The Mysteries of Heron Dyke: A Novel of Incident. Volume 2 (of 3)

Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: Google Books https://books.google.com/books?id=aBsCAAAAQAAJ (Oxford University)
The mellow autumn months darkened and died slowly into winter. The wild winds that are born in the bitter north blew in stronger and fiercer gusts, and the majestic monotone of the sea grew louder and more triumphant as the huge tides broke in white-lipped wrath against the shuddering sands. There came tidings of fishing boats that never found their way back home, of great ships in the offing that made signals of distress, of dead bodies washed up here and there along the shore. The Easterby lifeboat was ever ready to brave the fiercest seas; while miles away across the seething waters, at once a signal of warning and of hope, the ruddy beacon of Easterby lighthouse shone clear and steady through the darkest night: it was like the eye of Faith shining across the troubled waters of Life.
At Heron Dyke, to all outward seeming, the winter months brought little or no change in the monotony of life within its four grey walls. And yet there were some changes; all of which, unimportant as they might seem if taken singly, had a distinct bearing on events to come. The two housemaids, Martha and Ann, to whom Aaron Stone had given warning in his anger at what he called their folly, were not forgiven. They left the Hall at the expiration of the month's notice, giving place to two strong young women who came all the way from London; and who, never having been in the country before, were supposed to be superior to the ordinary run of superstitious fancies, which so powerfully affect the rural mind. Aaron took care that Martha and Ann should be clear of the house before Phemie and Eliza arrived at it: there should be no collusion with the new-comers if he could prevent it.
All went well at first. Phemie and Eliza felt dull, but were sufficiently comfortable. They had plenty to eat, and little to do. Not having been told that the Hall was supposed to be haunted, to them the north wing was the same as any other part of the house, and they neither saw nor heard anything to frighten them. The deaf and stolid cook kept herself, as usual, to herself, and said nothing. Indeed, it may be concluded that she had nothing to say. Had a whole army of apparitions placed themselves in a row before her at the witching hour o' night, it would not have affected her; she utterly despised them, and the belief that could put faith in them.