The Grim House

“Forgive me?” said the boy, trying to smile, though he winced with pain as he did so. “Well, I suppose I must bear it.”

“Nonsense?” I replied indignantly. “I was only going to say that I shall never forget this evening, not if I live to be a hundred. But I would not be so mean and cruel as to talk of never forgiving, when you are already so punished.”

By this time Mr Grey and the stranger were close to us, the former looking, if possible, more gloomy and harassed than usual; by which term must be understood, so far as I am concerned, the expression of his face in church! His companion was still talking quickly, but I only heard the elder man’s reply.

“Well, yes,” were his words. “I suppose it is the best thing to do. The servants would make a wild story of it. The flyman – ” – and here I think I detected a grim smile – “would probably give out that we set man-traps along the wall.”

“We have thought of a plan, Miss – ” began the young man, then stopped suddenly, realising that he had not heard our name. “We have thought of a plan which will obviate all that you are afraid of.”

“The only objection to it,” interrupted Mr Grey, turning to him, “being that you will lose your train.”

“That is really of no consequence,” was the reply. “I can wire to my people from the station when to expect me.”

Mr Grey’s interruption annoyed me. I was all on tenter-hooks to hear the “plan,” and I could see that the stranger sympathised with my impatience.

“It is this,” he explained. “A fly is now waiting for me to take me to the station. Mr Grey and I will carry your brother outside, as carefully as possible. He must be carried somewhere, and a little bit down the road will be scarcely farther than back to the house. Then, as I pass in the fly, you must call out to me for help. I shall stop, and between us we will lift him in, and I will take you both home – to the Manor-house, I think you called it? So the driver will have nothing to tell except that his fare behaved with ordinary humanity,” and here he smiled, nor was his smile a grim one. “And on the way,” he went on, “you must give me the doctor’s address if you know it, so that I may send him as I pass through the village.”

“There is no doctor in the village,” said Mr Grey, “but you can save time nevertheless, as his house is close to the railway station.”

“Thank you, oh! thank you so much,” Moore and I exclaimed together, but that was all we had time for, for by now the two men were busied in lifting my brother, with the least possible jar to the poor foot, preparatory to carrying him outside. They were both strong men, and their gentleness and deftness, especially perhaps as regarded Mr Grey, struck me with admiration.

I followed the little cortège meekly enough to the fateful door in the wall. Here they halted, Mr Grey requesting me to unlock it with a key which he had handed to me before lifting Moore off the ground. Then we all passed through.

“Close it, if you please,” said our host, for such he was, however unwillingly. “Draw it to, that is to say, and leave the key in the lock. It cannot shut itself.”

I did as I was bid, and we proceeded down the road till we had reached an unsuspicious distance from the entrance in the wall, sufficiently near the corner which the fly must pass on its way to the station, for it to be easy to attract the driver’s attention without any appearance of collusion. Then they placed Moore in as easy a position as possible; happily the excitement of all that had passed, aided by the stimulus of the brandy and water which Mr Grey had brought with him in a flask, had quite revived the patient, and he declared that the pain was much less severe.

“I am sorry to leave you,” said the older man, as he lifted his hat in farewell, “but – considering everything, primarily of course your own wishes – it cannot be helped.”

“And it will only be for a very few minutes that you will be alone,” added the younger one.

“I do not mind in the least,” I replied. “I only wish, O Mr Grey,” – involuntarily almost the name escaped me, and at its sound he stopped and half moved – “will you not allow us to apologise to you – we shall probably not have another opportunity of doing so – for our unwarrantable, our impertinent – ” (at this word I felt, rather than saw, that Moore grew red) “intrusion? I do not know how to express what I feel, nor how to thank you for your kindness.”

“My dear young lady,” replied the hermit, “pray do not take the matter so much to heart. Mr – my friend here, has explained it to me. I cannot see that you personally have anything whatever to reproach yourself with, and as for your brother – why,” and for the first time the cold, almost hard, voice softened, “I know well the love of adventure and – and – ” he seemed at a loss to find a word, evidently unwilling to supply so hurting a one as “curiosity” – “and all that sort of thing of young folk. You may rely on us to keep this affair to ourselves, and I trust the doctor’s report will relieve your anxiety.”

Then, for the second time, he lifted his hat, and in another moment both he and his companion had disappeared.

“Moore,” I said, as soon as I was sure that the two were well out of hearing, “Moore, they – he – that poor man has been very, very good about it.”

“Yes,” he agreed, meekly enough at first, “he has. All the same, Reggie, I don’t see that you need have spoken of what I did – it was only a bit of a lark after all – as ‘impertinent’.”

“I did not apply it only to you,” I replied. “I said our. And you needn’t suppose I don’t blame myself. I do, bitterly, and I shall do so as long as I live, for having tried to pry into these poor people’s secret – above all, for having put it into your head to do so.” Here Moore grunted, but he did not attempt any further defence. “You don’t know how I hated being told I was not to blame at all, and not being able to confess that I was.”

“Why weren’t you able?” Moore asked.

“Because of course it would only have made it far worse for the Greys to hear how, after all these years, they are still talked over. And besides that, I should have had to bring in poor Isabel! But for her, I shouldn’t have so much minded telling the other man how inquisitive I had been – only after all, there was really no time to explain.”

“You can tell him in the fly, if you like,” said Moore. I was not sure if he said it to tease me or if he were in earnest. I preferred to think the former, especially as it showed that he could not be in any very great suffering if he were equal to teasing!

“I wish the fly would come,” was the only reply I condescended to make.

“So do I,” began Moore, and his rather plaintive tone made me very sorry for him again.

“Is your foot – ” I was just going to ask, when the welcome sound of approaching wheels caught my ears. Our unknown friend had lost no time!

“Here it is,” I exclaimed, “I must run to meet it, Moore.”

I was not a moment too soon. The man was driving quickly, and I inferred that the stranger had not ventured to prevent his doing so, as he doubtless was in hopes of still catching the train he had been ordered for. And the reception of my first call was not encouraging.

“Stop, please,” I cried. “Do stop for a moment.”

“Can’t,” was the reply; “I’m bound to catch the London express. You must send your order to the inn.”

“It’s not an order,” I replied. “Some one, my brother, has had an accident, and is lying on the road,” and I pointed towards the spot. “You must stop in common humanity. We are staying at the Manor-house, Mr Wynyard’s.”

By this time the man had probably found out that I was a lady – possibly even recognised me, as the Scart Bridge flys were sometimes used by the Wynyards for station-work. And in spite of his protest, he had slackened speed a little. This gave the occupant of the vehicle time to put his head out and ask questions – to the driver’s disgust no doubt, little suspecting that his hirer, the principal in the matter of catching the express, had no expectation whatever of doing so.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired.

“The lady says as there’s some one been and hurted hisself down the lane,” began the man. “We can send a man up from Hart’s Cottages,” and he pointed with his whip, “but if we stop, sir – ”

“Stop!” was the interruption in imperative tones. “Of course we must,” and he jumped out as he spoke. “Follow us,” he said sharply to the driver, who thereupon proceeded to obey, murmuring some thing to the effect that the train would be gone, but that “it’ll be no fault o’ mine.”

“Nobody said it would be,” my companion called back, and then we walked on the few paces to where Moore was propped up in a half-sitting posture against the wall.

“I was as quick as possible,” said the stranger, though already he hardly seemed such. Circumstances sometimes lead to familiarity so quickly. “Is he all right – the boy; your brother?”

“Yes,” I said. “I don’t think the pain is very bad. I am sure you have been wonderfully quick, and I don’t know how to thank you. And how kind that poor Mr Grey has been!”

I felt my companion glance at me almost sharply.

“I told you,” he said, “that they are the kindest-hearted people possible. But – may I ask why you speak of him as ‘poor Mr Grey’?”

I was surprised, almost startled by the question. I had somehow taken it for granted, not only that this visitor was completely au fait of the Greys’ peculiar position, but that he must be aware that the mystery concerning the Grim House was common talk in the neighbourhood.

“Oh!” I replied, rather lamely, “because, of course, everything about them seems so strange and sad!”

There was no time for him to reply, for we had now reached Moore, and at once set to work to get him into the fly, which drew up at the place where we stopped, the driver, rather snubbed by the very peremptory tone assumed by his “fare,” was much on the alert to obtrude his benevolent instincts.

“Dear, dear!” he exclaimed. “It’s a bad business. I’m afraid there’s bones broke! Did you fall far, sir?” he went on, to Moore, evidently anxious to get all the information he could for the delectation of his cronies at the White Hart, or whatever was the name of the inn. But before Moore replied, our friend in need did so for him.

“You don’t need to fall far to sprain your ankle,” he remarked quickly, “and I hope it is nothing worse than that. A slip on level ground is quite enough sometimes.”

“Yes,” I agreed; “indeed I often wonder that we hold together as we do, considering our complicated bones and joints.”

The driver, imagining himself gifted with great discrimination, evidently thought we were trying to encourage Moore, and took his cue accordingly.

“Young bones ain’t so hard to mend as old ones,” he said philosophically, as he closed the door; “and where shall I drive to if you please?”

“To Mr Wynyard’s – the Manor-house,” I answered promptly, and off we set, this time at a moderate speed, all thought of train-catching eliminated from our conductor’s mind.

Chapter Nine.

“The Misses Grey.”

It was certainly a curious position, and now that my anxiety about Moore had to some extent calmed down, I could scarcely help smiling to myself as we jogged along, at the adventure which my injudiciousness and Moore’s self-will had landed us in.

The road cleared a good deal as we approached our destination. I was able to get a better view of our companion than hitherto, while the shade of the trees had lessened the already waning light. He was young, under thirty, I thought to myself, decidedly pleasing in appearance, if not exactly handsome; but what struck me the most was a shadowy resemblance to some one I had seen, though, try as I might, I could not succeed in remembering to whom. Once or twice I fancied I descried the shadow of an amused smile crossing his own face, but before we stopped at the Manor-house door his expression grew more serious.

“You quite understand,” he began, “and excuse me if it is unnecessary to remind you of it, that your own wish to – to keep all this business to ourselves, is thoroughly agreed to, indeed desired by – Mr Grey and his family?”

“Oh dear, yes,” I replied eagerly, “and I am very thankful for it, but I don’t feel as if we had been grateful enough to him. And – ” with a little hesitation, “to yourself.”

He made a slight gesture of deprecation of the latter part of my speech, but I went on —

“If you should be writing to Mr Grey, would you be so kind as to thank him again?”

“Certainly,” he said cordially. “If I don’t write it I will not forget to say it, the next time I see him,” and the rather unguarded inference of his words reminded me that letters were, so far as we knew, unknown at the Grim House.

So I contented myself with another “thank you.” I should have liked to ask our friend’s own name, but my courage failed me, and afterwards I was glad I had not done so; it might have savoured a little of seeking for information which had not been volunteered to us.

The hall-door stood open as we drove up to it, and one or two of the older servants, among them the housekeeper and butler, were looking out anxiously. Their faces cleared when they saw us, but clouded again when I jumped out and hurriedly volunteered some explanation of our late return, of which of course the word “accident” was the first to catch their ears.

“Dear, dear!” said the housekeeper, “what will Master and Miss Isabel say, with all their charges to me and Sims to take good care of you, Miss Fitzmaurice?”

“They will certainly not say it is your fault, or Sims’, Mrs Bence,” I replied; “and after all, I hope it is nothing very bad. We were very lucky to meet this gentleman, otherwise I could not have got my brother home nearly so quickly.”

I indicated by a movement of my head in his direction our friend in need, who was now, with the butler’s assistance, extricating Moore from the fly. Poor boy! he did look rather dilapidated! though both he and I tacitly agreed in trying to make the best of our misfortunes. It would have been impolitic in the highest degree to pile on the agony so as to have led to minute or detailed inquiry on the part of the servants.

By this time the stranger had got Moore on to a comfortable seat in the hall, where of such there was no lack.

“Now,” he said, “I think the best thing I can do is to send you the doctor as quickly as possible, I know where to find him. I should advise you to let your brother stay where he is for a few minutes. Get him a cup of tea, or something to pull him together a little, before you carry him upstairs, and once there, put him to bed as quickly as possible, and just raise the injured foot on a pillow till the doctor sees it.”

He glanced round as if to satisfy himself that he left us in good hands, and then, before I had time to do more than shake hands, he was gone.

“A nice-spoken young gentleman,” said Mrs Bence approvingly, “but I’ve never seen him before. He must be a stranger in these parts. Do you know who he – ”

But I interrupted her by a shake of my head.

“I have no idea who he is,” I said. “He did not tell us his name. He has been extremely kind. I am only afraid that by stopping to help us he has lost his train. He was on his way to the station.”

“If it was the evening express for London,” said Sims, taking out his watch – Mrs Bence had gone off in quest of the prescribed cup of tea – “he certainly has, Miss. There is a slower one an hour later; he will be in plenty of time for that.”

This information somewhat consoled me. I said nothing more, nor did Moore. And after a while we got him upstairs and settled in bed as comfortably as was possible under the circumstances.

The poor foot looked in very bad case when we had got it quite free, and Mrs Bence groaned over it in much distress. But when the doctor came our spirits rose again. It proved to be only a sprain, and not a very severe one, though painful. Perfect quiet and minute attention to his orders would do wonders, he assured me, to my great relief.

“You are alone here for the present, I understand,” he said. “Mr and Miss Wynyard are away?”

“Yes,” I replied, “but only for a day or two. I believe they will be back by Saturday.”

“By Saturday,” he repeated. “Ah, well – by Saturday I think you will see great improvement. The swelling will have gone down, I hope. Let me see! How did you say it happened? A fall, was it?”

We had not said anything at all as to how it had happened, but luckily we were not called upon to reply, for Mrs Bence, who was a little deaf, came just then innocently to our aid by some inquiry as to the arrangements for the night. Should she or Sims sit up with Master Moore?

“Oh, no – no need of it,” said the doctor. “He will probably sleep far better if he is left alone. Let him have a hand-bell within reach, and some one near enough to hear if he rings;” whereupon my own maid, who had been dying to be of use, came forward to suggest that she should sleep in a small dressing-room next door, and where she would hear the slightest sound. This was agreed to, then followed repeated directions from the doctor as to liniments and bandages, and then at last I gave in to Mrs Bence’s reiterated entreaties that I would come downstairs and have a bit of dinner – Moore joining his voice to hers, and promising to eat something himself, though he owned that he was not feeling “exactly hungry.”

I was terribly tired if not hungry, and I felt grateful for the unusual tact which made Sims and his underlings leave me alone once the good man had satisfied himself that everything I was in want of was within reach.

I had plenty to think of; not a little to blame myself for, though farther back than the actual events of this strange evening; still more to be very thankful about – how easily my young brother might have been, if not killed, at least terribly injured, crippled perhaps for life, by no greater an accident!

And the thought brought back to my mind again the mystery of the Grim House, made more real, more impressive, so to say, by the further glimpse I had had of its melancholy occupants. In spite of myself and my determination to oust all curiosity concerning them from my mind, the picture of the quartette, at that very moment sitting, probably in silence, around their dining-table, would force itself on to my brain. Could the mysterious secret have had to do with the accident which crippled the younger brother? No; somehow I felt sure it had not been that. The sisters, I remembered Isabel telling me, had referred to it quite simply on the one occasion when they had emerged to offer sympathy at the vicarage. No, the mystery did not lie in that direction. Then the words I had unwillingly overheard recurred to my memory. I had thought I would try to forget them, but this was beyond my power, and next best to doing so, an instinct seemed to tell me, was to remember them accurately; and this, for I had a retentive brain, I found I could easily do.

The mention of our own surname had naturally impressed them much more vividly on me.

“Ernest Fitzmaurice” – who could he be? I had never heard of him, I felt sure. Yet our name was not a commonplace one, and the great Irish family to which we belonged were very clannish, and kept up their knowledge of each other with considerable energy; my father did so, I well knew; some day perhaps I might ask him if he knew of any relative whose first name was Ernest.

“He must be a man of about father’s age,” I reflected, “or even a little older, if he is a contemporary of Mr Grey’s.” But by this time I was feeling very tired, very sleepy, and almost before I had finished eating, I felt that I must go to bed, if I were to be fit to take my share in looking after and cheering poor Moore the next day.

“And I shall have to write home and tell them about it,” I thought to myself. “Oh dear, oh dear! I wish I had never heard of the Grim House. I should like to forget its existence.”

But this was not to be.

I woke the next morning considerably refreshed, and inclined to take a more cheerful view of things. Moore, I was glad to find, had had a fairly good night, all things considered, though his foot and ankle were of course still very inflamed and swollen. Mrs Bence and Maple, however, thought well of it in comparison with what it had been, and so long as he kept it motionless, my brother said that the pain was slight. I was just preparing to begin my letter to mother, when the sound of wheels – I was sitting near the window of the library, which at one side looked to the front – made me stop, my heart beating a little faster than usual from the idea that it might possibly be Isabel and her father returning sooner than we had expected them.

“Oh, no,” I said to myself reassuringly, “of course it will only be the doctor,” though in another moment the sight of the approaching vehicle revived my doubts and fears.

It was the fly again! I drew as near the window as I dared, while avoiding being seen, almost expecting to catch sight of the stranger, our good Samaritan, getting out, for it struck me that he might have had to stay the night after all, and had come up to inquire how Moore was getting on. But no, the driver himself got ponderously down and rang. It was certainly neither the doctor, the Wynyards, nor the stranger! Wild ideas rushed through my mind as to the possibility of its being father, or Jocelyn even, though half an instant’s reflection showed me the absurdity of such a thing. Who could it be? From where I stood, the interior of the carriage was completely hidden from view. I heard the servant cross the hall, and as it were, felt the little colloquy that ensued when the door was opened. Then the driver turned to the fly with the information he had received, and its occupants at last became visible.

They were – words fail me to describe my sensations – none other than the two little old maiden sisters from Grimsthorpe!

My first feeling was one of astonishment, my second of fear! Was our secret known, then? Had Mr Grey broken his promise? But what was his promise – in a moment I recalled his words, “You may rely on us to keep the affair to ourselves;” he had spoken in the plural. Still, what was the meaning then of this visit, which was certain to awaken the gossip and curiosity of the whole small neighbourhood? I felt utterly nonplussed, but I had no time in which to think over things; I was obliged to pull myself together as best I could, for the door was thrown open for the announcement, “The Misses Grey,” and my little-looked-for visitors entered.

They were, at the first glance, curiously like each other, though afterwards I discerned several points of dissimilarity. The elder of the two – for naturally I at once so dubbed her in my own mind as she preceded her sister – had a much stronger face – strong in its very gentleness – though the younger was, or had been, decidedly the prettier. Except as to eyes – I never saw lovelier eyes than those of Miss Grey herself, as she drew near and looked up at me, for though not very tall, I was much taller than they. And with the first glance, all my misgivings as to the purport or unwisdom of their coming vanished.

“Miss – Fitzmaurice,” she began, with a slight, the very slightest, hesitation. “I – we – this is my sister Beatrice – could not rest without hastening to offer our services and sympathy in this – most unfortunate accident, which,” and here her voice grew peculiarly distinct, her words almost emphasised, “which we heard of this morning through the driver of the fly, which fortunately was passing the spot where your brother and you were,” here she glanced at me again in a way which showed that her eyes could be keen as well as kind, and even – I could not feel sure if this was my fancy – not without a touch of humour in their depths. “One of our servants had occasion to visit the village this morning, and brought back the story, and – as I said, hearing that you were alone, we felt we must come to inquire for you ourselves – my brothers uniting with us in – in” – here she repeated the words – “sympathy and offers of service.”

She had held out her hand at the opening of this rather long speech. I had of course taken it, and scarcely conscious of so doing, was still clasping it. And as for the third time she raised her lovely kind eyes to my face, I – it was very unconventional and undignified, and all the rest of it, I know – I burst into tears!