Margaret’s home was in the centre of the pretty Darentdale Village, and the name of it was “The Old House”—a name which was appropriate since it was the oldest dwelling in the place. The other inhabitants were a man whom she called grandfather, whose name was Henry Harris, and his housekeeper, Ann Johnson. The Old House had originally belonged to John Dallington’s uncle, Captain Frank Dallington, and it was he who brought Harris to Darentdale. Margaret came with them, and since she was but a child they at once made inquiries for a suitable person to act as foster-mother to her as well as housekeeper to Harris. Ann Johnson presented herself, and was accepted; nor had there been reason to regret the appointment, for she had proved herself warm-hearted, if somewhat rough, and entirely trustworthy, though peculiar. The Old House had previously been empty for some time, for Captain Dallington would neither let it nor live in it; but he had it furbished up and comfortably furnished, and then he spent some months in it with Harris. There were plenty of rooms in the house, and one of them which faced the front was turned into a bookseller’s shop. But Darentdale folk were not great readers, and the trade was so small that the people became rather suspicious about the shop, and often wondered where Harris got the money to enable him to live comfortably. He, however, vouchsafed no information, and when Ann Johnson was questioned, she always began telling a tale about somebody or other, instead of giving a definite answer, so the Darentdalers had nothing left but to exercise their imagination. Mr. Harris was for some time no favourite in the place. Some said he was an atheist, though he was pronounced generally to be neither one thing nor the other. He did not go to either of the inns to spend his evenings sociably with his neighbours; but neither when a Temperance Mission was held did he don the Blue Ribbon. As to politics, he acknowledged that he was neither a Tory nor a Radical, but voted for the best man—as if the man had anything to do with it when there was the party to support! The villagers did not know what to make of a man who never called others names, and had no principles at all. But he had now been at Darentdale fifteen years, and it was strange how few people there were in the parish who, at some time or other, had not been helped by Henry Harris. There was nobody like him for getting another out of a difficulty, and almost every one had been glad to avail himself of the unostentatious assistance that was always ready. But some people liked Harris less on that account, and a few whom he had served the most were the most sure that they owed him a grudge. It is only noble people who know how to accept help gracefully.
Nobody disliked him more than John Dallington’s mother. But she had more reason than others for her disaffection, because she had a settled conviction that Harris and his granddaughter had money which she ought to have. Captain Dallington, who was always a wanderer, did not return to Darentdale after he had installed Harris and the child in the Old House. He had now been dead some years, and when his will was read his brother and his wife were astonished to find how little he had to leave. What he had was bequeathed to his relatives, excepting “the Old House, and all that was in it,” which was left to Henry Harris and Margaret Miller after him. The phrase—“and all that is in it”—had given John Dallington’s mother many an unhappy hour.
But what it was that was in it nobody outside the house knew, excepting that for the last few years there was in that Old House the most beautiful and interesting girl that Darentdale ever owned. It was not her beauty alone, nor her tall, graceful figure, nor her musical voice, nor her sweet, brown eyes that were the attraction; but there was a charm about her that could not be named, and generally could not be resisted. Most people loved Margaret, even those who did not want to.
Margaret, visiting Mrs. Wythburn, found her preparing for her departure. “We have made up our minds,” she said, “to go to London. Mary is there, and my husband believes that we shall be able to find her if we watch there. So we have taken rooms as near as possible to the Bank; and we quite hope to be successful in our search. We are willing that she should remain at the work she has chosen to do; and we shall no doubt eventually live in London altogether.”
“But it is a pity to leave the country for London now, when the weather is so unusually hot.”
“Our child is enduring the heat somewhere, and so can we. Besides, we cannot stay at Scourby. Do you know that Alfred Greenholme is already engaged to Hilda Copeland?”
“No; but I am not surprised. She is far more suitable for him than our splendid Mary, who never could have been happy as his wife. I hope you are not letting that trouble you, Mrs. Wythburn?”
“Perhaps it is annoyance rather than trouble. Mrs. Greenholme herself told me, and naturally, I had an unpleasant ordeal to go through. But the worst of it is, Margaret, that the people are setting very disagreeable stories afloat. Mrs. Greenholme said it was reported in the town that Mary and Dr. Stapleton had gone off together.”
“Oh, the slanderous tongues! How dare they give utterance to such abominable falsehoods! I should feel disposed to try to trace the lie to its source, though really it would be waste of time, for no one who knows Mary could believe it.”
“But I am sure that something is wrong with Dr. Stapleton. He is not in the least like himself. He looks ten years older since Mary’s disappearance. And his charges are almost double what they were. He is making the poor pay now, which, you know, he never did before, for he has always been most attentive and kind to those who could not pay him. He is often away, and cannot be found; and when he is summoned he is absent-minded and disagreeable. And people say all this looks suspicious, especially as he and Mary were known to be great friends.”