 CHAPTER X THE DRIVE OVER CRESCELY COMMON BY MOONLIGHT The old squire wandered from room to room and stood in this window and that. An hour after the scene on the terrace he was trembling still and flushed, with his teeth grimly set. Sniffing, and with a stifling weight at his heart. Night came and the drawing-room was lighted up and the squire rang the bell and sent for old Mrs. Dyrton. That dapper old woman, with a neat little cap on, stood prim in the doorway and curtsied. She knew, of course, pretty well what the squire was going to tell her, and waited in some alarm to learn in what tone he would make his communication. "'Well,' said the squire, sternly, holding his head very high, Miss Alice is gone. I sent for you to tell you, as your housekeeper here. She's gone, she's left Wyvern. She'll be coming again, sir, soon,' said the old woman after a pause. "'No, not she. No,' said the squire. Not returning to Wyvern, sir? While there's breath in my body, she'll never darken these doors. "'Sorry, she should have displeased you, sir,' said the good-natured little woman with a curtsy. "'Displeased she? Who said she displeased me?' It ain't the turning of a pennypiece to me. Me? By Christ? Ha, ha, that's funny. And what do you wish done with the bed and furniture, sir? Shall I leave it still in the room, please? Out a window-wit. Pitch it after her. Let the workers' people send up and cart it off for the poor house. Where she should have been. If I hadn't been the biggest fool in the parish. "'I'll have it took down and moved, sir,' said the old woman, interpreting more moderately. And the same with Mrs. Crane's room, dulcy-bella she's gone to? "'Ha, ha, well for her, plotting old witch. I'll have her ducked in the pond if she's found here. And never you name them, one or two or more, unless you want to go yourself. I'm fifty pounds better. I didn't know how to manage or look after her. They're all alike. If I chose it, I could send a warrant after her for the clothes on her back. But let her be. Away we her. A good Britain's. And get her who may. I give him joy a her.'" The squire was glad to see Tom Ward that night and had a second tankered of punch. "'Old servant Tom. I believe the old folk's the best, after all,' said he. "'It's a damn changed world, Tom. Things were otherwise in our time. No matter. I'll pay him off yet.'" An old Harry Fairfield fell asleep in his chair, and after an hour, wakened up with a dream of little Allie's music still in his ears. "'Play it again, child. Play it again,' he said, and listened. To silence. And looked about the empty room, and the sudden pain came again, with a dreadful yearning mixed with his anger, the squire cursed her for a devil, a wildcat, a viper. And he walked round the room with his hands clenched in his coat-pockets, and the proud old man was crying, with the straining and squeezing the tears oozed and trickled from his wrinkled eyelids down his rugged cheeks. "'I don't care a damned. I hate her. I don't know what it's for. I be such a fool. I'm glad she's gone. And I pray, God, the sneak she's gone, we may break her heart and break his own damn neck after,' over car-well scours. The old man took his candle, and from old habit in the hall was closing the door of the staircase that led up to her room. "'I, I,' said he bitterly, recollecting himself, the stable door when the nag stole. I don't care if the old house was blown down to-night. I wish it was. She was a kind little thing before that damned fellow. What could she see in him? Good for nothing. Old as I am, I pitch him over my head, like a stuka barley. Here was a plot. She was a good little thing. But see how she was drew into it, damned her. They're all so false. I'll find out who was in it. I will. I'll find it all out. There's Tom Sherwood. He's one. I'll pitch him all out, neck and crop, out of Wyvern doors. I'd rather fill my house with rats than the two-legged vermin. Let him pack a way to car-well and starve with that big pippin' squeeze and ninny. I hope in God's justice he'll never live to put his foot in Wyvern. I could shoot myself, I think, but for that. She might await it till the old man died at any rate. I was kind to her, a fool, a fool. And the tall figure of the old man, candle in hand, stopped slowly from the dim hall and vanished up the other staircase. While this was going on at Wyvern, nearly forty miles away, under the bright moonlight, a chase, in which was seated the young lady whose departure had excited so strange a sensation there, and her faithful old servant, Dulcy Bella Crane, was driving rapidly through a melancholy but not unpleasing country. A wide undulating plain, with here and there patches of picturesque natural wood, oak and white thorn, and groups of silver-stamped birch trees spread around them. Those were the sheep walks of Crestly Common. The soil is little better than peat, over which grows a short velvet verdor, altogether more prized by lovers of the picturesque than by grazers of south-downs. Could any such scene look prettier than it did in the moonlight? The solitudes so sad and solemn, the lonely clumps and straggling trees, the gentle hollows and hills, and the misty distance, in that cold elusive light, acquire the interest and melancholy of mystery. The young lady's head was continually out of the window, sometimes looking forward, sometimes back, upon the road they had traversed. With an anxious look and a heavy sigh, she threw herself back at her seat. You're not asleep, Dulcy Bella? She said a little peevishly. No, Miss, no, dear. You don't seem to have much to trouble you, continued the young lady. I? Lob bless you, dear, nothing thank God. None of your own and my troubles don't vex you, that's plain, said her young mistress reproachfully. I did not think, dear, you was troubled about anything, law. I hope nothing's gone wrong, darling, said the old woman with more energy, and a simple stare in her mistress's face. Well, you know, he said he'd be with us as we crossed Cressley Common, and this is it, and he's not here, and I see no sign of him. And the young lady, again, hopped her head out of the window, and, her survey ended, threw herself back once more with another melancholy moan. Why, Miss Alice, dear, you're not frightened for that, said Dulcy Bella. Don't you know, dear, if he isn't here, he's somewhere else. We're not to be troubling ourselves about every little thing like, and who knows, poor gentleman, what's happened to delay him? That's just what I say, Dulcy Bella. You'll set me mad. Something has happened. You know he owes money. You think they have arrested him? If they have, what's to become of us? Oh, Dulcy Bella, do tell me what you really think. No, no, no, there now, there's a darling. Don't you be worrying yourself about nothing. Look out again, and who knows, but he's coming. So said, old Dulcy Bella, who was constitutionally hopeful and contented, and very easy about Master Charles, as she still called Charles Fairfield. She was not remarkable for prescience, but here the worthy creature fluked prophetically. For Alice Maybell, taking her advice, did look out again, and she thought she saw the distant figure of a horseman in pursuit. She rattled at the window calling to the driver, and the man who sat beside him, and succeeded in making them hear her, and pull the horses up. Look back, and see if that is not your master coming, she cried eagerly. He was still too distant for recognition, but rider was approaching fast. The gentlemen of the road, once a substantial terror, were now but a picturesque tradition. The appearance of the pursuing horseman over the solitudes of crestly common would else have been anything but a source of pleasant anticipation. On he came, and now the clink of the horseshoes sounded sharp on the clear night air, and now the rider passed the straggling trees they had just left behind them. And now his voice was raised and recognized, and in a few moments more, pale and sad in the white moonlight as Lenora's phantom trooper, her stalwart lover pulled up his powerful hunter at the chase window. A smile lighted up his gloomy face as he looked in. Well, darling, I have overtaken you at crestly common, and is my little woman quite well, and happy to see her rye once more? His hand had grasped hers, as he murmured these words through the window. Oh, rye, darling, I'm so happy. You must let Tom ride the horse on, and do you come in, and sit here, and dulcy bell can take my cloaks and sit by the driver. Come, darling, I want to hear everything. And so this little arrangement was completed. As she said, and Charles Fairfield sat himself beside his beautiful young wife, and as they drove on through the moonlit scene, he pressed her hand and kissed her lovingly. End of Chapter 10, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 11 of the Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Shasta, Oakland, California The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan LaFannou Chapter 11 Home Oh, darling, I can scarcely believe it. She murmured, smiling, and gazing up with her large, soft eyes into his. It seems to me, like heaven, that I can look and speak and say everything without danger or any more concealment, and always have my rye with me, never to be separated again. You know, darling, while we live. Poor little woman, said he, fondly, looking down with an answering smile. She does love me a little bit, I think. And rye loves his poor little bird, doesn't he? Adores her. Idolatry, idolatry. And we'll be so happy. I hope so, darling. Hope, echoed she, chilled, and a little piteously. I'm sure of it, darling, quite certain, he repeated, laughing, tenderly. She's such a foolish little bird. One must watch their phrases, but I was only thinking. I'm afraid you hardly know what a place this car well is. Oh, darling, you forget I've seen it, the most picturesque spot I ever saw, the very place I should have chosen, and any place you know, with you. But that's an old story. His answer was a kiss, and, darling, I can never deserve half your love. All I desire on earth is to live alone with my rye. Yes, darling, we'll make out life very well here, I'm sure. My only fear is for you. I'll go out with my rod, and bring you home my basket full of trout, and sometimes take my gun, and kill a hare, or a rabbit, and we'll live like the old baron and his daughters in the fairytale on the produce of the streams and solitudes about us quite to ourselves, and read to you in the evenings, and we'll play chess, and we'll chat while you work, and I'll tell you stories of my travels, and you will sing me a song, won't you? Too delighted singing for joy, said little Alice, in a rapture at his story of the life that was opening to them. Oh, tell more. Well, yes, and you will have such pretty flowers. Oh, yes, flowers. I love them. Not expensive ones, for we are poor, you know, and you'll see how prudent I'll be, but annuals, they're so cheap, and I'll sew them myself, and I'll have the most beautiful you ever saw. Don't you love them, rye? Nothing so pretty, darling, on earth, except you. What is my rye looking out for? Charles Fairfield had more than once put his head out of the window, looking as well as he put along the road in advance of the horses. Oh, nothing of any consequence. I only wanted to see that our man had got on with the horse. Might as well knock up the old woman and see that things were, I was going to say, comfortable, but less miserable than they might be. He laughed faintly as he said this, and he looked at his watch, as if he did not want her to see him consult it, and then he said, Well, as you were saying, Oh, about the flowers, annuals, yes, and so they resumed. But somehow it seemed to Alice that his ardor and his gaiety were subsiding, that his thoughts were away and pale cares stealing over him like the chill of death. Again, she might have remembered the ghostly Wilhelm who grew more ominous and spectral as he and his bride neared the goal of their nocturnal journey. I don't think you hear me, Rye, and something has gone wrong. She said at last in a tone of disappointment that rose even to alarm. Oh, tell me, Charlie, if there is anything you have not told me yet, you're afraid of frightening me. Nothing, nothing, I assure you, darling, what nonsense you do talk, you foolish little bird. No, I mean nothing, but I've had a sort of quarrel with the old man. You need not have written that letter, or at least it would have been better if you had told me about it. But, darling, I couldn't. I had no opportunity and I could not leave Wyvern where he had been so good to me all my life without a few words to thank him and to entreat his pardon. You're not angry, darling, with your poor little bird? Angry, my foolish little wife, you little know your Rye. He loves his bird too well to be ever angry with her for anything, but it was unlucky, at least, his getting it just when he did. For, you may suppose, it did not improve his temper. Very angry, I'm afraid, was he? But, though he's so fiery, he's generous, I'm sure he'll forgive us in a little time and it will all be made up, don't you think so? No, darling, I don't. Take this hill quietly will you? He called from the window to the driver. You may walk them a bit. There's nearly two miles to go still. Here was another anxious look out and he drew his head in, muttering, and then he laid his hand on hers and looked in her face and smiled, and he said, They're such fools, aren't they? And about the old man at Wyvern. Oh, no, you mistake him. He's not a man to forgive. We can reckon on nothing but mischief from that quarter, and, in fact, he knows all about it, for he chose to talk about you as if he had a right to scold. And that I couldn't allow, and I told him so, and that you were my wife, and that no man living should say a word against you. My own brave rye, but oh, what a grief that I should have made this quarrel. But I love you a thousand times more. Oh, my darling, we are everything now to one another. Oh, never mind, he exclaimed with a sudden alacrity. There he is. All right. Tom, is it? All right, sir, answered the man whom he had dispatched before them on the horse, and who was now at the roadside, still mounted. He has ridden back to tell us she'll have all ready for our arrival. Oh, no, darling, he continued gaily. Don't think for a moment. I care of farthing, whether he's pleased or angry. He never liked me, and he cannot do us any harm, none in the world, and sooner or later Wyvern must be mine. And he kissed her and smiled with the ardor of a man whose spirits are, on a sudden, quite at ease. And as they sat, hand pressed in hand, she sidled closer to him with the nestling instinct of the bird, as he called her, and dreamed that if there were a heaven on earth, it would be found in such a life as that on which she was entering, where she would have him all to herself. And she felt now, as they diverged into the steeper road, and more sinuous, that ascended for a mile, the gentle wooded uplands to the range of Carwell, that every step brought her nearer to paradise. Here is something paradoxical, is it, that this young creature should be so in love with a man double her own age? I have heard of cases like it, however, and I have read in some old French writer, I have forgot who he is, the rule laid down with solemn audacity, that there is no such through fire and water desperate love as that of a girl for a man past 40. Till the hero has reached that period of autumnal glory, youth and beauty can but half love him. This encouraging truth is amplified and emphasized in the original. I extract its moral for the comfort of all whom it may concern. On the other hand, however, I can't forget that Charles Fairfairl had many unusual aids to success. In the first place, by his looks, you would have honestly guessed him, not from four or five years under his real age. He was handsome, dark with white even teeth and fine dark blue eyes that could glow ardently. He was the only person at Wyvern with whom she could converse. He had seen something of the world, something of foreign travel, had seen pictures and knew at least the names of some authors and in the barbarous isolation of Wyvern where squires talk of little but the last new plow, fat oxen and kindred subjects, often with a very perceptible infusion of the country patois. He was to a young lady with any taste, either for books or art, a resource and a companion. And now the chaise was drawing near to Carwell Grange with a childless delight. She watched the changing scene from the window. The clumps of wild trees drew never to the roadside. Winding all was upward and steeper and steeper was the narrow road. The wood gathered closer around them. The trees were loftier and more solemn and cast sharp shadows of foliage and branches on the white roadway. All the way her ear and heart were filled with the now gay music of her lover's talk. At last, through the receding trees that crowned the platform of the rising grounds, they had been ascending. Gables, chimneys and glimmery windows showed themselves in the broken moonlight and now rose before them under a great ash tree, a gatehouse that resembled a small square tower of stone with a steep roof and partly clothed in ivy. No light leaned from its windows. Tom dismounted and pushed open the old iron gate that swung over the grass-grown port with a long melancholy screech. It was a square court with a tolerably high wall overtopped by the somber trees whose summits, like the old roofs and chimneys, were silvered by the moonlight. This was the front of the building which Alice had not seen before. The great entrance and hall door of Carwell Grange. End of chapter 11. Chapter 12 of the Wyvern Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Shasta, Oakland, California. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafano Chapter 12. The Omen of Carwell Grange. The high wall that surrounded the courtyard and the towering foliage of the old trees were gloomy. Still, if the quaint stone front of the house had shown through its many windows the glow of life and welcome, I daresay the effect of those somber accessories would have been lost in pleasanter associations, and the house might have showed cheerily and causally enough. As it was, with no relief but the cold moonlight that mottled the pavement and tipped the chimney tops, the silence and deep shadow were chilling, and it needed the deep enthusiasm of true love to see in that dismal frontage the delightful picture that Alice Maybell's eyes beheld. Welcome, darling, to our poor retreat, made bright and beautiful by your presence, said he, with a gush of tenderness, but how unworthy to receive you none knows better than your poor rye. Still, for a short time, and it will be but short, you will endure it. The lifeful your presence will make it to me and to you, darling, my love will perhaps render it tolerable. Take my hand, and get down, and welcome to Carville Grange. Likely, she touched the ground with her hand on his strong arm for love rather than for assistance. I know how I shall like this quaint, quiet place, said she, love it, and grow perhaps fit for no other, if only my darling is all with me. You'll show it all to me in daylight tomorrow, won't you? Their little talk was murmured and unheard by others under friendly cover of the snorting horses and the talk of the men about the luggage. But I must get our door opened, said he, with a little laugh, and with a heavy old knocker he hammered a long echoing summons at the door. In a minute, more lights flickered in the hall. The door was opened, and the old woman smiling her cast, though that was far from being very pleasant. Her eye was dark and lifeless and never smiled, and there were lands of ill temper or worse near them which never relaxed. Still she was doing her best, dropping little courtesies all the time, and holding her flaring tallow candle in its brass candlestick, and thus illuminating the furrows and minute wrinkles of her forbidding face with a yellow light that suited its boxwood complexion. Behind her, with another mutton fat, for this was a state occasion, stood a square-shouldered little girl, some 12 years old, with a brown, somewhat flat face, and no good feature but her dark eyes and white teeth. This was Lily Dogger who had been called in to help the crone who stood in the foreground with a grave observing stare. She was watching the young lady who, smiling, stepped into the hall. Welcome, my lady, very welcome to Carwell, said the old woman. Welcome, squire, very welcome to Carwell. Thank you very much. I'm sure I shall like it, said the young lady, smiling, happily. It is such a fine old place, and it's so quiet. I like quiet. Old enough and quiet enough anyhow, answered the old woman. You'll not see many new faces to trouble you here, miss. Ma'am, my Lee, I mean. But we'll all try to make her as pleasant and as comfortable as we can, said Charles Fairfield, clapping the old woman on the shoulder a little impatiently. There don't lay much in my way to make her time past pleasant, Master Charles, but I suppose we'll do what we can. And more we can't, said Charles Fairfield. Come, darling, I suppose there's a bit of fire somewhere. It's a little cold, isn't it? I fire burning all day, sir, in the cedar room, and the kettles boiling on the hob, if the lady like a cup of tea. Yes, of course, said Charles, and a fire in the room upstairs. Yes, so there is, sir, a great fire all day long, and everything well aired. Well, darling, shall we look first at the cedar room? He asked, and smiling, hand in hand, they walked through the hall, and by a staircase, and through a second and smaller hall, with a back stair off it, and so into a comfortable paneled room, with a great cheery fire of mingled coal and wood, and old-fashioned furniture, which, though faded, was scruplessly neat. Old and homely, as was the room, it agreeably surprised Alice, who was prepared to be delighted with everything, and at sight of this exclaimed quite in a rapture, so honest a rapture that Charles Fairfield could not for bear laughing, though he felt also very grateful. Well, I admit, he said, looking round. It does look wonderfully comfortable, all things considered, but here, I am afraid, is the beginning and the end of our magnificence, for the present, of course, and by and by, little by little, we may improve and extend. But I don't think, in the whole house, there's a habitable room. Sitting room, I mean, but this, he laughed. It is the pleasantest room I ever was in, Charlie, a delightful room. I'm more than content, said she. You are a good little creature, said he. At all events, the best little wife in the world determined to make the best of everything, and, as I said, we certainly shall be better very soon, and, in the meantime, good humor and cheerfulness will make our quarters poor as they are, brighter and better than luxury and ill temper could find in a palace. Here are tea things and a kettle boiling, very primitive, very cozy, will be more like civilized people tomorrow or next day when we have head time to look about us, and in the meantime, suppose I make tea while you run upstairs and put off your things. What do you say? Yes, certainly, and she looked at the old woman who stood with her ominous smile at the door. I ought to have told you her name. Mildred Tarnley, the genius loci Mildred, you'll show your mistress to her room. And he and his young wife smiled a mutual farewell, a little curious she was to see something more of the old house, and she peeped about her as she went up and asked a few questions as they went along. In this room she asked, peeping into a door that opened from the back stairs which they were ascending. It has such a large fireplace and little ovens, or what are they? It was the still room once, my lady, my mother remembered the time, but it was always shut up in my day. Oh, and can you tell me, I forget, where is my servant? Upstairs, please, with your things, ma'am, when the man brought up your boxes. Still looking about her and delaying, she went on. There was nothing stately about this house, but there was that about it which, if Alice had been in less cheerful and happy spirits, would have quelled and awed her. Thick walls, windows deep sunk, double doors now and then, wanes coating and oak floors warped with age. On the landing there was an archway admitting to a gallery, in this archway was no door, and on the landing Alice Fairfield, as I may now call her, stood for a moment and looked around. Happy as she was, I cannot tell what effect these faintly lighted glimpses of old and desolate rooms aided by the repulsive companionship of her ancient guide may have insensibly wrought upon her imagination, or what a trick that faculty may have just then played upon her senses. But turning round to enter the gallery, under the open arch, the old woman standing by her, with the candle raised a little, Alice Fairfield stepped back, startled with a little exclamation of surprise. The ugly face of old Mildred Tarnley peeped curiously over the young lady's shoulder. She stepped before her and peered right and left into the gallery, and then with ominous inquiry into the young lady's eyes. I thought it might be a bat, my lady, there was one last night got in, she said, but there's no such a thing now. Was you a fear of anything, my lady? I, didn't you see it? said the young lady, both frightened and disconcerted. I sawed nothing, ma'am. It's very odd. I did see it. I swear I saw it, and felt the air all stirred about my face and dressed by it. Oh, here, miss, my lady, was it? Yes, here, before us. I weren't you looking? Not that way, miss. I don't know, she said. Well, something fell down before us, all the way from the top to the bottom of this place, and with a slight movement of her hand and eyes, she indicated the open archway before which they stood. Oh, Lord, well, I dare say it may have been a fancy just. Yes, but it's very odd. A great heavy curtain of black fell down and folds from the top to the floor, just as I was going to step through. It seemed to make a little cloud of dust about our feet, and I felt a wind from it quite distinctly. Hey, then it was a black curtain, I suppose, said the old woman, looking hard at her. Yes, but why do you suppose so? Such nonsense is always black, you know. I'd seen nothing, nothing, no more there was nothing. Didn't you see me walk through? And she stepped back and forward, candle in hand, with an uncomfortable laugh. Oh, I know perfectly well there is nothing, but I saw it. I wish I hadn't, said the young lady. I wish you hadn't, too, said Mildred, tarnely, pale, and lowering. Them, as says their prayers, they needn't be a fear to such things, and for my part I never see anything in the Grange, and I am an old woman, and lived here, girl and woman, good sixty years and more. Let us go on, please, said Alice. At your service, my lady, said the crown, with a curtsy, and conducted her to her room. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of the Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Shasta Oakland, California. The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafannou Chapter 13 An Inspection of Carwell Grange Through an open door at the end of this short gallery, the pleasant firelight gleamed, sufficiently indicating the room that had been prepared for her reception. She felt a little oddly and frightened at the sight of old Ducey Bella Crane in the cheerful light, visibly unpacking her boxes reassured her. The grim old woman, Mildred Tarnley, stopped at the door. It's very well-eared, ma'am, she said, making a little curtsy. It looks very comfortable, thank you. Everything so neat and such a bright, nice fire, said Alice, smiling on her as well as she could. There's the tapestry room and the leather room, but they're not so dry as this, though it's wence-cut. Oh, I think, isn't it? said the young lady, looking round. Yes, ma'am, and there's a pink paper chamber and dressing room, but they've gone very poor, and the bed and all that's being in here, I thought, was the best of the lot. And there's lots of presses and cupboards in the wall, and the keys in them, and the lots all right, and I do think it's the most comfortable room, my lady. That is, the dressing room in there plays, and you light some more wood or coal on the fire, ma'am? Not any, it is very nice, thanks. And Alice sat down before the fire, and the smile seemed to evaporate in its glow, and she looked very grave and even anxious. Mildred Tarnley made her curtsy, looked round the room and withdrew. Well, Bill C. Bella, when are you going to have your tea, asked Alice kindly? I'll make a cup here, dear, if you think I may, after I've gotten your things in their places in a few minutes' time. Would you like that better than taking it downstairs with a servant? Yes, dear, I would. I don't think you like her, Dulce Bella. I can't say I miss like her, dear. I hint, spoke ten words where she may be very nice, I don't know. There's something not very pleasant about her face, don't you think? said Alice. Well, dear, but you are sharp. There's no hiding my thoughts from you, but there's many a face who gets used to that doesn't seem to agreeable like at first. I think this rack'll do very nice for hanging your cloak on, she said, taking it from the young lady's hands. You're a bit tired, I'm a-feared. You look a bit tired, you do. No, nothing, said her young mistress, only I can't help feeling sorry for poor old Wyvern and the squire, old Mr. Fairfield. It seems so unkind, and there was a good deal to think about, and I don't know how. I feel a little uncomfortable, in spite of so much that should cheer me. And now I must run down and take a cup of tea, come with me to the top of the stairs, and just hold the candle till I've got down. When she reached the head of the stairs, she was cheered by the sound of Charles Fairfield's voice singing, in his exuberant jollity, the appropriate ditty. Jenny put the kettle on, Barney blowed the bellow strong, etc. And hurrying down shares, she found him ready to make tea, with his hand on the handle of the teapot and the fire brighter than ever. Well, you didn't stay very long, good little woman, I was keeping up my spirits with a song, and, in spite of my music beginning to miss you, and meeting her as she entered the room, he led her with his arm around her waist to a chair, in which, with a kiss, he placed her. All this seems to me like a dream. I can't believe it, but, if it be, woe to the fool who wakes me. No, darling, it's no dream is it, he said, smiling and kissed her again. The happiest day of my life, he said, and through his eyes, smiled upon her a flood of the tenderest love. A little more such talk, and then they sat down to that memorable cup of tea, the first in our own house. The delightful independence, the excitement, the importance, all our own. Cups, spoons, rooms, servants, and the treasured figurant, and the haven of all our hopes, no longer doubtful or distant. Glorious, beautiful dream, from which death wrinkles, dons, are quite obliterated. Sip while you may, your pleasant cup of madness, from that fragile, pretty china, and may the silver spoon, wherewith you stir it, prove to have come into the world at the moment of your birth, where fortune is said to place it sometimes. Next morning the sun shone clear over Carwell Grange, bringing into sharp relief the joints and wrinkles of the old gray masonry, the leaves and tendrils of the ivy, and the tufts of grass, which here and there sprout fast in the chinks of the parapet, and casting with angular distinctness upon the shingled roof the shadows of the jackdaws that circled about the old chimney. A twittering of small birds fills the air, and the solemn cawing comes mellowed on the ear from the dark rookery at the other side of the ravine that, crossing at the side of the Grange, debouches on the wider and deeper glen that is known as the Vale of Carwell. Youth enjoys a change of abode, and with the instinct of change and adventure proper to its energies delights in a new scene. Charles Fairfield accompanied his young wife, who was full of curiosity, and her had busy with a hundred plans, as in gay and eager spirits she surveyed her little empire. This is the garden. I tell you, lest you should mistake it for the forest, where the enchanted princess slept surrounded by great trees and thickets, it excels even the old garden at Wyvern. There are pear trees and plum and cherry and apple. Upon my word I forgot they were so huge, and the jungles are raspberries and gooseberries and currants. Did you ever see such thickets and nettles between? I'm afraid you'll not make much of this. When I was a boy those great trees looked as big and moss grown as they do now, and bore such odd, crabbed little fruit and not much even of that. It will be quite beautiful when it is weeded and flowers growing in the shade and climbing plants trained up the stems of the trees, and it shan't cost us anything, but you'll see how wonderfully pretty it will be. But what is to become of all your pretty plants if flowers won't grow without sun? I defy any fairy, even my own bright little one, to make them grow here. But, if you won't be persuaded, by all means let us try. I think there's sunshine wherever you go, and I should not wonder, after all, if nature relented and beautiful miracles were accomplished under your influence. I know you were laughing at me, she said. No, darling, I'll never laugh at you. You can make me believe whatever you choose, and now that we have looked over all the wild beauties of our neglected paradise in which, you good little creature, you are resolved to see all kinds of capabilities and perfections. Suppose we go now to the grand review of our goods and chattels that you planned at breakfast, cups, saucers, plates, knives, forks, spoons, and all such varieties. Oh yes, let us come, Rye, it will be such fun and so useful, and old Mrs. Tarnley said she would have a list made out, said Alice, to whom the new responsibilities and dignities of her married state were full of interest and importance. So when they came together and called for old Mildred with a list of their worldly goods, and they read the catalog together with every now and then appeal of irrepressible laughter, I had not an idea how near we were to our last cup and saucer, said Charles, and the dinner service is limited to seven plates, two of which are cracked. The comic aspect of their poverty was heightened, perhaps, by Mrs. Tarnley's peculiar spelling. The old woman stood in the doorway of the sitting-room while the revision was proceeding, mindfully displaced at this levity, looking more than usually wrinkled and bilious, and rolling her eyes upon them from time to time with a malignant ogle. I was never good at the pen, I know that, but your young lady desired me, and I did my best, and very despicable it be, no doubt, said Mildred, with grizzly scorn. Oh, my, I am so sorry. I assure you, Mrs. Tarnley, pray tell her, Charlie, we were laughing only that there being so few things left. Left? I don't know what you mean by left, ma'am. There's not another woman, as ever I saw, would keep his bitter doubt and chainy half as long as me. I never was counted a smasher of things, no more I was. But we didn't think you broke them, did we, Charlie? appealed poor little Alice, who, being new to authority, was easily bullied. Nonsense, old Mildred, don't be a fool, said Charles Fairfield, not in so conciliatory a tone as Alice would have wished. Well, fools easily said, and there's no lack of fools, high or low, Master Charles, and I don't pretend to be no scholar, but I've read that or much laughing ends, off times, in or much crying. The Lord keep us all from grief. Hold your tongue, what a bore you are, exclaimed he, sharply. Mrs. Tarnley raised her chin, and, looking as scants, but made no answer, she was bitter. Why the devil, old Mildred, can't you try to look pleasant for once, he persisted? I believe there's not a laugh in you, nor even a smile, is there? I'm not much given to laughin', thank you, sir, and there's people, may have, should be less so, if they'd only take warnin' and mind what they see'd overnight, and if the young lady don't want me no longer, I'd be better back in the kitchen before the chicken burns, for lilies out in the garden, rootin' out the potatoes for dinner. And after a moment's silence, she dropped a little curtsy, and, assuming permission, took her departure. Chapter 14 of the Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lucy Park The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafano Chapter 14, A Letter Alice looked a little peeler, her husband a little discontented. Each had a different way of reading her unpleasant speech. Don't mind that old woman, darling. Don't let her bore you. I do believe she has some as odious faults as are to be found on earth. I don't know what she means by a warning, said Alice. Nor I, darling, I am sure. Perhaps she has had a windling sheet on her candle, or a coffin flew out the fire, or a death watch ticked in the wainscote, he answered. A warning? What could she mean? repeated Alice, slowly, with an anxious gaze in his eyes. My darling, how can you? A stupid old woman, said he a little impatiently, and thoroughly ill conditioned. She's in one of her tempers just because we laughed and fancied what said her. And there is nothing she'd like better than to frighten you if she could. I'll pack her off if I find her playing with any tricks. Oh, the poor old thing, not for the world. She'll make it up with me, you'll find. I don't blame her the least. If she thought that, and I'll tell her we never thought of such a thing. Don't mind her, she's not worth it. We'll just make out a list of things that we want. I'm afraid we want a great deal more than we can get, for you have married a fellow in all things but love, as poor as a church mouse. He laughed, and kissed her, and petted her smiling cheek. Yes, it'll be such fun buying these things, such a funny little dinner service, and breakfast things. And how far away is Naughton? I'm not so sure we can get them at Naughton. Things come from London so easily now, said he. Oh, but there is such a nice little shop. I remarked it in Naughton, said she, eagerly. Oh, is there? said he. I forgot. I believe you drove through it. I did, she answered, and the whole pleasure of getting them would be buying them with you. You kind little darling, he said with a faint smile. Soweto to me, I know, choosing them with you. But are you sure there is a place there? Such a nice little shop, with a great red and blue jog hanging over the door for a sign, she insisted cheerily. And there is something pleasant, isn't there, in the sort of queer, rustic things one would meet in such an out-of-the-way place. Yes, so there is, but however, we'll think about it, and in fact, it doesn't matter a farthing where we get them. Our friend Charles seemed to put out a little, and his slight unaccountable embarrassment piqued her curiosity, and made her ever so uncomfortable. She was still, however, a very young wife, and in awe of her husband. It was therefore rather timidly that she said, And why, darling, right? Can't we decide now and go tomorrow, and choose our plates, and cups, and saucers? It would be such a pleasant little adventure to look forward to. So it might, but we'll have to make up our minds to have many days to go by. And weeks too here, with nothing pleasant to look forward to, you knew very well. He continued not so sharply. When you married me, that I owed money, and was poor, miserable devil, and not my own master, and you really must allow me to decide what it is to be done, when a trifle might any day run us into mischief. There now, your eyes are full of tears. How can you be so foolish? But indeed, dry, I'm not, she pleaded, smiling through them. I was only sorry. I was afraid I had vexed you. Vexed me, you darling, not the least. I am only teased to think I am obliged to deny you anything. Much less to hesitate about gratifying so trifling a wish as this. But so it is, and such a hard fate. And though I seem to be vexed, it is not with you, you must not mistake, never darling with you. But in proportion as I love you, the sort of embarrassment into which you have ventured with your poor rye, grieves, and even enrages him, and the thought too that so small a thing would set it all to rights. But we are not the only people of course, there are others as badly off, and a great deal worse. There now darling, you must not cry, you really mustn't. You must never fancy a moment when anything happens to vex me, that I could be such a brute as to be angry with you. What's to become of me if you ever suffer such a chimera to enter your pretty little head? I do assure you darling, I'd rather blow my brains out than inflict a single unhappy hour upon you. There now, won't you kiss me and look quite happy again, and come we'll go out again. You did not see the kennel and the brew house and fifty other interesting ruins, we must be twice as happy as ever for the rest of the day. And so this little cloud, light and swift, but still a cloud, blew over, and the sun shone out warm and brilliant again. The buildings which enclosed three sides of the quadrangle, which they were now examining were, with the exception of the stables in such a state of dilapidation as very nearly to justify in sober earnest the term ruins, which he had half jocularly applied to them. You may laugh as you will said Alice, but I think this might be easily made quite a beautiful place, prettier even than Wyvern. Yes, very easily, he laughed. If a fellow had two or three thousand pounds to throw away upon it, whenever I have, and I may yet, you may restore and transform and do what you like. I'll give you carte blanche, and in better hands I believe neither house nor money could be placed. No one has such a taste, though it is hardly for me to say that. Just at that moment, the clank of a horseshoe was heard on the pavement, and turning his head, Charles saw his man, Tom Shorewood, right into the yard. Tom touched his head and dismounted. A letter, sir. Oh, said Charles, letting go his wife's arm and walking quickly towards him. The man handed him a letter. Alice was standing, forgotten for the time, on the middle of the pavement, while her husband opened and read his letter. When he had done, he turned about and walked a few steps towards her, but still thinking anxiously and plainly not seeing her, and he stopped and read it through again. Oh, darling, I beg your pardon. I'm so stupid. What were we talking about? Oh, yes, the house, this old place. If I live to succeed to Wyvern, you shall do what you like with this place and will live here if you like it best. Well, I don't think I should like to live here always, she said, and paused. She was thinking of the odd incident the night before, and there lurked in one dark corner of her mind just the faintest image of horror, very faint but still genuine, and which, the longer she looked at, it grew the darker. And I was going to ask if you could change our room. I think, darling, said he, looking at her steadily, the one we have got is almost the only habitable bedroom in the house, and certainly the most comfortable, but if you like any other room better, have you been looking? No, darling, only I'm such a coward and so foolish. I fancied I saw something when I was going into it last night. Old Mrs. Tarnley was quite close to me. If you saw her, it was quite enough to frighten anyone. But what was it, rubber or only a ghost? He asked. Neither, and only a kind of surprise and a fright. I did not care to talk about it last night, and I thought it would have quite passed away by today, but I cannot quite get rid of it. And should I tell it all to you now? Answer, Dallas. You must tell me all, by and by, he laughed. You shall have any room you like better, only remember they're all equally old. And now I have a secret to tell you. Harry is coming to dine with us, and he will be here at six. And look here, how oddly my letters come to me. And he held the envelope he had just now opened by the corner before her eyes. It was thus Mr. Thomas Shorewood, post office. Norton, to be called for. There's evidence of the caution I'm obliged to practice in that part of the world. The world will never be without sin, poverty, and atonies. And there is a cursed fellow there, with eyes wide open, and ears erect, and all sorts of poisoned arrows of the law should at poor wayfares like me. And that's the reason why I'd rather buy our modest tea cups in London and not be so much as heard of in Norton. Don't look so frightened, little woman. Every fellow has a dangerous done or two, and I'm not half so much in peril as 50 I could name. Only my father's angry, you know. And when that curl gets to be known, it may not help my credit, or make Duns more patient. So I must keep well-earthed here, till the dogs are quiet again. And now my wise little housekeeper will devise dinner through our hungry brother, who will arrive in two hours' time with the appetite that crisely common gives every fellow with as little to trouble him as Harry has. End of Chapter 14, A Letter, Recording by Lucy Park 6 o'clock came, and seven, and not until half past seven, when they had nearly given him up, did Henry Fairfield arrive at the Grange. How does, Madame Fairfield, bald Master Harry, as he strode across the floor and kissed Alice's pretty cheek? Odds bobbins, as the man says in the playhouse. I believe I bust ye, did I? But don't let him be angry, I wasn't thinking, Charlie, no more than the fellow that put Farmer Gleason's fippin' note in his pocket last truck-berry-faire. And how's all ye, Charlie, eh? I'm glad to see the old house is still standing with a roof on since last gale. And how do ye like it, Alice? Rather slow, I used to think it, but you two wise heads are so in love with one another, ye'd put up in the pound, or the cow-house, or the horse-pond, for the sake o'each other's company. I loved her sweet company better than meat, as the song says, and that reminds me, can the house afford a hungry man a cut of beef or mutton, and a mug of ale? I ask myself to dinner, ye know, and that's a bargain there's two words to, sometimes. Master Harry was a wag after a clumsy rustic fashion, and habitual jester, and never joked more genially than when he was letting his companion in for what he called a soft thing, in the shape of an unsound horse or a foolish wager. His jocularity was supposed to cover a great deal of shrewdness, and some dangerous qualities also. While their homely dinner was being got upon the table, honest Harry quizzed the lord and lady of Carwell Grange in the same vein of delicate banter, upon all their domestic arrangements, and when he found that there was but one sitting-room in a condition to receive them, his merriment knew no bounds. Upon my soul you beat the cobbler in the song that lived in a stall that served him for a parlor and kitchen and hall, for there's no mention of the cobbler's wife, and he being a single man, ye know, and you and your lady double the wonder, don't ye, Alice, two faces under a hood, and a devilish-pinched little hood, too. When did you get to Wyvern, as Charles Fairfield, after a considerable pause? Last night, answered his brother. You saw the old man? Not till morning, answered Henry, with a waggish leer and a sly glance at Alice. It was lost, however, for the young lady was looking dreamily and sadly away, thinking perhaps of the old squire, not without self-upbrainings and hearing nothing, I am sure, of all they said. Did you breakfast with him? By Jove, I did, sir. Well, well, nothing particular, only let me see how long his stick is. His stick and his arm together, say, five feet six. Well, I counsel you, brother, not to go within five foot six inches of the old gentleman, till he cools down a bit, anyhow. No, we'll not try that, said Charles, and he may cool down, as you say, or nurse his wrath as he pleases. It doesn't much matter to me. He was very angry, but sometimes the thunder and flame blow off, you know, and the storm hurts no one. I hope so, said Henry, with a sort of laugh. When I tell you to keep out of the way, mind, I'm advising you against myself. The more you and the old boy will each other, the better for Hal. He can't unsettle the place, Harry. Not that I want to see him. I never owed him much love, and I think now he'd be glad to see me a beggar. Harry laughed again. Did you ever hear of a bear with a sore head, said Harry? Well, that's him at present. And I give you fair notice. I think he'll leave all he can away from you. So let him. If it's to you, Harry, I don't grudge it, said the elder son. That's a handsome speech. Bless the speaker. Can you give me a glass of brandy? This clerid I never could abide, said Harry, with another laugh. Besides, it will break you. I've but two bottles, and they have been three years here. Yes, you can have brandy, it's here. I'll get it, said Alice, brightening up in the sense of her housekeeping importance. It's—I think it's in this, ain't it? She said, opening one of the presses inserted in the wane-scut. Let me, darling, it's there. I ought to know. I put it there myself, said Charles, getting up, and taking the keys from her and opening another cupboard. I'm so stupid, said Alice, blushing as she surrendered them, and so useless. But you're always right, Charlie. He's a wonderful fellow, ain't he? said Harry, winking agreeably at Charles. I never knew a brand new husband that wasn't. Wait a bit, and the gold rubs off the gingerbread. Did an old ossabella—how's she? Never buy you a gingerbread husband down at Wyvern Fair? And they all went, I warrant, the same road. The gilding rubs away, and then off with his hat and eat him up slops. That's not bad cognac. Where do you get it? Don't know, of course. Well, it is good. Glad you like it, Harry, said his brother. It was very kind of you coming over here so soon. You must come often, won't you? Well, you know, I thought I might as well, just to tell you how things was. But, mind, is anyone here? He looked over his shoulder to be sure that the old servant was not near. Mind, you're not to tell the folk over at Wyvern that I came here, because you know it wouldn't serve me no ways with the old chap up there, and there's no use. You may be very easy about that, Harry. I'm a banished man, you know. I shall never see the old man's face again, and rely on it, I shan't write. I don't mean him alone, said Harry, replenishing his glass. But don't tell any of them Wyvern people, nor you, Alice. Mind, I'm going back to-night, as far as Barnsley, and from there I'll go to Darling, and round you mind, south, by Lee Watton, and up to Wyvern, and I'll tell him a thumpin' lie if he asks questions. Don't fear any such thing, Harry, said Charles. Fear? I'm not a feared on'em, nor never was. Fancy then, said Charles. Only, continued Harry, I'm not like you. I hand to house and have been a land to fall back on, do you see? He'd have me on the ropes if I vexed him. He'd slap Wyvern door in me face, and stop my allowance, and sell my horses, and leave me to the assizes and the lawyers for my rights. And I couldn't be comin' here spongin' on you, you know. You'd always be welcome, Harry, said Charles. Always echoed his wife, in whom everyone who belonged to Charlie had a welcome claim. But Harry went right on with his speech, without diverging to thank them. And you'll be snug enough here, you see, and I might go whistle and dickens a chance I'll have left, but to go list, or break horses, or break stones, by jingle. And I have run risks enough in this thing of yours. Not but I'm willing to run more, if need be, but there's no good in getting myself into pound, you know. By me, Harry, you don't imagine I could be such a fool, exclaimed Charles. Well, I think ye'll allow, I stood to ye like a brick and didn't funk nothin' that was needful, and I'd do it over again, I would. Charles took one hand of the generous fellow, and Alice took the other, and the modest benefactor smiled gruffly and flushed a little, and looked down as they poured forth in concert their acknowledgments. Why see how you two thanks me? I always says to fellows, Keep your thanks to yourselves, and do me a good turn when it lies in your ways. There's the sort of thanks that butters a fellow's parsnips, and so say no more. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. I'd tip you a stave, only I've got a hoarseness since yesterday, and I'd ask Alice to play a bit, but there's no piano here to kick up a jingle with, and Charlie never sang a note in his life, and, standing before the fire, he yawned long and loud. By Jove, that wasn't over-civil of me! But old friends need not be stiff, and I vote we yawn all round for company, and I'll forgive you for my hours come, and I'll be takin' the road. I wish so much, I had a bed to offer you, Harry. But you know all about it, there hasn't been time to arrange anything, said Charles. Won't you stay and take some tea, urged Alice? I never could abide it, child, thank ye all the same, said he. I'd as soon drink a mug away. And what about the Grey Hunter? You did not sell him yet, asked Charles? I don't well know what to do about him, answered his brother. I'd asold him for fifty, only old clinker wouldn't pass him for sound. Clinker and me, we had words about that. I want fifty pounds very much if I could get it, said Charles. I never knew a fellow that didn't want fifty very bad, if he could get it, laughed, Harry. But you'll not be doin' that bad, I'm afeard, if ye get half the money. The devil, do you really? Why, I thought, with luck I might get seventy. I'm hard up, Harry, and I know you'll do your best for me, said Charles, to whom this was really a serious question. And with luck so you might, but chaps isn't easy done these times. And though I swear it's only his mouth, he steps short at the offside, and a fellow with an eye in his head won't mistake his action. You'll do the best you can for me, Harry, I know, said Charles, who knew nothing about horses, and was lazy in discussion. But it's rather a blow just now, when a poor devil wants every shilling he can get together, to find himself fifty pounds nearly out of pocket. Was it fancy, or did Alice's pretty ear hear truly, it seemed to her that the tone in which Charlie spoke was a little more sour than need be, that it seemed to blame her as the cause of altered circumstances, and to hint, though very faintly, an unkind repentance. His eye met hers, full and sad it looked, and his heart smote him, for the intangible reproof was deserved. And here's the best little wife in the world, he said, who would save a lazy man like me a little fortune in a year, and make that unlucky fifty pounds, if I could but get it, do as much as a hundred. And his hand was fondly placed on her shoulder, and he looked in her loving eyes. A good housewife, is she? That's something, said Harry, who is inspecting his spur, though by Jovid was hardly at Wyvern she learned thrift. All the more merit, said Charles, it's all her wise good little self. No, no, I can't take all that praise, it's your great kindness, Charlie. But I'll try, I'll learn all I can, and I'm sure the real secret is to be very anxious to do it well. I, to be sure, interrupted Harry, who, having completed his little arrangement, placed his foot again on the ground. The more you like it, the better you'll do it. Pair the cheese's skin the flints, kill the fleas for the hide and tallow. Pot the potato skins, sweat the shillens, and all that, and now I'll be going. Good night, Alice. Will you let Charlie see me down to the end of the lane, and I'll send him safe back to you? Come along, Charlie, God bless you, girl, and I'll look in again whenever I have a bit of news to tell you. And with that elegant farewell he shook Alice by the hand, and clapped her on the shoulder, and chucked her under the chin. And don't you be faint-hearted, mind, to will all come right, and I didn't think this place was so comfortable as it is. It is a snuggled house with a bit of coal, and a faggot of wood, and a pair of bright eyes, and a glass of that. A man might make shift for a while. I'd do it myself. I didn't think it was so snug by half, and I'd rather stay here to-night by a long chalk than ride to Barnsley, I can tell you. Come, Charlie, it's time I should be on the road. And she says, don't you, Alice? You may see me a bit of the way. And so the leave-taking came to an end, and Charlie and Harry went out together, and Alice wondered what had induced Harry to come all that way for so short a visit was so very little to tell. Perhaps, however, his own business, for he was always looking after horses and thought nothing of five and thirty miles, had brought him to the verge of crassly common, and if so he would have come on the few additional miles if only to bait his horse and get his dinner. Perhaps the old squire at Wyvern had broken out more angrily, and was threatening something in which there was real danger to Charlie, which the brothers did not choose to tell her. A kindly secrecy and considerate, but seldom unsuspected, and being so often fiftyfold more torturing than downright ghastly frankness. There had been a little chill and shadow over the party of three, she thought. Charlie thought his brother Harry the most thorough partisan that ever man had, and the most entirely sympathetic. If that were so, and should not he know best? Harry had certainly laughed and joked after his fashion and enjoyed himself, and there could not be much wrong. But Charlie was not there something more upon his mind than she quite knew. She stood too much in awe of her husband to follow them, as she would have wished, and implore of them if there was any new danger to let her hear it all. In her ear was the dismal iteration, as it were, of this little death-watch, and sighing she got up and opened the window-shutter, and looked out upon the moonlighted scene. A little platform of grass stood between the wall of the house and the precipitous edge of the Vale of Marlowe. Tall trees stood silent and lonely sentinels without the old gray walls, and a low ivied parapet guarded the sudden descent of the Riven and Wooded Cliff. The broken screen of the solemn forest foreground showed in the distance the thicker masses of the wood that topped the summit of the further side of that somber glen. Stiller, sadder scene, fancy never painted. She had opened the shutter uncertain whether the window commanded the point, from which her husband and his brother might be expected to emerge, for the geography of this complicated house was still new to her, and disappointed she lingered in contemplation of a view which so well accorded with the melancholy of her lonely misgivings. How soon in the possession of our heart's desire comes the sense of disappointment, and the presence of the worm, and promise of the blight among the flowers of our vernal days. Pitch the tent or drop the anchor where we may, always a new campaign opening, always a new voyage beginning, quiet, nowhere. I dare say it is only my folly that nothing has gone wrong and that they have no secrets to hide from me. I have no one else. He would not shut me out from his confidence and leave me quite alone. No, Rai, you could not. With a full heart she turned again from the window. He'll come again in a minute. He'll not walk far with Harry. She went to the door and opening it, listened. She heard a step enter the passage from the stable yard, and called to ask who was there. It was only Tom who had let out Master Harry's horse and opened the gate for him. He let it out and they walked together, Master Harry with the bridle in his hand and Master Charles walking beside him. They took the narrow way along the little glen towards Cressley Common. She knew that he would return probably in a few minutes, and more and more she wondered what those minutes might contain. She partly wondered at her own anxiety. So she returned to the room and waited there for him. But he remained longer away than she expected. The tea-things were on the table deserted, the fire flickered its genial invitation in vain, and she, growing more uncomfortable and lonely, and perhaps a little high at being thus forsaken, went upstairs to pay old Dulsabella Crane a visit. LibriVox Recording As she reached the top of the stairs, she called to the old servant, not, I think, caring to traverse the haunted flooring that intervened. Alone. She heard Dulsabella talking, and a moment after her old nurse appeared, and standing by her shoulder, Mildred Tarnley. Oh, Mrs. Tarnley, I'm so glad to see you. You've been paying Dulsabella a visit. Pray come back and tell me some stories about this old house. You've been so long here, and know it so well, that you must have a great deal to tell. The old woman with the unpleasant face made a stiff curtsy. At your service, ma'am, she said ungraciously, that is, if it don't inconvenience you, pleaded Alice, who was still a little afraid of her. T'as as you please, ma'am," said the old servant, with another dry curtsy. Well, I'm so glad you can come, Dulsabella. Have we a little bit of fire? Oh, yes, I see. It looks so cheerful. So they entered the old-fashioned bedroom. I hope, Mrs. Tarnley, I'm not keeping you from your tea. Now, thank you, ma'am. I've had me tea in Aragon, answered the old woman. And you must sit down, Mrs. Tarnley, urged Alice. I'll stand, if it please, ma'am," said the withered figure, perversely. I should be so much happier if you would sit down, Mildred, urged her young mistress. But if you prefer it, I only mean that whatever is most comfortable to you, you should do. I wanted so much to hear something about this old house. You remember what happened when I was coming upstairs with you, when I was so startled? I didn't see it, Miss, ma'am. I only heard you say some at, answered Mildred Tarnley. Oh, yes, I know, but you spoke to-day of a warning, and you looked when it happened, as if you had heard of it before. The old woman raised her chin, and with her hands folded together, made another curtsy, which mutually seemed to say, if you have anything to ask, ask it. Do you remember, inquired Alice, having ever heard of anything strange, being seen at that passage near the head of the stairs? I ought, ma'am," answered the old woman discreetly. And what was it, inquired Alice? Don't know, ma'am, would the master be pleased if he was to hear I was talking of such things to you? suggested Mildred. He'd only laugh, as I should, I assure you. I'm not the least a coward, so you need not be afraid of my making a fool of myself. Now do tell me what it was. Well, ma'am, you'll be pleased to remember, Tis you orders me in case Master Charles should turn on me about it. But as you say, ma'am, there's many things, tis all nothing, but old woman's tales and fripple-frabble, and tis it for me to say. I'll take all the blame to myself, said Alice. There's no blame in it, as I'm aware on, and if there was, I wouldn't ask no one to take it on themselves, more than their right share, and that I take leave to lay on them myself without stopping to ask whether they likes it or no, but only I told you, ma'am, that I should have your orders, and with them I'll comply. Yes, certainly, Mrs. Tarnley, and now do kindly go on, said Alice. Well, please, ma'am, you'll tell me what you saw. A heavy black drapery fell from the top of the arch through which we passed to the gallery outside the door, and for some seconds closed up the entire entrance, answered the young lady. Aye, aye, no doubt that's it, but there was no drapery there, ma'am, such as this world's loom ever wove. Them as weaves that web is light at hand, and heavier heart, and the deal himself speeds the shuttle, and as she said this, the old woman smiled sourly. I was talking of that very thing to Mrs. Cranier, when you came up, ma'am. Yes, said old Dolcebela quietly, it was very strange, surely. And there came quite a cloud of dust from it, rolling along the floor, continued Alice. Yes, so there would, so there does, tis always so, said Mrs. Tarnley, with the same faint, ugly smile. Not that there's a grain of dust in all the gallery, for the child Lily Dogger and me washed it out, and swept it clean, dust she saw, but that's no real dust, like what the minister means when he says, dust to dust, no, no, a finer dust by father, dust to death, no more clay in that than in Yon's smoke, or the mist in Carwell Glen below, no dust at all, but such dust as a ghost might shake from its winding sheet, an appearance, you understand, that's all, ma'am, like the rest. Alice smiled, but old Mildred's answering smile chilled her, and she turned to Dolcebela, but good Mrs. Crane looked in her face with round eyes of consternation and a very solemn countenance. I see, Dolcebela, if my courage fails, I'm not to look to you for support. Well, Mrs. Tarnley, don't mind, I shan't need her help, and I'm not a bit afraid, so pray go on. Well, you see, ma'am, this place and the house came into the family, my grandmother used to say, more than a hundred years ago, and I was a little thing when I used to hear her say so, and there's many a year added to the tale since then, but it was in the days of Sir Harry Fairfield, they called him Harry Boots in his day, for he was never seen except in his boots, and for the matter of that seldom out of the saddle. For there was troubles in them days, and militia and yeomanry and deer-nose were all, and the Fairfields was ever a bold, daredevil stock, and them dangerous times answered them well. And what with Dragoonin, and what with the Untinfield, I do suppose his foot was seldom out of the stirrup, so my grandmother told me some called him Booted Fairfield, and more called him Harry Boots, that was Sir Harry Fairfield of them days. I think I've seen his picture, haven't I? At Wyvern, it's in the hall at the far end from the door, near the window with a long wig and a lace cravat, and a great steel breastplate, inquired Alice. Like enough miss, ma'am, I mean, I don't know, I'm sure, but he was a great man in his time, and would have his picture took no doubt. His wife was a car-well, an heiress, there's not a car-well in this country now, nor for many a day as been. Twoshee brought car-well Grange and the veiler car-well to the Fairfields. Poor thing, pretty she was. Her picture was never took to Wyvern, and much good her land and houses and good looks done her. The Fairfields was wild folk. I don't say there wasn't good among them, but whoever else they was good to, they were seldom kind to their wives. Odd, bad husbands they was, that's sure. Alice smiled and stirred the fire quietly, but did not interrupt, and as the story went on, she sighed. They say she was very lonesome here, well it is a lonesome place, you know, awful lonesome, and always the same. For all folks like me it doesn't matter, but youngbloods different, you know, and they likes to see the world a bit and talk and hear what's afoot, be it fun or change or what not. And she was very lonesome moping about the old garden, planting flowers or plucking roses, all to herself, or crying in the window, while Ari Boots was away with his excuses, now with his sogarin and now with the alms, and truly were worse manners if all were out. So not twice in a year was his face, and some Ari Boots they called him, seen down here, and his pretty lady was sick and sore and forsaken, down in her own lonesome house by the veiler car well, where I'm telling you this. Alice smiled, and nodded in sign of attention, and the old woman went on. I often wonder they try to hide these things. It would be better sometimes they were more outspoken, for sooner or later all will out, and then there's wild work, and may have its past ever making up between them. So stories travel the most without legs to carry them, and there's no gain say in the word of God that said, let there be light, for sooner or later light will be, and all will be cleared up, and the wicked doings of Ari Boots, far away and cunning as always done, come clear to light, so as she could no longer avow poor doubt in the matter. Poor thing, she loved him better than life, better than her soul may have, and that's all she got by, a bad villain that was. He was untrue to her, said Alice. Lork to be sure he was, replied Mrs. Tarnley with a cynical scorn, and so she had that to think of all alone. Along with the rest, for she might have had a greater match than Sir Ari, a lordy was, I forget his name, but either given his eyes almost to a gutter, but I wouldn't do, for she loved booted Ari Fairfield, and him she'd have, and would nearer no other, and so she had enough to think on earing in car-well-grainge. The house she had brought of Fairfield's poor bird alone, as we used to say, but the rest of her time wasn't very long, it wasn't to be. She used to walk out sometimes, but she talked to no one, and she cared for nothing after that, and there's the long sheet of water in the thick of the trees, with the black u-edge around it. I know, said Alice, a very high hedge, and trees behind it, it is the darkest place I ever saw, beyond the garden, isn't that the place? Yeah, that's it, she used to walk round it, sometimes crying, sometimes not, and there she was, found drowned, poor thing. Some said, twas by mischance, for the bank was very steep and slippery, it had been rainy weather, where she was found, and more said she made away with herself, and that's what was thought among the car-well folk, as my grandmother eared. For what's a young creature to do with nothing more to look to, and all alone, with no one ever to talk to, and the ark quite broke? You said, I think, that there was a picture here, inquired Alice. I said, twas and took to Wyver and Marm, there was a picture here, they said, twas hers, my grandmother said so, and she should know, it was the only picture I remember in the Grange. And where is it? inquired Alice. Dropped to pieces long ago, it was in the room they called the gun-room in my day, the wall was damp, it was gone very poor and rotten in my time, and so black you could scarce make it out. Many a time when I was a bit of a girl, some thirteen or fourteen years old, I stood on the table for a long time, together a looking at it. But it was dropping away that time in flakes, and the canvas as rotten as tinder, and every time it got a stir it lost something, till you couldn't make nothing of it, it's all gone long ago, and the frame broke up, I do suppose. What a pity, said Alice. Oh, what a pity! Can you, do you think, remember anything of it? She was standing, you could see the point of a shoe. White satin it looked like, were a buckle that might be diamonds, there was a nose-gay eye-mind in her fingers, were small blue flowers and a rose, but the face was all faded and dark at set, just a bit of a mouth, red and smiling at the corner, very pretty. But it was all gone very dark, you know, and a deal of the painting gone, and that's all I ever seen of a picture. Well, and did anything more happen? asked Alice. Oh, yes, lots, down comes booted Fairfield, now there was no one left to care whether he came or went, the Carwell people didn't love him, but was best to keep a civil tongue, for the Fairfields were dangerous folk always, twas a word and a blow with them, and no one cared to cross them. And he made a bother about it to be sure, and had the room zung with black, and the staircase and the drapery hung over the arch in the gallery, outside down to the floor, for she poor thing, lay up there. Not in this room, said Alice, who even at that distance of time did not care to invade the sinister sanctity of the lady's room. No, not this, the room at the other end of the gallery, it would require a deal doing up and plaster and paper before you could lie in it. But Ari Boots made a woundy fuss about his dead wife, they was cunning after a sort them Fairfields, and I suppose he thought was best to make folk think he loved his wife, at least, to give him something good to say of him if they liked, and he gave arms to the poor, and left a good lump of money, they say, for the parish, both at Crestley Church and at Carwell Priory. They called the vicarage so, and he had a grand funeral as ever was seen from the Grange, and she was buried down at the Priory, which the Carwells used to be, in a new vault, where she was laid the first, and as been the last, for booted Fairfield married again and was buried with his second wife, away at Wyvern, so the poor thing, living and dying, as been to herself. But is there any story to account for what I saw as I came into the gallery with you, asked Alice. I told you, miss, it was hung with black as I heard my grandmothers say, and there upon the story came, for there was three ladies of the Fairfield family at different times before you, ma'am, as saw the same thing. Well, ma'am, at the funeral, as I've heard say, the young lord that liked her well, if she'd had him, and liked her still in spite of all, gave Sarri a lick or two with the rough side of his tongue, and a jewel came out of them words more than a year afterwards, and Harry Boots was killed, and he's buried away down at Wyvern. Well, see there! Ain't it a wonder how gentlemen that has all this world can give, will throw away their lives at a word like that, moralised dulcy-bella. Crane, and not knowing what's to become of them when they've lost all here, all in the snap of a pistol, if it was a poor body, it would be another matter, but, well, it does make a body stare. You mentioned, Mrs. Tarnley, that something had occurred about some ladies of the Fairfield family. What was it? inquired Alice. Well, they say, Sarri, that's booted Fairfield, you know, brought his second wife down here only 12 months after the first one died, and she saw at the very same place when she was setting her first step on the gallery, the same thing you seen yourself, and two months after he was in his grave, and she in a madhouse. Well, I think, Mrs. Tarnley, you needn't be telling all that to frighten the young lady. Frighten the young lady, and why not if she's frighted with truth? She has asked for the truth, and she's got it. Better to fright the young lady than fool her, answered Mildred Tarnley, coldly, and sternly. I don't say you should fool her by no chance answered honest dulcy-bella, but there's no need to be filling her head with them frightful fancies. You have scared her, and you saw a turned pale. I and so well she ought. There was three other women of the Fairfield seen the same thing in the self-same place and every one to her sorrow. One fell over the pixie's cliff, another died in fits, poor thing, with her first baby, and the last was flung beside the quarry in Cressley Common, riding out to see the aunt and was never the better, or the brain, or bone after. Don't tell me, woman, I know rightly what I'm doing. Pray, dulcy-bella, don't, I assure you, Mrs. Tarnley, I'm very much obliged, interposed Alice Fairfield, frighted at the malignant vehemence of the old woman. Ablige not you, why should you? retorted Mildred Tarnley. You're not obliged, you're frightened, I dare say, but it's all true, and no Fairfield has any business bringing his wife to Carwell Grange, and Master Charles knows that as well as me, and now, the long and the short of this. Ma'am, you've got your warning, and you're better quit without letting grass grow under your feet. You've seen your warning, ma'am, and I have told you stark enough the meaning on't. My conscience is clear and you'll do as you like, and if after this you expect me to spy for you, and fetch and carry stories, and run myself into trouble with other people, to keep you out of it, you're clean out of your reckoning. You'll have no more warnings, may have none from me, and so you may take it, ma'am, and leave it as you see fit. And now, Mildred Tarnley's said or say, you have my story, and you have my counsel, and if you despise both one and t'other, and your own eyesight besides, you'll even take what's coming. You shouldn't be frightening this Alice like that, I tell you, you should not. Don't go frightened at any such a story, dear. I say, it's a shame. Don't you see how you have her as white as a handkercher, in a regular state? No Dalsabella indeed, said Alice, smiling, very pale, and her eyes filled up with tears. I'll frighten her no more, and that you may be sure on, and if what I told her, be frightful, tis at me has made it so. Thankless work it be, but tis an urn, nor you I sought to please, but just to take it off my shoulders, and leave her none to blame but herself, if she turns a deaf ear. It's all offering counsel to a willful lass. You'll excuse me, ma'am, for speaking so plain, but better now than too late, she added, recollecting herself a little. And can I do anything please, ma'am, below stairs? I should be going, for who knows what that child maybe you're doing all this time. Thanks very much, no, not anything, said Alice. And Mildred Tarnley, with a hard, dark glance at her, dropped another stiff little curtsy, then withdrew. Well, I never seen such a one as that, said old Dull Cibella, gazing after her, as if it were through the panel of the door. You must not let her talk that way to you, my darling. She's no business to talk up to her mistress that way. I don't know what sort of manners people has in these here-out-of-the-way places. I'm sure, but I think you'll do well, my dear, to keep that one at arm's length, and make her know her place. Nothing else but encroaching an impudence and domineering from such as her, and no thanks for any condescension. Only the more affable you'll be, the more saucy and conceited she'll grow. And I don't think she likes you, Miss Alice. No more I do. It pains young people, and some persons always, to hear from an impartial observer such a conclusion. There is much mortification, and often some alarm. Well, it doesn't much matter, said Alice. I don't think she can harm me much. I don't suppose she would if she could, and I don't mind such stories. Why should you, my dear? No one minds the like nowadays. But I wish she liked me. There are so few of us here. It is such a little world, and I have never done anything to vex her. I can't think what good it can do her hating me. No good, dear, but she's been here so long, the only hen in the house, and she doesn't like to be drove off the roost, I suppose, and I don't know why she told you all that, if it wasn't to make your mind uneasy, and, dear knows, there's enough to trouble it in this moping place without her rigmarolling such a yarn. Hush, Darcibella. Isn't that a horse? Perhaps Charles is coming home. She opened the window which commanded a view of the stable-yard. And is he gone a-riding? asked old Darcibella. No, there's nothing, said Alice gently. Besides, you remind me, he did not take a horse. He only walked a little way with Mr. Henry, and he'll soon be back. Nothing is going wrong, I hope. And with a weary sigh she threw herself into a great chair by the fire, and thought, and listened, and dreamed away a long time, before Charles's step and voice were heard again in the old house.