Volume Two—Chapter Eight.
Why Dally Borrowed the Key.
There was a reason for Dally’s non-appearance at the sexton’s cottage, and that reason was that she did not stir out of the Rectory that evening, but was exceedingly attentive if the bell was rung, and about ten o’clock presented herself at the study door to know if there was anything else wanted before she went up to bed, for it was to be a busy morning, and she wanted to be up early, etcetera, etcetera.
Mary wanted nothing more, and Leo gave consent, so Dally Watlock went up to bed, but did not go.
On the contrary, she bustled about for some little time without attempting to undress, spoke to her fellow-servant through the plaster wall, and ended by yawning loudly and extinguishing her candle. Then softly opening her window she sat down by it to enjoy the softness and beauty of the dark, calm night.
The old Rectory at Duke’s Hampton stood back fifty yards from the road, with its back to the meadows through which ran the sparkling trout-stream. There was a fine old garden full of bushy evergreens and tall, flowering shrubs, so that partly through the efforts of nature, partly through the running of the ancient gardener who had planned the place ingeniously, it was quite possible for half-a-dozen people to be about the place at once without being aware of each other’s presence.
The beautiful old ivy-clad place was built in the shape of an L, with steep gable-ends; and matters had been so arranged that while Salis and poor invalid Mary slept in the front, Leo’s pretty bedroom was placed so that she could look straight down the green-embowered path right to the meadows. Just below her window was an old rustic summer-house, covered with clematis and jasmine; a little more to the right, in the angle of the L, was a tiny vinery, and beyond that the lean-to tool-house—made an object of beauty by the dense mass of ivy which clustered over the thatched roof and walls.
Hence it was that while Leo could look down on the creeper-covered summer-house, and across at the ivy-clad tool-house and the rose-encircled bedroom window of Dally Watlock, the latter apple-cheeked young lady enjoyed the reverse view, with the slight disadvantage that when she looked across at Leo’s window, she could not see roses, but the long, laurel-like leaves of a great magnolia, carefully trained all round—a matter not of the smallest importance, for Dally preferred the window to its surroundings.
Daily’s proceedings were strange that night. She sat there eager and watchful till there was a sudden glow in Leo’s window, indicating that her young mistress had gone up to bed. Then as she watched she saw the blind drawn aside, and a shadowy hand unfasten the casement, throw it open, and put in the iron hook.
Dally drew a long breath full of satisfaction, and then waiting till the blind dropped and the shadow of Leo appeared upon it from time to time, she proceeded to behave in a remarkably strange manner for a young person whose character means her life as a domestic servant.
Dally said softly through her nipped-together teeth:
“I thought as much, ma’am!” and then, with all the activity of a boy of fourteen, she tied a dark handkerchief tightly over her head and under her chin, stepped from her chair on to the window-sill, lowered herself on to the top of the tool-house, where she lay flat down in the bed of leaves, to form, had it been light, as prettily rustic-looking an idea for an artist of a Dryad in her leafy wreath as he need wish to have.
But Dally Watlock was not going to have a night’s rest al fresco, for she was exceedingly wide awake, and as soon as she was extended at full length parallel with her part of the house, and with her feet towards that portion where her superiors slept, she began to revolve upon her own axis in a very slow and careful manner, down and down the ivy slope of the lean—to thatched shed, there being plenty of stout ivy-boughs for her to grasp, so as to act as breaks and govern her speed. Now she was on her side, then as she slowly turned, her little red face was buried in the dark green leaves. A little more and it came up, and she was on the other side, and soon after upon her back. And so on and on till, merely crushing down the leaves a little, and without breaking a twig, she rolled down to the very edge, when, holding on tightly by the ivy, she let her legs drop, and touched the earth, making scarcely any more noise than a cat.
She remained perfectly motionless for a few minutes, and then crept stealthily to the main green walk in the garden, gazed watchfully back at Leo’s window, where the head and shoulders of her young mistress could be plainly seen upon the illuminated blind, and then ran swiftly down the grass path to the iron hurdle which separated the garden from the meadow, climbed it like a boy and as quickly, and then ran rapidly across the meadows in the direction of the church.
Dally Watlock had not gambolled about the old sexton’s knees as a child for nothing. She had been with the old man constantly, and been furnished by him with strange playthings in her time. To wit, there was a bag of buttons that had afforded her endless amusement, some being black, others silvered, while a certain portion were of superior make and richly gilt. Moredock called them buttons, but their shapes were peculiar, and looked as if they had been driven into the material to which they had been attached, instead of sewn. There were some ornaments, too, of stamped metal which had always been great favourites with Dally, from the fact of their containing the plump faces of baby boys with curly hair and wings.
Dally had many a time sat perched upon a tombstone and eaten apples while “gran’fa” dug graves, and the sight of the old man growing lower and lower as he dug, till from being buried to his knees he went down to his waist, to his chest, and then quite out of sight, was always full of fascination for the child.
As a natural result, the church had been a familiar playground on Saturdays, when, as the old man dusted and arranged cushions and hassocks, Dally would have scandalised a looker-on, for she played at visiting, treating the pews as houses, the aisles of the church as streets, and made calls after duly knocking at all the pew doors, the knocker being temporary in every case, and formed of a large, old, tarnished gilt coffin handle, which she held up with her left chubby fingers while she knocked with the right.
Moredock used to grin and enjoy it, petting the child, and humouring her in every way. She would be his companion in the belfry when he tolled or chimed the bells, and was even allowed to take a pull at one of the ropes, while they had often afforded her opportunities for a swing.
Dally Watlock, then, in earlier life had stolen away from home as often as possible, and was as familiar with the church roof, tower, and interior, as her grandfather; hence, on the night when she stole out of the Rectory and ran across the meadows, she had no difficulty in the way of the plan she had designed, which was to reach the old lych-gate, try whether it was locked, and, if so, climb it.
It was locked, and she clambered over quickly and silently, took a short cut among the graves to the old railed tomb, close to the big buttress by the centre south window that had once contained stained glass. Here the smaller casement used for ventilation readily opened at the insertion of the blade of a pocket-knife, leaving room for the active girl, who had reached it by climbing up and standing upon the tomb railings, to pass through and lower herself into the dark interior of the church.
Here, standing upon the cushions of one of the primitive old square pews, she crouched and listened breathlessly; but all was still, and after satisfying herself as far as she could that she was alone, she slipped down, passed through the door into the aisle, and then on and on, bent almost double, so as to keep below the level of the pew tops, where the darkness was intense.
The girl’s every movement was as lithe and stealthy as that of some wild animal; always on the alert for danger and ready for instant flight; but there seemed to be no cause for fear, and she crept on and on till the rood-screen was reached, and she passed into the chancel, where she soon lay down by the ornamental railings of the Candlish tomb, between it and the oak panels of that family’s pew, where there was an interval quite large enough to hide her compact little frame.
It was not so dark here, for a faint twilight streamed in through the great east window; but still the gloom was too deep for any one who passed to be recognisable.
Dally listened, and still crouched there, with her heart beating fast and her keen eyes roving from place to place as her ears strove to catch the faintest sound. The two grotesque effigies of the Candlishes reclined just above her head, the tablets on the walls faintly shimmered, and a dark mass—the pulpit—loomed up beyond the rood-screen, and all was so still that her breath sounded to her laboured, and as if passing through rustling paper.
After carefully scrutinising the place in all directions, she fixed her eyes upon the dark patch with pointed top which represented the way into the vestry. It was just opposite to her, and seemed to be the great object of her nocturnal journey.
For a few minutes all was still. Then there was a faint chirruping noise which emanated from Dally’s lips, as she backed softly a little more into her hiding-place.
No response!
She chirruped again, and failing to obtain any reply, she made a quick motion with one hand, the result being a sharp rap as if a tiny stone had struck the vestry door to make a second sound as it fell upon the stone floor.
No response!
“Safe!” whispered Dally to herself, and making a faint rustling sound, she glided out from her hiding-place, and crossing the chancel, raised the heavy latch of the vestry door.
There was a faint click as she passed in and closed it after her. Then another rustling sound, and a peculiar rattling noise, for Dally had drawn the large key she had borrowed from the sexton’s cottage, placed it in the lock of the spiral staircase leading up to the rood-loft, opened it, and after withdrawing and inserting the key on the inner side, she crept in, locked the door, went rapidly up to the opening where she had sat during the funeral service, and then resting her arms upon the carved stone tracery, she thrust her head and shoulders as far forward as she could, and listened and waited for what was to come.