CHAPTER XIX.
The discovery of the fact that there was a secret way in and out of the Abbey had a strong and most unhappy effect upon poor Freda. She dared not say anything about it to Nell, and Crispin she never saw: forced, therefore, to bear the burden of the secret alone, she crept about the house day by day, not daring to make any fresh researches, and suffering from a hundred fears. To add to her unhappiness, she now could not but feel sure that Nell had kept back her letter to Sister Agnes. For she got no answer to it. Mrs. Bean seemed to guess that the girl had learned something about which she would want to ask inconvenient questions. So Freda passed a week in silence and solitude such as the convent had not accustomed her to. Even the nocturnal noises had ceased. Once, and once only, she caught sight of Crispin, and ran after him, calling him by name. It was dusk, and she was watching the sea-mews from the courtyard, as they flew screaming about the desolate walls of what had once been the banqueting-room. He did not answer, but disappeared rapidly under the gallery in evident avoidance of her.
Poor Freda felt so desolate that she burst into tears. Her old, fanciful belief in her father was dead. Everything pointed to the fact that he was really Blewitt’s murderer, and that, in order to save himself from detection, he had feigned death and gone away without one thought of the daughter he was deserting. Now that Crispin, whom she had looked upon through all as her friend, was deserting her also, she grew desperate, and recovering all the courage which for the last few days had seemed dead in her, she resolved to make another attempt to fathom the secrets the Abbey still held from her.
To begin with, she must explore the west wing. Now this west wing was so dark and so cold, so honeycombed with narrow little passages which seemed to lead to nowhere in particular, and with small rooms meagrely furnished and full of dust, that Freda had always been rather afraid of lingering about it, and had hopped through so much of it as she was obliged to pass on her way to and from the library, with as much speed as possible. Now, however, she got a candle, and boldly proceeded to examine every nook and corner of the west wing. And the result of her researches was to prove that on the ground floor, underneath her own room, there was a chamber surrounded by four solid stone walls without a single doorway or window. The only entrance to this mysterious chamber seemed to be through the panel-door in the storey above. Where, then, did the secret door in the library lead to? That question she would solve at once. It was quite dark and very cold in the narrow passages through which she ran, and the tipity-tap of her crutch frightened her by the echo it awoke. She reached the library panting, and running to the secret door, began pulling it and shaking it with all her might.
Suddenly the door gave way, almost throwing her down as it opened upon her; with a cry she recognised Dick behind it. She had thought of him so much since his last strange appearance, that the sight of him in the flesh made her feel shy. She said nothing, but crept away towards the window, feeling indeed an overwhelming joy at the sight of a friendly face.
“Did I frighten you again?” asked he.
The girl turned and looked up at him, shyly.
“I am always frightened here,” she said.
“Poor child! They are treating you very badly. I was afraid so. I have been to see you twice, to make sure you had come to no harm.”
Freda, who had crept into the window-seat, as far away from him as she could get, looked up in surprise.