The sisters were greatly attached to one another. Susan especially loved Katherine. It is sometimes noticeable that where the intellect is not bright the feelings are strong; and with an almost unreasonable, passionate tenderness Susan Keen loved her sister. Katherine's removal to Heron Dyke tried her. She could hardly exist without seeing her daily; and she would put her cloak on when the day's work was done--for Susan assisted her mother in the inn--and run up to the Hall to see Katherine. But Katherine and Mrs. Keen both told her she must not do this: her going so frequently might not be liked at the Hall, especially by ill-tempered Aaron Stone and his wife. Thus admonished, Susan put a restraint upon herself, so as not to trouble anybody too often; but many an evening she would steal up at dusk, walk round the Hall, and stand outside watching the windows, hoping to get just one distant glimpse of her beloved Katherine.
The time went on to February in the present year, Katherine giving every satisfaction at Heron Dyke: even old Aaron would now and then afford her a good word. And it should be mentioned that the girl had made no fresh acquaintance, either of man or woman--she was thoroughly well-conducted in every way.
Miss Winter's own sitting-room and her bedroom were in the north wing. She had chosen them there on account of the beautiful view of the sea from the windows. Katherine slept in a room near her. On the evening of the fifteenth of February they were both in the sitting-room at work; Ella was making garments for some poor children in the village and had called Katherine to assist. Katherine had a headache; it got worse; and at nine o'clock Ella told her she had better go to bed. The girl thanked her, lighted her candle and went; Ella, who went at the same time to her own room to get something she wanted, saw her enter her chamber and heard her lock herself in: and from that moment Katherine Keen was never seen, alive or dead. Before the night was over, Ella--as you will hear her tell presently--had occasion to go to Katherine's room; she found the door unlocked, and Katherine absent, the bed not having been slept in. Her apron, cap, collar, and neck-ribbon lay about, showing that she had begun to undress; but that was all. Of herself there was no trace; there never had been any since that night.
That she had not left the house was a matter of absolute fact, for old Aaron had already locked and bolted all the doors, and there could be no egress from it. In short, it was a strange mystery, and puzzled everyone. Where was she? What could have become of her? The matter caused endless stir and commotion in the neighbourhood. Old Squire Denison, very much troubled at the extraordinary occurrence, instituted all kinds of inquiries, but to no purpose. Every nook and corner in the spacious house was searched again and again. Aaron Stone, cross enough with the girl oftentimes beforehand, seemed troubled with the rest; his wife declared openly, her eyes round with terror, that the girl must have been 'spirited' away. The grandson, Hubert, was in London at the time, and knew absolutely nothing whatever of the occurrence.
But the sister, Susan, had a tale to tell, and it was a curious one. It appeared that that same morning she had met Katherine in the village, doing an errand for Miss Winter. Susan told her that a letter had come from their brother--a young man older than themselves, who had gone some years before to an uncle in Australia--and that she would bring it to the Hall that evening. However, when evening came, snow began to fall, and Mrs. Keen would not let Susan go out in it, for she had a cold. Presently the snow ceased, and Susan, wrapping her cloak about her, started with the letter. As she neared the Hall the clock struck nine--too late for Susan to attempt to call, for after that hour her visits were interdicted. She hovered about a short while, thinking that haply she might see one of the housemaids hastening home from some errand, and could send in the letter by her, or perhaps catch a glimpse of her darling sister at her window. The sky was clear then, the moon shining brilliantly on the snowy ground. As Susan stood there, a light appeared in Katherine's room. She fancied she saw the curtain pulled momentarily aside, but she saw no more. While thus watching, Susan was startled by a cry, or scream of terror; two screams, the last very faint, but following close upon the other. They appeared to come from inside the house, Susan thought from inside the room, and were in her sister's voice--of that Susan felt an absolute certainty. A little thing served to terrify her. She ran back home as she had never run before, and burst into her mother's kitchen in a pitiable state. Mrs. Keen and two or three people sitting in the inn took it for granted that the cry must have been that of some night-bird, and the terrified girl was got to bed.
With the morning, news was brought to the inn of Katherine's strange disappearance; and, as already said, she had never been heard of from that day. Nothing could shake Susan's belief that it was her sister's screams she had heard; she declared she knew her voice too well to be mistaken. The event had a sad effect upon her mind: at times she seemed almost half-witted. She could not be persuaded but that Katherine was still in the house at Heron Dyke; and as often as she could escape her mother's vigilance, she would steal up in the dark and hover about outside, looking at the windows for Katherine--nay, more than once believing that she saw her appear at one of them.
Such was the occurrence that had served to shake Miss Winter's nerves, and that she was on her way now to the vicarage to be (as she well knew) cross-questioned about.
Mr. Kettle met her with a fatherly kiss, telling her she looked bonnier than ever, and that there was nothing to compare with an English rose-bud. Maria clasped her in her arms. Ella took her bonnet off and sat down with them in the bow-windowed parlour open to the summer breeze, and for some time it was hard to say whether she or Maria had the more questions to ask and answer. Then the vicar began, as a matter of course, about the shortcomings in the parish during his absence, especially about the churchwardens' difficulties with Pennithorne--the temporary parson. That gentleman had persisted in having two big candlesticks on the altar where no such articles had ever been seen before, and had attempted to establish a daily service, which had proved to be an ignominious failure, together with other changes and innovations that were more open to objection. Ella confirmed it all, and the vicar worked himself into a fume.
"Confound the fellow!" he exclaimed, "I'd never have gone away had I known. Who was to suspect that meek-looking young jackanapes, with his gold-rimmed spectacles, had so much mischief in him? He looked as mild as new milk. And now, my dear, what about that strange affair concerning Katherine Keen?" resumed the vicar, after a pause. "Your letter to us, describing it, was hardly--hardly credible."
"I can quite believe that it must have seemed so to you," replied Ella.