BROUGHT TO BAY.
It was the last day of the old year, and though burning with curiosity to know what discovery George and I had unwittingly made beyond the whereabouts of the secret chamber, I forbore to ask any questions. Remembering that after this date Miles and his mother could no longer count on being left in undisputed possession of the whole estate, I did not like to make any inquiries which might revive this painful subject; so, with an effort, I resolved to possess my soul in patience, and wait till either Miles or Mr. Denny should volunteer some explanation.
The latter had arrived at the house not long after breakfast, and appeared to have come to spend the day. From some remarks which he made, I understood that he had been in Welmington the day before, and had travelled home through the night. Considering that he was an elderly man, and that this was the middle of winter, it struck me that whatever business he had had to transact must have been both important and urgent. In some indefinable manner the impression grew in my mind that something was brewing—whether trouble or otherwise I could not say; but there was a subdued air of excitement about the house, in which Miles, his mother, and the lawyer all seemed to share. Though I cannot but own that it aroused my curiosity, I stuck to my former determination to mind my own business, and not try to poke my nose into matters in which I had no concern.
At dinner even Mr. Denny, usually so sharp and alert, seemed at times a trifle preoccupied; while Mrs. Coverthorne was evidently in a state of nervous tension. She made a forced attempt to keep up the conversation, but it was plain that she was merely talking for the sake of talking, and that her thoughts were far from the subject of her remarks. Still, whatever might have been weighing on her mind, her look seemed to denote a change from when I had seen her in the summer: it was as though some burden of care had been recently lifted from her shoulders.
When the table had been cleared, we still sat on in the oak-panelled parlour—Mr. Denny thoughtfully sipping his wine, Miles notching a small fragment of firewood with his pocket-knife, and his mother making a pretence to sew, though at times I saw her hand shake so that she could not possibly direct her needle. As no one else made a move, I, too, remained in the room, gazing at the burning logs in the big open hearth.
At length there came a sound of horses' hoofs in the yard, and I saw Mrs. Coverthorne and Mr. Denny exchange a quick glance; then, a few minutes later, one of the maids knocked at the door and announced Mr. Nicholas Coverthorne.
Miles's mother rose to her feet, letting her work drop unheeded to the floor.
"Come, Sylvester," she said; "Mr. Denny has some private business to transact, and we will go into another room."
In the passage we met Mr. Coverthorne. He paused as though about to speak, but his sister-in-law passed him with a slight inclination of her head. I saw the man's face in the half-light of the passage—grim, cold, forbidding; and so the recollection of it has always remained in my mind. He passed on with a measured stride, entered the parlour, and closed the door behind him.
It was not until some years later that I heard from the lips of my friend an exact account of the interview which followed; but so vividly was every detail of it impressed on Miles's mind that in after life he could recall it as though it had been an event of yesterday.