Helena's Path. Hope Anthony

by one he loved. He liked to puzzle, but took no conscious pains to amuse.

      Thus he returned to his "responsibilities." Cromlech Stabb was wondering what that dignified word would prove to describe.

       Chapter Two

      LARGELY TOPOGRAPHICAL

      Miss Gilletson had been studying the local paper, which appeared every Saturday and reached Nab Grange on the following morning. She uttered an exclamation, looked up from her small breakfast-table, and called over to the Marchesa's small breakfast-table.

      "Helena, I see that Lord Lynborough arrived at the Castle on Friday!"

      "Did he, Jennie?" returned the Marchesa, with no show of interest. "Have an egg, Colonel?" The latter words were addressed to her companion at table, Colonel Wenman, a handsome but bald-headed man of about forty.

      "'Lord Lynborough, accompanied by his friend Mr. Leonard Stabb, the well-known authority on prehistoric remains, and Mr. Roger Wilbraham, his private secretary. His lordship's household had preceded him to the Castle.'"

      Lady Norah Mountliffey – who sat with Miss Gilletson – was in the habit of saying what she thought. What she said now was: "Thank goodness!" and she said it rather loudly.

      "You gentlemen haven't been amusing Norah," observed the Marchesa to the Colonel.

      "I hoped that I, at least, was engaged on another task – though, alas, a harder one!" he answered in a low tone and with a glance of respectful homage.

      "If you refer to me, you've been admirably successful," the Marchesa assured him graciously – only with the graciousness there mingled that touch of mockery which always made the Colonel rather ill at ease. "Amuse" is, moreover, a word rich in shades of meaning.

      Miss Gilletson was frowning thoughtfully. "Helena can't call on him – and I don't suppose he'll call on her," she said to Norah.

      "He'll get to know her if he wants to."

      "I might call on him," suggested the Colonel. "He was in the service, you know, and that – er – makes a bond. Queer fellow he was, by Jove!"

      Captain Irons and Mr. Stillford came in from riding, late for breakfast. They completed the party at table, for Violet Dufaure always took the first meal of the day in bed. Irons was a fine young man, still in the twenties, very fair and very bronzed. He had seen fighting and was great at polo. Stillford, though a man of peace (if a solicitor may so be called), was by no means inferior in physique. A cadet of a good county family, he was noted in the hunting field and as a long-distance swimmer. He had come to Nab Grange to confer with the Marchesa on her affairs, but, proving himself an acquisition to the party, had been pressed to stay on as a guest.

      The men began to bandy stories of Lynborough from one table to the other. Wenman knew the London gossip, Stillford the local traditions: but neither had seen the hero of their tales for many years. The anecdotes delighted Norah Mountliffey, and caused Miss Gilletson's hands to fly up in horror. Nevertheless it was Miss Gilletson who said, "Perhaps we shall see him at church to-day."

      "Not likely!" Stillford opined. "And – er – is anybody going?"

      The pause which habitually follows this question ensued upon it now. Neither the Marchesa nor Lady Norah would go – they were both of the Old Church. Miss Dufaure was unlikely to go, by reason of fatigue. Miss Gilletson would, of course, go, so would Colonel Wenman – but that was so well known that they didn't speak.

      "Any ladies with Lynborough's party, I wonder!" Captain Irons hazarded. "I think I'll go! Stillford, you ought to go to church – family solicitor and all that, eh?"

      A message suddenly arrived from Miss Dufaure, to say that she felt better and proposed to attend church – could she be sent?

      "The carriage is going anyhow," said Miss Gilletson a trifle stiffly.

      "Yes, I suppose I ought," Stillford agreed. "We'll drive there and walk back?"

      "Right you are!" said the Captain.

      By following the party from Nab Grange to Fillby parish church, a partial idea of the locality would be gained; but perhaps it is better to face the complete task at once. Idle tales suit idle readers; a history such as this may legitimately demand from those who study it some degree of mental application.

      If, then, the traveler lands from the North Sea (which is the only sea he can land from) he will find himself on a sandy beach, dipping rapidly to deep water and well adapted for bathing. As he stands facing inland, the sands stretch in a long line southerly on his left; on his right rises the bold bluff of Sandy Nab with its swelling outline, its grass-covered dunes, and its sparse firs; directly in front of him, abutting on the beach, is the high wall inclosing the Grange property; a gate in the middle gives access to the grounds. The Grange faces south, and lies in the shelter of Sandy Nab. In front of it are pleasure-grounds, then a sunk fence, then spacious meadow-lands. The property is about a mile and a half (rather more than less) in length, to half-a-mile in breadth. Besides the Grange there is a small farmhouse, or bailiff's house, in the southwest corner of the estate. On the north the boundary consists of moorlands, to the east (as has been seen) of the beach, to the west and south of a public road. At the end of the Grange walls this road turns to the right, inland, and passes by Fillby village; it then develops into the highroad to Easthorpe with its market, shops, and station, ten miles away. Instead, however, of pursuing this longer route, the traveler from the Grange grounds may reach Fillby and Easthorpe sooner by crossing the road on the west, and traversing the Scarsmoor Castle property, across which runs a broad carriage road, open to the public. He will first – after entering Lord Lynborough's gates – pass over a bridge which spans a little river, often nearly dry, but liable to be suddenly flooded by a rainfall in the hills. Thus he enters a beautiful demesne, rich in wood and undergrowth, in hill and valley, in pleasant rides and winding drives. The Castle itself – an ancient gray building, square and massive, stands on an eminence in the northwest extremity of the property; the ground drops rapidly in front of it, and it commands a view of Nab Grange and the sea beyond, being in its turn easily visible from either of these points. The road above mentioned, on leaving Lynborough's park, runs across the moors in a southwesterly line to Fillby, a little village of some three hundred souls. All around and behind this, stretching to Easthorpe, are great rolling moors, rich in beauty as in opportunities for sport, yet cutting off the little settlement of village, Castle, and Grange from the outer world by an isolation more complete than the mere distance would in these days seem to entail. The church, two or three little shops, and one policeman, sum up Fillby's resources: anything more, for soul's comfort, for body's supply or protection, must come across the moors from Easthorpe.

      One point remains – reserved to the end by reason of its importance. A gate has been mentioned as opening on to the beach from the grounds of Nab Grange. He who enters at that gate and makes for the Grange follows the path for about two hundred yards in a straight line, and then takes a curving turn to the right, which in time brings him to the front door of the house. But the path goes on – growing indeed narrower, ultimately becoming a mere grass-grown track, yet persisting quite plain to see – straight across the meadows, about a hundred yards beyond the sunk fence which bounds the Grange gardens, and in full view from the Grange windows; and it desists not from its course till it reaches the rough stone wall which divides the Grange estate from the highroad on the west. This wall it reaches at a point directly opposite to the Scarsmoor lodge; in the wall there is a gate, through which the traveler must pass to gain the road.

      There is a gate – and there had always been a gate; that much at least is undisputed. It will, of course, be obvious that if the residents at the Castle desired to reach the beach for the purpose of bathing or other diversions, and proposed to go on their feet, incomparably their best, shortest, and most convenient access thereto lay through this gate and along the path which crossed the Grange property and issued through the Grange gate on to the seashore. To go round by the road would take at least three times as long. Now the season was the month of June; Lord Lynborough was a man tenacious of his rights – and uncommonly fond of bathing.

      On the other hand, it might well be that the Marchesa di San Servolo – the present owner of Nab Grange – would prefer that strangers