For at that moment there was a soft tapping at the door.
“Your bedroom is the one over this, and I hope you will find it comfortable. No trees to look out upon; no flowers; no bright full moon; plenty of bricks, mortar, and chimney-pots; but there are rest and peace for you, my child; so go, and believe that I am ready to fight your battles and to make you happy here. I can if you will only help.”
“I shall try, Mr Garstang,” she said, with a faint smile.
“Then c’est un fait accompli,” he replied, holding out his hand. “Good-night—I mean, good morning. Sarah is waiting to show you to your room.”
She placed her hand in his for a few moments, and then with heart too full for words she hurried to the door and passed through into the hall, to find a strange-looking, dry, elderly woman standing on the skin mat at the foot of the stairs, holding a massive silver bedroom candlestick in her hand, and peering at her curiously, but ready to lower her eyes directly.
“This way, please, miss,” she said, in a lachrymose tone of voice; and she began to ascend the low, wide, thickly-carpeted stairs, holding the candle before her, and showing her gaunt, angular body against a faint halo of light.
Kate followed, wondering, and feeling as if she were in a dream, while Garstang was slowly walking up and down among his cabinets, rubbing his hands softly, and smiling in a peculiar way.
“Promises well,” he said softly; “promises well, but I have my work cut out, and I have not reckoned with Harry Dasent yet.”
He stopped short, thinking, and then involuntarily raised his eyes, to find that he was exactly opposite a curious old Venetian mirror, which reflected clearly the upper portion of his form.
He started slightly, and then stood watching the clearly seen image of his face, ending by smiling at it in a peculiar way.