"You see there is nothing to be afraid of," she said to the girls, as she gave them back the candle at the foot of the stairs. "Do not be so foolish again."
But Ella Winter was herself more perplexed and shaken than she allowed to appear, or would have cared to admit.
[CHAPTER VI.]
ONE SNOWY NIGHT
One of the last houses that you passed before you began to climb the hill into Nullington was the vicarage; a substantial red-brick building of the Georgian era, standing a little way back from the road in a paved fore-court, access to which was obtained through a quaintly-wrought iron gateway. At the back of the house was a charming terraced-garden, with an extensive view, some prominent features of which were the twisted chimneys of Heron Dyke, and the seven tall poplars that overshadowed the moat. Here dwelt the Rev. Francis Kettle, vicar of Nullington-cum-Easterby, and his daughter Maria. The living was not a very lucrative one, being only of the annual value of six hundred pounds; but the vicar was a man who, if his income had been two thousand a year, would have lived up to the full extent of it. He was fond of choice fruits, and generous wines, and French side-dishes; while indoors he never did anything for himself that a servant could do for him. Out of doors, he would potter about in his garden by the hour together. He was sixty years old, a portly, easy-going, round-voiced man, who read prayers admirably, but whose sermons hardly afforded an equal amount of satisfaction to the more critical members of his congregation. To rich and poor alike Mr. Kettle was bland, genial, and courteous. No one ever saw him out of temper. A moment's petulance was all that he would exhibit, even when called from his warm fireside on a winter evening to go through the sloppy streets to pray by the bedside of some poor parishioner. No deserving case ever made a direct appeal to his pocket in vain, although the amount given might be trifling; but he was not a man who, even in his younger and more active days, had been in the habit of seeking out deserving cases for himself. Before all things, Mr. Kettle loved his own ease; ease of body and ease of mind. It was constitutional with him to do so, and he could not help it. He knew that there was much sin and misery in the world, but he preferred not to see them; he chose rather to shut his eyes and walk on the other side of the way. Not seeing the sin and misery, there was no occasion for him to trouble his mind or pain his heart about them. But if, by chance, some heartrending case, some pathetic tale of human wretchedness, did persist in obtruding itself on his notice, and would not be kept out of sight, then would all the vicar's finer feelings be on edge for the remainder of that day. He would be restless and unhappy, and unable to settle down satisfactorily to his ordinary avocations. He would be as much hurt and put out of the way morally, as he would have been hurt physically had he cut his finger. It was very thoughtless of people thus to disturb his equanimity, and cause him such an amount of needless suffering. Next morning, however, the vicar would be his old, genial, easy-going self again, and human sin and wretchedness, and all the dark problems of life, would, so far as he was concerned, have discreetly vanished into the background.
Perhaps it was a fortunate thing for the vicar that he had a daughter--at least, such a daughter as Maria. Whatever shortcomings there might be on the father's part were more than compensated for on the daughter's. Maria Kettle was one of those women who cannot be happy unless they are striving and toiling for someone other than themselves. Her own individuality did not suffice for her: she lost herself in the wants and needs of others. No one knew the little weaknesses of her father's character better than herself, and no one could have striven more earnestly than she strove to cover them up from the eyes of the world. If he did not care to visit among the sick and necessitous of his flock, or to have his easy selfishness disturbed by listening to the story of their troubles, she made such amends as lay in her power. She did more, in fact, being a sympathetic and large-hearted woman, than it would have been possible for the vicar to have done, had his inclinations lain ever so much in that direction. In the back streets of Nullington, and among the alleys and courts where the labouring people herded together, no figure was better known than that of the vicar's daughter, with her homely features, her bright, speaking eyes, her dress of dark serge, her thick shoes, and her reticule. Little children who could scarcely talk were taught to lisp her name in their prayers, and the oldest of old people, as they basked outside their doors in the summer sunshine, blessed her as she passed that way.
Early in the present year, the state of the vicar's health had caused alarm, and he was ordered to the South of France. Maria could not let him go alone, and for the time being the parish had to be abandoned to its fate, and to the ministrations of a temporary clergyman. Maria felt a prevision that she should find most things turned upside down when she got back to it--which proved to be the case. She and her father, the latter in good health, had now returned, and on the day following their arrival, Miss Winter, all eagerness to see them, set off to walk to the vicarage. She and Maria were close and dear friends.
That she should be required to tell all about everything that had happened since their absence, Ella knew; it was only natural.
More especially about that one sad, dark, and most unexplainable event which had taken place at the Hall in February last. She already shrank from the task in anticipation; for, in truth, it had shaken her terribly, and a haunting dread lay ever on her mind.
About midway between Heron Dyke and the vicarage, lying a little back from the road, was a small inn, its sign, a somewhat curious one, "The Leaning Gate." Its landlord, John Keen, had died in it many years ago, since which time it had been kept by his widow, a very respectable and hard-working woman, who made her guests comfortable in a homely way, and who possessed the good-will of all the neighbours around. She had two daughters, Susan and Katherine, who were brought up industriously by the mother, and were both nice-looking, modest, and good girls. Susan was somewhat dull of intellect. Katherine was rather a superior girl in intelligence and manners, and very clever with her needle; she had been the favourite pupil in Miss Kettle's school, and later had helped to teach in it. Maria esteemed her greatly, and about fourteen months prior to the present time, when Miss Winter was wanting a maid, Maria said she could not do better than take Katherine. So Katherine Keen removed to the Hall, greatly to her mother's satisfaction, for she thought it a good opening for the young girl; but not so much to the satisfaction of Susan.