The Grim House

“Don’t you find that that is often the case?” was the reply. “When some old link is about to be renewed, one has a sort of foreshadowing of it. Was it possibly,” he added with a little hesitation, “the involuntary association of some likeness to her in either of my daughters, if you have happened to notice them?”

“Who could help doing so?” said mother in her pretty, gracious manner. “But no,” she went on, “I don’t think it was that! It was even before your arrival here that I was thinking of Maud. When I know them better I shall probably see some likeness in your daughters, but it has not struck me.”

“We think Margaret the most like her,” said the father. “Margaret is Mrs Percy – she and her husband are travelling with us,” and he nodded his head in the direction of his own party. “But your supper will be getting cold – ”

“Come up to our sitting-room afterwards,” said mother, “for our mutual introductions.”

And so they did, and before I fell asleep that night I knew all about them, and had – I may as well confess it once for all – fallen over head and ears in love with the younger girl, Isabel!

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 people,” she replied. “Two men and two women – brothers and sisters they were soon known to be. None of them very young even then, and now the sisters both look fifty at least, and the elder brother older than that; the youngest-looking of them is the second brother. They arrived, as I say, twenty years ago, and from that day to this – would you believe it, Regina? – they have never set foot outside their garden wall, except to come to church every Sunday morning, which they do in all weathers. There is a standing order at the inn for a fly to come for them every Sunday all the year round.”

“How extraordinary!” I exclaimed. “Has no one any idea why they behave so strangely? Are any of them out of their minds? Did none of the neighbours call on them?”

“Yes,” said Isabel, replying to my last question first. “Several people tried to do so, but they were always met at the lodge by the information that the ladies could not see any one, and the calls were never returned. Of course all sorts of wild stories got about, but papa does not believe that there is the least foundation for any of them; and ‘out of their minds!’ Oh, no! none of them are that.”

“But what do they do? How can they live? It must be so terribly monotonous?”

“I suppose that they have got used to it,” said Isabel. “And the grounds round the house are very large. Perhaps if they have come through some fearful sorrow or tragedy, the mere feeling of peace must be a boon that we ordinary people can scarcely understand. And they seem devoted to each other. One cannot but hear a little gossip, for they make a point of engaging servants from the immediate neighbourhood, and these all say that they are very kindly treated, and that the Greys – that is the name of the family – ‘are real gentry!’ The only fault the servants find is, that it is very dull; but still, as they are allowed a good deal of freedom, they generally stay some years.”

“It was rather clever not to bring any servants with them,” I said. “Generally in stories of this kind they have some old family confidant bound over to secrecy.”

“Yes,” said Isabel smiling. “But you forget my story is not fiction, but fact. It has been better than fiction to me though,” she went on, “it has been a perpetual romance before my eyes all my life.” Just then, as far as I remember, we were interrupted. I think that was all that Isabel told me that first day, of the strange story. But it had taken a great hold upon my imagination, and though I did not speak of it at home – I was not sure that I had any right to do so – my mind was full of it. And it was not long before the opportunity came for asking further questions about the Grim House and its occupants.

For now, during the two or three weeks that remained of our stay at Weissbad, our new friends and we were almost inseparable, and when father joined us again, the intimacy by no means decreased, and I could see that he, quite as much as mother, approved of Isabel’s companionship for me. It was tacitly agreed by the elders of both parties that the friendship was to be encouraged, and that when we were again settled at home I should be allowed to pay a visit to the Wynyards.

And whenever we spoke of this visit-to-be, the subject of the Grim House was sure to be reverted to.

“I am looking forward tremendously to staying with you,” I said one day to Isabel; “but do you know, even if I were not sure that I should enjoy it in other ways, I should be dreadfully disappointed not to go to Millflowers. I am so exceedingly interested about that queer family, I keep thinking and thinking about them and wondering what their secret can be.”

Isabel looked a very little troubled.

“I hope I didn’t do wrong in telling it you,” she said. “I mean I hope it hasn’t taken too great a hold on your imagination. Papa has always warned us so much not to think more than we can help about it. He cannot bear any sort of gossip, and he has very strong feelings about respecting these poor people’s wish for secrecy and silence. And we have got accustomed to the mystery to a great extent.”

“But there are some things,” I persisted, “that you can’t help knowing about them, without any prying into their affairs. Do they never get any letters, and is ‘Grey’ their real name, do you think?”

It was scarcely fair of me, perhaps, to put these questions to my friend, for, after all, her natural curiosity about her strange neighbours was only dormant. I saw that she hesitated to reply, so I hastened to add assurances of my discretion.

“You need not be afraid of my ever gossipping about the Grim House,” I said. “I have not even mentioned it at home. But one can’t help wondering about it. Do tell me all you know yourself.”

“I think I have told you all there is to tell,” said Isabel. “Nobody knows if ‘Grey’ is their real name or not; and as for their getting letters, I believe they never do – at any rate, not that we have ever heard of. They are good people, of that I am sure. The sisters’ faces are so gentle, though dreadfully sad. The eldest brother is stern-looking, but the younger one looks kind, though very grave. And they are very charitable; the people in the village say they are sure of help from the Grim House whenever they are in trouble. The Greys make their servants tell them of any illness or special poverty; and they are sensible too, the vicar says, in what they do.”

“And have none of their servants ever told over anything?”

“There seems nothing to tell,” said Isabel. “It is just a very quiet regular house. Things seem to go on from year’s end to year’s end just the same.”

“It is too extraordinary,” I exclaimed, “and dreadfully sad.”

“And it will grow sadder and sadder as time passes,” Isabel replied. “They can’t all live for ever, and when it comes to the last one left there alone! It makes one shiver to think of it.”

“But perhaps,” I said, “the secret doesn’t really concern them all? Perhaps if the eldest brother died the others would be free? They may in some way be sacrificed for him?”

But Isabel shook her head.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “The only strong feeling I have about it is that they are all suffering together through some one else’s fault. They are so devoted to each other – there is never a breath of any discussion or quarrelling, and that would have been heard of through the servants.”

This was the last talk we had on the subject before the time came for our new friends to turn homewards. We parted with great regrets on both sides, and many a wish on ours – on mine, at least – that we, like them, were bound for England on leaving Weissbad; but that was not our case. Father was more determined than ever that the winter must be spent in the South, though we had begun to hope that the great improvement in our invalids already achieved would have brought about his consent to our all going home again. We quitted Weissbad a few days after the Wynyards, escorted by father, who left us again as soon as he had seen us installed for the second time – this time at one of the smaller, and in those days less-frequented, winter places on the Riviera.

The four or five months we spent there passed uneventfully – much as former winters had done in the years when sojourning in the South was a regular institution for us. Nothing so interesting as our meeting with the Wynyards at Weissbad happened to us; and indeed, but for one incident, trivial and scarcely noticed at the time, but which after-occurrences recalled to my memory, I should have no occasion to linger on our stay in the South.

The incident was the following.

The hotel at which we were staying was a small one, though comfortably managed on almost entirely English rules, for the visitors, many of whom came there year after year, were rarely of any other nationality than our own. It was therefore impossible, and would have savoured of churlishness and affectation, to keep ourselves apart, or to be on other terms than those of friendly acquaintanceship with our fellow-guests. None of them, however, were very interesting. On the whole, those whom we “took to” the most were a mother and two sons – quite young fellows, one about Moore’s age, the other a year or two older. It was for the sake of the elder one that they were spending the winter abroad, as a very severe illness had left him much in the state that we had dreaded for Moore himself, and the similarity of the circumstances naturally induced sympathy between us.

It was Moore, of course, who first made friends, beginning with the younger boy, and Mrs Payne, the mother, speedily followed it up by thanking us for some little kindness we happened to show her son.

“It is so dull for him here,” she said, “as his brother is not able to do much. I almost wish we had left him at home at school. But it would have been dreary for him at Christmas – his father and my eldest son are such terribly busy people. Lawyers generally are, I suppose – and we hoped that Leo would have some chance of improving his French here, as he is going to a public school at Easter.”

Mother confided to her in return Moore’s prospects. Mrs Payne was a gentle, rather childish woman, of the type whom very clever men are often credited with preferring as wives, and we soon came to the conclusion that the old saying was exemplified in the present case. The sons, the elder one in particular, were decidedly intelligent above the average, and their admiration for their father and elder brother fully equalled that of their mother. Rupert, the invalid, took a great fancy to me, and before long I was the recipient of many of his secret hopes and aspirations, the most intense of which was that he should become a novelist.

“You see, Miss Fitzmaurice,” he said to me one day, “I have already, and would have increasingly, material ready to my hand. You don’t know what extraordinary stories lawyers come across! Many of them there is no breach of confidence in repeating, and my brother Clarence has told me bits of others quite as strange as any fiction.”

“Or stranger,” I remarked, for at that moment Isabel’s description of the Grim House and its inhabitants came into my mind.

“Yes,” said Rupert, “you are right. Some stories are ‘too strange not to be true.’ And you see I could piece bits together, so that nobody could possibly recognise anything. My father knows one story which he says he can’t tell us – I believe he says so partly to tantalise us – which he declares would make a first-rate sensational novel.”

“And will he never be able to tell it to you?” I inquired, more for the sake of seeming interested in poor Rupert’s conversation than because I cared to hear. The young fellow was rather of the “old-fashioned” order; there was a certain quaintness in his way of speaking which was not without its charm, though now and then he tired my patience a little. He was so unlike anything of “boy” kind I had ever come across.

“I don’t know,” he said gravely. “Perhaps, if all the people it concerns were dead. But they are none of them very old; some, I believe, still almost young.”

“Then you do know something about it, after all,” I replied, my interest increasing.

“Scarcely anything,” said Rupert; “only this much, that it is a secret which affects a whole family, and that my father and one other are the only beings who are in their confidence. He has told Clarence and me that some day he may have to tell us – when he gets very old, or if his memory were failing. Two outsiders must know it.”

“And yet it affects a whole family,” I repeated. “They must be a very reticent set of people.”

“More than that – it has darkened the life of a whole family; that, I think, was my father’s exact expression,” said Rupert eagerly. “I often and often think about it, and wonder what the secret can be.”

As he said the words there suddenly flashed across my mind the remembrance of an almost similar exclamation that I had recently heard. Yes – it was Isabel speaking of the Grim House and its inhabitants. What a strange coincidence it would be if the family Rupert was speaking of should be the same people! Too strange to be possible, I thought, for I have greater belief, now that I have seen more of life, in coincidences than I had then.

But the idea did not remain in my mind. I dismissed it as too wildly improbable, and Rupert talked on about his contemplated works of fiction and their “plots” in so interesting a way, that the “stranger than fiction” story I had come across was for the time completely forgotten by me.