It was a bright day, and there was only just enough wind to stir the air pleasantly on his way across the marsh road. The sun shone on the white, chalky soil, and the place where the body of Jem Stickels had been found was now no longer distinguishable by any outward sign from the rest of the grass-grown border to the road. People had begun to forget the tragedy, and even the fresh interest excited by the more recent events at the Blue Lion had by this time faded in their minds, relegated to the background by the pressure of some less stirring but newer occurrence.
The Blue Lion itself looked melancholy enough, having been uninhabited for a month. With its doors closed, its shutters barred, with broken panes in its upper windows, it was a dreary contrast to the little inn he had known. No market-carts now drew up before the door; the ducks and the chickens no longer wandered about the road; the shed where the cart had stood was empty and already out of repair. Clifford, after one walk round into the little garden and down to the shed where he had first met Nell, hurried away from the desolate spot and made haste to reach Shingle End.
But a change had come over this place also. To begin with, the storms of the winter had dealt harshly with the old house. Some slates had been carried away and had not been replaced, and a tree, blown down by a southwesterly gale, now blocked the little bit of ground which formed the front garden. It had injured the corner of the house in its fall, had carried away one of the outside shutters of the drawing-room front window and smashed half a dozen of the small panes of glass, which had been left broken. Sheets of brown paper had been pasted on the inner side of the window, completing the desolate appearance of the old house. Clifford, as he approached the gate, found that the tree had fallen in such a manner that it was impossible to get in. Looking up doubtfully at the windows, he caught sight of a little, withered face, gray, haunting, peeping out at him from behind the meager muslin curtain.
Was it or was it not Miss Bostal’s? For a moment he stood undecided with his hand upon the gate. Had some terrible calamity—the death of the Colonel, the illness of his daughter—fallen upon the place like a blight? Should he go back and make inquiries at the nearest cottage before he ventured to intrude upon what might be some great grief?
There was an ancient cottage close by which had once been a toll-house. He thought he would knock at the door and try to find out something, and was retreating for that purpose, when a hurried tapping on the glass of the upper window made him look round again. Miss Bostal—if it was indeed she—made a sign to him to go round to the back of the house.
Obeying her mute direction, he found his way back to the little side-gate in the paling, passed through into the garden and presented himself at the back door. He noticed with surprise, as he passed the two lower windows, the one at the side and the other at the back of the house, that the blinds were drawn down. Surely, then, the Colonel was dead, he thought. He had not time to speculate as to why, in that case, the upper front rooms had had their blinds up, when he heard the sound of some one within drawing back a bolt and then another and another.
Then the door was opened by Miss Bostal, who put out her head to throw one frightened glance round the garden, and then, seizing his proffered hand, drew him hastily inside, and began immediately to replace the bolts.
Clifford could not help feeling amused, although he took care not to show it. It seemed to him clear that the recent occurrences in the neighborhood had got on the poor little woman’s brain, and made her absurdly nervous about the safety of her own little person and not very valuable property.
“You are well secured against burglars, I see,” said he, as he insisted upon doing the work of bolting the door for her, and was surprised to find how solid and strong the protection was.
The little woman started, almost jumped.