CHAPTER II.

WHAT PRISCILLA PEYTON HAD TO TELL.

In a cheerful room at Heron Dyke, with the morning sun shining upon it, there sat two young women, busily plying their needles: Miss Winter's maid, Adele, and a dressmaker, one Priscilla Peyton. Priscilla was a homely, pleasant-featured person, between thirty and forty, who had often been employed at the Hall. They were making a morning gown for the Hall's mistress.

"What am I to do?" suddenly cried Priscilla. "It is impossible to get on without cord. I thought you would be sure to have some up here, or I'd have brought it with me."

"We generally do have it--plenty of it, but it was all used up last week, Miss Peyton," replied Adele; a steady, dark young woman, who spoke English and French equally well.

Miss Winter came into the room at this juncture, and the difficulty was revealed to her. She said Adele had better go to the nearest shop, one at this end of Nullington, and buy some cord.

But to this order the dressmaker looked as if she would like to demur. "What is it, Priscilla?" asked Miss Winter. "Can you not spare her?"

"Well, ma'am, the truth is, I shall be waiting for that frilling she is hemming."

"Oh, I will finish that for you, Priscilla," readily replied the young lady, who had a natural aptitude and liking for work.

She took a seat by the window; and Adele departed in search of what was required. Hemming quickly at the strip of cambric, Ella talked the while to Priscilla Peyton, whom she had known--and esteemed--for years.

"It is some time since you were at work here, is it not, Priscilla?" she remarked.

"Well, it is, ma'am. With so many more maids in the house, Mrs. Stone gets done for her what I used to come to do. The last time I was here at work was when you were abroad, Miss Ella, and the poor Squire was lying ill."

"Did you see him?"

"Oh no, ma'am: oh no. Nobody used to see him then, save the doctor, and that. I was here the best part of a week, mending gowns for Mrs. Stone, and making her a new one. It was only about a fortnight before the Squire died."

Ella sighed. Priscilla Peyton, bending over her work, spoke again.

"I used to think, sitting in Mrs. Stone's parlour, how much I should like to see him once again; yes, I did, ma'am. I said so one day to Eliza; and she answered me that I might just as well wish to see the inside of the moon--that for months and months nobody had been admitted to see the Squire but those that had the pass-keys."

Ella, looking up from her work, stared at the neat brown hair and the neat white cap of the young woman, bending over hers, as if she were asking some solution to the words.

"Pass-keys?" she repeated. "What were they?"

"Keys that would open the green baize doors which the Squire had put up to shut out his rooms from the rest of the house, and which were always kept locked night and day, ma'am," replied Priscilla.

"And who kept these pass-keys?"

"There were four of them, ma'am," Priscilla said, "and four people had them, one each. Aaron Stone and poor Mr. Hubert, who is just gone; Dr. Jago had one, and the nurse."

Ella paused. "Of what nurse do you speak? My uncle never had a nurse."

"Indeed he had, Miss Ella. It was a Mrs. Dexter: sent for from London by Dr. Jago."

A nurse from London! This was the first time Miss Winter had heard of the existence of such a person at the Hall. The revelation was not palatable to her.

"How long was this Mrs. Dexter at the Hall--do you know, Priscilla?"

"It was a good while, ma'am; though I can't say exactly. I think she was here before Christmas--I am next to sure of it. Why yes--I remember now," quickly added the young woman; "she came in November. I was up here one wet November day; and while I was drying my petticoats at the kitchen fire, Phemie whispered to me that she thought the master must be worse, for they had got a London nurse in the house."

"Did this nurse remain with my uncle till the last?"

"She did, ma'am. She left the day after his death, in May."

Miss Winter said no more; she was thinking. Why was the presence of this nurse in the house kept from her?--for kept it assuredly had been. Why and wherefore had the woman's name never been mentioned to her, or the fact of her having been so long at the Hall? Her uncle had not spoken of her in his letters, or Hubert Stone in his notes.

"I saw Mrs. Dexter take her departure," resumed Priscilla, as a bit of gossip. "A lovely May morning it was, and I had gone to the station to see my little nephew off by the London train. Mrs. Dexter drove up in a fly, with a trunk and a little black bag that she carried in her hand, and I saw her get into the train. It was but the day after the Squire died; the bells were tolling for him."

And of course but two or three days before Miss Winter's return. And yet no one inmate of the Hall had informed her that this nurse had been there! It was altogether very strange.

"Did you say, Priscilla, that people at the last were not admitted to see my uncle, save those who had the pass-keys?"

"Ma'am, not for months and months. Eliza told me she did not believe a soul had been allowed to go in to see him since the past November. No matter who came--the Reverend Mr. Kettle, or any other of the Squire's old friends, they were never let go in."

"I wonder why?" involuntarily exclaimed Miss Winter.

"That I couldn't say, ma'am. Nobody could, I expect, save Dr. Jago. It must have been frightfully lonely for him, poor sick gentleman! He was never seen at all, or his footsteps heard, or the sound of his voice, Eliza said. To the girl it seemed just as though he were shut up in a living tomb."

Miss Winter asked no more questions. That something, and of set purpose, had been hidden from her; some drama enacted within those walls of which it was intended that she should know nothing, she fully believed. And there came rushing into her mind Hubert Stone's words--that if the truth were known she was no more the owner of Heron Dyke than he was. Again and again she asked herself what the truth was, and how it could be brought to light.

Ella carried her trouble to Mr. Kettle, her uncle's friend of many years. She sat with him in his study, Maria being present. She revealed to him her doubts; she hinted at Hubert's strange assertion on the wreck; she repeated what Priscilla Peyton had said, and then she appealed to him to advise her what she ought to do next.

The Vicar was not remarkable for penetration or sagacity, but he was a kindly, well-disposed man where his own ease and comfort were not in question; and if his words were sometimes weak and ineffective, he could, when required, put on a very wise and solemn air, which in itself was a comfort to those who sought his advice. But he really did not see what advice he could give now.

"I was, myself," he said, "more surprised and hurt than I can tell you that for some months before my old friend's death I was denied all access to him--I, who had been in the habit of calling at the Hall at least once a fortnight, ay, and oftener, for the last twenty years. When I found myself rebuffed one time after another, I could hardly believe that it was the Squire's own personal wish that I should not see him, although they assured me it was so. Old Aaron would usher me into a room with as much politeness as he was in the habit of showing to anybody, and would take in my message. Back he would come; or else Dr. Jago, or that sly-looking, smooth-tongued nurse, or perhaps Hubert Stone. But, no matter who came, each had the same tale to tell. The Squire had had a worse night than usual, or he was asleep, or he was too weak to-day to see anyone; whatever the excuse might be, I was never allowed to see him. It was the source of very considerable pain to me at the time, and I expressed myself rather strongly about it in my letters to Maria."

"There _must_ have been something in all this--don't you think so, sir?" returned Ella. "Something to conceal."

"It seems like it, my dear; it used to seem like it to me. But I do not see what it could be; and I am sure I cannot imagine anything that could tend to peril your inheritance."

"Nor I," said Ella, "I wish I could. I mean I wish I could see any solution by which these doubts could be set at rest. The will was quite in order; Mr. Daventry tells me so----"

"Having been drawn up by Mr. Daventry, you may be sure of that, my dear," interrupted the Vicar.

"The only one thing, he says, that could possibly render it invalid, is my uncle having died before his birthday," continued Ella.

"And we know he did not die before it. He lived nearly a month after it."

"I--suppose--he--did live?" spoke Ella, with much hesitation.

"Did live!" echoed the Vicar, in surprise. "Why of course he did. People saw him and spoke with him. Don't you know that the other Mr. Denison's lawyer and his clerk came to the Hall two or three days subsequently to the Squire's birthday, and had an interview with him?--saw him; conversed with him. How could they have done that had he not been living? The Squire went into one of his passions, it was said, dashed his beef-tea, cup and all, into the fire, and abused the lawyer to his face."

Ella could not help a smile.

"Yes," she said, "I was told of that."

"Then, what else is there to fear? For anyone to come to you and say that if certain facts were known to the world you would not be mistress of Heron Dyke, seems to me sheer nonsense--if not malice. Were I in your place, my dear Miss Winter, I should certainly trouble myself no further in the matter."

Ella shook her head.

"All these arguments seem so cogent, so true--and yet I cannot feel satisfied. I am at a loss to know what more to do."

"Do nothing," said the Vicar, decisively. "I think you attach an exaggerated importance to the words. Some designing rascal it must have been who spoke them--wanting to swindle money out of you. Give him into custody should he apply again."

Remembering how impossible it was that he could apply again, a sad shade passed over Ella's countenance. The Vicar saw it: and of course mistook it. He knitted his brow.

"Take my advice, my dear Miss Winter, and rest satisfied," he said. "Do not try to create a mystery where none exists, save in your own imagination."

There was no more to be said. The Vicar's reasoning and advice had been much like Mr. Daventry's. Ella wished she could feel as secure as they felt.

She and Maria went out together. They were going to the Leaning Gate. As it was now decided that the fever of Betsy Tucker was not an infectious one, and as the girl was said to be getting weaker, Miss Winter considered it was her duty to go to see her. Maria had been more than once.

"What do you think, Maria, of the advice your father gave me--to let this doubt as to my inheritance rest, and be satisfied?" questioned Ella, as they walked along. "Oh that I could see my way to a little more light!"

"Light does not always come when we ask for it, or when we fancy that we need it most," answered Maria, "and yet it generally comes at the time that is best for us. You must hope that it will do so in the present case: that is, if you still feel there is something hidden that you ought to know."

"That is just the feeling which I cannot get rid of. Were you in my place, Maria, what would you do?"

"I hardly know," answered Maria, slowly. "It seems to me that you are bound to leave no stone unturned in your efforts to discover the truth, and this none the less, perhaps indeed rather the more, that the truth, when revealed, may prove disastrous to you from a worldly point of view."

"I can only wait for more light," said Ella, with a sigh. "The difficulty is, how to get the light--where to look for it."

"I perceive that," said Maria. "You can but wait and watch. Here we are!--and there's poor Mrs. Keen."

Betsy Tucker was in bed, the victim of a distressing kind of low fever. Dr. Spreckley hoped to bring her through it, but he was not sanguine. After turning and tossing for hours incessantly, Mrs. Keen informed them she had now sunk into a troubled sleep. They stood by the bed in silence, looking at the sick girl's crimson-fevered cheeks.

"She is light-headed at times," whispered the landlady, "fancying herself back at the Hall. She starts up in bed, ma'am"--turning to Miss Winter--"crying out, 'Hush! there are the footsteps in the corridor again! And now,' she'll go on, 'they are trying the door. See! see! the handle moves!' and with that, ma'am, she sinks back on the pillow and buries her head under the clothes. For my part," concluded Mrs. Keen, "I cannot help thinking it was that night's fright which has brought on the fever."

"To what do you allude?" asked Miss Winter. "Has she been frightened?"

"Why yes, ma'am. But I thought you knew of it, or I'd not have spoken. It was talked of a good deal at the Hall. She was badly frightened."

"In what way?"

"It was the night of the storm a few weeks ago," replied the landlady, vexed to have alluded to this before Miss Winter, as it seemed she did not know of it. "Betsy could not get to sleep for the noise; and between the gusts of wind, when all was momentarily still, she heard footsteps walking about the corridor outside her bedroom door. After a time she struck a light, and then, so she says, she distinctly saw the handle of her room door turn this way and that, as though somebody was trying to get in; but she had locked it on going to bed. She came down here to tell me of it the next day, and I tried to persuade her that it was nothing more than her own idle fancies that had frightened her, till at last she got quite out of temper with me. It must have taken great hold of her mind, I'm afraid, by the way she talks of it in her wanderings now."

"I never heard anything of this," remarked Miss Winter. "But I cannot understand why Betsy need have been so much frightened. She might have guessed that the footsteps were but those of one or other of the maids, unable to sleep for the storm. And what more natural than that they should turn the handle of her door, intending to keep Betsy company?"

"Yes, ma'am," assented Mrs. Keen, looking down.

"If I were to allow myself to be frightened by all the unaccountable noises I hear in the night at the Hall, especially when the wind is high, I should never care to sleep there again," continued Miss Winter. "I have no doubt that all old houses are alike in that respect, especially when many of the rooms are empty."

"Where is Susan?" interposed Maria, breaking the pause of silence.

"She is gone out to do some errands, Miss Maria. Susan is a famous help to me in nursing Betsy."

"Susan was always very gentle and patient," remarked Ella.

"And always will be, I hope, ma'am," responded Mrs. Keen. "She is a girl that has very little to say for herself, as you know, young ladies. On most points she seems as sensible as other people are, but now and then her mind seems to go vacant, just as if it couldn't quite grasp what you are telling her; and her memory is not always to be trusted. But she's a dear good girl in helping me in the house; I don't know what I should do without her."

"Does her sister's disappearance seem to prey upon her mind as much as it used to do?" and Miss Winter unconsciously lowered her voice as she put the question.

"I don't believe it is ever out of her thoughts," answered the landlady. "I know quite well what Susan is thinking about when she sits perfectly still, as she will sometimes do for half-an-hour together, staring straight before her, but without seeing anything. Katherine's name is never mentioned in her presence now. I think it best," continued Mrs. Keen, her eyes filling with tears: "though Heaven knows, my poor lost darling is rarely out of my thoughts."

"You will of course see that Betsy Tucker wants for nothing, Mrs. Keen," said Miss Winter, as the landlady attended the young ladies to the door. "I was very much vexed, as I have already told you, that she should have been sent away from the Hall: she should not have been had I been at home. Everything requisite for her shall be sent to her from my house, and one of the maids shall come this evening to watch by her for the night. We must not have you laid up."

"Oh, ma'am, please don't think of me. I am strong, and used to work. All my anxiety is lest we should not bring her through."

"Dr. Spreckley assures me that he has still good hopes of her. And he is, you know, skilful and attentive."

Ella glanced at the little garden as they left the door. That which had looked so bright and pleasant in the summer had now little to show in the faint November sunshine but bare branches, empty beds, and footpaths strewed with withered leaves.

"I think Mrs. Keen must be mistaken in fancying Betsy Tucker's illness has arisen from the fright she got the night of the storm," observed Miss Winter, after they had walked some little time in silence. "It is incredible that the mere hearing of footsteps in the corridor, and seeing her door tried, should have terrified her to any extent. Her own sense ought to have told her that what she heard was merely the footsteps of some of the other maids who could not rest on account of the storm."

"The girl was very much frightened at the time, I believe," said Miss Kettle; "though there can be little doubt the impression would have worn off but for something which she unfortunately heard a day or two later. Two of the others were conversing about it, not knowing that she was within hearing; they said to one another that it must have been the ghost walking at night--the ghost of Katherine Keen."

Miss Winter's brow knit angrily. "Who were those servants?"

"Eliza and Phemie. They had carefully kept it from the girl; and her hearing it was quite an accident. Betsy, it appears, believes in ghosts; and she confessed to Mrs. Keen she had never had one proper night's rest since, from fright."

"I suppose Mrs. Keen told you this, Maria?"

"Yes. The first time I went to see Betsy."

Miss Winter sighed. "I do not see what help there is for it. The whole affair remains as unaccountable as ever it was."

"Unaccountable, indeed," replied Maria, gravely. "At times when speaking of it, or hearing it spoken of, I turn shivery, as if I believed in the ghost myself. Here comes Susan."

The young girl, pleasant and placid-looking, was advancing with a basket of marketings. They stopped to speak to her. Miss Winter told her she was going to send one of the maids down to sit up with Betsy, and was passing onwards, when the anxious, appealing look in the girl's wan face arrested her.

"Did you wish to ask anything, Susan?"

"Oh, ma'am, if I might!--if I might!"

"Certainly you may. What is it?"

"I want to find out where they took Katherine to," spoke the girl in an urgent whisper. "Perhaps you know, ma'am; you are the mistress; and whether she is alive or dead."

"My poor Susan, I know no more about it than you do. I wish I did."

Susan clasped her hands, "I wonder how much longer we shall have to wait?"

"It may be, Susan, that we shall never know. It may be intended that we shall not know."

Susan shook her head. "I think it will all be known by-and-by, ma'am. Perhaps I shall be the one to find it out. I often wake up in the night and hear Katherine calling to me, only I can't tell where the voice comes from. I hear it oftenest in the larch plantation at the back of the Hall when the moon is at the full. But when I try to follow her voice I get bewildered with the strange fancies that seem to be dancing and whirling in my head; and sometimes I hear a laugh close behind me, and then I hurry off home and go to bed, and repeat hymns one after another till I get to sleep."

"There, run home now, Susan: your mother is waiting for you," interposed Miss Kettle with authority--for it was always best to cut off promptly these dreamy visions of Susan.

Ever obedient, Susan hastened towards the Leaning Gate, the far-away, spiritual expression dying out of her eyes. The others walked on, Maria with her gaze on the ground.

"Look opposite, Maria. There is some one you know."

Maria looked across the road, and saw Philip Cleeve, who appeared to be just as much absorbed as they were, his head bent in deep thought. He looked like Philip grown twenty years older--Philip without his elastic tread, his quick walk, his cheerful smile and greeting for everyone whom he knew. Not until he had nearly passed did he perceive Miss Winter and Maria. Happening to raise his eyes, he started, hesitated, flushed to the roots of his hair, lifted his hat, and hurried on.

Maria, too, flushed painfully, and a grieved look came into her eyes as she gravely acknowledged Philip's salutation, and walked on by Miss Winter's side.

"You and Philip have not quarrelled I hope, Maria?"

"Quarrelled--no," answered Maria with a sigh. "But he does not come to the Vicarage now; papa has forbidden it."

"He looks changed somehow."

"So I think. He spends, I believe, too much time in the billiard-room, and report talks of high play at The Lilacs with Lord Camberley and others. All these things distress me greatly."

"Naturally--if you feel a special interest in him," remarked Ella.

Again Maria's colour deepened.

"Just before I went to Leamington he asked me to be his wife."

"Did you refuse him?"

"For the time being."

"And you have not yet made up your mind to accept him?"

"No. How can I? I could never make up my mind unless papa's will went with it."

"Perhaps Philip is vexed--disheartened: and so flies to these foolish courses?"

"I don't know," sighed Maria. "It would show great weakness of mind, would it not?"

"People in love are said to be not always accountable for their actions. Poor Philip! But you love him still?"

"I never quite knew till lately what he is to me," answered Maria, in a low voice. "I have tried not to care for him, but----"

"You find that you, too, are a little weak-minded?"

"I suppose so. But he never passed me in the street before without speaking."