The family must have settled at Rockmount for many years. Probably, the grandfather, the farmer who wrote himself, plebeianly, “Johnson,” was buried here. Or—if he were dead, but whether it was so or not, I had no clue—here probably, would be registered the interment of that brother to whom allusion had been made as “papa's favourite,” but in such a manner, and with such evident distress, that to make further inquiry about him was impossible. Besides, I must have no more private talk with her—with the one of the Misses Johnston whom I know best.
This brother—I have calculated his possible age, compared with theirs. Even were he the eldest of them, he could not now be much above thirty—if alive. That person would now be at least fifty.
Still, at once and for ever to root up any such morbid, unutterable fancies, I thought it would be as well to turn over the register-books, as, without suspicion, it was this day easy to do. On my way home I stopped at the church—and, helped by the half-stupid sexton and bell-ringer, went over the village records of, he declared, the last twenty years, and more. In none of them was once named the family of Johnston.
No proof, therefore, of my cause of dread—not an atom, not a straw. All evidence hitherto going directly counter to a supposition—the horror of which would surpass all horrible coincidences that fate could work out for a man's punishment. Let me put it aside.
The other thing—God help me! I believe I shall also be able to put aside—being entirely my own affair—and I myself being the only sufferer.
Now Treherne is married and away, there will be no necessity to visit at Rockmount any more.
CHAPTER X. HER STORY.
What a change a marriage makes—what a blank it leaves in a house! Ours has been very dull since poor Lisa went away.