Read Ebook: The Grim House by Molesworth Mrs Goble Warwick Illustrator

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Ebook has 905 lines and 64174 words, and 19 pages

"But it can't be helped," I said; "girl companions haven't come in my way. You know there are scarcely any young people at all in our neighbourhood at home."

"I know," said mother regretfully, "and with our having been away so much, I seem to have rather fallen out of touch with my own old friends, some of whom have daughters of about your age. I have been thinking a great deal about it lately."

No more was said at the time, but I still felt far from anxious to make acquaintance with the new arrivals. The very thought of it overpowered me with shyness.

Strange to say, the acquaintance was brought about by the only one of us three who had seen nothing to admire in the pretty sisters.

I think it was on the third day after they had come, that Moore burst into our room one afternoon, his face rosy with excitement.

I spoke jestingly, but, to my surprise, I saw that my words had hit the mark, for Moore's fair face, which was already flushed with excitement, grew still redder.

"Moore!" I exclaimed, aghast. And "My dear boy!" said mother.

Our exclamations put Moore on the defensive.

"Well," he said, rather indignantly, "I don't see that there's any harm in it. You've been awfully wanting to know them--"

"Well, any way, you were awfully down on me because I didn't think the girl was the most beautiful person in the world. And I don't think she is stuck-up, after all I'm sure you'd like her very much, and they seemed quite pleased when I said you'd come too--quite jolly about it. I told them mother couldn't walk so far, and that we had come here because she'd been ill."

"After all, there is no harm done," she said. "I see no objection to Moore's going with them, and we can easily make some little excuse for you, Regina, if it is necessary. To begin with, there would not be room for so many in the carriage."

I had not the heart to tell him it was his own fault, and mother just said to him that he might trust her to put it all right. So in a minute or two he brightened up again, and it seemed as if the matter were at an end.

It was not so, however. When a thing is to be, it often seems as if even the most trivial events conspire to lead up to it. So it was in this case.

At supper that evening Moore turned his chair, so that he--or at least his face--should not be visible by his new acquaintances. I was sorry for him; he was feeling rather "small" and mortified, I could see, and I wished I had not snubbed his boyish officiousness so unmercifully. I had almost arrived at the point of hoping that some occasion would offer itself for endorsing his friendly overtures, when my glance fell on an envelope lying--hitherto unnoticed--by my plate, and I realised by a flash of inspiration that here in my hands was the very opportunity I had been thinking of.

It was a letter addressed to--

"James Wynyard, Esq., Hotel Augusta, Weissbad, etc, etc."

"I think," he was beginning, as he reached our table. But mother cut him short.

AN EMBRYO NOVELIST.

So it was. A minute or two's conversation sufficed to establish for each the other's identity, and to gather up the loosened threads of former acquaintanceship. Worse than loosened indeed, for mother's face grew sad when Mr Wynyard told her of the death of her old friend, Maud, his wife, which had occurred several years previously.

"I had no idea of it," she said. "We were so much abroad for some years that many changes may have taken place without my hearing of them. And curiously enough, I have been thinking of her--of your wife, Mr Wynyard, quite specially of late."

"Who could help doing so?" said mother in her pretty, gracious manner. "But no," she went on, "I don't think it was that! It was even before your arrival here that I was thinking of Maud. When I know them better I shall probably see some likeness in your daughters, but it has not struck me."

"We think Margaret the most like her," said the father. "Margaret is Mrs Percy--she and her husband are travelling with us," and he nodded his head in the direction of his own party. "But your supper will be getting cold--"

"Come up to our sitting-room afterwards," said mother, "for our mutual introductions."

And so they did, and before I fell asleep that night I knew all about them, and had--I may as well confess it once for all--fallen over head and ears in love with the younger girl, Isabel!

Our guesses had been, as has been shown, correct so far as they went. The party of four were wonderfully "untravelled" for even those days. And the charm of novelty greatly enhanced their enjoyment of Weissbad and its neighbourhood. Mr Percy and his wife were thoroughly pleasant young people, and on further acquaintance, mother saw much in the latter that recalled her old friend.

And the next day found Moore and myself most willing members of the excursion party to Oberwald. How well I remember it all! My shyness melted away like morning mist in the happy geniality of our companions, above all of Isabel. She was just enough older than I to make it natural that she should take a little the lead in some ways. She had seen more of society than I of course, quietly though they lived at home, and since her sister's marriage, the fact of being in charge of her father's house had given her a little air of importance which was quaint and pretty.

Before that pleasant day was over we had compared notes on almost every department of girl-life. I had confided to her my newly awakened feelings of dissatisfaction as to my want of feminine tastes and tendency to "tomboyishness," and she on her side had told me that she was often afraid of growing too prim or narrow-minded in the well-arranged regularity of her own home-life.

"That was why," she said, "I was so glad to travel a little. I feel as if I needed to rough it in some ways. Father is too careful of me, too unselfish. I am afraid I have always been a spoilt child, and having no brothers, you see, may make me selfish without knowing it!"

She looked up at me anxiously with her sweet brown eyes. What was it they reminded me of? I had already noticed that her people called her by some peculiar pet name; I had not caught it exactly.

"What is it that your sister and father call you sometimes?" I said. "Is it `Ella'?"

Isabel blushed a little.

"And so they are!" I exclaimed; "that is the look I have seen in them-- some dogs have it too! I don't think it is at all a silly name. Will you let me call you by it sometimes?" for of course under the circumstances there had been no question of anything but "Isabel" and "Regina" between us from the first.

"Of course you may, if you like," she said. "But--" and she hesitated.

"But what?" I asked.

Isabel smiled.

"You mustn't be vexed with me," she replied, "if I can't promise to call you `Reggie,' as your brother does. I don't like it--and Regina is such a pretty name and uncommon too."

"I don't think you need civilising," said Isabel; "but perhaps in our different ways we may do each other good. I do hope your people will let you come to stay with us when we go home."

"I should love it of all things," I said. "I have scarcely ever paid any visits, and I have seen very little of England except quite near our own home. Is it very pretty where you live?"

"Not so much pretty as picturesque," Isabel replied. "To begin with, it is very, very out of the way; we are six miles from a railway station of any kind, and sixteen from an important one. But papa's people have lived there for so long, that it doesn't seem out of the way to us. It is a place that changes very little."

"Then it is to be hoped that you have some nice and interesting neighbours," I said. "Near us there are so few young people."

"And there are not many near Millflowers either," said Isabel; "at least not within a good long drive. I hope you would not find it dull. There are interesting walks, if you care for wild, rugged scenery. The village itself is quite tiny. There is only one house of any importance besides the vicarage and ours, and that is--no good," she added, rather abruptly.

"Why not?" I inquired. "Is it uninhabited?"

Isabel hesitated.

"No," she replied. "The same people have lived in it for a great many years. They were there before father came into possession, on my uncle's death. But--" and again she paused.

My curiosity was aroused.

"Do tell me about them," I said.

"Well, yes, I don't see why I shouldn't," answered Isabel. "Father always tells us not to gossip about the Grim House, but you are sure to notice it when you come, so I may as well prepare you beforehand."

I was all ears by this time, and scarcely dared to speak for fear of interrupting Isabel.

"Yes," I said; "do go on."

"What was he like?" I could not help asking. "Did any one ever tell you?"

"I don't need to be told," was the unexpected reply. "I have seen him for myself once a week ever since I can remember. At church, I mean," she went on, smiling at my puzzled expression. "They do come to church--all of them--and this one is the eldest of them. Of course he must have been younger-looking twenty years ago. Well, a few days after this stranger's first appearance, workmen arrived at the Grim House, a whole lot of them, Scart--that's our gardener--says. Some of them from a good distance, and they set to at the house and got it into order in no time. All at the new tenant's expense. Scart always says it must have cost a `sight of money.' I don't fancy much was done in the way of making it pretty, for by all accounts, or rather by the few accounts that ever reach us, it is as plain and severe inside as it is grim outside. But any way, it was put into thorough repair, and then--they all came! They arrived late at night, so that no one knew anything about it till the next day."

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