The twenty-fourth of April was here, and with it Gilbert Denison's seventieth birthday.

The long winter had come to an end at last. It was a lovely spring morning, fresh and sweet. The air was full of the melody of birds; faint delicious odours stole in and out among the garden-paths; a warm sun shone over all. But we must for the moment leave Heron Dyke.

In the breakfast-room at Nunham Priors, a charming house among the Sussex Hills, sat Gilbert Denison--that Gilbert Denison who was cousin to the Master of Heron Dyke, and between whom there had been such a long and bitter feud--and Frank, his only son.

Gilbert Denison of Nunham Priors bore little likeness to him of Heron Dyke. He was a lean, finical old gentleman, a little younger than his cousin, wearing a brown wig and a long, buttoned-up, bottle-green coat that reached nearly to his heels. His whimsical but good-natured face was full of lines and puckers and creases, and he had an odd quaint way of screwing up his lips while waiting for an answer to a question that many a low comedian might have envied. Living much by himself, his establishment was a small one; his wife was dead, his son Frank chose to be often away from home, and the old man had no love of show or ostentation. He liked his gardens and hothouses to be well looked after, and everything around him to be cosy and comfortable, but beyond that he cared little. He kept one old-fashioned carriage in which he drove to and from the station on the occasions of his frequent journeys to town. An hour's ride by railway took him to Charing Cross, and after that it was but a short walk to one or another of the great auction-rooms where so large a portion of his leisure time was passed: for Mr. Denison was a great bibliophile and noted collector of curiosities. Nothing came amiss to him that was recommended by its rarity. From the skull of a Carib chief to an etching by Rembrandt, from an illuminated missal to a suppressed number of _La Lanterne_, or a bit of Roman pavement dug up in the City, his tastes were omnivorous enough for all. Nunham Priors itself was a very museum of curios. Some half-dozen or more of its rooms were entirely filled with a miscellaneous assortment of articles purchased by him from time to time at different auctions. Next to the acquisition of a bargain, Mr. Denison's greatest pleasure was in dusting his treasures and re-arranging them in different ways, or in displaying them and descanting on their rare qualities to some appreciative visitor.

"And what better way than this could I have found of investing my surplus income?" he would sometimes say to his son. "Nearly all you see I picked up as bargains, and in twenty years they will sell for a hundred per cent, more than I gave for them. No fear here of broken banks or shares at zero."

The breakfast this morning was the first meal father and son had partaken of together for some months. Mr. Frank had lingered unconscionably long away on his rovings, and the old gentleman was testy over it.

"I do wish, Frank, you would leave off gallivanting about the world," said he, as he cracked an egg. "It is high time you settled down. Why don't you marry?"

The words sent Frank into a laugh. There was not much likelihood of his marrying yet, he answered.

"It's no laughing matter, sir, I can tell you."

"Matrimony? No, I suppose not."

"Tush! you know what I mean," retorted the old gentleman. "You ought to be looking out for a wife. What do you suppose I was thinking the other day, Frank? that it might be a good thing if you and that young lady at Heron Dyke made a match of it. It would heal the family feud, and--and bring all the money on both sides into one bag."

Frank looked at his father in some surprise. "The young lady at Heron Dyke?" repeated he.

"Why, yes," said the old gentleman, testily. "That half-cousin of yours, Miss Ella Winter."

"Did you ever see her, sir?" asked Frank.

"No: how should I? I might as well ask for a sight of the man in the moon."

"I confess that I should like to see Miss Winter," said Frank.

"Zounds! man, why don't you do so, then?"

Frank shook his head. "My respected kinsman would not like to catch me prowling about his preserves at Heron Dyke."

"The young men nowadays are nothing better than a set of molly-coddles," grumbled Mr. Denison with a tinge of contempt. "When I was a young spark--but where's the use of talking?" he abruptly broke off; and Frank laughed again.

"Do you know what day this is, Frank?" presently resumed Mr. Denison.

"I am not likely to forget it, father. It is the twenty-fourth of April: and Squire Denison of Heron Dyke is now seventy years old."

"Yes--if he is alive," said Mr. Denison, grimly.

The tone was significant, and Frank stared across the table at his father.

"Have you any reason, sir, for thinking that he is not alive?"

"I have reason to know that he was given up months ago by his medical attendant, and that he has never once crossed his own threshold since last December. I have reason to know, moreover, that there is something very inexplicable going on inside the Hall: and, remembering what sort of man my cousin Gilbert is, I feel sure that he would stick at nothing to keep me and mine out of the estate."

Frank was silent for a moment or two.

"How did you come by this information, father?"

"Oh, I put Charles Plackett on the matter a couple of years ago; not but that he knew for himself what a wily fellow my cousin Gilbert was; and Plackett has been following the scent ever since. He has employed an agent at Nullington, one Nixon, to keep his eyes open on Heron Dyke; and Nixon has done it, so far as outside vigilance goes, for he cannot get inside; and has sent up his reports to Charles Plackett from time to time. Perhaps you'd like to hear what he says?"

"Why yes, I should, very much indeed," replied Frank.

Charles Plackett--of the firm of Plackett, Plackett and Rex--was the family solicitor. Mr. Denison had the breakfast things taken away, and then produced a case of papers.

"They date from a good while back," he observed; "but I will just read you two or three extracts from the past few months."

Frank rose and shut the door. And Mr. Denison, rubbing his spectacles, put them on, and began.

"'October 14th. Dr. Jago was suddenly sent for by the Squire, _vice_ Dr. Spreckley, superseded. As Dr. S. has been the Squire's medical attendant for twenty years, there must be some very special reason for so sudden a change.

"'October 22nd. Dr. Jago goes daily to the Hall. Have got an inkling at last of the reason of Dr. Spreckley's sudden dismissal. Dr. S. himself very cautious and reticent: does not say much about it to anybody. Dr. Jago, over his hot grog of an evening in the smoking-room of the Pied Bull, sometimes lets his tongue wag a bit. The man is naturally something of a braggart. From what I can make out, Dr. S. was incautious enough to tell the Squire that he could not live through the winter. Thereupon the other man was sent for. He calls S. an old woman, and says openly that the Squire will live till next midsummer, if not longer. Something rather queer about that, seeing that Dr. S. has had twenty times the experience that he has had.

"'October 29th. Mrs. Carlyon has been staying at the Hall for the last few days. She and Miss Winter left by rail yesterday morning with a lot of luggage. The servants report that they are going abroad for several months. This does not look as if the Squire felt himself to be in any immediate danger. If he did think so he would hardly let his niece leave him for so long. The neighbourhood, however, teems with silly reports--that the Hall is haunted by a ghost, and Miss Winter could not bear to stay in it during the dark days of winter.

"'November 8th. Met the Squire to-day as he was being driven out in his brougham. Had not seen him for two months. Could not help noticing the change in him since that time--a great change. He looks woefully ill and haggard; not fit to be out of his bed.

"'November 12th. Shalders the carpenter has been employed up at the Hall for the last few days. He told me all about it after a couple of glasses of toddy, in answer to my cautious questioning--not that he has been told to keep silence. He has been shutting in the Squire's rooms from the rest of the house with two baize-covered doors. No one can reach Mr. Denison now except through those doors. The doors in question can only be opened by a patent key, of which key Shalders has supplied four duplicates. Why should the Squire wish to isolate himself thus? Shalders is as much at a loss to guess the meaning of it as I am. They say at the Hall it is to insure quiet to the Squire: but he could be insured that without two protecting doors.

"'November 28th. A piece of good fortune to-day. I tracked a young woman, a discharged housemaid from the Hall, to the railway station, and had a long confab with her while she was waiting for a train. It seems that the Squire is really shut up behind the green baize doors--whether with or without his consent, who shall say?--and that only four persons are allowed to have access to him. They are, Dr. Jago, Aaron Stone and his grandson Hubert, and a certain Mrs. Dexter, a middle-aged nurse from London, hired by Dr. Jago, of whose presence there I confess that I was previously unaware. The doors are always kept locked--no other inmate of the Hall ever sees or hears anything of the Squire, unless it be on those rare occasions when he drives out for an hour. Very mysterious, to say the least of it. The girl had got that rubbish into her head about the house being haunted, and would have liked to talk of nothing else--and she looked disposed to be offended because I laughed at it.

"'December 19th. The Squire has only been outside the baize doors twice during the last month, and then only for half an hour's drive in the park.

"'January 1st. The Squire has never been seen outside the house since early in December.

"'January 7th. Dr. Jago goes up to the Hall every morning. He told a friend of mine the other day that Mr. Denison was no worse than usual, and that he was only kept indoors by the cold winds.

"'February 3rd. Nothing seen of the Squire since my last report, and yet we have had a fortnight of beautiful open weather for the time of year. Jago daily visits the Hall as usual. I've made acquaintance with one Hannah Tilney, the gardener's wife at the lodge. Creeping in there one fine morning, my hand to my side, I begged to be allowed to sit for five minutes, telling her a thumping story about a weak heart. She is a decent woman, but fond of gossip, as they all are, and she had a queer thing to talk of. She said that ever since early in December the shutters of Mr. Denison's sitting-room had been closed and barred at dusk, although it was a well-known fact that all his life the Squire hated to sit in a room of which the shutters were closed or the blinds pulled down. I do not see much in this myself: old people's fancies change: but the woman seemed to think it very strange, a matter for speculation, and said that she and her husband could not understand it at all. Speculation of what, you will ask, and in truth I can't say: but an air of mystery seems to overhang the doings in the Hall.

"'March 1st. No news of the Squire. He is pretty well, it is said, but he has not been seen out of doors since the 17th of December. Nothing fresh at all to report, except that I have ascertained that every week there passes through Nullington Post Office a letter from abroad addressed to Mr. Denison in a lady's handwriting. Is this letter from Miss Winter? If so, can she be aware how matters are going on at Heron Dyke?

"'April 8th. Nothing fresh. Jago daily at the Hall. The Squire still invisible to the outer world. No visitors have been admitted for a long while.'"

Mr. Denison, having come to the last extract he deemed it needful to read, shut up his case, and looked at his son.

"Like the agent Nixon, I must say that I do not see much in all this myself," observed Frank.

"Don't you!" retorted his father. "I do, then. To me it looks remarkably unaccountable. There is a mystery about it that I can't fathom, and Charles Plackett has my instructions to go down to Heron Dyke."

"What to do, sir?"

"To see my cousin Gilbert, and satisfy himself by ocular demonstration that he is still alive, and--and mentally sane. You look surprised, Frank; let me tell you what perhaps you never knew before--that there is a clause in old Uncle Gilbert's will which empowers me to take the step in question."

"Is there! How curious that he should have made it."

"A great deal that he did was curious. But, for my part, I think some prevision was upon him that such a clause might be needed. I tell you, Frank," concluded the old gentleman, "that I am strangely curious myself, just now, as to what may be doing at Heron Dyke."

On this warm and sunny morning of the twenty-fourth of April, the bells of Nullington parish church rang forth a merry peal. They continued to do so at intervals throughout the day. The Vicar of Nullington, who had given the orders, was rejoiced to think that his old friend, Squire Denison, had lived to reach, what might be called, the crowning day of his life.

Throughout the length and breadth of Nullington the stagnation of every-day life seemed stirred by a ripple of excitement. People came to their doors to listen to the bells, groups in earnest conversation might be seen at the corner of almost every street, neighbour looked in upon neighbour, customers lingered longer than usual in the shops, bar-parlours held their knots of eager gossipers. Not an inhabitant of the little town but knew that this was the twenty-fourth of April, and if the Master of Heron Dyke should live to hear the clocks strike noon, houses and land and all that pertained thereto would become his own irrevocable property, and the great battle of his life would end in his remaining the victor.

Mr. Denison was a man who had never laid himself out for personal popularity, and of late years he had been very little seen abroad. Still the neighbourhood felt that he was one of them. For forty years he had made his home at Heron Dyke, not spending half his time in London or in foreign countries, as so many other great people did, and they would have been sorry to see his place usurped by a strange branch of the family of whom nobody knew anything, except that the head of it was said to be a half-demented gentleman who had much more of the furniture broker about him than the county magnate. Should Squire Denison live through to-day, all he might die possessed of would go to his niece Miss Winter, a young lady beloved by all, rich and poor, and one quite worthy to be the Hall's mistress.

There was one inhabitant of Nullington, however, who did not feel quite so elated as the rest. He was too much puzzled for that. It was Dr. Spreckley. He stood at his window in the morning sun, listening to the cheery bells. Mr. Denison had lived to see his coveted birthday, and the bells were ringing for it; but Dr. Spreckley felt as if he were in a fog, and should never distinguish anything clearly in medical practice again. Knowing Mr. Denison's constitution so thoroughly, and the malady he had been long suffering from, he did not see how it was _possible_ for him to be still alive.

Night and day of late had the good physician brooded over the mystery. For to him it seemed a mystery; but a mystery beyond his comprehension. So far as his own skill and experience went, and that of eminent authorities in London to whom he wrote minutely of the case, it had seemed to him not only improbable but impossible that Gilbert Denison could have lasted to see Christmas. Yet here he was alive, and, as reported from Heron Dyke, fairly well, on the twenty-fourth of April!

Dr. Spreckley was yet at his window when his successful rival practitioner, Dr. Jago, came driving past in his gig, a high-stepping mare in the shafts, which he had recently bought. He was on his way to Heron Dyke, and he was going this morning half an hour earlier than usual. In honour of the occasion, he had dressed himself in a new suit of black, with a white cravat and a fashionable overcoat. He glanced up at the window as he passed, and Dr. Spreckley felt sure that there was a smile of insolent triumph on his face which he now did not conceal. As Spreckley turned away, his heart was very bitter within him.

The Heron Dyke post-bag this morning bore a letter addressed to the Squire, dated from Florence. Ella Winter had written and posted it so that it should reach him on the twenty-fourth. After numerous congratulations and loving wishes came these words: "I cannot tell you how greatly I have longed to be at home for your birthday. But it was not to be. Now, however, that my six months' extradition are at an end, cannot you name a time for my return to Heron Dyke? We have been slowly making our way homeward, as you are aware, lingering here and there, and continually hoping to receive a summons that we were wanted back in the old nest at home. But even my aunt has grown tired at last of these perpetual journeyings from place to place, and at the present moment would, I verily believe, gladly exchange all the churches and picture galleries of Florence for the dear delights of an afternoon's shopping in Regent Street; and to her house in Bayswater we are returning. Do then, my dear uncle, in your next letter, name the day when you will expect to see me once again under the old roof-tree; and be assured that neither wind nor weather will keep me from your side an hour beyond it."

An answer to this letter was sent from Heron Dyke the following day, which reached Miss Winter in due course.

It has been said that Mr. Denison's letters to Ella were written for him by Hubert Stone from Mr. Denison's dictation, but each of them bore at the foot the Squire's own peculiar and crabbed signature, which anyone would have found it difficult even passably to imitate, and the present letter was no exception to this rule. In it occurred these passages: "I begin to be as anxious to see your young face again as you are to be back at home. But, as I have said all along--patience, patience. Enjoy yourself while you can, and, now that you _are_ abroad, see all that you can. Strive to enrich your mind in every possible way, and to lay up stores of pleasant memories for days to come. You will not soon get away again from the sound of the sea when once you are back, I promise you. I am as well and hearty as I was two years ago, so that you need not be troubled on the score of my health. That Jago is a wonderful fellow. A fortnight with your aunt at Bayswater would be a pleasant finish to your travels; it would please Mrs. Carlyon to have you with her for a time, and we must not be ungracious to her, lassie. Let us put it, then, that I shall look to see my pretty one back at Heron Dyke on the first of June, not to part again for a long, long time."

Hubert Stone had also donned a new suit of gentlemanly attire this morning, and even old Aaron wore his best clothes and a particularly well-starched cravat. The Squire's long-wished-for birthday must be observed appropriately. The maids were gladdened by new gowns and muslin aprons trimmed with ribbons, Dorothy Stone by a cap of rich old lace. Dorothy, however, did not seem to find much pleasure in the day; she sat by the fire in her room, complaining of neuralgia, with a frightened expression of face, and a dazed look in her eyes.

The grand old entrance-doors were flung open to-day. A cheerful fire burnt in the hall, where no fire had been known to burn for years. A Turkey carpet covered the middle of the floor, on which stood a carved table of black oak: on the table was an antique silver salver for the reception of callers' cards. Tubs containing orange-trees and shrubs from the conservatory stood in each corner of the hall.

Nothing, however, could put Aaron into a good temper when he chose to be in a bad one. He wandered about like a restless ghost, peering into this place and that, scolding the maids, grumbling at his nephew, and eyeing Dr. Jago askance as though he were some malign wizard.

Shortly after noon the carriage of the first caller drove up--that of the Vicar, the Reverend Francis Kettle. His daughter would have been with him but that she was from home. He was received in the hall by Dr. Jago and Hubert Stone. A few words passed, and then Mr. Kettle expressed his strong desire to see once more, once more to shake by the hand, his dear old friend the Squire. Dr. Jago was blandly sorry, but refused. The fact was, he said, that the Squire had passed a very restless and uneasy night, having hardly slept at all. An hour ago he had fallen into a refreshing sleep, which it was to be hoped would last for several hours, and be of great benefit to him. Still, if the Vicar pressed it, Mr. Denison should be awakened, and----

"Not for worlds," interrupted the Vicar, hastily. "I would not have him awakened on any account. You will not fail to offer him my congratulations, and to say how greatly I hope to see him. Perhaps another day he may be able to receive a short visit from an old friend."

"No doubt he will be," returned Dr. Jago, quite warmly. "He had been saving himself up for to-day, you must understand, sir, intending to see just one or two esteemed friends; and--and now this wretched past night has marred it."

Other carriages drove up in quick succession after the Vicar's departure, till nearly every person of consideration in the neighbourhood had either called or left cards. To all inquiries the same reply was given: Mr. Denison had hoped to receive a friend or two to-day, but he had passed a restless and uneasy night, and had lately fallen into a deep and refreshing sleep, which it would be undesirable to disturb.

One caller, especially full of regret at not being able to see the Squire, was Lady Maria Skeffington. Maria Kettle was her goddaughter, and had been named after her. She was a withered-up maiden of sixty-five. Lady Maria gazed round the entrance-hall with a sigh, and recalled the time when she had felt so sure that she should one day be mistress of Heron Dyke. Some forty years previously Mr. Denison had danced with her several times at the county balls, and had paid her other little attentions when they met; and she, following the fashion of young maidens, had taken it for granted that he meant to ask her to be his wife. But the longed-for declaration never came, and hope gradually died out of her heart. Still, as Lady Maria often told herself, she had never been so near matrimony before or after, and she yet cherished a half-tender recollection of the handsome young Squire. They had remained good friends: and to-day, a white-haired old woman, Lady Maria felt an intense longing in her heart to see him once again before he should go hence. When told that it might not be, she dropped her veil and went back to her carriage, crying softly to herself.

About five o'clock a message reached the Hall from Mr. Toomes, the leader of the Nullington string band. Mr. Toomes wished to know whether the band might be permitted to pay their respects to the Squire on his birthday, by playing a few select pieces at the Hall during the evening.

Old Aaron took the message into the Squire's room with an ill grace; he would have liked to refuse had he dared; and he came back in a few minutes with the Squire's gracious answer--he would be very much pleased to receive the band at half-past eight.

The band came at the appointed hour: two violins, a violoncello, a harp, and a couple of clarinets, the musicians being all small tradesmen of the town. They were met at the postern which opened into the private garden by Hubert Stone, who now wore a fashionable overcoat, and was smoking a cigar. Hubert marshalled the players on to the sward directly opposite to, but a few yards away from, the windows of Mr. Denison's sitting-room. The Squire was but weak, he said, and it was desirable not to have the sounds too near. John Tilney, the gardener, and his wife crept in behind the musicians, and stood a little in the background. Had Mr. Hubert Stone noticed the movement, he might have ordered them away, for he had a great notion of keeping servants in their places.

The shutters of Mr. Denison's sitting-room had not been closed this evening. A bright wood-fire was burning on the hearth, and two lighted wax candles stood on a table in the middle of the room. The tall gaunt figure of the Squire as he sat in his great leathern chair, muffled up in his long dressing-robe, was plainly visible to the group on the lawn. His head looked partially shrunken between his shoulders as he sat leaning forward a little, staring intently into the fire, his bony hands clasped over the knob of the massive cane which for a long time past he had made use of to help him from room to room. The firelight flickered on the diamonds in his ring; it made the hollows of his wasted cheeks seem deeper still, and brought into prominent relief the contrast between his black velvet skull-cap and the long white locks which straggled from under it. He sat there, the solitary living figure in a picture that otherwise was instinct with gloom, and that was not wanting in a sort of weird solemnity of its own.

At a signal from their leader, the band struck up the old English air, "Welcome to thy Native Vale." As the first note struck his ear, the Squire lifted his head quickly, changed the position of his stick, and put on the air of a man who listens intently.

The first piece at an end, there ensued a minute's pause, and then the band struck up again. This in turn was followed by two other pieces. When the last strains of the fourth air had died away, the Squire was seen to rise slowly and painfully to his feet. With the help of his cane, and drawing the folds of his dressing-gown around him, he tottered feebly forward till he came near the window. Standing there, and changing his cane to the left hand, he gravely bent his head to the (to him) invisible onlookers in the garden, and waved his right hand two or three times in token of thanks and greeting. Turning then, he tottered back to his chair.

Three hearty cheers were raised for the old Squire; and the musicians filed out of the private garden, Hubert locking the door of it. A plentiful meal was set out for them in the smaller servants' hall, to which they did not fail to do ample justice.

Old Aaron, grumpy as usual, did not choose to preside at it, though his grandson had told him in the hearing of the household, earlier in the evening, that it was what he ought to do. Barely did he condescend to show himself at all, for this visit of the musicians had not met with his approval. He came stalking through the room while they were at supper, looking at them in his surly way, and muttering to himself about "ruin" and "extravagance," and "dying in the workhouse." But the ale was strong, and the company did not mind. They knew old Aaron before, and they burst into a laugh as he shut the door behind him.