WHEN the doctor returned to the Castle he found old Mr. Norris sitting on a wooden seat in the Castle yard.
‘Come along, sir, and rest yourself,’ he said.
‘You’ve come a bit too quick up the hill. You are not used to hills like ours, I expect. It’s made you a bit white-looking, I think.’
Forester sat down beside him, and the old man was anxious to know what he thought of Hildick. The doctor praised it warmly, and said he had been struck by the number of old people he had seen as he passed through the village; he concluded from this that it must be a very healthy place.
‘You’re right there, sir; we don’t have many funerals here, and those we have are mostly of old people. Auntie Betty, as we call her, on the hill there, is over ninety, and so is Auntie Emma down in the village, and you’ll find many that are over eighty. We don’t live fast here like you do in towns, and so we live longer; my old grandmother was nearly a hundred when we laid her in the churchyard.’
‘There is another thing which struck me in the village,’ said Forester, ‘and that is the cleanliness of the whole place: there is not a sign of dirt in the cottagers or in their houses; everything is spick and span.’
‘That’s the Dutch blood in them,’ said old Mr. Norris.
‘Hundreds of years ago a colony of Flemings settled here under the protection of the king, and the Garroch is full of their descendants. They do say that the Dutch are the cleanest people in the world, and I should say the Garroch has fewer dirty houses than any village in England or in Wales. You can see the Dutch features in some of the people too, especially some of the old ones.’
The twin girls now came through the courtyard gate followed by a pet lamb, which came after them like a dog, and went with them into the house.
‘His mother died when he was born,’ Mr. Norris explained; ‘and we’ve given him the bottle ever since. The children make no end of a fuss with him, and he wants to go wherever they go. He’s a great pet with everybody is Jemmy, and he comes running whenever we call his name.’
‘Dinner isn’t ready, grandpa,’ said Hawthorn, as she ran out again, still followed by the lamb; ‘I do want it, I’m so hungry.’
‘Have patience,’ said the old man, ‘have patience, child. My old granny used to say to me when I sat in her chimney-corner:
“Patience is a virtue,
Never will it hurt you.”’
Forester laughed. ‘My mother gave me a different version,’ he said. ‘When I was in too great a hurry for anything; she said:
“Patience is a virtue,
Catch it if you can I
Seldom in a woman,
Never in a man!”’
‘Run and look if your father’s coming, Hawthorn; go to the gate and look across the field,’ said her grandfather.
He was coming, and so was dinner, and soon they were all in their places round the table, and the pet lamb lying on the rug before the fire.
‘Well, and what did that antiquarian say to you, Rupert?’ asked his father.
‘Not much; he was full of that friend of his who is coming tonight. It seems he’s an artist, and is going to paint a fine picture that’s to make his fortune. He wants to be allowed to make sketches for it of one or two parts of the Castle. I told him I didn’t think there could be any objection to his doing that.’
‘It’s more than he would have got out of me,’ said the old man. ‘Do you think the Sinclairs, when they come, will want this artist chap fussing round the place, followed about by his prying friend the antiquarian?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t want to be in this part of the Castle, father. He won’t interfere with the Sinclairs. It’s an interior he’s going to paint, and he wants to sketch bits inside the turret, the old staircase, and some of the broken stonework of the windows. He’ll bring a small sketchbook and just make rough copies of these, and then, when he gets back to London, he’ll put them all together and make his big picture from them. I’m sorry you’re vexed about it, father.’
‘Well, what’s done is done,’ said the old man. ‘I don’t so much mind if he doesn’t have the antiquarian always at his heels.’
‘What is an antiquarian, grandpa?’ asked Leonard.
‘It’s a man that pokes about after old things and comes where he isn’t wanted,’ said the old man.
‘Does anyone know anything about him, Rupert? What’s his name, do you know?’
‘He gave me his card, father; here it is:
“MR. N. CLEGG,
44 Blossom Street, Birmingham.
Dealer in antiques, curios, old china and glass, oak
furniture, etc.”’
‘Oh, that’s what he is,’ said old Mr. Norris; ‘I see. He keeps a sort of secondhand shop, and goes and gives himself the airs of a lord, and says, “I’m an antiquarian.” Antiquarian indeed!’
‘He bought one or two things from the cottages and farms when he was here last,’ Rupert went on. ‘He’s very keen on anything like an oak chest, especially if it’s carved a bit, and he’ll give a lot of money for a bureau, as he calls it, a desk with a number of little drawers in it, like yours, father, in the corner there. He’ll be after that one soon, you see if he isn’t; he’d give a good price for that, I should say!’
‘He’ll be after it a long time before he gets it,’ said the old man with a chuckle; ‘let him try, Rupert, let him try.’
That afternoon the doctor, with Maxie’s help, pitched his tent on the Castle farm. The place he chose was about half a mile from the Castle itself, out on a breezy moorland on which hundreds of sheep were grazing, and which covered the plateau on the top of the promontory.
Here, with the sea on both sides of him, and with only the quiet sheep as companions, Forester felt he would have the stillness and solitude for which he longed. Even the few visitors at Hildick would hardly find the road to this out-of-the-way place, which could only be reached by passing through the Castle farm. Then if he wanted to bathe he could get down to a quiet little cove, on the opposite side of the promontory from Hildick Bay, where he would meet none of the others, and which Mr. Norris assured him he would have all to himself.
That evening after tea the doctor set out to walk Beyond his tent to the end of the promontory, that he might watch the sunset, which promised to be a fine one. He made his way across the grass, cropped short by the large flock, and walked briskly over the moorland beyond. The coloring in the golden evening, light was superb. There were patches of yellow gorse, tufts of bright purple heather, blue hare-bells that trembled in the breeze, clumps of bracken on which the autumnal tints were just appearing, stretches of green moss—interspersed with red sundew and white cotton grass; it was a perfect feast to the eye, of every shade and variety of color.
Forester noticed that the sea was practically all round him; to right, to left, and in front of him he could see the blue water with hardly a ripple upon it. He was making his way through the gorse bushes, that he might be able to stand upon the very end of the promontory, when at the foot of one of them something caught his eye. Involuntarily he stooped down and gathered it. It was a sprig of pure white heather. A short time ago he would have been delighted to find it, but what good was white heather to a man who had no one to whom he could give it? Still, he held it in his hand, until he had climbed down the steep descent at the end of the point, and was sitting on a rock which jutted out into the water. The sun had set now; the golden light was gone, and the sea looked dark and leaden. He took his sprig of white heather and threw it into the water, and the receding tide carried it far out to sea.
Then Forester retraced his steps and made his way back to the Castle. It was growing dark and chilly when he got in, and he was glad to go to his snug place in the chimney-corner. The old man gave him a kindly welcome. The little girls had gone to bed, and Leonard Was sitting at the table doing his lessons by the light of the lamp. Rupert was out, going round the farm buildings to see that his live stock were all right for the night. About nine o’clock they heard the click of the courtyard gate and knew that he was returning. In a few minutes he came in, and Mary began to lay the supper.
‘Father,’ said Rupert presently, ‘what have you done with the outhouse key?’
‘Nothing,’ said the old man; ‘I went in there this morning with the doctor; he wanted to see the loft; but I found the door open.’
‘Well, the key’s gone! I can’t find it anywhere. I did a stupid thing last night. What with the rain, and then going to meet the ‘bus and getting back home so late, I quite forgot to lock up outside; so whether the key was there then I don’t know; anyhow it’s gone now.’
‘Never mind,’ said the old man. What’s the use of bothering about it? There’s nothing of value in there, a few old tools and nails, and a heap of rubbish! There’s your bike; bring that inside: but there’s nothing else worth taking, and if there was we’re safe enough here. If you’ll believe me, sir,’ he added, turning to Forester, ‘there’s never been such a thing heard of as a burglary at Hildick. All the old ladies in the village go to bed and never trouble to lock their doors. Everybody knows everybody else, and we’re like one family, as you may say.’
Soon after this the doctor said he was tired and would be glad to go to bed. The corridor looked less weird to him, now that he had become familiar with it, and he felt sleepy with the sea air and quite inclined to rest, undisturbed by ghosts of any kind whatever.
It was not until the noisy clock in the corridor had insisted on its being three o’clock that he was roused from his first sound sleep, and then he woke with a start, as though some noise had disturbed him. He sat up in bed and listened, but heard nothing, and he came to the conclusion that it was only the striking of the clock which had waked him. He lay down and had almost fallen asleep, when he again became conscious of a noise, and he sat up once more.
The sound was not overhead this time, but seemed to come from the wall in one corner of his room, and just behind the washing stand. He crept out of and very quietly, put his ear to that part of the wall, and listened.
Again it was the sound of footsteps, at least he thought so, and they seemed to be descending a flight of stairs, for the noise grew gradually fainter, Every now and then the steps paused, and after a moment or two went on again. Then he fancied he heard a door below gently closed, and after that all was still.
Forester’s curiosity was considerably roused by what he had heard. There seemed to him to be some mystery in the Castle, of which the family who lived in it were not aware. If he had been staying there longer he would have tried to discover what it was; but, as this was his last night in the Castle, he did not see much chance of finding out the cause of the sounds he had heard. He contented himself with asking the old man; at breakfast the next morning, whether there was any other staircase leading into the loft besides the one up which he had taken him the day before.
‘No, sir,’ said Mr. Norris; ‘that’s the only way up, and there never was another that I know of.’
‘And that turret is close to the great entrance gate, is it not?’
‘Yes, sir, it touches it almost. It’s the way the guards went up in the olden time.’
‘Then there’s no staircase anywhere near the room I slept in last night?’
‘None at all, sir.’
‘What is there near that room? If I could make A hole, say behind the washing stand, what should I come to?’
‘You’d come to one of the old turrets of the Castle, which has been built into the farmhouse. My father had a large family and wanted more room, so he built a small bedroom out at the back, and the turret comes in the corner of it. Come upstairs and I’ll show you.’
The old man led the way into the little back bedroom, and Forester saw the round outer wall of the turret just as he had described it.
‘Then my room joins this room just here,’ he said, pointing to the corner where the turret stood.
‘Yes; behind your washing stand is a curious kind of wainscoting, not like the paneling downstairs it is not wood, but more like strong basketwork, and behind that is the outer wall of the Castle with this turret in it.’
‘Are there any steps inside this turret, as there are in the one by the gate?’
‘None, sir, it’s all solid masonry.’
‘You are sure of that?’
‘Quite sure.’
Forester was very much puzzled. He had felt convinced that he had heard footsteps the night before, and they had sounded to him as if they were in that very corner. Yet surely old Mr. Norris ought to know. Could he have been mistaken in the noise he thought he had heard? Were there really footsteps after all? If there were no steps in that corner, surely he was wrong.
As soon as breakfast was over the doctor removed to his tent, for he knew his friends at the Castle would be busy preparing for the visitors they expected that evening. He felt sorry to leave his comfortable quarters, but he would still see a good deal of the Castle and its occupants, for he would have to fetch water from the tap in the Castle yard every day. There was a pond on the moorland, but the water was not pure enough for drinking, though he might be able to use it for other purposes. They all begged him to come in whenever the weather was bad or he felt at all lonely, and the old man assured him that a seat in the chimney-corner would ever await him.
Now the life of solitude of which he had dreamed was to begin; but somehow or other he did not enter upon it with alacrity. He even felt a pang of regret, as the courtyard gate closed behind him; and he went out to begin his hermit life. Camping out is pleasant enough when the weather is fine and when a number of friends are together, but it is a different matter altogether when you are alone. The cooking is irksome, the washing-up intolerable, the silent meals are a weariness to the flesh.
All this Forester found out before that first day was over. The loneliness of the place oppressed him; the voices of the sheep grew more and more monotonous. He wandered over the moorland, and gazed at the sea, and watched the clouds, and listened to the cries of the sea-birds, until all these palled upon him. Then, like the Arab in the desert, he sat smoking at the door of his tent, and simply yearned for the sound of a human voice.
Once he made up his mind to change his program altogether. He determined to go down to the bay, look for his old schoolfellow, join the merry party on the sands, and endeavor to drive away the awful depression which was settling upon him. He got up from his camp chair, walked down the hill to the village, and climbed one of the sandhills that he might see where they were. He saw Mab and Dolly sitting on the rocks reading, whilst Don and Doris were wandering along by the sea.
Presently they stopped, and he watched them playing at ducks and drakes in the quiet water. He could hear Doris’ merry laugh, as her stone made five, six, seven hops. He could hear Don say, ‘Well done, Doris! but I’ll be even with you yet.’
Somehow or other, Forester felt that he had not the heart to go down and join them. Who was he, that he should bring a shadow on that merry party? He would go back to his tent and to his solitude.
As he passed the Castle on his return he saw the coach laden with luggage standing outside; the Sinclairs were evidently arriving. He wondered how many there were of them, and whether they would be likely to find their way to the moorland, which he was inclined to look upon as his private property.
If the tent was lonely by day, it was infinitely more so by night. His small oil lamp flickered in the breeze; the moths came whirling round it and committed suicide down the narrow chimney; the dim light tried his eyes, and after a time he closed the book he was reading. As he did so, two lines of a hymn, which his mother had taught him when he was a tiny boy, flashed into his mind. As clearly as if her voice had repeated them to him he seemed to hear her saying:
‘While place we seek or place we shun,
The soul finds happiness in none.’
What was the end of the verse? He could not remember. He would think of something else; he would get his supper and go to bed.
But as he lay on his narrow camp bedstead, and listened to the flapping of the tent curtains, to the cries of the owls, and to the croaking of the frogs in the pond on the moor, still over and over the words kept repeating:
‘While place we seek or place we shun,
The soul finds happiness in none.’
And still he puzzled himself as to the ending of the verse.
But at last the sleep for which he had been longing blotted out even this remembrance.