The Heath Hover Mystery

“Why, Uncle Seward,” she exclaimed, “that’s the very thing I’ve been looking forward to – a glorious open air drive through the lovely country, and it’s such a ripping afternoon. Do let’s have it. Why, it’ll do me all the world of good. Fancy being shut up in a close, fusty fly! And there’s going to be such a ripping sunset too, I could see there was coming along in the train. No. Do let’s drive in the open.”

“Certainly, dear. I was only thinking that after a bad bout of ‘flu’ you have to be careful – very careful.”

“Yes – yes. But this air – why, it has done me good already; it’s doing me good every minute. And I’ve plenty of wraps. The drive will be ripping.”

He looked at her admiringly. The colour had come back to her cheeks and the blue eyes danced with delighted anticipation.

“Very well,” he said. “Here’s your tea. Is it all as you like it? Yes? Well, I’ll just go and see that all your things are aboard.”

He went into the bar department, drank a glass of brandy and water, then went out to the waggonette. Everything was stowed safe and snug. There was certainly not a “mountain of luggage” he noticed, but it struck him that Melian’s “plenty of wraps” was a bit of imagination. He shed his fur coat and threw a French cloak over his shoulders. Then he went back to her.

She was ready, and the blue eyes had taken on quite a new light – very different eyes now, to when their sole look out was bounded by a patch of grey murk as a background to bizarre and hideous patterns in chimney pots.

“Here’s the shandradan, dear. Now are you absolutely dead cert you’re equal to a five mile open drive. Here – put on this.”

“This” was the fur coat – and she objected.

“Tut-tut, I’m skipper of this ship, and I won’t have opposition. So – in you get.”

He had hoisted it on to her, and now enveloped in it she climbed to the front seat beside him. He arranged a corresponding thickness of double rug over her knees.

“Thank you, sir,” said the porter, catching what was thrown to him. “Beg pardon, Mr Mervyn,” he went on, sinking his voice, “but has anything more been ’eard about – ”

But Mervyn drew his whip across the pony’s hind quarters with a sharpness that that long suffering quadruped had certainly never merited, and the vehicle sprang into lively motion, which was all the answer the ill-advised querist obtained.

“Wasn’t he asking you something?” said Melian, as they spun over the railway bridge above the station. The town lay beneath and behind; an old church tower just glimpsed above tall bare elms.

“I dare say. But if we are going to get home before you get chilly, we can’t stop to answer all sorts of idiotic questions.”

Even then the reply struck Melian as odd, less so perhaps than the change in her kinsman’s manner while making it. But she said:

“Before I get chilly. Why I’m wrapped up like – Shackleton, or Peary, or any of them. In your coat too. It was quite wrong of you to have insisted upon my wearing it, and I had plenty of wraps.”

“Had you? As a prologue to our time together child, I may as well tell you I am a man of fads. One is that of being skipper in my own ship. You obeyed orders, so there’s no more to be said.”

It was put so kindly, so pleasantly. The tone was everything, and again the girl felt a lump rise to her throat, for it reminded her all of her dead father. Just the sort of thing he would have said; just the sort of tone in which he would have said it.

Chapter Ten

Of the Brightening of Heath Hover

They had left the outskirts of the town behind, and were bowling along a tree-hung road, which in summer would have been a green tunnel. The brown woods stood out above the whitened landscape, sombre in their winter nakedness, but always beautiful, over beyond an open, snow powdered stubble. Then between coverts of dark firs, where pheasants crowed, flapping their way up to their nightly roost. Past a hamlet embedded in tall, naked trees, then more dark firwoods interstudded with birch where the heathery openings broke the uniform evergreen – then out again for a space – on a bit of heathery upland which would be glowing crimson in golden August.

“You can see around here for a bit,” said Mervyn, pointing with his whip. “Away there on the ridge, that tower is Lower Gidding, so called, presumably because Upper Gidding, ten miles away, is about two hundred feet lower down to the sea level. Beyond that last wooded ridge but one, is my shop – our shop I mean.”

“It’s lovely,” replied the girl looking round with animation, and taking in the whole landscape.

“Yes, perfectly lovely. And look. Here’s the sunset I told you we were going to get.”

On the north eastern sky line, an opaque bank of clouds had heaved up – a bank of clouds that seemed to bode another snowfall. The sun, sinking in a fiery bed, away in the cloudless west, was touching this – and lo, in a trice, the mountainous masses of the rising cloud-tier were first tinged, than bathed in a flood of glowing copper red. Between, the long tongues of dark woodland stood out from the whitened ground. The bark of a dog, from this or that distant farmhouse, came up clear on the silent distance, and then from this or that covert, arose the melodious hoot of owls, answering each other.

“What a picture!” cried the girl, turning an animated face upon her new guardian. “Heavens, what a picture! And to think that this time yesterday I was staring at a row of hideous black chimney pots under a hideous murky sky. Not only yesterday, but day after day before! And – Uncle Seward, you live in the midst of this!”

Mervyn smiled to himself, then at her, and his smile was a very good one to behold.

“Yes, dear, I do,” he answered gently. “And now you are going to as well.”

Down a steep road between dark woods, then an opening. A long reach of ice cleft their depth; then a sudden quacking as several wild duck sprang upwards from an open hole by the sluice, and swished high above their heads.

“Wild duck, aren’t they?” cried the girl, turning her head to watch them, then looking up the frozen expanse. “Why it might be some lake in the middle of the backwoods of Canada, such as one reads about.”

“Yes, so it might. I can tell you you haven’t come into exactly a tame part, even in our southern counties, which reminds me that I didn’t sufficiently rub it into you that you would have to – well – er – rough it a bit.”

“If you had, that would have made it better still,” was the answer. “I prefer country places that are not too civilised.”

“That’s fortunate,” rejoined Mervyn with a pleased smile, “for you’ll be exactly suited as far as that goes, in my shack.”

Up another steep bit of road at a foot’s pace. It was quite dusk now, but a golden moon, at half, rising over the tree-tops, threw a glitter upon the frosty banks. Quite close by an owl hooted.

“Oh, but this is too lovely for anything,” cried Melian. “By the way, what on earth are people talking about when they talk about the hoot of an owl being dismal. Why, it’s melodious to a degree.”

“Great minds skip together, dear. That’s just what I think.”

In his own mind the speaker was thinking something else; thinking it too, with a great glow of satisfaction. They would get on splendidly together. All her ideas, so far expressed, were the exact counterpart of his own. What a gold mine he had lighted on when he had opened Violet Clinock’s letter but a couple of days back. Then he became aware that Melian had turned, with a quick movement, and was gazing at him with a curious – he even fancied half-startled – look.

“That was exactly one of father’s expressions,” she said slowly. “And – do you know, Uncle Seward, you are so like him.”

“Am I, dear?” was the answer, made very gently. “All the better, because then I shall be all the more able, as far as possible, to replace him. But – here we are – at home.”

The waggonette had topped the rise, and was now descending a similarly wood-fringed road. On the left front extended another long, narrow, triangular expanse of ice; set in its sombre, tree-framed encasing. Below the broad end of this a light or two gleamed.

Old Joe and his ancient spouse were there to receive them, and did so with alacrity. It was a tacit part of the bond that they were not to be required to remain at Heath Hover after dark, but on this occasion they were stretching a point; partly through motives of curiosity in that they were anxious to see what the new arrival was like; partly, that with the house well lighted up, and the bustle and stir of preparation, and the advent of some one young, and therefore presumably lively, on the scene, the idea of shadowy manifestations didn’t seem in keeping somehow.

“Why, this is ripping,” cried Melian as she obtained her first view of the old living-room. The deep, old-fashioned grate with its wide chimney was piled high with roaring logs, and a bright lamp on the table lighted up the low-beamed, whitewashed ceiling, and even the dark, red-papered walls. “Why, it’s a typical old-world sort of place. Ought to have a ghost, and all that kind of thing.”

At this remark the venerable Judy, who was hobbling about putting some finishing touches to the table, stopped and stared. Then, shaking her head, she hobbled out again.

“What’s the matter with the old party, Uncle Seward?” said Melian, whom this behaviour struck. But she looked up too soon – just in time to catch her uncle’s frown in fact. “Is there one?” she added suddenly, and pointedly.

“Good Heavens, child. Every blessed house that wasn’t built the day before yesterday, that isn’t reeking with raw plaster and new cement, is supposed to carry a ghost, especially in the country, and standing in lonely solitude in the middle of woods like this. Throw in a deep old-fashioned fireplace and some oak panelling and there – you’ve got your Christmas number at once.”

Telepathy may be bosh or it may not. At any rate, to Melian Seward, the lightness of her uncle’s tone, together with the annoyed look she had caught upon his face, and the sudden perturbation of the old woman at her remark, did not carry conviction. She felt certain that there was some story attaching to the place.

“What a jolly old door,” she remarked, catching sight of the one in the corner, half hidden as it was, behind a curtain. “Why it looks quite old. Oh, but it is good,” going over to it with her quick, rapid habit of movement. “And the lock! Why it’s splendid. What is it, Uncle Seward? Sixteenth century, at least?”

Mervyn looked at her, and strove not to look at her queerly.

“I don’t know what date it is,” he said. “It leads down to an old vault-like cellar, which probably was used for storing wine. It isn’t now, because I’m too poor to have any wine to store. At least, I mean, darling,” – catching the expression with which she looked up – “I can’t afford to run wine cellars, but,” – and then came in a little embarrassment – “I’m not quite too poor to be able to offer a home to my – stranded little niece, shall we say?”

The additional term of endearment had struck her. She looked at him in the lamplight, standing erect and beautiful.

“Dear Uncle Seward,” she said. “I can’t say anything – except that – I don’t know how it is – there seems to have come something since I met you – since I heard from you. Why, you bring back my dear old father to me at every turn. You are so like him. You have the same expressions – everything. And yet – you were not even brothers.”

“Cousins, though. Nearly the same thing. Kiss me, child. You haven’t yet. You know – all the public squash on the station platform.”

She did, and in the act it seemed as if her dead father – dead under the impression that he could serve her interests best by so dying – were alive and speaking within this room. Even in the quiet, contained voice, she seemed to recognise his.

It may have been imagination, but Mervyn seemed to think she could not withdraw her attention from the old nail-studded, shaded door in the corner. She kept looking at it even while they were talking. He remembered his vigil on the night of the rescue. Heavens! was this beastly, deluding mesmeristic effect going to hold her too, now at the first few minutes of her arrival? Then a diversion occurred. A cry from Melian suddenly drew his attention.

“What’s this? Oh you little sweet. Here come to me, little pooge-pooge!”

The little black kitten had suddenly landed itself, without notice, upon the white tablecloth, where it squatted, purring.

“Oh, you sweet little woolly ball – where did you come from?” cried Melian, picking up the tiny creature and stuffing it into the hollow of her cheek and neck. “Uncle Seward, did you get this on purpose for me? Tell me.”

Her cheeks were pink with animation, and her blue eyes shone.

“No, dear. That’s a special child of my own, since it’s little life began. It is with me always. I’m glad you’ve taken to it.”

“Taken to it? I should think so. Now you’re going to be jealous, Uncle Seward. I’m going to appropriate it. Oh, what a sweet little beast!” holding it up under the armpits. But the kitten growled expostulatingly.

“‘Beast’? But it’s human,” laughed Mervyn. “Well, you shall have it, dear. Poogie – there’s your new owner. See? My nose is clean out of joint. I can take a back seat.”

Again Melian started, and momentarily grew grave.

“Poogie.” That too was one of her father’s expressions. She looked again at her uncle. Bright as the lamplight was, still it was artificial light, and under it the likenesss was more and more emphasised, in fact, startling.

“Come upstairs, child, and I’ll show you your room. It’s right next to mine, so you’ve only to bang on the wall – if you want – I mean – er – if you were to get nervous in the middle of the night, in a strange place.”

“But what on earth should I get nervous about?” exclaimed the girl, in round-eyed wonderment.

“Oh, nothing. But the sex is given that way, so I only thought I’d tell you, that’s all. Now, you can find your way down, and we’ll have dinner when you’re ready.”

Left alone, Melian proceeded to look round the room. It was small but cosy, with two cupboards let into the wall. A bright fire burned in the grate, and four lighted candles made a full and cheerful glow. The window she noticed was rather small, and looking out of this, under the light of the moon, she again took stock of the house. The windows at the projecting ends, unoccupied, seemed to stare lifelessly. The house was too much below the level of the sluice to allow a view of the pond, but the outline of the woods towered up against the frosty stars, and the hoot of owls and the high up quacking of flighting duck, sounded upon the stillness. A feeling of intense peace, of intense thankfulness came over her. She had found a very haven of rest she felt already, and her newly acquired relative – well – she was sure she was going to get very fond of him indeed.

Soon she betook herself downstairs, and cosy and bright indeed the room looked. A roast fowl lay temptingly upturned and surrounded by shreds of bacon, and the potatoes were beautifully white and flowery. The little black kitten was playing riotously with a cork tied to the end of a string which always hung from the back of one of the armchairs.

“Well, child, I hope you’ve brought an appetite with you,” said Mervyn, as they sat down. “You’ll have to be fed up. ‘Plain but wholesome,’ you know, as the school prospectuses used to say.”

“Yes, I’ve brought one. I feel miles better already.” And then she talked on – telling him about her life of late, and its ups and downs. But of her earlier life she seemed to avoid mention.

And Mervyn, encouraging her to talk, was furtively watching her. The animation which lit up her face, bringing with it a tinge of colour, the gleam of the golden hair in the lamplight, the movement of the long, white, artistic fingers – there was no point in the entrancing picture that escaped him. Indeed, he had been lucky beyond compare, he decided, when Violet Clinock’s letter had found him; and again and again as he looked at Melian, he made up his mind that she was there for good, unless she got tired of it and of him and insisted on leaving. But he would not think of that to-night.

They got up at last, and Mervyn drew two big chairs to the fire. Then he lighted his pipe. The kitten in the most matter of course way jumped upon Melian’s lap and curled up there.

“There you are,” laughed her uncle. “My nose is out of joint the first thing. It used to prefer me for a couch, but I don’t quarrel with its taste.”

So they sat on and chatted cosily. At last, bedtime came. Then Melian remarked on the circumstance that the table hadn’t been cleared.

“No. It won’t be, till to-morrow morning,” was the reply. “Old Judy has taken herself off long ago. I told you you’d have to rough it – eh? You see she and old Joe are the only people I can get to do my outlying work, and they hang out in a cottage the other side of the hill – beyond the first pond we passed. The young ones won’t stay on the place – find it too lonely, they say. So there you are.”

“Yes. I’m going to turn to and do things,” answered Melian decisively.

“Well, never mind about beginning now,” he said, lighting her candle and preceding her to her room. “Look, here’s a handbell. If you want anything, or are feeling lonely or ‘nervy’ in the night, ring it like the mischief – and I’ll be there. Good-night, dear.”

“Good-night, Uncle Seward,” and she kissed him affectionately.

Mervyn returned to the living-room and re-lighted his pipe. His gaze wandered to the shadowy door in the corner. Was its tradition really and completely upset? That strange manifestation, as to which he was hardly yet prepared to swear to as entirely an optical delusion – had presaged good to somebody, in that by keeping him awake he had been able to save the life of the stranger. But then the stranger had died immediately afterwards, under mysterious circumstances, and had this not befallen why then he, John Seward Mervyn would never have become aware of the existence or propinquity of his niece. And what a find that was – a young, bright, beautiful presence to irradiate the shadows of this gloomy old haunted grange. No room for any melancholic, fanciful imaginings with that about.

And yet – and yet – it may be that he was not quite easy in his mind. Not for nothing had he shown her that clearly ringing handbell, and laid emphasis on the unhesitating use of it.

Chapter Eleven

A Slip on a Stone

The morning broke, bright and clear, one of those rare winter mornings without a cloud in the blue, and the sun making additional patterns through the frost facets on the window pane. And the said sun had not very long since risen.

Mervyn looked out of the window; the house faced due east and caught the first glory of the morning sun – when there was any to catch, and to-day there was. The frosted pines glistened and gleamed with it, so too did the earth, with its newly laid coating of crystals. But in the midst of this setting was a picture.

Melian was coming down the path. A large hooded cloak was wrapped round her, but she had nothing on her head, and the glory of her golden hair shone like fire in the new born, clear rays. The kitten, a woolly ball of black fluffiness, was squatted upon her shoulder, and she was singing to herself in a full, clear voice. He noted her straight carriage, and the swing of her young, joyous, elastic gait. A picture indeed! And this bright, beautiful, joyous child, was going to belong to him henceforward – to him, all alone. No one else in the wide world had the shadow of a claim upon her. She had come to him out of sordid surrounding of depression and want – yes, it would soon have come to that, judging from the account she had given of herself. Well, she had fallen upon the right place, and at the right time.

He dressed quickly. He heard her enter the house, and old Judy’s harsh croaky tones mingling with the clear melodious ones. Then a silvery rippling laugh, then another. He remembered old Judy could be funny at times in her dry, cautious old rustic way. John Seward Mervyn felt the times had indeed changed for him. He felt years and years younger, under the bright spell of this youthful influence in the gloomy and shunned old house.

“Well dear!” he cried gaily, coming into the room. “You don’t look much of the ‘flu’ patient slowly convalescing. What sort of an ungodly early time did you get up?”

“Oh Uncle Seward, I’ve had such fun. I’ve been out all up the pond, and this little poogie had a romp all over the ice. Then it rushed up a tree after a squirrel, and they sat snarling at each other at the end of a thin bough, and the squirrel jumped to another tree, but the poogie wasn’t taking any. Were you, pooge-pooge?” And she squeezed the little woolly ball into her face and neck.

“Well, it won’t take you long to get on your legs again,” said Mervyn, looking admiringly at the perfect picture she presented. “What shall we do with you to-day? Go for a long drive – or what? Well, I don’t know. The old shandradan I brought you here in isn’t too snug for a convalescing invalid, and it’s the best I’ve got. But first we’ll have breakfast.” And he hailed Judy, with an order to hurry on that repast.

“Oh, that be hanged for a yarn, Uncle Seward. I’m not a convalescing anything. I’ve convalesced already, in this splendid air and surroundings. Let’s go out somewhere. Do let’s.”

She had clasped both hands round his arm and the blue eyes were sparkling with anticipation.

“All right. You shall be Queen of the May, to-day at any rate. But I think we mustn’t overdo it at the start. We’ll lunch early, and then start on a rambling round of exploration – equipped with plenty of wraps.”

“And we may get another ripping sunset like yesterday,” she exclaimed.

“You are extraordinarily fond of Nature’s effects, child. What else appeals to you?”

“Old stones?”

“What?”

“Old stones. Ruined castles – churches – Roman remains – everything of that kind.”

Mervyn emitted a long and expressive whistle.

“Good Lord! but you’ve come to the right shop for that,” he said. “Why this countryside just grows them. All sorts of old mouldy monuments, in musty places, just choking with dry rot. Eh? That what you mean?”

“That’s just what I do mean.”

“Oh Lord?”

He was looking at her, quizzically ruthful. He foresaw himself being dragged into all sorts of weird places; hoary old churches, whose interiors would suggest the last purpose on earth to that for which they had been constructed, and reeking of dry rot – half an ancient arch in the middle of a field which would require wading through a swamp to get at – and so on. But while he looked at her he was conscious that if she had expressed a wish to get a relic chipped out of the moon, he would probably have given serious thought to the feasibility of that achievement.

“But that sort of thing’s all so infernally ugly,” he said.

“Is it? Ugly? Old Norman architecture ugly! What next?”

Mervyn whistled again.

“I don’t know anything about Norman, or any other architecture,” he said, with a laugh. “I only know that when I run into any Johnnies who do, or think they do – they fight like the devil over it, and vote each other crass ignoramuses. How’s that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s go and look at something of the kind this afternoon. Shall we?”

“No, my child. Not if I know it. You wait till you’re clean through this ailment of yours before I sanction you going into any damp old vault to look at gargoyles.”

Melian went off into a rippling peal.

“Gargoyles don’t live in vaults, Uncle Seward. They live on roofs, and towers.”

“Do they? Well, wherever they live, God’s good open English country is going to be the thing for you to-day, anyhow.”

“All safe. The other will keep.”

Mervyn dawdled over breakfast, absolutely contrary to his wont. His wont was to play with it; now he ate it. This bright presence turned a normally gloomy necessity into a fairy feast.

“Come and let’s potter round a bit,” he said, soon after they had done.

“Rather.”

Melian swung on her large hooded cloak, and they went up the step path to the sluice. The sheen of ice lay before them, running up in a far triangle to the distance of the woods.

“By the way, do you know how to skate?” said Mervyn.