Such a letter could have but one effect. I snatched up my hat, and turned my face towards Clousedale Hall. While going through the village I walked briskly, but on reaching the lanes I set off to run. Upon reaching the group of cottages that stood near to the gate of the house, I was bathed in perspiration, and my heart was beating audibly. Not to defeat my purpose with such violence of zeal, I turned in at the Clousedale Arms and called for a glass of brandy. It was one of those old fashioned public houses which have the counter partitioned into compartments like the boxes of a pawnbroker's shop. In one of these compartments I stood and cooled myself and sipped my brandy, while I tried to collect my thoughts and determine what I was to do. There was a woman in the compartment next to me, and the landlady was leaning across and talking to her in whispers.
“I'm sorry Maggie's losin' her place,” said one of the two.
“She knows far ower much,” said the other. “Only yesterday the mistress gave her half a sovereign to steal out and fetch her a bottle of something, and when she went back never asked her for a penny of change.”
“Was it the doctor that gave Maggie her notice, then?”
“It's like it was, but they've telt me no particulars.”
The approach to Clousedale Hall was by a curving path bordered by trees, which, though leafless, made the way dark and gave out gruesome noises in a wind that was then rising. I found the door with difficulty, for there was no lamp burning at the porch, and I had nothing to guide me save the dim light that came from behind the blinds of the windows of the upper story. It was not easy to get attention, and when after long delay a little elderly man servant, with a candle, appeared in answer to my loud knocking, he held the door narrowly ajar while he told me that his mistress was very ill and the housekeeper unable to leave her. I was not to be put off with such excuses; and brushing by the old man into the hall, I told him to take my name instantly to Mrs. Hill and request her to see me immediately. This, however was not needful, for while I was speaking Mrs. Hill herself came hurriedly down stairs, as if she had been listening from the landing above and was answering my emphatic summons.
I found her strangely agitated and painfully changed. Instead of the gracious elderly lady in the unfashionable black silk, with soft manners and gentle speech—the companion of my dear one in London—I saw before me a nervous and hysterical old woman in a plaid dress. She took the candle from the man servant and asked me into a room without a fire. Then, closing the door and speaking in whispers, she delivered herself of many apologies and excuses, saying it was a grief to her to be so inhospitable, and that this was a cause of unhappiness to Lucy also. When I asked if I might see my darling, she appeared to be thrown into a state of extreme perturbation, declaring that it would be impossible, and that the doctor had forbidden all visits whatever except those of the clergyman. And when I inquired if she knew the nature of the letter which Lucy had sent me an hour or so earlier, her agitation increased, and she protested that, though it was written without her knowledge, she was afraid that what it suggested might be for the best.
“Is it true, then?" I said. “Am I to understand that Lucy's illness is beyond hope of recovery?”
I had asked the question contemptuously, and I expected a prompt negative. It irritated me that the reply was faltering and uncertain.
“I cannot say—I'm not sure—the doctor would know best.”
My patience was gone, and my answer was without ceremony.
“Then, by Heaven, the doctor shall tell me, if I have to wring it out of the man's throat! This mummery of a mystery is too much for me, and I shall stand no more of it.”
With that I flung out of the house, and pulled the door after me. It had got into my head that Lucy was the victim of a conspiracy, and that the two men, the doctor and the clergyman, were at the bottom of everything. With heart and brain aflame I went tramping down the curving path. In my mind's eye I was seeing my dear girl as if by flashes of lightning, first with her beautiful bright eyes full of youth and health and happiness and love, and next in the toils of some hideous and mysterious trouble.
I was awakened from my visions by a sudden apparition. It was that of a woman coming out of the Clousedale Arms as I passed by. Her figure was young; she wore a little dark shawl over her head; her appearance was untidy and neglected. She came out of the public house by stealth, made a quick pause as I approached, and then half turned, as if thinking to go back.
At that moment, by the light of the win-
