CHAPTER II. OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH A TENANT CAME TO CLOOMBER
Branksome might have appeared a poor dwelling-place when compared withthe house of an English squire, but to us, after our long residence instuffy apartments, it was of regal magnificence.
The building was broad-spread and low, with red-tiled roof,diamond-paned windows, and a profusion of dwelling rooms withsmoke-blackened ceilings and oaken wainscots. In front was a small lawn,girt round with a thin fringe of haggard and ill grown beeches, allgnarled and withered from the effects of the sea-spray. Behind lay thescattered hamlet of Branksome-Bere--a dozen cottages at most--inhabitedby rude fisher-folk who looked upon the laird as their naturalprotector.
To the west was the broad, yellow beach and the Irish Sea, while in allother directions the desolate moors, greyish-green in the foregroundand purple in the distance, stretched away in long, low curves to thehorizon.
Very bleak and lonely it was upon this Wigtown coast. A man mightwalk many a weary mile and never see a living thing except the white,heavy-flapping kittiwakes, which screamed and cried to each other withtheir shrill, sad voices.
Very lonely and very bleak! Once out of sight of Branksome and therewas no sign of the works of man save only where the high, white tower ofCloomber Hall shot up, like a headstone of some giant grave, from amidthe firs and larches which girt it round.
This great house, a mile or more from our dwelling, had been built by awealthy Glasgow merchant of strange tastes and lonely habits, but atthe time of our arrival it had been untenanted for many years, and stoodwith weather-blotched walls and vacant, staring windows looking blanklyout over the hill side.
Empty and mildewed, it served only as a landmark to the fishermen, forthey had found by experience that by keeping the laird's chimney and thewhite tower of Cloomber in a line they could steer their way throughthe ugly reef which raises its jagged back, like that of some sleepingmonster, above the troubled waters of the wind-swept bay.
To this wild spot it was that Fate had brought my father, my sister,and myself. For us its loneliness had no terrors. After the hubbub andbustle of a great city, and the weary task of upholding appearances upona slender income, there was a grand, soul-soothing serenity in the longsky-line and the eager air. Here at least there was no neighbour to pryand chatter.
The laird had left his phaeton and two ponies behind him, with the aidof which my father and I would go the round of the estate doing suchlight duties as fall to an agent, or "factor" as it was there called,while our gentle Esther looked to our household needs, and brightenedthe dark old building.
Such was our simple, uneventful existence, until the summer night whenan unlooked-for incident occurred which proved to be the herald of thosestrange doings which I have taken up my pen to describe.
It had been my habit to pull out of an evening in the laird's skiffand to catch a few whiting which might serve for our supper. On thiswell-remembered occasion my sister came with me, sitting with her bookin the stern-sheets of the boat, while I hung my lines over the bows.
The sun had sunk down behind the rugged Irish coast, but a long bank offlushed cloud still marked the spot, and cast a glory upon the waters.The whole broad ocean was seamed and scarred with crimson streaks. I hadrisen in the boat, and was gazing round in delight at the broad panoramaof shore and sea and sky, when my sister plucked at my sleeve with alittle, sharp cry of surprise.
"See, John," she cried, "there is a light in Cloomber Tower!"
I turned my head and stared back at the tall, white turret which peepedout above the belt of trees. As I gazed I distinctly saw at one of thewindows the glint of a light, which suddenly vanished, and then shoneout once more from another higher up. There it flickered for some time,and finally flashed past two successive windows underneath before thetrees obscured our view of it. It was clear that some one bearing a lampor a candle had climbed up the tower stairs and had then returned intothe body of the house.
"Who in the world can it be?" I exclaimed, speaking rather to myselfthan to Esther, for I could see by the surprise upon her face that shehad no solution to offer. "Maybe some of the folk from Branksome-Berehave wanted to look over the place."
My sister shook her head.
"There is not one of them would dare to set foot within the avenuegates," she said. "Besides, John, the keys are kept by the house-agentat Wigtown. Were they ever so curious, none of our people could findtheir way in."
When I reflected upon the massive door and ponderous shutters whichguarded the lower storey of Cloomber, I could not but admit the forceof my sister's objection. The untimely visitor must either have usedconsiderable violence in order to force his way in, or he must haveobtained possession of the keys.
Piqued by the little mystery, I pulled for the beach, with thedetermination to see for myself who the intruder might be, and whatwere his intentions. Leaving my sister at Branksome, and summoningSeth Jamieson, an old man-o'-war's-man and one of the stoutest of thefishermen, I set off across the moor with him through the gatheringdarkness.
"It hasna a guid name after dark, yon hoose," remarked my companion,slackening his pace perceptibly as I explained to him the nature of ourerrand. "It's no for naething that him wha owns it wunna gang within aScotch mile o't."
"Well, Seth, there is some one who has no fears about going into it,"said I, pointing to the great, white building which flickered up infront of us through the gloom.
The light which I had observed from the sea was moving backwards andforward past the lower floor windows, the shutters of which had beenremoved. I could now see that a second fainter light followed a fewpaces behind the other. Evidently two individuals, the one with alamp and the other with a candle or rushlight, were making a carefulexamination of the building.
"Let ilka man blaw his ain parritch," said Seth Jamieson doggedly,coming to a dead stop. "What is it tae us if a wraith or a bogleminds tae tak' a fancy tae Cloomber? It's no canny tae meddle wi' suchthings."
"Why, man," I cried, "you don't suppose a wraith came here in a gig?What are those lights away yonder by the avenue gates?"
"The lamps o' a gig, sure enough!" exclaimed my companion in a lesslugubrious voice. "Let's steer for it, Master West, and speer where shehails frae."
By this time night had closed in save for a single long, narrow slit inthe westward. Stumbling across the moor together, we made our way intothe Wigtown Road, at the point where the high stone pillars mark theentrance to the Cloomber avenue. A tall dog-cart stood in front of thegateway, the horse browsing upon the thin border of grass which skirtedthe road.
"It's a' richt!" said Jamieson, taking a close look at the desertedvehicle. "I ken it weel. It belongs tae Maister McNeil, the factor bodyfrae Wigtown--him wha keeps the keys."
"Then we may as well have speech with him now that we are here," Ianswered. "They are coming down, if I am not mistaken."
As I spoke we heard the slam of the heavy door and within a few minutestwo figures, the one tall and angular, the other short and thick cametowards us through the darkness. They were talking so earnestly thatthey did not observe us until they had passed through the avenue gate.
"Good evening, Mr. McNeil," said I, stepping forward and addressing theWigtown factor, with whom I had some slight acquaintance.
The smaller of the two turned his face towards me as I spoke, and showedme that I was not mistaken in his identity, but his taller companionsprang back and showed every sign of violent agitation.
"What is this, McNeil?" I heard him say, in a gasping, choking voice."Is this your promise? What is the meaning of it?"
"Don't be alarmed, General! Don't be alarmed!" said the little fatfactor in a soothing fashion, as one might speak to a frightened child."This is young Mr. Fothergill West, of Branksome, though what brings himup here tonight is more than I can understand. However, as you are to beneighbours, I can't do better than take the opportunity to introduce youto each other. Mr. West, this is General Heatherstone, who is about
totake a lease of Cloomber Hall."
I held out my hand to the tall man, who took it in a hesitating,half-reluctant fashion.
"I came up," I explained, "because I saw your lights in the windows, andI thought that something might be wrong. I am very glad I did so, sinceit has given me the chance of making the general's acquaintance."
Whilst I was talking, I was conscious that the new tenant of CloomberHall was peering at me very closely through the darkness. As Iconcluded, he stretched out a long, tremulous arm, and turned thegig-lamp in such a way as to throw a flood of light upon my face.
"Good Heavens, McNeil!" he cried, in the same quivering voice as before,"the fellow's as brown as chocolate. He's not an Englishman. You're notan Englishman--you, sir?"
"I'm a Scotchman, born and bred," said I, with an inclination to laugh,which was only checked by my new acquaintance's obvious terror.
"A Scotchman, eh?" said he, with a sigh of relief. "It's all onenowadays. You must excuse me, Mr.--Mr. West. I'm nervous, infernallynervous. Come along, McNeil, we must be back in Wigtown in less than anhour. Good-night, gentlemen, good-night!"
The two clambered into their places; the factor cracked his whip,and the high dog-cart clattered away through the darkness, casting abrilliant tunnel of yellow light on either side of it, until the rumbleof its wheels died away in the distance.
"What do you think of our new neighbour, Jamieson?" I asked, after along silence.
"'Deed, Mr. West, he seems, as he says himsel', to be vera nervous.Maybe his conscience is oot o' order."
"His liver, more likely," said I. "He looks as if he had tried hisconstitution a bit. But it's blowing chill, Seth, my lad, and it's timeboth of us were indoors."
I bade my companion good-night, and struck off across the moors for thecheery, ruddy light which marked the parlour windows of Branksome.