As she reached the top of the stairs she called to the old servant, not, I think, caring to traverse the haunted flooring that intervened alone. She heard Dulcibella talking, and a moment after her old nurse appeared, and standing by her shoulder Mildred Tarnley.

“Oh, Mrs. Tarnley! I’m so glad to see you—you’ve been paying Dulcibella a visit. Pray, come back, and tell me some stories about this old house; you’ve been so long here, and know it so well, that you must have a great deal to tell.”

The old woman, with the unpleasant face, made a stiff courtesy.

“At your service, ma’am,” she said, ungraciously.

“That is if it don’t inconvenience you,” pleaded Alice, who was still a little afraid of her.

“’Tis as you please, ma’am,” said the old servant, with another dry courtesy.

“Well, I’m so glad you can come. Dulcibella, have we a little bit of fire? Oh, yes, I see—it looks so cheerful.”

So they entered the old-fashioned bedroom.

“I hope, Mrs. Tarnley, I’m not keeping you from your tea?”

“No, I thank ye, ma’am. I’ve ’ad my tea an hour agone,” answered the old woman.

“And you must sit down, Mrs. Tarnley,” urged Alice.

“I’ll stand, if ye please, ma’am,” said the withered figure perversely.

“I should be so much happier if you would sit down, Mildred,” urged her young mistress; “but if you prefer it—I only mean that whatever is most comfortable to you you should do. I wanted so much to hear something about this old house. You remember what happened when I was coming upstairs with you—when I was so startled.”

“I didn’t see it, miss—ma’am. I only heard you say summat,” answered Mildred Tarnley.

“Oh, yes, I know; but you spoke today of a warning, and you looked when it happened as if you had heard of it before.”

The old woman raised her chin, and with her hands folded together made another courtesy, which mutually seemed to say,—

“If you have anything to ask, ask it.”

“Do you remember,” inquired Alice, “having ever heard of anything strange being seen at that passage near the head of the stairs?”

“I ought, ma’am,” answered the old woman discreetly.

“And what was it?” inquired Alice.

“I don’t know, ma’am, would the master be pleased if he was to hear I was talkin’ o’ such things to you,” suggested Mildred.

“He’d only laugh as I should, I assure you. I’m not the least a coward; so you need not be afraid of my making a fool of myself. Now, do tell me what it was!”

“Well, ma’am, you’ll be pleased to remember ’tis you orders me, in case Master Charles should turn on me about it; but, as you say, ma’am, there’s many thinks ’tis all nothin’ but old ’oman’s tales and fribble-frabble; and ’tisn’t for me to say”

“I’ll take all the blame to myself,” said Alice.

“There’s no blame in’t as I’m aware on; and if there was I wouldn’t ask no one to take it on themselves more than their right share; and that I’d take leave to lay on them myself, without stoppin’ to ask whether they likes it or no; but only I told you, ma’am, that I should have your orders, and wi’ them I’ll comply.”

“Yes, certainly, Mrs. Tarnley—and now do kindly go on,” said Alice.

“Well, please, ma’am, you’ll tell me, what you saw?”

“A heavy black drapery fell from the top of the arch through which we pass to the gallery outside the door, and for some seconds closed up the entire entrance,” answered the young lady.

“Ay, ay, no doubt that’s it; but there was no drapery there, ma’am, sich as this world’s loom ever wove. Them as weaves that web is light o’ hand and heavy o’ heart, and the de’el himself speeds the shuttle,” and as she said this the old woman smiled sourly. “I was talking o’ that very thing to Mrs. Crane here when you came up, ma’am.”

“Yes,” said old Dulcibella, quietly; “it was very strange, surely.”

“And there came quite a cloud of dust from it rolling along the floor,” continued Alice.

“Yes, so there would—so there does; ’tis always so,” said Mrs. Tarnley, with the same faint ugly smile; “not that there’s a grain o’ dust in all the gallery, for the child Lily Dogger and me washed it out and swept it clean. Dust ye saw; but that’s no real dust, like what the minister means when he says, ‘Dust to dust.’ No, no, a finer dust by far—the dust o’ death. No more clay in that than in yon smoke, or the mist in Carwell Glen below; no dust at all, but sich dust as a ghost might shake from its windin’ sheet—an appearance, ye understand; that’s all, ma’am—like the rest.”

Alice smiled, but old Mildred’s answering smile chilled her, and she turned to Dulcibella; but good Mrs. Crane looked in her face with round eyes of consternation and a very solemn countenance.

“I see, Dulcibella, if my courage fails I’m not to look to you for support. Well, Mrs. Tarnley, don’t mind—I shan’t need her help; and I’m not a bit afraid, so pray go on.”

“Well, ye see, ma’am, this place and the house came into the family, my grandmother used to say, more than a hundred years ago; and I was a little thing when I used to hear her say so, and there’s many a year added to the tale since then; but it was in the days o’ Sir Harry Fairfield. They called him Harry Boots in his day, for he was never seen except in his boots, and for the matter o’ that seldom out o’ the saddle; for there was troubles in them days, and militia and yeomanry, and dear knows what all—and the Fairfields was ever a bold, dare-devil stock, and them dangerous times answered them well—and what with dragooning, and what with the hunting-field, I do suppose his foot was seldom out o’ the stirrup. So my grandmother told me some called him Booted Fairfield and more called him Harry Boots—that was Sir Harry Fairfield o’ them days.”

“I think I’ve seen his picture, haven’t I?—at Wyvern. It’s in the hall, at the far end from the door, near the window, with a long wig and lace cravat, and a great steel breast-plate?” inquired Alice.

“Like enough, miss—ma’am, I mean—I don’t know, I’m sure—but he was a great man in his time, and would have his picture took, no doubt. His wife was a Carwell—an heiress—there’s not a Carwell in this country now, nor for many a day has been. ’Twas she brought Carwell Grange and the Vale o’ Carwell to the Fairfields—poor thing— pretty she was. Her picture was never took to Wyvern, and much good her land, and houses, and good looks done her. The Fairfields was wild folk. I don’t say there wasn’t good among ’em, but whoever else they was good to, they was seldom kind to their wives. Hard, bad husbands they was— that’s sure.”

Alice smiled, and stirred the fire quietly, but did not interrupt, and as the story went on, she sighed.

“They said she was very lonesome here. Well, it is a lonesome place, you know—awful lonesome, and always the same. For old folk like me it doesn’t matter, but young blood’s different, you know, and they likes to see the world a bit, and talk and hear what’s a-foot, be it fun or change, or what not; and she was very lonesome, mopin’ about the old garden, plantin’ flowers, or pluckin’ roses—all to herself—or cryin’ in the window—while Harry Boots was away wi’ his excuses—now wi’ his sogerin’, and now wi’ the hounds, and truly wi’ worse matters, if all were out. So, not twice in a year was his face—handsome Harry Boots, they ca’d him—seen down here, and his pretty lady was sick and sore and forsaken, down in her own lonesome house, by the Vale of Carwell, where I’m telling you this.”

Alice smiled, and nodded in sign of attention, and the old woman went on.

“I often wonder they try to hide these things—’twould be better sometimes they were more out-spoken, for sooner or later all will out, and then there’s wild work, and mayhap it’s past ever makin’ up between them. So stories travel a’most without legs to carry ’em, and there’s no gainsaying the word o’ God that said, ‘let there be light,’ for, sooner or later, light ’twill be, and all will be cleared up, and the wicked doin’s of Harry Boots, far away, and cunning, as all was done, come clear to light, so as she could no longer have hope or doubt in the matter. Poor thing—she loved him better than life—better than her soul, mayhap, and that’s all she got by’t—a bad villain that was.”

“He was untrue to her?” said Alice.

“Lawk! to be sure he was,” replied Mrs. Tarnley, with a cynical scorn.

“And so she had that to think of all alone, along with the rest—for she might have had a greater match than Sir Harry—a lord he was. I forget his name, but he’d a given his eyes a’most to a got her. But a’ wouldn’t do, for she loved Booted Harry Fairfield, and him she’d have, and wouldn’t hear o’ no other, and so she had enough to think on here, in Carwell Grange. The house she had brought the Fairfields—poor bird alone, as we used to say—but the rest of her time wasn’t very long—it wasn’t to be—she used to walk out sometimes, but she talked to no one, and she cared for nothin’ after that; and there’s the long sheet o’ water, in the thick o’ the trees, with the black yew-hedge round it.”

“I know,” said Alice, “a very high hedge, and trees behind it—it is the darkest place I ever saw—beyond the garden. Isn’t that the place?”

“Yes, that’s it; she used to walk round it—sometimes cryin’—sometimes not; and there she was found drowned, poor thing. Some said ’twas by mischance, for the bank was very steep and slippery—it had been rainy weather—where she was found, and more said she made away wi’ herself, and that’s what was thought among the Carwell folk, as my grandmother heared; for what’s a yo............