The day was hot and drowsy, and Beatrice, clothed in black--for she paid her stepfather the compliment of wearing mourning--sat on an old stone seat, between two yew trees cut in the shape of peacocks. Before her, on a slight rise, rose the mellow brick walls of the Grange, covered with ivy. A terrace ran along the front of the house, and over the door was the mouldering escutcheon of the Paslow family. What with the queer pointed roofs, the twisted stacks of chimneys, the diamond-paned casements, and the prim gardens, the place looked particularly delightful. A poet could have dreamed away his days in this rustic paradise, and Beatrice felt as though she were in the land of the Lotus-eaters. But even as she slipped into vague dreams, she pulled herself up, and shunned the enchanted ground. There was sterner work to do than dreaming. Before she could become the mistress of this castle of indolence, and wife of its master, it was necessary to lift the cloud which rested on the place. To do so, she would have to begin by questioning Mrs. Lilly, and impatiently awaited the arrival of that worthy soul.
Towards noon Mrs. Lilly appeared on the terrace, and sailed down the broad garden-path between the lines of brilliant flowers. She was stout and comely, with white hair and a winter-apple face. A very honest, pleasant old woman was Mrs. Lilly, but behind the times. It was her boast that she had never been away from the Weald of Sussex for one solitary day out of a long length of years; and she had no patience--as she frequently stated--with the new-fangled notions of modern life (of which, it may be remarked incidentally, she knew no more than a child unborn!). Beatrice looked at the housekeeper's worn black silk dress, at her lace cap and voluminous apron, and acknowledged that Mrs. Lilly was a picturesque figure, who might have stepped out of the pages of a Christmas Number. The very model of a pompous, narrow-minded, honest, kindly old English servant.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Lilly, who looked on the three young people as children and addressed them accordingly, "I've got through my work. And a wonder it is, seeing that Polly and Molly"--these were the two servants--"are so lazy. But I have had the rooms brushed, and the dinner is ordered, and everything is in apple-pie order; so here I am ready for a rest." And she sat down beside Beatrice with a groan, remarking on the stiffness of her joints.
"You won't have much rest with me, Mrs. Lilly," laughed Beatrice, who, knowing the old lady well for some years, was quite familiar with her. "Have you got your knitting?" Mrs. Lilly was always knitting when off domestic duty. "Oh! here it is. Now make yourself comfortable, you dear old thing, and talk."
"What about?" asked Mrs. Lilly, mounting her spectacles, and beginning to click the needles.
"Colonel Hall's death."
"Oh! my dear," said the housekeeper with dismay; "do you really wish me to tell you about that horrid thing?"
"Of course; and you promised to do so."
"But wouldn't you rather hear about the ghost?" said Mrs. Lilly in coaxing tones; "that's an old family legend, and ever so much nicer."
"No. Colonel Hall's death, or nothing."