mood and strivingto join in theirs.
"Over a pound. I'm certain it is," went on Melian, who was stillwrapped up in contemplation of the "take". "Come along and let's weighhim."
And the two, aglow with life and spirits, headed for the kitchen and theweighing scales.
"Contrast--again?" thought Mervyn, as he followed.
So did another person, who, unseen, had witnessed the whole of themorning's doings from their very commencement.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
INTERIM--QUIET.
Even as Violet had said, to put such a superhuman strain upon thecuriosity of two mere women seemed scarcely fair, and perhaps thehardest strain of all was Mervyn's injunction not to talk about thematter between themselves even; however, they followed it out with atolerable show of loyalty; in fact, as great a one as could be expectedof their sex.
On Melian, of course, the strain fell the hardest. She was quick torecognise that the finding of that strange object had affected her unclefar more than he would allow to appear. Not only that, but as dayfollowed upon day, there was no lessening of the effect. Then, too,what had he done with the thing when they had gone inside leaving himalone. Buried it--thrown it into the pond, or what? She, too, began tofeel as though living under the spell of a fear. Perhaps it had been anerror of judgment on her uncle's part, to enjoin so strict a silenceupon them, she more than once thought--and the worst of this was that itprecluded her from consulting Helston Varne.
She had been impressed by the promise that he had exacted from her thatshe would so consult him in the event of finding herself in anydifficulty; in fact, under just such a contingency as had occurred; butshe was debarred by her subsequent promise. There were other mysterioushappenings she had considered the expediency of laying before him; moreeven than when we last saw her on the point of doing so; for she hadsince gained more than an inkling as to his real line in life and thediscovery increased her interest in him well nigh to the pitch ofvividness.
There was another matter as to which she had gained more than aninkling, and that, the ill-repute which was said to surround HeathHover. She remembered how on her first arrival she had suggested thatit looked like a haunted house, and the way in which her uncle hadscoffed at the idea and turned away the question, struck her insubsequent lights as a trifle overdoing the part. One circumstance,however, seemed more suspicious still.
She was chatting with old Joe one day, and enjoining upon him thenecessity of fixing a board over a pane of glass she had broken in herbedroom window, until it could be properly mended.
"I don't want any more bats coming in and flicking me in the face, Joe,"she appended, "like that night just after I got here."
The old man dropped the handles of the barrow which he was just about totrundle, and stared at her queerly.
"What time might that ha' been, Missie?" he said.
"Why, a few days after I came."
"That warn't no flittermaouse," he said. "Yew won't see none o' theyfor--come weeks and weeks. They be all asleep they be."
"But it might have been a stray one."
The old rustic grinned pityingly and shook his head.
"That warn't no flittermaouse," he repeated.
Melian's eyes opened wider.
"What was it, then?" she said.
But the old rustic seemed suddenly to become alive to the fact that hehad said too much; in short, had been betrayed into overstepping hisemployer's explicitly imposed injunctions.
"What war it? Narthen. You'd been dreamin', Missie, for sure. That'swhat it war." And old Joe had picked up the wheelbarrow handles andtrundled off then and there with an energy which bade fair to put a stopto any further questioning.
But his statement had rendered Melian decidedly uncomfortable. If heracquaintance with natural history was defective, she had had ampleopportunity of discovering that that of her uncle was not; in fact,eminently the reverse, and that he of all people should have been sohard put to it as to invent a bat flying about on a mid-winter night,showed something loose somewhere. Should she tax him with it under theform of chaff? But she decided not to. He might not like it, andagain, he would almost certainly be angry with old Joe. On the otherhand it looked as if he himself were not so sceptical as he made out.
She had also become aware that nobody had been able to inhabit HeathHover for a long time past until her uncle had come; that is to say, domore than give it a very brief trial, perhaps one of fewer weeks than hehad given it months. Well, as to that, he seemed quite comfortablethere, and since her arrived, happy. She was letting her imaginationrun riot too much, she told herself--and certainly, she had never _seen_anything since her arrival. Strange sounds might be produced by anycause, and as for "influences"--well, imagination might be a factoragain.
Helston Varne had not been near them since that visit when they had metunexpectedly on the dusking road, and as a matter of hard fact Melianfelt just a little sore with him for not having been. He had sent her afew lines--short, straight, and to the point--reminding her of hiswillingness to assist her at any time or at any moment, reminding heralso of her promise not to be behindhand in claiming such aid. Thisnote she had carefully kept. But he had not been near them again, andshe had found herself very much wishing that he would come. There wassomething so refreshingly out of the ordinary about his personality--about his conversation--and then, too, the high intellectual talentwhich must go to make him such a success in the line of life he hadadopted; the suggestion of mystery blended with power was just theelement to appeal strongly to a girl of her character and temperament.The fact is, that during the intervening time--getting on for threemonths as it was--Melian had been thinking a great deal about HelstonVarne.
Everything was favourable to introspection of the sort. The life sheled, amid free, open, congenial surroundings, into the charm of whichshe had entered from the very first, and which had grown upon her moreand more with every change of the advancing season--and yet thepersonality of the man seemed subtly to pervade it all. There werespots they had visited--a casual stroll along a woodland path, or abreezy, uphill climb to this or that point whence rolling views of someof the loveliest rural expanse in England swept away on either hand; andshe could remember all that was said, and exactly where it was said,during their exchange of ideas, which were, for the most part,thoroughly in sympathy. And then, too, in her moments of shadowy fearsin the mysterious ill-omened old house--small wonder that taking allthings together she should have thought a good deal about Helston Varneduring that intervening time.
It was the last day of Violet Clinock's visit, and on the morrow shewould be returning to town and work. She was a cheerful contented soul,but the contrast between this glorious early June day, paradisical inits cloudless beauty, the air fragrant with spring flowers and melodiouswith the song of soaring larks; every meadow a golden sea of buttercups;and soft masses of new leafage on high, irregular hedges, or toweringhugely heavenwards from this or that noble wood--the contrast betweenthis and the stuffy air and blackened chimney stacks which formed thesole and shut-in outlook from her own modest dwelling of all the yearround was too marked even for her. She felt anything but lighthearted.
"You are in luck, Melian, dear," she could not restrain herself fromsaying, wistfully. "Look at all this, and then think of me this timeto-morrow."
Melian was in the mood thoroughly to sympathise. This was one of thosedays which she appreciated every hour, every minute of--and on which shefelt she could not get up too early or see the last of too late.
"Couldn't you anyway manage to stretch it out even a day or two longer?"she said. "Surely you can?"
But the other shook a desponding head.
"No fear. I've pulled it out to its very utmost limits," she said. "Ican't afford to play cat and banjo with my billet--certainly not yet."
There was that in the answer which seemed to remind Melian that thespeaker had done that very thing on her behalf, what time she had beenill, and friendle
ss, and nearly destitute.
"It's too bad," she declared. "Yes, I am lucky, Violet, dear, and I owemy luck entirely to you. But of course, when you have your longholiday--in August or September--you are to put in every day of it here.Just think--all those glorious heather slopes above Plane Pond--rightaway back--will be blazing with crimson, and--what times we'll have. Itisn't so far off either, so buck up. It's of no use talking aboutweek-ends I suppose."
"You know I can't run to it, dear."
"I know you're altogether too beastly proud," was the answer. "If wegave you a birthday present of a new hat you wouldn't be too proud totake that, and a return ticket here runs to far less. It's an absurddistinction."
But the other's head shake