Our guesses had been, as has been shown, correct so far as they went. The party of four were wonderfully “untravelled” for even those days. And the charm of novelty greatly enhanced their enjoyment of Weissbad and its neighbourhood. Mr Percy and his wife were thoroughly pleasant young people, and on further acquaintance, mother saw much in the latter that recalled her old friend.
But Isabel it is less easy to describe, and I will scarcely attempt to do so. To some extent her appearance, her very beauty, did her injustice, for it was difficult to believe that it could exist side by side with such complete unaffectedness and simplicity, such entire absence of vanity. She knew – she could not but know – that she was lovely, but she scarcely thought about it, herself in any way occupying a far smaller place in her thought than is the case with many a woman whose small claims on admiration one would imagine likely to beget humility and self-forgetfulness.
And the next day found Moore and myself most willing members of the excursion party to Oberwald. How well I remember it all! My shyness melted away like morning mist in the happy geniality of our companions, above all of Isabel. She was just enough older than I to make it natural that she should take a little the lead in some ways. She had seen more of society than I of course, quietly though they lived at home, and since her sister’s marriage, the fact of being in charge of her father’s house had given her a little air of importance which was quaint and pretty.
Before that pleasant day was over we had compared notes on almost every department of girl-life. I had confided to her my newly awakened feelings of dissatisfaction as to my want of feminine tastes and tendency to “tomboyishness,” and she on her side had told me that she was often afraid of growing too prim or narrow-minded in the well-arranged regularity of her own home-life.
“That was why,” she said, “I was so glad to travel a little. I feel as if I needed to rough it in some ways. Father is too careful of me, too unselfish. I am afraid I have always been a spoilt child, and having no brothers, you see, may make me selfish without knowing it!”
She looked up at me anxiously with her sweet brown eyes. What was it they reminded me of? I had already noticed that her people called her by some peculiar pet name; I had not caught it exactly.
“What is it that your sister and father call you sometimes?” I said. “Is it ‘Ella’?”
Isabel blushed a little.
“No,” she said, “it is Zella. Rather a silly name, I am afraid. It came from a fancy of father’s that my eyes were like a gazelle’s.”
“And so they are!” I exclaimed; “that is the look I have seen in them – some dogs have it too! I don’t think it is at all a silly name. Will you let me call you by it sometimes?” for of course under the circumstances there had been no question of anything but “Isabel” and “Regina” between us from the first.
“Of course you may, if you like,” she said. “But – ” and she hesitated.
“But what?” I asked.
Isabel smiled.
“You mustn’t be vexed with me,” she replied, “if I can’t promise to call you ‘Reggie,’ as your brother does. I don’t like it – and Regina is such a pretty name and uncommon too.”
“Mother never calls me anything else,” I said, “but I am afraid I am half a boy. You must civilise me – mother will be eternally grateful to you if you do.”
“I don’t think you need civilising,” said Isabel; “but perhaps in our different ways we may do each other good. I do hope your people will let you come to stay with us when we go home.”
“I should love it of all things,” I said. “I have scarcely ever paid any visits, and I have seen very little of England except quite near our own home. Is it very pretty where you live?”
“Not so much pretty as picturesque,” Isabel replied. “To begin with, it is very, very out of the way; we are six miles from a railway station of any kind, and sixteen from an important one. But papa’s people have lived there for so long, that it doesn’t seem out of the way to us. It is a place that changes very little.”
“Then it is to be hoped that you have some nice and interesting neighbours,” I said. “Near us there are so few young people.”
“And there are not many near Millflowers either,” said Isabel; “at least not within a good long drive. I hope you would not find it dull. There are interesting walks, if you care for wild, rugged scenery. The village itself is quite tiny. There is only one house of any importance besides the vicarage and ours, and that is – no good,” she added, rather abruptly.
“Why not?” I inquired. “Is it uninhabited?”
Isabel hesitated.
“No,” she replied. “The same people have lived in it for a great many years. They were there before father came into possession, on my uncle’s death. But – ” and again she paused.
My curiosity was aroused.
“Do tell me about them,” I said.
“Well, yes, I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” answered Isabel. “Father always tells us not to gossip about the Grim House, but you are sure to notice it when you come, so I may as well prepare you beforehand.”
“The Grim House!” I exclaimed. “Is that the real name? Do tell me all about it. Is it haunted? It must be.”
“No,” said Isabel, shaking her hood. “It isn’t haunted. At least I have never heard that it was. The real name is ‘Grimsthorpe’ – Grimsthorpe House or Hall, I am not sure which; but it is always called ‘The Grim House,’ and has been, papa says, ever since he can remember. And it seems to suit the present inhabitants and the strange mystery there is about them.”
I was all ears by this time, and scarcely dared to speak for fear of interrupting Isabel.
“Yes,” I said; “do go on.”
“There is so little to tell,” she said; “that is the mystery. These people came there about twenty years ago. The house had been uninhabited for some time before that. It belonged to some one whose affairs had gone wrong, and there was some difficulty about letting it. And it was a good deal out of repair. Still there was no prejudice against it except that it was and is an extraordinarily dreary-looking place. Perhaps that was the attraction to the strange people who did take it. Our old gardener has told us about their coming. One day a gentleman arrived by train and drove out to our village. He went over the Grim House all by himself – there was only an old woman at the lodge who kept the keys, and he wouldn’t let her go through the house with him. He was only about an hour there altogether, and then he drove back to the station as fast as he could.”
“What was he like?” I could not help asking. “Did any one ever tell you?”
“I don’t need to be told,” was the unexpected reply. “I have seen him for myself once a week ever since I can remember. At church, I mean,” she went on, smiling at my puzzled expression. “They do come to church – all of them – and this one is the eldest of them. Of course he must have been younger-looking twenty years ago. Well, a few days after this stranger’s first appearance, workmen arrived at the Grim House, a whole lot of them, Scart – that’s our gardener – says. Some of them from a good distance, and they set to at the house and got it into order in no time. All at the new tenant’s expense. Scart always says it must have cost a ‘sight of money.’ I don’t fancy much was done in the way of making it pretty, for by all accounts, or rather by the few accounts that ever reach us, it is as plain and severe inside as it is grim outside. But any way, it was put into thorough repair, and then – they all came! They arrived late at night, so that no one knew anything about it till the next day.”
Isabel stopped. I think she enjoyed the impression which she saw her story was making upon me.
“And who were the ‘all’?” I asked.
“Four