Anxious to force things a little, I remarked, with a glance at the dismal branches that almost forced their way into the open casements: “What a scene for young eyes like yours! Do you never get tired of these pine-boughs and clustering shadows? Would not a little cottage in the sunnier part of the town be preferable to all this dreary grandeur?”
She looked up with sudden wistfulness that made her smile piteous.
“Some of my happiest days have been passed here and some of my saddest. I do not think I should like to leave it for any sunny cottage. We were not made for bonny homes,” she continued. “The sombreness of this old house suits us.”
“And of this road,” I ventured. “It is the darkest and most picturesque I ever rode through. I thought I was threading a wilderness.”
For a moment she forgot her cause of anxiety and looked at me quite intently, while a subtle shade of doubt passed slowly over her features.
“It is a solitary one,” she acquiesced. “I do not wonder it struck you as dismal. Have you heard—has anyone ever told you that—that it was not considered quite safe?”
“Safe?” I repeated, with—God forgive me!—an expression of mild wonder in my eyes.
“Yes, it has not the best of reputations. Strange things have happened in it. I thought that someone might have been kind enough to tell you this at the station.”
There was a gentle sort of sarcasm in the tone; only that, or so it seemed to me at the time. I began to feel myself in a maze.
“Somebody—I suppose it was the stationmaster—did say something to me about a boy lost somewhere in this portion of the woods. Do you mean that, my dear?”
She nodded, glancing again over her shoulder and partly rising as if moved by some instinct of flight.
“They are dark enough, for more than one person to have been lost in their recesses,” I observed with another look toward the heavily curtained windows.
“They certainly are,” she assented, reseating herself and eying me nervously while she spoke. “We are used to the terrors they inspire in strangers, but if you”—she leaped to her feet in manifest eagerness and her whole face changed in a way she little realized herself—“if you have any fear of sleeping amid such gloomy surroundings, we can procure you a room in the village where you will be more comfortable, and where we can visit you almost as well as we can here. Shall I do it? Shall I call—”
My face must have assumed a very grim look, for her words tripped at that point, and a flush, the first I had seen on her cheek, suffused her face, giving her an appearance of great distress.
“Oh, I wish Loreen would come! I am not at all happy in my suggestions,” she said, with a deprecatory twitch of her lip that was one of her subtle charms. “Oh, there she is! Now I may go,” she cried; and without the least appearance of realizing that she had said anything out of place, she rushed from the room almost before her sister had entered it.
But not before their eyes had met in a look of unusual significance.
V
A Strange Household
Had I not surprised this look of mutual understanding, I might have received an impression of Miss Knollys which would in a measure have counteracted that made by the more nervous and less restrained Lucetta. The dignified reserve of her bearing, the quiet way in which she approached, and, above all, the even tones in which she uttered her welcome, were such as to win my confidence and put me at my ease in the house of which she was the nominal mistress. But that look! With that in my memory, I was enabled to pierce below the surface of this placid nature, and in the very constraint she put upon herself, detect the presence of the same secret uneasiness which had been so openly, if unconsciously, manifested by her sister.
She was more beautiful than Lucetta in form and feature, and even more markedly elegant in her plain black gown and fine lawn ruffles, but she lacked her sister’s evanescent charm, and though admirable to all appearance, was less lovable on a short acquaintance.
But this delays my tale, which is one of action rather than reflection. I had naturally expected that with the appearance of the elder Miss Knollys I should be taken to my room; but, on the contrary, she sat down and with an apologetic air informed me that she was sorry she could not show me the customary attentions. Circumstances over which she had no control had made it impossible, she said, for her to offer me the guest-chamber, but if I would be so good as to accept another for this one night, she would endeavor to provide me with better accommodations on the morrow.
Satisfied of the almost painful nature of their poverty and determined to submit to privations rather than leave a house so imbued with mystery, I hastened to assure her that any room would be acceptable to me; and with a display of good feeling not wholly insincere, began to gather up my wraps in anticipation of being taken at once upstairs.
But Miss Knollys again surprised me by saying that my room was not yet ready; that they had not been able to complete all their arrangements, and begged me to make myself at home in the room where
