Chapter VII: Mostyn Is Surprised

On the following day Mostyn travelled down to Partingborough, in Cambridgeshire, by a late afternoon train. He had paid a visit to Messrs. Chester and Smithers that morning, had fully discussed his plans with Mr. Chester, had learnt that a large sum of money would be placed to his credit that day, and that he could draw upon the firm for more should he require it; then he had broached a subject which had been worrying his mind during the night.

"If the details of this extraordinary will are given to the public," he said, "it's very plain that my task will be made more difficult--for me. Dealers will ask what they like for their horses because they will know that I simply must purchase. Every swindler in England will be on my track. I shall be exploited right and left. That's clear, I think. Now, Mr. Chester, is it essential that the will shall be published before my year is up?"

Mr. Chester gave the matter his very careful attention. It was palpably a point of importance. When he spoke it was in his usual oracular vein.

"What you say is very reasonable, Mr. Clithero, and, upon consideration, we think we can meet you in the matter. There will be no difficulty in realising the estate of the late Mr. Royce, since it is mainly in American gold bonds, payable to bearer; and, since the ultimate trusts are of such a nature that they will not come into force for a full year, we see no reason why probate should not be delayed for the period you require. This must, of course, be subject to the consent of the American agents, but we do not anticipate difficulty with them."

Mostyn felt intensely relieved, and said so. He had been dreading the amount of public interest that would certainly have been aroused in his undertaking. Now he would confide in Pierce and Cicely, but in no one else.

This point settled, Mostyn took his departure, after announcing his intention of going down to Partinborough that day. He had an idea in his head that Mr. Royce may have had some subtle object in mind in bequeathing him this estate, situated, as it was, so close to the home of the Armitages. Was it perhaps Castor of which he had been thinking--or could he have desired to throw Mostyn and Rada together? It was impossible to guess. All Mostyn knew of his property was that it had been rarely occupied by the American, and that the house was an old one, only partly furnished and very much out of repair.

Mostyn studied racing literature as he travelled down in the train, totally ignoring magazines, of which he was usually fond, and every form of light reading. He had purchased the evening paper solely with the object of absorbing the sporting intelligence. Ruff's Guide and a stud book bulged prominently in the pocket of his blue serge coat; he had promised himself that these works should be his inseparable companions during the months to come. Oh, yes, he would soon be well up in sporting technicalities; he laughed at himself now as he remembered his blunders on Derby day. To have asked the age of Hipponous--to have suggested that Hipponous should run in the Oaks--and above all to have been taken in by that old joke about the Waterloo Cup--his cheeks reddened even now as he thought of it.

He wished he had been able to talk it all over with Pierce, but Pierce was still away at his father's house in Worcestershire: Mostyn had received a letter from him that afternoon, just as he was leaving for the station. He had perused it hastily, and then thrust it into his pocket. Now, having time at his disposition, he drew it out and read it for the second time.

"Poor Pierce," he muttered to himself, "poor old chap!" The letter was not a cheerful one, as, perhaps, was to be expected. Old Mr. Trelawny had not shown himself very amenable, this although he was admittedly fond of Cicely for her own sake. He was a bluff old gentleman of the old school, a thorough sportsman, and he cordially despised John Clithero and John Clithero's doctrines. He listened with considerable interest to the story of Mostyn's rebellion and the refusal of the latter to submit to his father. "A brave lad!" he had cried, "I like his spirit." He had repeated this several times, somewhat to Pierce's annoyance, whose thoughts were concentrated upon his own affairs.

Finally, Pierce had obtained a concession. Since Cicely would not be twenty-one till the expiration of another twelve months, Pierce was to wait a year without seeing or writing to the girl, and if he was of the same mind at the end of that time, Mr. Trelawny would offer no further opposition. Pierce might marry his sweetheart, regardless of John Clithero's disapproval. But the year's probation was to be a _sine qua non_.

"If you deceive me over that, my boy, there'll be a row," so the old gentleman had asserted with a good deal of vigour and a quaint raising of the eye-brows that was peculiar to him. "Jove, I'll cut you off like Clithero has cut off Mostyn. Remember that. Write to Cicely and tell her what I say--and then not another letter. That's my decree, and you'd better stick to it."

"I can't quite make the governor out," so Pierce wrote. "He spoke very decidedly, but there was a queer look in his eyes, as though he thought it was rather a joke to forbid me seeing the girl I love for a whole year. I suppose he thinks I shall find someone else in the meantime, but I won't, and that's very certain. We shall just have to wait the year--and that will be hard enough for both of us."

Mostyn, having read the letter with genuine sympathy, put it carefully away, reflecting that it was strange that Pierce, like himself, should have a year's probation before him. He had written to his friend the night before, telling him, in confidence, something of his accession to fortune and the conditions imposed thereon, inviting him also to come to Partinborough Grange and talk the future over as early as possible.

Partinborough station reached, Mostyn descended from the train and looked about for Samuel Willis and the conveyance which he had asked by letter to be sent to meet him. But Samuel Willis was conspicuous by his absence, nor was there a sign of any kind of carriage on the long level road outside the little wayside station. Could it be possible that his letter had miscarried, and that the gardener had not been warned of his coming?

Under these circumstances it was necessary for Mostyn to hire a cab, and there was a delay of some twenty minutes--which Mostyn spent at the Station Hotel--till the ramshackle old conveyance was brought round. The little town of Partinborough, he learnt, lay about a mile from the station, on the main road to Newmarket, and the Grange occupied a rather isolated position another mile further on.

It was nearly seven o'clock when, having passed through the little town and then negotiated some extremely narrow and rutty lanes, the cab came to a halt for a moment, while the driver descended from his box to open a wooden gate that gave access to a drive through a small wood.

Mostyn concluded, and concluded rightly, that he was now upon his own property. He gazed about him with curiosity. The road branched, and the wood was denser than he had first thought. To the left there was an incline, below which, and just visible through the thickly-massed trees, Mostyn could discern the glimmer of a little stream. Upon the other side the trees became gradually less dense, till between them an open space, evidently an undulating lawn, could be distinguished. Presently, the road made an abrupt turn in this direction, and the house came in sight.

Even at a cursory view it was evident that Partinborough Grange was of considerable antiquity. It was a house of no great size, but it had many gables and was pleasantly irregular in proportion. It was ivy-covered, too, almost to the roof, and the windows were framed with rose creepers. The porch before which the carriage drew up was a veritable mass of white and red blooms.

Mostyn's heart leapt delightedly within him. He had often pictured to himself a house like this, and now his dreams were realised. Partinborough Grange was his own--absolutely his own--and not only the Grange, but this wide expanse of wood, this spreading lawn with its carefully-tended flower-beds, and its pergola of roses; however negligent Samuel Willis, the gardener, may have been in not attending to instructions as to meeting the train, he was undoubtedly accomplished at his craft.

Mostyn alighted from the carriage, and almost as he did so, the door was thrown open, and a tall man, curiously thin and cadaverous of face, made his appearance. His manner was nervous, but he spoke civilly, and was evidently anxious to appear at his best.

"You are Mr. Clithero, sir?" he began, awkwardly. "I am Samuel Willis."

"You had my letter?" interrupted Mostyn, seeing that the man hesitated as though at a loss for words. "I expected that you would have sent a cart to meet me. I mentioned the time that I should arrive."

"Yes, sir." The man blurted out his explanation. "But unfortunately I didn't get your letter till about half an hour ago. It was like this, my boy, who's workin' for Colonel Marchmont at Mowbray Hall, a couple of miles on the other side of Partinborough, met with a bad accident last night, and me and my missus went out early this mornin' to be with him. That's how it was, sir, that neither of us saw your letter. It's a good thing I came back when I did. I meant to fetch the cart and bring him home, for the doctor says he must lie up a bit."

"I see," said Mostyn, pleasantly, evincing no annoyance whatever--this, evidently, very much to the gardener's relief. "I found my own way up quite safely, you see. And I am very sorry to hear about your son--I hope he isn't seriously hurt."

Willis replied that he anticipated no danger. The boy was raw at his work, and had carelessly damaged his foot with a scythe. The doctor had patched him up, and he would be on the mend in a day or two; but in the meantime, there was the necessity of driving over to Mowbray Hall that evening to fetch both Willis's wife and his son back to the cottage.

"You can go as soon as you have shown me over the place," Mostyn said, "I don't the least mind being left alone--that is, if I can get something to eat, and if there is a bed ready for me to sleep on. What time do you expect to return?"

"Well, sir, the doctor's coming round again a little before nine, he said. I expect we could be back at the cottage by ten. In the meanwhile, I can arrange for your dinner, and make you quite comfortable for the night."

"That's all right, then," agreed Mostyn, "I shall manage quite well for myself after you have gone." He turned and settled with the driver of his cab, paying him liberally out of the fulness of his heart, and then requested Samuel Willis to lead the way into the house. His luggage--such as it was, for he had not thought well to bring much with him, being uncertain as to the length of his stay--had already been carried into the hall.

"You know all about my having become the owner of the Grange?" Mostyn said, as he followed the gardener. "I suppose Messrs. Chester and Smithers gave you the full particulars."

"Yes, sir," returned the man civilly, "but we did not expect that you would be coming down so soon, or I should have been on the look out for a letter."

Mostyn made some complimentary remark about the garden, and then added with a laugh, "I understood that the house was in a dilapidated condition, a sort of ruin, in fact. I am pleasantly surprised to find it so well kept."

"It's better from the outside than within," returned Willis, "as you will see for yourself, sir. My wife does her best, but there's more work than one woman can manage. There are only some four or five rooms furnished, and the others--well, they would need a lot of doin' up before they could be occupied. As for the garden--well, I can manage that, and I love my flowers."

Mostyn was staring round the hall in which he stood. It was square of shape, panelled in oak, and a gallery ran round two sides of it--a gallery which was approached by an uncarpeted flight of stairs at the far end. There was but little furniture, though everything that Mostyn's eyes rested upon was quaint and old-fashioned. There were high-backed chairs, elaborately carved, a great oaken coffer, and a fine old grandfather's clock, the loud ticking of which sounded pleasantly to the ear. The fireplace was large in proportion to the size of the hall, and the hearth was broad; there were delightful ingle nooks to either side of it. Against the opposite wall there was an organ, a small affair, and evidently of modern make: its pipes, which had been gilded and painted, were now discoloured, and harmonised quaintly with the more antique decorations of the hall. The floor was uncarpeted, but a few fine rugs, bear and tiger skins, lay about. A large lamp was suspended in the centre, and Samuel Willis now occupied himself with the lighting of this, for the dusk was closing in.

There were two other rooms upon the ground floor which had been furnished, and these were just as quaint and old-fashioned, both in design and equipment as the hall itself. The broad oaken beams that traversed the ceilings indicated their age. Of the two, the drawing-room presented the greater semblance of comfort and modernity. It had pretty chintz furniture, comfortable arm-chairs, and the pictures on the walls were bright water-colour landscapes. The walls themselves, above the oaken panelling, were distempered in white, and, unlike the other rooms, there was a good carpet covering the whole floor. The windows gave direct access to the garden, and as it stood partly open, the scent of roses was pleasantly wafted to Mostyn's nostrils. There were a couple of shaded lamps, which the gardener proceeded to light, and some of the tall vases that stood upon the mantel-piece and in other parts of the room had been filled with bunches of great red roses; Mostyn imagined that this had been a kindly attention upon the part of Willis, and felt grateful to the man.

The dining-room was not altogether so cheerful an apartment. It was panelled from floor to ceiling in oak, which in places was very palpably rotting away. There were no pictures upon the wall, nor any attempt at the lighter ornamentations which prevailed in the other room; the ceiling was dingy and discoloured between the great beams which traversed it, and the floor was carpetless--little holes appearing here and there in the boards close against the wainscotting--to Mostyn's mind, unpleasantly suggestive of rats. A fine table occupied the centre of the room, and upon this a white cloth had already been spread.

"I've done my best about your dinner, sir," Willis said deprecatingly, "but I'm afraid, since I had no notice of your coming, that there is not much that I can do. I don't understand cookin'----"

"Never mind," Mostyn laughed, "I can manage with anything you've got, or can go down to the inn for the matter of that."

Willis explained that he had brought up a cold chicken and some accessories, also that Mr. Clithero would find that there were bottles of good wine in the cellar; if he could do with these.

Mostyn declared that he could do with these quite well. In fact, he would need nothing else that night, and on the next day he could have a long chat with Mrs. Willis and make all the necessary arrangements.

After this the bedrooms were explored, to reach which it was necessary to pass along the gallery that skirted the hall. Of these only a couple were furnished, all the other rooms being in a state of deplorable decay.

"Mr. Royce was always going to furnish the house," Willis explained apologetically, "but when he gave up racing he didn't seem to care to come down any more. He took the Grange because it is near the training stables, you know, sir. William Treves has a big place just outside Partinborough."

The beds were made in both rooms; and Willis explained that his wife had seen to this when she heard that the Grange had passed into other hands, and would probably be shortly occupied. "She has tidied up the place as well as she could," he added. "I hope you'll be all right and comfortable, sir."

Mostyn glanced round the large airy room which he had selected, and told himself that there was every prospect of his comfort. The room, indeed, had not the appearance of having been long unoccupied, and Mostyn noticed, somewhat to his surprise, that the attentive Willis--or could it have been Mrs. Willis?--had even been thoughtful enough to fill the vases here, as in the drawing-room, with rich and fresh rose-blooms.

"It's awfully nice to have these flowers," he commented; "I must really congratulate you, Willis, upon having arranged things so comfortably for me."

A tinge of colour came into the gardener's sallow face, and he turned away, as Mostyn thought, a little nervously.

"You're very good, sir," was all he said.

Mostyn enjoyed his dinner, impromptu meal though it was, nor did he neglect an excellent bottle of claret that Willis produced from the cellar. He felt quite contented and happy, nor had he any sensation of loneliness when, a little later, he heard the dog-cart pass the front door and knew that Willis had taken his departure. Mostyn had told the gardener that there was no need either for him or for his wife to return that night. Their cottage, he had learnt, lay within the little park by which Partinborough Grange was surrounded, some five or six minutes' walk from the house.

After a while he amused himself by once more exploring all the rooms on the ground floor, and then he mounted to his bedroom, determined to unpack and put everything straight for the night. After that he thought that it might be pleasant to have a stroll amid the roses of the now moon-lit garden.

He found, however, that it took longer to put things tidy than he had anticipated, and, furthermore, he made one or two curious discoveries in the room which he had determined to occupy. There was a large hanging cupboard, and here, very much to his amusement, he came across some articles of feminine apparel--a jacket, a cape, a straw hat, and sundry other garments which he did not venture to examine more closely.

"I think it must be true," he smiled to himself, "that this room has not really been so long unoccupied. No doubt Mrs. Willis finds it more to her taste than the cottage. Or perhaps Mrs. Willis has a daughter," he added, as he glanced critically at the dainty straw hat and marked the juvenile cut of the jacket. "I really don't think that Mrs. Willis can be the owner of these!"

A little later he found a hairpin lying on the floor, and became still more convinced that his room must have been occupied by some member of the Willis household. The fact troubled him, however, not at all, and he laughed to himself as he recalled the gardener's nervousness of manner when he had drawn attention to the roses upon the mantelpiece. "Whoever has made herself at home here," he told himself, "must at any rate have a nice idea of comfort and the beauty of things. I can make every allowance for people who like flowers."

He was stooping over the portmanteau which he was engaged in unpacking, and, at that moment, it seemed to him that he heard a faint sound in the house, as of the opening and shutting of a door. He raised himself to his knees and listened, but all was still.

"I didn't think I was so imaginative," he muttered, after a moment. "I suppose that comes of being alone in a half-furnished house--so far away from everything, too." He glanced round the room and at the open window, which looked out upon the lawn--a lawn intersected by dark shadows and silver streaks of moonlight. "It never struck me before, either," he went on, "that there might be a ghost at Partinborough Grange; it's just the place for one." He laughed at himself, not being in reality nervous, and, if anything, rather enjoying the sense of his isolation. He decided that he would finish his unpacking quickly, and then make his way to the garden. The night was soft and balmy, and the air was fragrant with roses. It would be better there than in the house.

He bent himself once more to his task, throwing out his belongings to either side of him in the careless way of a man. Then of a sudden, he paused, a pair of shoes in one hand, a case of razors in the other, and listened attentively. Another moment and he had dropped shoes and razors and started to his feet.

He did not know if he was afraid, though certainly at the first moment a cold shiver had run down his spine, and there had been a peculiar sensation as if perspiration were about to break out on his brow. He felt hot and cold at the same time, and yet he was not conscious of any actual fear.

It was such a strange thing to be happening in an empty house, and, at first, Mostyn had hardly believed his ears. But now there was no doubt about it--someone was in the hall, and that someone was playing the organ.

The sound had at first come so softly that it had been really like a breath of wind stirring in the pipes; Mostyn had thought that it must be something of the sort, till he had remembered that there was practically no wind that night. Yet it was possible that the sound was due to some perfectly natural cause quite apart from human agency.

He listened with hazy ideas of the kind in his mind, until it was evident that something like a tune--a weird, dreamy tune, certainly, was being developed, and that it was impossible to doubt any longer that human fingers were touching the keys of the organ.

But who could it be? Who could have broken in and disturbed his privacy in so extraordinary a manner?

Mostyn opened the door of his room and stole out upon the balcony, moving as stealthily as he could, anxious to see without being seen. He did not feel afraid--he was actuated by wonder and curiosity.

The great lamp that hung from the ceiling above illuminated the hall. Mostyn looked straight down over the banisters at the mysterious player of the organ.

It was a girl, and, as Mostyn recognised at once, there was nothing ghostly or fantastic about her neat and well-fitting coat and skirt, which were of some light material. Her head was averted, and she seemed to be allowing her fingers to roam over the keys half unconsciously, as though she were simply giving way to her fancy. She was wearing a hat, a neat straw, not very dissimilar to the one which Mostyn had found in his room, and it was evidently she whom he had heard enter the house not very long before.

Presently, as he stood there, silently staring at his strange visitor, she turned her head, her attention attracted perhaps by the light from the door which Mostyn had left open behind him.

Their eyes met. The girl gave a sharp scream and started up, overthrowing the carved music stool upon which she had been seated. It was very clear that the apparition of a man in the gallery was as unexpected to her as was her appearance in the hall to Mostyn.

And, simultaneously with her cry, an exclamation of surprise and wonder escaped Mostyn also. He could not help himself.

"Rada, by all that's holy," he cried. And then, involuntarily, the girl's name came again to his lips. "Rada!"