from the bedroom to the body of the house. Olivia did not at once follow her. With a curious reluctance, whether reverence for a dead past whose relics she was disturbing, or fear of some shock which its revelations might bring her, she scarcely knew, the girl picked up one of the dust-begrimed novels, and looked at the title page. But there was nothing written on it. She opened three or four more of the novels with the same result. By this time it was growing so dark that she had to hasten her movements for fear that when at last a clue was found she might be unable to distinguish the letters. Having in vain examined every book upon the table, she continued to explore until she found, on a small hanging bookshelf in an obscure corner of the room, a little pile of devotional works—Bible, hymn book, Bogatsky’s “Golden Treasury,” a tiny “Daily Portion,” and a prayer book. This last was on the top of all. As Olivia opened it, there fell to the floor tiny dried scraps of flowers and fern. Turning to the flyleaf, and carrying the book in haste to the window, she found these words, written in a round, school-boy hand—

“Ellen Mitchell, from her affectionate brother Ned.” And a date of eighteen years back.

Olivia replaced the prayer book on the shelf, and left the old room without further delay, followed by Lucy, who had remained close at hand, but discreetly silent, during these investigations.

When they reached the outer end of the passage, Olivia glanced with some curiosity at the old door she had so roughly broken down, and as she did so, some letters written in pencil high on the upper panel caught her eye. With difficulty she made out a date in July ten years before.

“I wonder,” she thought, “whether that is the date on which the rooms were locked up. If so, it was eight years before the last people left the house, I know. And their name was Mitchell. Who can I ask to tell me the story?”

And, having forgotten cold, fatigue, and hunger in the interest of her discoveries, Olivia Denison made her way slowly down to the ground floor again, where she caught Mrs. Wall in the act of slipping out of the front door.

CHAPTER III.

The estimable Sarah Wall was, as she herself would have said, “not in the best of tempers” at being intercepted in her proposed flight.

“Ah thowt ye’d got all ye wanted,” she grumbled, as Olivia Denison followed her out on to the doorstep and asked her where she was going. “Ah wur goin’ whoam to get a coop o’ tea, for Ah’m fair clemmed.”

“You thought we’d got all we wanted!” said Olivia, ironically. “Why, we’ve got nothing at all—not even a chair to sit on. I think, if you have tea going at your cottage, you might ask us to come and have some.”

“Hey, that ye might, Sally,” said a gruff voice, which Olivia had now learnt to recognize as that of a friend.

Turning, she saw Mat Oldshaw, his blushes, if he were still blushing, invisible in the darkness, standing at the foot of the steps, mounting guard over the luggage, which he had piled together.

“Oh,” cried the girl, with a sudden change to melting gratitude, “you haven’t been waiting out here in the cold all this time for us, have you?”

“Weel, miss,” said Mat, laughing uneasily, and shifting from one heavy foot to the other, “t’ door was shut, an’ Ah couldn’t get in.”

And, to put an end to conversation, which was an art in which he felt he did not shine, the young fellow seized the two smallest trunks and carried them straight into the big farm living room, whistling a lively tune as he did so. Olivia stood back quite silently while he fetched in the rest of the luggage in the same way, and then stood looking at it dubiously by the light of Mrs. Wall’s candle.

“It bean’t naw good onfastenin’ t’ cords,” he said at last, “for they won’t stay in here. An’ Ah dunno reightly what to be doin’ for ye if yer goods bean’t coom.”

He went back again to the front door and looked out. Not that he could see anything of the road, for the huge barn opposite, completely blocked the view from this point. But he was a good deal affected by the predicament in which this beautiful lady and her attendant found themselves, and he was shy of meeting the lady’s eyes, being without means of comforting her. Suddenly a figure darted out from the gloom under the barn walls, a strong hand was laid upon the lad’s arm, and, willy-nilly, he was dragged down the steps and heartily cuffed before he had recovered from his first surprise.

“Eh, feyther, what art doin’ now?” he asked, as soon as he had recovered breath, having speedily recognized the touch of his parent’s loving hand.

“Eh, thou feaul, thoo teastrill; Ah’ve got tha! Ah know’d wheer thoo’d got to. This cooms o’ followin’ fowk wha can’t keep off t’ lasses. Coom whoam; coom tha whoam, and if ivver Ah catch tha again a-slitherin’ about yon house, Ah’ll turn ye oot o’ ma house, and oot o’ ma farm, as if ye wur nobbut a ploughboy, thet Ah will!”

Mat wriggled and writhed till he got loose from his father’s grasp, and slinking back a step or two, he called out, not loudly or defiantly, but with the same rough kindliness which he had shown from the first towards the friendly girls—

“Now mind, Sally, thou maun mash t’ best coop o’ tea thoo can for t’ leddies.”

John Oldshaw turned round at these words, and addressed the old woman in a thick and angry voice.

“Sarah Wall, get back to tha whoam an’ tha own business. An’ if thoo canna keep tha owd fingers oot o’ other fowks’ affairs, tha needna coom oop oor way o’ Soondays for t’ broaken meat. So now thoo knaws.”

And, with a jerk of the head to his son to intimate that Mat could go on in front and he would follow, the farmer stamped slowly and heavily away down the yard.

His coarse unkindness affected the three women differently. Little Lucy began to whimper and to sob out indignant maledictions upon “the ol-ol-old brute;” Mrs. Wall, after dropping half a dozen frightened curtseys, manifested a great eagerness to go; Olivia drew herself up and became very stern and grave.

“You need not mind what that man says, Mrs. Wall,” she said, in a firm quiet voice. “You may be very sure that any kindness you do us will be amply repaid. And as for the broken meat he talks about, if you will really lose that by letting us rest a little while in your cottage and giving us a cup of tea, I can promise you a good dinner every Sunday while my father lives here.”

But Mrs. Wall was too far timorous and cautious a person to risk the substantial reality of broken meat on Sundays from the great man of the village for the flimsy vision of a good dinner from a total stranger. She thrust her flickering tallow candle into Lucy’s hands, and began to tie her wispy bonnet strings with a resolute air.

“I’ll leave t’ candle,” she said, as if making a great and generous concession; “an’ that’s a’ I can do for ye. For I’ve nowt in my place I could set afore a leddy; an’ as for tea, the bit fire I left will be out by this time.”

“But I can light your fire again for you, and boil your kettle in two twos,” burst in Lucy. “And we’ve brought some tea with us.”

Her young mistress put a light hand on her arm.

“Never mind, Lucy,” she said, quietly. “If Mrs. Wall doesn’t care for us to go to her cottage we will not trouble her.”

As she spoke her eyes brightened, for at the end of the long barn she descried in the dusk the figure of the gentleman who had come to their aid that afternoon and then left them with such unaccountable suddenness. Lucy saw him too, and being more demonstrative than her mistress, she gave vent to her delight in words.

“No, Mrs. Wall, ma’am; you needn’t go for to put yourself out, for there’s better folks than you coming along, that are a deal more obliging than ever you’d be, and that have some Christian kindness in them, which is more than can be said for you. Ugh, you grumpy old woman, you!”

“Hush, Lucy,” said her mistress in gentle rebuke; “the gentleman will hear you. And I don’t suppose he is coming here at all,” she added, reluctantly, as the figure they had both so quickly recognized disappeared again in the gloom.

“What gentleman? What gentleman?” asked the old woman, shrilly.

“How should we know, when we’re strangers here?” retorted Lucy, who, now, that her tongue was once loosened, was delighted to have what she afterwards called “a go-in” at their disobliging guide. “But he was a real gentleman; not like your pig-faced friend in the corduroy trousers that you’re so mighty civil to; and he wears knickerbockers and gaiters and a cap over his eyes, if that is anything you can tell him by.”

Apparently it was, for Sarah gave a step back in horror, and ejaculated “Mercy on us!” two or three times, as if too much shocked for further speech.

“What’s the matter?” asked Olivia, rather sharply, remembering the stranger’s warning that she would hear no good of him from Sarah Wall, and curious to learn the reason. “If you know who the gentleman is, tell me his name. And what do you know against him?” she added, indiscreetly.

Mrs. Wall, though not brilliantly intelligent, had the splendid gift of reticence where she thought that things might “go round.” She only shook her head, therefore, and muttered something about getting herself into trouble and desiring to be allowed to go home.

“Well, just tell me first who he is, then, and you shall go at once,” said Olivia, persuasively.

The old woman, writhing nervously under the clasp of Miss Denison’s hand, evidently cast about in her mind for a means of getting free while committing herself as little as possible. The reluctant words which at last came out were not very well chosen, however.

“I’ll tell ye this, then,” she croaked, in a broken whisper, peering round with her sunken eyes as if to be sure the treasonable communication she was making was not overheard by the person concerned. “Yon gentleman, as ye call him, is not fit company for young ladies. And others have found it oot to their cost—so fowk say,” she added, hastily. Then, as Olivia released her arm and she tottered away over the hard ground, she looked back to add, in a querulous and anxious tone, “But don’t ye tak’ it frae me, mind. I nobbut told ye what I’ve heerd say.”

Olivia turned back towards the open door of the dreary house, feeling beyond measure miserable and disconsolate. The dimly seen figure of her friend of the afternoon had disappeared; the disobliging old woman who was at least a fellow-creature, was rapidly hobbling out of sight; while the words which had just, with so much difficulty, been forced out of her, seemed in the hag’s mouth to have acquired the chilling significance of a curse. Lucy felt this too, for coming closer to her mistress she half whispered—

“Oh, Miss Olivia, if there was really such things as witches, I should believe that old crone was one.”

“Nonsense! Come inside, and let us see what’s to be done.”

“Oh, you’re not going in again—all by ourselves! Oh, miss, just think of that upstairs room!” wailed the poor girl.

“Now, look here, Lucy, you mustn’t be ridiculous. We’re in a dreadful plight, and we’ve got to make the best of it. If you give way to silly fancies instead of doing your best to help me, I shall have to take you to that inn at the corner and leave you there while I come back and shift for myself as best I can.”

Lucy, who loved her young mistress, grew sober and good immediately.

“You know I’ll do what I can, Miss Olivia,” she said, suppressing a sob of alarm as a dull sound, apparently from the barn opposite, reached their ears.

Olivia listened. The sound was repeated.

“It sounds like some person chopping wood,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “I daresay, now the place is uninhabited, the villagers take what liberties they like with it, and use the barns and sheds to store their own wood and hay and things in. Now, come in, and let us undo some of the trunks before the candle goes out.”

With most reluctant feet, but without another word of remonstrance, Lucy followed her young mistress. Olivia, with resolute steps and a mouth set with an expression which said to the phantoms of the old house, “Come on if you dare!” re-entered the hall, and kneeling down before a trunk which had been placed there, attacked the cord round it with inexpert but strong fingers. They had got it open, and were congratulating themselves that in this, the first trunk unpacked, were candles, tea, and a little spirit lamp, when, suddenly, there fell upon their ears a noise which even to the brave spirited Olivia was, in a lonely, empty house, undeniably alarming. It came from the long living room where most of their luggage lay, and was as of some heavy body falling with a crash on to the floor.

Olivia sprang to her feet.

“I opened one of the windows,” she said, “and forgot to shut it. Some one has got in! No, don’t scream!”

She clapped her hand on Lucy’s mouth and reduced the threatened shriek to a moan; then, the noise having by this time ceased, she turned, heedless of the maid’s whispered supplications, to the door of the long room. The lock was stiff with rust and the handle difficult to turn; so that, perhaps not much against her will, she left the intruder, if intruder it was, time to escape. But there was no fresh sound, and the young girl’s brave heart fluttered a little with the fear that perhaps, on opening the door, she would come face to face with a defiant marauder. At last the door opened. It was dark by this time; through the opened shutters of the four windows came only just enough light to show that the trunks, piled up on the bare floor, had at least not been removed. The air blew in, very keen and cold, through the one open window, which was at the other end of the room, nearest to the fireplace.

“Is anybody there?” asked Olivia, scarcely without a tremor.

Her voice echoed without reply in the desolate department.

She held up the candle and advanced slowly, examining every gloomy corner. No one was there; no trace of any one having been there until, as she reached the other end, her glance fell on some dark object lying close under the open window. At this sight Lucy could not suppress the long-stifled scream, and it was not until her mistress pouncing down upon the mysterious thing, revealed the fact that it was only a couple of logs and a bundle of sticks, neatly tied together with a piece of string, that she found enough relief from terror to burst into tears.

“Who’s the benevolent burglar, I wonder,” cried Olivia, her spirits rising instantly at the discovery of the little anonymous act of kindness.

She ran to the window and looked out. There was no one to be seen; but on the window-ledge lay a box of cigar lights.

“The mysterious stranger again!” she said to herself. Then turning to the maid, said, “Now, Lucy, make a fire as fast as you can. There are some newspapers with the rugs. Here are sticks and logs and matches. We shall feel different creatures when we are once warm.”

She shut down the window and boiled some water with her little spirit lamp; while Lucy, with cunning hands, made in the huge rusty grate a fire which was soon roaring up the chimney, and pouring its bright warm light on floor and wall and ceiling. The spirits both of mistress and maid began to rise a little as they drew up one of the smaller trunks to the fire, and made a frugal meal of biscuits and milkless tea.

“It is a horrid place, though, Miss Olivia,” said Lucy, who had been chilled to the heart by Sarah Wall’s utterances, and did not feel wholly sure that she herself had not been bewitched by that uncanny person.

“Oh, I suppose it might have been worse. They might have thrown bricks at us,” said her mistress; “and remember that two people have already been very kind to us.”

“Perhaps the young farmer-man only took to us just out of aggravation because his father didn’t,” suggested Lucy, who was a well-brought-up girl, and affected to take cynical views of young men. “And as for the gentleman, why, the old woman as good as said decent folk had better have nothing to do with him.”

“But you surely wouldn’t take that miserable old woman’s word for it?”

“No, but I’d take his own face, miss. I watched him when the old farmer was going on so; and, my gracious! I never see such a black look on any one’s face before. He seemed to grow all dark and purple-looking, and his eyes were quite red-like. It was just like as if he’d have knocked the other man down, miss, that it was.”

“Well, I don’t think I should have thought any the worse of him if he had.”

“Oh, miss, it’s an evil face. And I’m never deceived about faces. I said, first time I saw her, that nursery-maid Mrs. Denison sent away without a character was no good. And then that under-gardener——”

“You mustn’t let your prejudices run away with you. Judge people by their actions; not their looks. Now, I saw something quite different in that gentleman’s face, and we can’t both be right. It seemed to me that he looked like a man who had had a very hard life and a great deal of trouble; as if he had done nothing but struggle, struggle with—I don’t know exactly with what; poverty, perhaps, or perhaps with a violent temper, or——”

She stopped, and stared into the fire, having ceased to remember that she was carrying on a conversation. Her wandering thoughts, however, soon took a practical turn again. “The cabman!” she cried, starting up tragically; “I never paid him.”

She was instinctively turning towards the door, haunted by an alarming sum in addition of innumerable hours at sixpence every quarter of an hour, when Lucy’s voice, in tones of great shrewdness, stopped her.

“Oh, Miss Olivia,” she said, shaking her head knowingly; “he’s gone away long ago. If this was a place where cabmen would wait for their fares for two hours without so much as knocking at the door, we might think ourselves in heaven, which the other people shows us we’re not.”

“Well, but who paid his fare, then?”

Lucy began to look not only mysterious, but rather alarmed.

“Oh, Miss Olivia, perhaps it’s a plot to get us into his power!”

They had both come to the same conclusion as to the person who paid the fare, but at this point their reflections branched off into widely different channels.

“You’re a little goose, Lucy, and you’ve been filling your head with penny novels, I can see,” said she.

But the obligation to a stranger, which she could scarcely doubt she was under, troubled her.

“It is very, very awkward to be thrown out like this in a strange place with nobody to go to for help or advice,” she began; when suddenly a light came into her face, and she sprang up and ran to fetch her travelling bag. “I’d forgotten all about it!” she cried, as she drew out a closed letter directed in an old-fashioned, pointed, feminine hand to “Mrs. Brander, the Vicarage, Rishton.” “The wife of one of the curates at Streatham knows the wife of the vicar here, and gave me a letter of introduction to her. I will go and call upon her at once. If she is the least nice she will help us, and tell us how to treat with these savages.”

Olivia was fastening her mantle, which she had not taken off, and putting on her gloves. Lucy’s round face had grown very long.

“And must I stay here, miss, all by myself?” she asked, dolefully.

Olivia looked at her dubiously.

“I would rather you stayed here, certainly, because, you see, the furniture might come while we were away,” she said at last. “On the other hand, if you are going to frighten yourself into a fit at the scraping of every mouse——”

Lucy drew herself up. She was not really a coward, and this speech put her upon her mettle.

“I’ll stay, Miss Olivia,” she said, resolutely; adding, in a milder voice, “You won’t be very long, will you?”

“Indeed I won’t,” answered her mistress, promptly. “I don’t suppose it takes more than five minutes to go from one end of the village to the other. We saw the church from the cab windows; it’s on the top of the hill. I shall make for that; the Vicarage is sure not to be far off.”

Without more delay Olivia left the house, taking the way to the right by which they had approached the house, in the hope of meeting some one belonging to the inn who would direct her. She was fortunate enough to come upon a diminutive villager, who, after lengthy interrogation and apparent ignorance as to where “the Vicarage” was, acknowledged to knowing “where the parson lived.”

“Will you take me to the house if I give you twopence?”

“Hey,” replied the small boy, promptly.

He did not start, however, until he had taken an exhaustive survey of her, either for identification in case she should try to elude him at the other end of the journey, or to satisfy himself whether she was a person likely to possess twopence.

“Theer’s two ways,” he said, at last. “Short way over t’ brook, an’ oop t’ steps and through t’ churchyard; long way by t’ road an’ oop t’ hill.”

“Go the short way, then.”

“Mr. Midgley, t’ carpenter, fell an’ broak his leg goin’ oop theer this afternoon. An’ t’ churchyard geate’s cloased by now.”

“Well, then, we’ll go the other way, of course.”

The boy trudged along up the road, which was a continuation of that by which they had come to the farm, and made no attempt at conversation except in answer to Olivia’s questions. She made out, after much persevering pumping, that the vicar, Mr. Brander, was much liked, and that his wife was only a little less popular. After this there was a pause, which was broken by the boy, as they passed between a plain stone building, standing back from the road on the right, and a group of hay and straw stacks, sheds, and farm buildings on the left.

“That’s Mester Oldshaw’s farm,” said the boy.

“Ugh!” ejaculated Olivia below her breath, hurrying on with angrily averted eyes.

The whole place, seen by the weak light of the rising moon, seemed to her to display the repulsive hideousness of its master.

After this the road wound to the left up the hill, and they passed a few scattered cottages, one of which was the primitive village post office.

“That be t’ parson’s house,” said the boy, as they came in sight of an irregularly built stone house standing high, on the left-hand side of the road, in a well-wooded garden.

They had to go round this garden, and turn sharply to the left into a private road at the top of the hill. This brought them face to face with the gates of the little churchyard, while on the left was the front door of the Vicarage, a pretty building in the Tudor style, which, seen even in the faint moonlight, had a pleasant, welcoming air of comfort, peace, and plenty. Olivia gave the boy his twopence, and rang the bell with a hopeful heart. Everything seemed to promise well for the success of her errand. A neat maid soon came to the door, but to Olivia’s inquiry whether Mrs. Brander were at home came the dispiriting answer that she was away. Miss Denison reflected a moment.

“Is Mr. Brander at home?” she then asked.

“Yes, ma’am, Mr. Vernon Brander is in. Will you see him?”

“Yes, if I can.”

She followed the servant across the wide, well-formed hall, to a door at which the maid knocked.

“Come in,” said a voice, which seemed familiar to Olivia.

“A lady wishes to see you, sir,” said the servant.

“Show her in at once,” said the man’s voice.

Olivia drew back instead of advancing, as the servant made way for her to enter.

“It is Mr. Brander, the clergyman, I wish to see,” said Olivia, hurriedly, in a low voice.

“Oh, yes, ma’am, it’s all right. Mr. Brander is a clergyman,” answered the maid, reassuringly.

Before another word could pass, Mr. Brander himself, hearing a discussion, came to the door. Olivia looked at him in some confusion. It was her unknown friend of the afternoon!

CHAPTER IV.

Olivia’s momentary embarrassment was at once removed by the kindness of Mr. Brander’s greeting.

“Yes, Mr. Brander is a clergyman. I hope you have no prejudice against the cloth,” he said, holding out his hand with a welcoming smile. “It’s not a proper clerical garment, I confess,” he went on, as Olivia’s glance fell instinctively upon the old shooting coat he now wore; “but I flatter myself the collar saves it.”

And he pointed to his orthodox round collar.

“I am not sure of that,” said the young girl, smiling in answer. “For instance, if I had known this afternoon that you were a clergyman, I should have felt much more at ease about accepting your very kind services.”

“Should you? Well, then, you are at ease about it now. Come in, and tell me if there is anything more I can do for you.”

Olivia followed him into the most charmingly luxurious study she had ever seen. Everything in it was comfortable and handsome, in the best modern taste. The doors, mantelpiece, and panelling were of carved light oak, the furniture of the same, upholstered in dark-green morocco. There were portieres and curtains of dark tapestry, harmonizing with the carpet. The books, which filled four large and handsome bookcases, looked to the connoisseur too dainty to be touched by common fingers. Evidences of a woman’s presiding eye and hand were there too, Olivia fancied, in a certain graceful draping of the curtains, which seemed to her to betray neither the upholsterer nor the housemaid; in a tall bouquet of dried bulrushes and corn which stood in one corner; and in a small conservatory, full of dark palms and ferns, into which one of the windows opened. Everything was well chosen, everything harmonized with everything else, except the shabbily dressed figure in the centre, with his lean, dark, worn face, and hungry black eyes, and the tattered volume he held in his hand. Mr. Brander read the thought that flashed through his guest’s mind, and asked—

“Now, what is your first impression of this room?”

“It is very, very pretty,” said Olivia.

“Well, and what else?”

“Some one else had more to do with the arrangement of it than you.”

Olivia had never before felt so perfectly at ease with a stranger—so able to speak her passing thoughts out frankly and freely.

“Right; quite right. And now let me hear what sort of a guess you can make as to the person who had the arrangement of it.”

“It was a lady. Perhaps a lady who has had some art-school training; but one who can think for herself a little too. Not an every-day sort of lady, and yet not eccentric. One whom you would like to know, but whom you might be a little afraid of.”

By the interest and pleasure with which Mr. Brander followed her as she proceeded slowly and cautiously with her conjectures, Olivia felt sure that she was describing his wife, and also that she was getting near the truth. But then a look of pain came into his dark face, which set her wondering whether they had had a severe quarrel, whether there was some serious estrangement between them, or whether the trouble from which he was evidently suffering was caused merely by the absence of the woman of his heart. This singular clergyman, with his unconventional dress and manners, his worn face, and his great kindness, was so different from any of the stiff curates and unctuous vicars she had ever met, that he and his surroundings awoke in her the liveliest interest, even apart from the mysterious warning of Sarah Wall, and the surly insolence shown towards him by Farmer Oldshaw. After a short pause, he said—

“Right in every particular. Now we will see if you can find the lady.”

On the mantelpiece was a collection of photographs, most of them of more or less beautiful women, all handsomely framed. Mr. Brander invited Olivia to come up and inspect them. With another slight feeling of surprise, which she would have found it hard to account for, she stepped on to the soft fur hearthrug and made a careful review of the whole gallery. But here she was quite at a loss.

“I must lose my character for divination,” she said at last, shaking her head as she stepped back. “I don’t see any face that I could point out with any certainty.”

“Try.”

She chose one. Mr. Brander shook his head.

“Wrong,” he said. “You have disappointed me. What made you choose that one? Give me the nearest approach you can to a reason.”

“It looks a good, kind, sensible face.”

“It belongs to a good, kind, sensible woman—a Miss Williams—a striking contrast to the rest of her family,” he added as a comment to himself. “But she is not the lady who chose the fittings of this room. What do you say to this one?”

It was Olivia’s turn to be disappointed, and her face showed her surprise. The photograph was that of a woman who was very handsome, and there your reflections concerning her portrait ended. Mr. Brander laughed.

“Say what you think of it quite frankly. I shan’t be offended,” he said.

“It is a beautiful face,” she answered.

“Well, what else?”

“Nothing else,” said Olivia in desperation. “Mrs. Brander may have every great quality that ever adorned a woman; but her face, like nearly all very beautiful ones, I think, is just beautiful and nothing else.”

“Don’t you see any feeling, imagination, passion?”

“No—o, indeed I can’t.”

“Well, that’s all right, because she hasn’t any.”

Olivia listened rather awkwardly, for Mr. Brander had unconsciously let a little feeling, a little bitterness sound in the tones of his own voice.

“Do you see great common sense, shrewdness, and a splendid faculty for perceiving where the greatest advantage lies to her and hers?”

His tone was still a little bitter, but it was good-humored and playful also.