The Grim House

“Of course not,” he said reassuringly. “To-day I mean to do nothing whatever but spy the ground. But do let us walk faster. How far have we to go?”

“Not above half a mile or so to where the wall begins,” I replied. “And then, oh! it can’t be above a few hundred yards to the place where the door is, only if we are to find it we must walk slowly when we get near there.”

The road looked almost more lonely to-day than when I had been there before. There was not the slightest sign of life or movement as far as we could see beyond us.

“I could believe that no one had passed this way for weeks,” I said to Moore. “Did you ever see such a lonely place?”

“That is probably why they have made the door on this side,” he replied. “I dare say they come out at night, and walk up and down like ghosts!”

“I’m sure they don’t,” I answered, “and they didn’t make the door. It’s as old as the wall itself, as you can see by the ivy. Now don’t talk any more; I want to give all my attention to looking for it.”

And in a minute or two I exclaimed triumphantly; “Here it is, and – yes – still unlocked!”

It must have called for some self-restraint on Moore’s part not to shout “hurrah!” but we were well on our guard. We pushed the door open and entered cautiously, drawing it to behind us. We were well sheltered, as I have said, by the bushes skirting the wall. I crept along a few yards in the same direction as I had done the last time, my brother closely following me. Then we stopped, and I whispered to him that I thought it would be safe to peep out a little. He did so, keeping still well in the shade of the heavy clumps of evergreens farther inside the grounds. Then, after reconnoitring, he beckoned to me to come on.

“There isn’t a creature about,” he said, “and we can’t be seen from the windows at this side. You needn’t be so dreadfully frightened, Reggie.”

“Oh, but it was just like this the last time,” I whispered, “when all of a sudden we heard the cripple brother coming. No, Moore, I won’t go farther in!”

“Well, stay where you are for a bit,” he replied. “I want to get a thoroughly good idea of the lie of the place;” and he certainly seemed to be doing his best to obtain this, his curly head bobbing backwards and forwards in all directions, while I stood on guard, tremulously listening for the slightest sound, extremely frightened, extremely interested, and intensely excited.

When Moore was satisfied that there was no more to be done from his present post of observation, we crept back again to the neighbourhood of the door. I flattered myself that he was now ready to go home, but I was mistaken.

“Now,” he said, “I am going to explore for myself. You and Isabel didn’t try the other side – to the left, I mean.”

“O Moore,” I exclaimed, “that is towards the front of the house!”

“I know that,” he answered; “but that’s just why I want to go that way. It’s perfectly safe if we keep pretty near the wall;” and my curiosity surmounting my fears, I in my turn followed him for some little way. Then an unexpected thing happened! Suddenly, on our right hand, the border of bushes opened out into a sort of trellised passage, between trees, what in France is called a tonnelle, and at its end we perceived a glazed door, evidently leading into a conservatory.

I started back in affright, exclaiming, though in a whisper —

“I believe that leads straight into the house!”

“All the better,” was Moore’s unsympathising reply; “all the better if it does! I had no hope of such a find as this. Come along, Reggie, keep well to one side, and then no one could see us unless they were actually at the door looking out for us, which is not likely to be the case.”

But now I stood firm.

“I won’t come a step farther,” I said positively.

“Well, stay where you are,” said my brother, “though I do think you’re a goose, after having come so far, to stop short at the jolliest point! I’m going on.”

I caught hold of him. He was so excited by this time, though cool enough outwardly, that I was terrified of any war of words ensuing, the sound of which might have attracted attention at the house, so perfectly still and silent was everything about us.

“If – ” I began, “if you will promise me, vow to me, that you will come back in five minutes, I’ll make my way to the door again, and wait there for you.”

“All right,” was the reply; “I promise,” and we separated, he creeping along as nimbly as a cat, while I retreated tremulously, looking over my shoulder every now and then as I did so, for as long as I could keep the boy in sight.

These five minutes – and I really don’t think he exceeded them – seemed to me hours. My relief was indescribable when I heard his softly-uttered “Reggie,” as he returned to me.

“Well?” I said interrogatively. “Was it worth the risk? I know I’ve been shaking here as if I had the palsy. I couldn’t have stood it much longer.”

“Worth the risk?” he repeated, cavalierly ignoring the mention of my tremors. “I should rather think so! Wait till we get outside, and then I’ll tell you what I saw.”

And in another moment, outside and in safety, we found ourselves carefully closing the door so that its unfastened condition should not attract attention, as Isabel and I had done on our first visit.

“What did you see?” I inquired at once. “None of the inhabitants, I suppose?”

“No,” was the reply, “but traces of them. That glass door, Reggie, is the entrance to a long, narrow conservatory, which opens right into the house at the other end. It isn’t much as far as plants go, just a lot of ferns and green things at one side, but there’s a broad sort of walk, and I saw a pipe or two lying on a little table, and some books and seats. There was one long deck-chair kind of thing, belonging to the cripple brother most likely. Evidently it’s a place that they keep for smoking and sitting in. I got close up to the other end and peeped in.”

“O Moore!” I exclaimed, interested but horrified, “supposing you had been seen!”

“But I wasn’t,” he answered in his most matter-of-fact way. “There was nobody about, even in the room I peeped into – I couldn’t make out if it was a sitting-room or a bedroom. It was dark and dullish-looking, as I think all the house must be; the windows are so narrow.”

“Perhaps it’s the cripple brother’s room,” I suggested; “bedroom and sitting-room in one, as he probably finds it difficult to go up and down stairs.”

Moore seemed struck by my acuteness.

“Yes,” he said. “I expect it is. It had the look of it.”

“Well?” I continued, surprised at the silence which ensued, “go on!” for he seemed to be thinking deeply.

“What do you mean?” he replied. ”‘Go on’ about what?”

“All that you saw, of course,” I answered impatiently. “Don’t begin thinking about it till you have told me the whole! Then we can discuss it together.”

He looked up in surprise.

“There isn’t any more to tell,” he said. “I was only thinking to myself how queer it is altogether.”

I gave a little laugh, half derisively.

“Why, that’s what everybody thinks,” I said, “who knows anything about it. There’s nothing original in that.”

“I didn’t suppose there was,” said Moore, beginning to get cross.

I was feeling cross too. I think one often does after any unusual strain or excitement, especially when it ends in nothing, as our present adventure now seemed to do.

“I thought,” I continued unwisely, “that you had made some wonderful discovery, or at least that you thought yourself on the road to one, and now it has all ended in smoke!”

My tone must have been very provoking, but Moore was a queer boy in some ways. His irritation seemed to have disappeared.

“There is a certain proverb,” he said oracularly, “which your words remind me of. ‘There is no smoke without fire.’ What do you say to that? – Eh? – I beg your pardon. What did you remark?”

I had not remarked anything. I suppose I had muttered something inarticulate in my irritation.

“Don’t be nonsensical,” I said sharply. “You needn’t begin hinting, with nothing to hint about!”

Moore was gazing in front of him, and when he spoke again I was really at a loss to tell whether he was in earnest or not.

“There was one thing I have not told you of,” he said. “In one corner of the room there was a heavy, long black curtain —black,” he repeated impressively. “It cut off that corner of the room as it were. There may be a door behind it leading to a staircase; there may be – a skeleton for all I know, or – goodness knows what!”

“Rubbish!” I exclaimed this time. “You are drawing on your imagination just to keep up the farce! I don’t believe you even saw the curtain!” He faced round on me.

“Reggie!” he exclaimed, “I did see a curtain, word of honour.”

“Naturally,” I replied, “most windows have curtains. You know what I mean. I don’t believe you saw any unusual kind of curtain, or that it was black.”

“I swear to you it was black, and a very unusual kind of curtain.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me of it before?” I inquired. “It may have looked black because the room was dark.”

“I was thinking about it,” he answered.

“You weren’t,” I retorted. “You only remembered about it when I said you had made no discoveries. If you had thought it was really mysterious you would have mentioned it straight off. Now do let us drop the whole thing, I’m getting tired of it.”

In my heart I was disappointed. I had had in reality, in spite of my warnings to him, some hopes that Moore’s rashness would at least have led to something in the way of discovery. And by this time I had succeeded in making him angry.

“You will see,” he muttered, and then as I ran off without waiting to hear more – “you will see,” he called after me loudly, “if it is true that I can find out nothing. I am not such a fool as you think!”

But I still ran on, half laughing to myself at his boyish indignation, and heedless of his mysterious hints. Somehow, my own curiosity and interest in the Grim House mystery had diminished as Moore’s increased. “Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!” I thought to myself. “It is, anyway, not worth running the risk of getting into any disagreeables, and no doubt Mr Wynyard would be very annoyed if he knew where we had been this evening.”

What a truism is the old saying, that “nothing is certain except the unforeseen,” and yet how constantly one feels inclined to quote it to oneself even in everyday life! Two most unforeseen circumstances occurred during the first three weeks of my stay at Millflowers – Moore’s joining me there, and now a sudden summons to Mr Wynyard and Isabel to go to Mr Percy’s for some days.

I am not perfectly clear in my memory as to the reason of it. As far as I can recall, the cause was the sudden arrival of some important member of the family from a distance. However that may have been, the fact was that our host and his daughter were practically forced to go. They were very sorry. Mr Wynyard full of apologies, declaring that his sense of hospitality was outraged by this unfortunate necessity. But they were both very thankful that my young brother was with me, otherwise, Isabel declared, that they could not have left me alone, and it might have ended in my visit being curtailed.

Chapter Seven.

The Locked Door

The summons from Mr Percy reached the Manor-house the very morning after the escapade which I described in the last chapter, so Moore was still rather on cold terms with me when the departure of our hosts was announced.

Afterwards, though it had scarcely struck me at the time, I remembered that he had been rather silent when he heard of it, expressing but very little regret in the prospect of their absence. I recollect Isabel’s turning to him and saying —

“You don’t seem to mind it much, Moore; I feel rather hurt;” whereupon he grew red and said something rather confusedly about its only being for a few days; that we would manage to amuse ourselves all right, or words to that effect. But in the little bustle that ensued, the boy’s peculiar manner, as I have said, made no great impression on me.

Isabel and her father started, I think, the next day. I remember standing in the porch with Moore to watch them off, and as soon as the carriage had disappeared down the drive, I turned to him with some little remark as to how odd it was for him and me to find ourselves alone for the first time in our lives, and that not at our own home.

“You must be your very nicest to me, Othello, do you hear, to prevent my feeling dull,” I said, meaning to propitiate him after my sharpness on the evening of our last expedition, for I saw that the cloud had not yet disappeared.

“I shall be quite ready to do anything you like,” he said, rather primly, “and yes, I think I can promise you that it will not be my fault if you have a dull time.”

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, with a passing flash of misgiving; but he evaded a direct reply, though I fancied I heard him murmuring something practically inaudible.

“The best thing I can do,” I thought to myself, “is to put some other things in his head, if he is still planning any fresh investigations; and after all, I have his promise to do nothing without telling me.” It did not then occur to me that the vague threat he had thrown out as to not letting the matter drop could be twisted by his boyish conscience into a definite announcement of his project.

I went on talking about the drive that had been proposed for us that afternoon in Isabel’s pony-cart – a drive in a new direction, as to which Mr Wynyard had instructed us before he left. Moore answered with interest, even getting up a little argument as to the exact route we were to take. But still he was not quite himself, nor did he become so during our expedition, though it passed off very successfully, without our losing our way or any other misfortune.

And during the evening that followed something in his manner continued to give me the same feeling of slight uneasiness. He did not seem to care to talk much, and looked himself out a book from among those in the library which Mr Wynyard had recommended to him, and then settled himself in a corner to enjoy it. I felt a little hurt and anxious too, though I hoped it only meant that his irritation with me had not entirely subsided.

“I wish I had never told him a word about that hateful old house or the stupid people that live in it. I dare say there is no mystery at all, and that they are just a parcel of half imbecile hypochondriacs,” I thought to myself, feeling as if I must give vent, at least in thought, to my vexation towards somebody! And aloud I appealed to Moore – not captiously, as that would only have made things worse – but with a touch of reproach.

“I think you might talk to me a little, or play chess, or something sociable,” I said brightly. “You might even read aloud. It is rather dull for me.”

“I can’t read aloud; you know I can’t,” he replied quietly enough. “I’ll play chess if you like.”

And so we did. But Moore did not put his usual spirit into it, and so when I checkmated him at the end of an hour or so, I did not feel as pleased as would have been the case in an ordinary way. For he played better than I. And soon after I said I felt tired, as I did, and got up to go to bed.

“How long are they,” – meaning of course our hosts – “going to stay away?” Moore said abruptly as we were bidding each other good-night.

“Three days – four at the most,” I replied. “This is Tuesday. Yes, they quite hope to be back on Friday.”

He murmured something unintelligible in reply, but I said no more. I was really tired, for our drive had been a long one, and over very rough roads for some considerable part of the day.

The next morning, however, I awoke quite refreshed again, and ready for another expedition of any kind.

“I must amuse Moore if he won’t amuse me,” I thought to myself. “Boys are terrible creatures for getting into mischief if they are idle, as the old hymn truly says,” and I prepared to go downstairs to breakfast in excellent spirits.

But alas! the sunshine which had passed into my room while I was dressing had been but short-lived. Before we had finished breakfast the skies had clouded over into a very unpromising grey; long before noon it was hopeless.

“No chance of an expedition to-day!” I said, rather drearily, as I stood at the window gazing out, but Moore seemed inclined to take things philosophically.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, as he joined me, his hands in his pockets, a somewhat superior air about him. “Not for you at least, Reggie. It may clear up by late afternoon, enough for me to get out a bit, but the roads will be terrible, it’s coming down so heavily.”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t go out as well as you if it clears at all,” I said. “You forget that I am less sensitive to cold than you, since you were ill!”

If I had thought a moment I would not have said this, knowing what boy nature is as to any precautionary measures for health. I was surprised that my not very tactful speech did not seem to annoy my brother.

“I don’t know about that,” was all he said in reply. “I’m ever so much tougher than I was, and at worst, I have the advantage over you of having no flapping skirts to soak up the wet.”

No more was said just then. We got through the day comfortably enough. I amused myself, as one can always do on a wet day when away from one’s people, by writing a long letter home; Moore entertaining himself, so far as I saw him during the morning, with a wonderful “find” in the shape of a collection of old bound volumes of Punch– dating back years before their present reader had honoured the world by his presence. I overheard him chuckling quietly to himself now and then, as he sat in his corner, and the sound was pleasant to my ears for more reasons than one. I was glad that he was not feeling bored, and I was relieved to think that the suppressed excitement which I had begun to suspect his manner had no existence except in my fancy.

“I don’t believe,” I said to myself with satisfaction, “I don’t think there can be anything brewing in his brain,” and in this comfortable state of mind I passed the greater part of the day, reassuring myself now and then by taking a peep at the boy whenever I lost sight of him for many minutes at a time.

We had tea together, of course, very comfortably in the library, which we had chosen in preference to the drawing-room during our tête-à-tête days, and Moore did full justice to the cakes which Isabel before she left home had taken care to order in profusion for his, or our, delectation.

The second post came in about five o’clock at Millflowers, and the outgoing post left at six. To-day brought an unexpected letter from mother, from whom I had already heard that very morning. This necessitated an addition to what I had previously written, as it concerned a matter of some little importance.

“I shall only just have time,” I reflected, “to answer what mother asks before the bag goes,” and for a moment or two I sat thinking over what I had to say, rather absorbed in it.

Moore meanwhile had strolled to the window, and stood there looking out; the post had brought nothing for him.

“It has cleared up,” he remarked, “to some extent at least, but it doesn’t look tempting. What do you say about going out, Reggie?”

I looked up doubtfully.

“I don’t think I can,” I replied; “by the time I have finished my letter it will be too late, and it looks misty and disagreeable enough already. I don’t think you should go out either, Moore. It is just the sort of evening to catch cold in.”

I spoke without misgiving, for my thoughts were running on my letters. Moore did not at once reply.

“I’ll see about it,” he said; “anyway I shan’t go far, and I won’t catch cold.”

“Be sure you are in by six,” I called back to him as I left the room.

And till close upon that hour my letters engrossed me, and when I had seen them safely despatched, and returned to the library, I scarcely gave a thought to anything else, till the timepiece striking the quarter past, made me begin to expect to hear Moore’s footsteps every moment. But the clock’s ticking went on to the half-hour without his coming.

“It is wrong of him,” I began to think, “to stay out like this, when he knows I am all alone, especially after what I said.” Then as my half-forgotten fears suddenly revived – “He can’t have – oh! no, surely he would not think of anything of the kind; I am too fanciful,” and I took up a book and tried to interest myself in it. But such tryings are generally of the nature of make-believe. Sometimes, indeed, any effort of the kind, like a half dose of chloroform, only seems to intensify the consciousness one would fain put aside. I grew more and more uneasy, and when once again the timepiece struck – this time the quarter to – I threw my book aside, and gave up pretending that I had no cause for misgiving. It was not raining now, and the sky, though darkening for the evening, seemed clearer. I soon made up my mind what to do, and hurried to my own room to fetch my wraps. On the way out I met one of the men-servants.

“I am afraid we may be a little late for dinner,” I said. “My brother has stayed out so long. I am going to meet him. I know the way he has gone.”

The young man, who was extremely obliging, as were all the servants of that well-managed household, offered to go off himself in search of the truant, but I shook my head.

“No, thank you,” I replied; “I shall find him easily. He was not going far.”

Yes, indeed, in my heart I did know “the way he had gone.”

“O Moore,” I said to myself, “you are very naughty. It is really too bad. How I do wish I had been guided by Jocelyn’s advice!” and feeling decidedly angry as well as frightened – the one sensation seeming to increase instead of lessening the other – I hurried on.

My destination, I need scarcely say, was the door in the wall, and all the way thither I kept straining my eyes in the vain hope of seeing the boy’s figure emerging from the gathering gloom and coming to meet me. But no – I knew my point very accurately by now, and soon relaxed my pace, knowing that the door must be near at hand. And all the way from the Manor-house I had not met one living soul.

“It is a very lonely place,” I thought, with a little shiver of nervousness. “None of the roads near home are as deserted. I don’t think I should like to live all the year round in the North.”

Then a new fear struck me. What if the door should be locked – should have been locked after Moore had entered the grounds? for that he had done so I had no manner of doubt. What if that were the explanation of his non-appearance? What could I do?

But I did not allow myself to dwell on this cruel possibility, and in another moment it was set aside. I found the door, and it was unclosed!

Half my distress seemed to vanish with this discovery, though I grew more and more angry with my brother. Once inside, I stood still to consider, but not for long.

“He is sure to have gone to the left,” I said to myself. “All his curiosity was to peep into the house again, and he could only do so through the tonnelle and the long glass house;” so I crept along in the direction I decided upon, keeping close to the wall, between it and the shrubs which bordered it, as I have described, though it was now so dusky that my extreme precaution was scarcely called for. And before long I came to the passage between trees and bushes which we had lighted upon the last time.

It was not quite so dark here, for the real entrance to the tonnelle was a fairly wide one at the side, and I could still clearly see the glazed door at the other end. I stood still, gazing before me – then taking courage I advanced a few steps, still keeping my eyes fixed on the door through which I seemed to feel by instinct that the truant would make his way out. And I was not disappointed. As I approached the conservatory pretty closely, the door moved, softly and noiselessly. I would scarcely have noticed its doing so but for the faint glimmer of light on the glass panes of its upper part. And, peering cautiously to right and left, then gazing straight before him, stood the naughty boy!

It took all my self-command to repress an exclamation, but I did so, only whispering – and in the silence, unbroken save for the drip of the still rain-laden leaves, even a whisper sounded portentously audible – “Moore, come at once. Don’t you see me?”