Kate’s conductress had stopped at a door on the first floor, above which an old portrait hung, so that when the woman held the candle which she carried above the level of her head, the bodily and mentally weary girl felt that two people were peering cautiously at her, and she gladly entered the old-fashioned, handsomely-furnished room, and stood by the newly-lit fire, which, with the candles lit on the chimney-piece and dressing-table, gave it a cheerful welcoming aspect.

She could not have explained why, but the aspect of the woman would suggest dead leaves, and the saddened plaintive tone of her voice brought up the sighing of the wind in the windows of the old house at Northwood.

“I took some of the knobs of coal off, miss, for Becky always will put on too much,” said the woman plaintively, as she took her former attitude, holding the candle on high, and gazed at the new-comer.  “I always say to her that when she gets married and pays for coals herself she’ll know what they cost, though I don’t know who’d marry her, I’m sure.  I’ll put ’em back if you like.”

“There will be plenty of fire ­none was needed,” said Kate, wearily.  “I only want to rest.”

“Of course you do, miss,” said the woman, still watching her, with face wrinkled and eyes half closed.  “And you needn’t be afraid of the bed.  Everything’s as dry as a bone.  Becky and me slep’ in it two nights ago.  We sleep in a different bed every night so as to keep ’em all aired, as master’s very particular about the damp.”

“Thank you; I am sure you have done what is necessary,” said Kate, who in her low nervous state was troubled by the woman’s persistent inquiring stare.

“Is there anything I can do for you, miss?”

“Thank you, no.  I am very tired, and will try and sleep.”

“Because I can soon get you a cup of tea, miss.”

“Not now, thank you.  In the morning.  I will not trouble you now.”

“It’s to-morrow morning a’ready, my dear, and nothing’s a trouble to me,” said the woman, despondently, “’cept Becky.”

“Thank you very much, but please leave me now.”

“Yes, miss, of course.  There’s the bells:  one rings upstairs and the other down, so it will be safest to ring ’em both, for it’s a big house ­yes,” she continued, thoughtfully, “a very big house, and there’s no knowing where Becky and me may be.”

“Ah,” sighed Kate, as at last she was relieved from the pertinacious curious stare, for the door had closed; but as she sank wearily in a lounge chair the housekeeper seemed photographed upon her brain, and one moment she was staring at her with candle held above her head, the next it was the face of the handsome woman above the door, peering inquiringly down as if wondering to see her there.

The candles burned brightly and the fire crackled and blazed, and then there was a peculiar roaring sound as of the train rushing along through the black night; the room grew darker, and shrank in its proportions till it was the gloomy first-class carriage, with the oil washing to and fro in the thick glass bubble lamp, while John Garstang sat back in the corner, and Kate started up, to shake her head and stare about her wonderingly, as she mentally asked herself where she was, and shivered as she recognised the fire, and the candles upon the mantelpiece.

She glanced round at the turned-down bed, looking inviting beneath the thick dark hangings, and felt that it would be better to lie down and rest, but thought that she would first fasten the door.

She rose, after waiting for a few moments to let her head get clearer, and walked on over the soft carpet toward the dark door, which kept on receding as she went, while the power seemed to be given her to see through it as if it were some strange transparency.  Away beyond it was John Garstang, waving her on towards him, always keeping the same distance off, till it grew darker and darker, and then lighter, for the fire was blazing up and the wood was crackling, as there was the sound of a poker being placed back in the fender; and there, as she opened her eyes widely, stood the woman with the chamber candlestick held high above her head, gazing at her in the former inquiring way.

“It is a part of a nightmare-like dream,” said Kate to herself; “my head is confused with trouble and want of rest;” and as in a troubled way she lay back in the chair, she fully expected to see the face of the woman give place to that over the door, and then to John Garstang moving slowly on and on and beckoning her to come away from Northwood Manor House, where her aunt and uncle were trying to hurry her off to the church, where Claud was waiting, and Doctor Leigh and his sister stood in deep mourning, gazing at her with reproachful eyes.

As her thoughts ran in that way she mentally pictured everything with a vividness that was most strange, and she was rapidly gliding back into insensibility when the woman spoke, and she started back, with her head quite clear, while a strange feeling of irritability and anger made her features contract.

“Awake, miss?” said the woman, plaintively.

“Yes, yes; why did you come back?  I will ring when I want you ­both bells.”

“There was the fire, miss; I couldn’t let that go out I was obliged to come every hour, and I left it too long now, and had to start it with a bundle of wood.”

Kate sat up and stared back at her, then round the room, to see that the candles were burning ­four ­on mantelpiece and dressing-table.

“Didn’t hear me set the fresh ones up, miss, did you?” said the woman, noticing the direction of her eyes.  “T’others only burned till twelve.”

“Burned till twelve ­come every hour?  Why, what time is it?”

“Just struck three, miss.  Breakfast will be ready as soon as you are; but you’d ha’ been a deal better if you’d gone to bed.  I did put you a clean night-dress, and it was beautifully aired.  Becky held it before the kitchen fire ever so long, for it only wanted poking together and burned up well.”

“I ­I don’t understand,” faltered Kate.  “Three o’clock?”

“Yes, miss; and as black as pitch outside.  Reg’lar London fog, but master’s gone out in it all the same.  He said he’d be back to dinner, and you wasn’t to be disturbed on no account, for all you wanted was plenty of sleep.”

“Then I have been thoroughly asleep?”

“Yes, miss; about ten hours I should say; but you’d have been a deal better if you’d gone to bed.  It do rest the spine of your back so.”

Kate rose to her feet, staggered slightly, and caught at the chair back, but the giddy sensation passed off, and she walked to the window.

“Can’t see nothing out at the back, miss,” said the woman, shaking her head, sadly.  “Old master hated the tiles and chimney-pots, and had double windows made inside ­all of painted glass, but you couldn’t see nothing if they weren’t there.  It’s black as night, and the fog comes creeping in at every crack.  What would you like me to do for you, miss?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Then I’ll go and see about the breakfast, miss.  I s’pose you won’t be long?”

Kate drew a deep breath of relief once more, and trying to fight off the terrible sensation of depression and strangeness which troubled her, she hurried to the toilet table, which was well furnished, and in about half-an-hour went out on to the broad staircase, which was lit with gas, and glanced round at the pictures, cabinets, and statues with which it was furnished.  Then, turning to descend, she was conscious of the fact that she was not alone, for, dimly seen, there was a strange, ghastly-looking head, tied up with a broad white handkerchief, peering round the doorway of another room, but as soon as its owner found that she had attracted attention she drew back out of sight, and Kate shuddered slightly, for the face was wild and strange in the half-light.

The staircase looked broader and better as she descended to the room into which she had been taken on her arrival, and found that it was well lit, and a cheerful fire blazing; but she had hardly had time to glance round when the woman appeared at the door.

“Breakfast’s quite ready, miss,” she said.  “Will you please to come this way?”

She led the way across the hall, but paused and turned back to a door, and pushed it a little way open.

“Big lib’ry, miss.  Little lib’ry’s upstairs at the back-two rooms.  There’s a good fire here.  Like to see it now?”

“No, not now.”

“This way then, miss,” and the woman threw open a door on the other side.

“Dining-room, miss.  There ain’t no drawing-room; but master said this morning that if you wished he’d have the big front room turned into one.  I put your breakfast close to the fire, for it’s a bit chilly to-day.”

Kate thought she might as well have said “to-night,” as she glanced round the formal but richly furnished room, with its bright brass fireplace, and breakfast spread on a small table, and looking attractive and good.

“I made you tea, miss, because I thought you’d like it better; but I’ll soon have some coffee ready if you prefer it.  Best tea, master’s wonderfully particular about having things good.”

“I prefer tea,” said Kate, quietly, as she took her place, feeling more and more how strange and unreal everything appeared.

And now the magnitude of the step she had taken began to obtrude itself, mingled with a wearying iteration of thoughts of Northwood, and what must have been going on since the morning when her flight was first discovered.  Her uncle’s anger would, she knew, be terrible!  Then her cousin!  She could not help picturing his rage when he found that she had escaped him.  What would her aunt and the servants think of her conduct?  And then it was that there was a burning sensation in her cheeks, as her thoughts turned to Leigh and his sister, the only people that during her stay at Northwood she had learned to esteem.

And somehow the burning in her cheeks increased till the tears rose to her eyes, when, as if the heat was quenched, she turned pale with misery and despair, for she felt how strongly that she had left behind in Jenny Leigh one for whom she had almost unknowingly conceived a genuine sisterly affection.

From that moment the struggle she had been having to seem calm, and at home, intensified, and she pushed away cup and saucer and rose from the table, just as the housekeeper, who had been in and out several times, reentered.

“But you haven’t done, miss?” she said, plaintively.

“Yes, thank you; I am not very well this morning,” said Kate, hastily.

“As anyone could see, miss, with half an eye; but there’s something wrong, of course.”

“Something ­wrong?” faltered Kate.

“Yes, miss,” said the woman in an ill-used tone.  “The tea wasn’t strong enough, or the sole wasn’t done to your liking.”

“Don’t think that, Mrs ­Mrs ­”

“Plant’s my name, miss ­Sarah Plant, and Becky’s Becky.  Don’t call me Mrs., please; I’m only the servant.”

“Well, do not think that, Sarah Plant.  Everything has been particularly nice, only I have no appetite this morning ­I mean, to-day.”

“You do mean that, miss?”

“Of course I do.”

“Thank you kindly, miss.  I did try very hard, for master was so very particular about it.  He always is particular, almost as Mr Jenour was; but this morning he was extra, and poor, dear, old master was never anything like it.  Then if you please, miss, I’ll send Becky to clear away, and perhaps you’d like to go round and see your new house.  I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction.”

“My new house?”

“Yes, miss; master said it was yours, and that we were to look upon you as mistress and do everything you wished, just as if you were his daughter come to keep house for him.  This way please, miss.”

Kate was ready to say that she wished to sit down and write, for her heart was full of self-reproach, and she longed to pour out her feelings to her old confidential maid; but the thought that it would be better perhaps to fall in with Garstang’s wishes and assume the position he had arranged for her to occupy, made her acquiesce and follow the housekeeper out of the room.

The woman touched a bell-handle in the hall, and then drew back a little, with a show of respect, as her eyes, still eagerly, and full of compassion, scanned the new mistress she had been told to obey.

“Will you go first, ma’am?”

“No:  be good enough to show me what it is necessary for me to see.”

“Oh, master said I was to show you everything you liked, miss ­I mean, ma’am.  It’s a dreadfully dark day to show you, but I’ve got the gas lit everywhere, and it does warm the house nicely and keep out the damp.”

Kate longed to ask the woman a few questions, but she shrank from speaking, and followed her pretty well all over the place until she stopped on the first floor landing before a heavy curtain which apparently veiled a window.

“I hope you find everything to your satisfaction, ma’am ­that the house has been properly kept.”

“Everything I have seen shows the greatest care,” said Kate.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said the woman, and her next words aroused her companion’s attention at once, for the desire within her was strong to know more of her new guardian’s private life, though it would have been, she felt, impossible to question.  “You see, master is here so very seldom that there is no encouragement for one to spend much time in cleaning and dusting, and oh, the times it has come to me like a wicked temptation to leave things till to-morrow; but I resisted, for I knew that if I did once, Becky would be sure to twice.  You see, master is mostly at his other house when he isn’t at his offices, where he just has snacks and lunches brought in on trays; but it’s all going to be different now, he tells me, and the house is to be kept up properly, and very glad I am, for it has been like wilful waste for such a beautiful place never hardly to be used, and never a lady in it in my time.”

“Then Mrs Garstang did not reside here?”

“Oh, no, ma’am! nor old master’s lady neither ­not in my time.”

“Mr Garstang’s father?”

“Oh, no, ma’am:  Mr Jenour, who had it before master, and ­and died here ­I mean there,” said the woman, in a whisper, and she jerked her head toward the heavy curtain.  “It was Mr Jenour’s place, and he collected all the books and china and foreign curiosities.  I’ll tell you all about it some day, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” said Kate, quietly.  “I will go down to the library now; I wish to write.”

“There’s pen, ink and paper in there, ma’am,” said the woman, jerking her head sideways; “and you can see the little lib’ry at the same time.”

“I would rather leave that till another time.”

“Hah!” came in a deep low sigh, as if of relief, and Kate turned quickly round in surprise, just catching sight of the face with the handkerchief bound round it that she had seen before.

It was drawn back into one of the rooms instantly, and Kate turned her questioning eyes directly upon the housekeeper.

“It’s only Becky, ma’am ­my gal.  She’s been following us about to peep at you all the time.  I did keep shaking my head at her, but she would come.”

“Is she unwell ­face-ache?” asked Kate.

“Well, no, ma’am, not now.  She did have it very bad a year ago, but it got better, and she will keep tied up still for fear it should come back.  She says it would drive her mad if it did; and if I make her leave off she does nothing but mope and cry, so I let her keep on.  She’s a poor nervous sort of girl, and she has never been right since she lost the milkman.”

“Lost the milkman?” said Kate, wonderingly.

“He went and married someone else, ma am, as had money to set him up in business.  Females has a deal to put up with in this life, as well I know.  Then you won’t go and see the little lib’ry to-day, ma’am?”

“No, not to-day,” said Kate, with an involuntary shiver which made the woman look at her curiously, and the deep sigh of relief came again from the neighbouring room.

“Cold, ma’am?”

“Yes ­no.  A little nervous and upset with travelling,” said Kate; and she went down at once to the library, took a chair at the old-fashioned morocco-covered table, glanced round at the well-filled bookcases, and the solid rich air of comfort, with the glowing fire and softened gaslight brightening the place, and taking paper stamped with the address she began to write rapidly, explaining everything to her old maid, pleading the urgency of her position for excuse in leaving as she had, and begging that “dear old nurse” would join her at once.

She paused from time to time to look round, for the silence of the place oppressed her; and in her nervous anxious state, suffering as she was from the feeling that she had done wrong, there were moments when she could hardly refrain from tears.

But she finished her long, affectionate letter and directed it, turning round to sit gazing into the fire for a few minutes, hesitating as to whether she should do something that was in her mind.

There seemed to be no reason why she should not write to Jennie Leigh, but at the same time there was a something undefined and strange which held her back from communication; but at last decision had its way, and feeling firmer, she turned to the table once more and began to write another letter.

“Why should I have hesitated?” she said, softly; “I’m sure she likes me very much, and she will think it so very strange if I do not write.”  But somehow there was a slight deepening of tint in her cheeks, and a faint sensation of glow as she wrote on, her letter being unconsciously couched in very affectionate terms; while when she had concluded and read it over she found that she had been far more explanatory than she had intended, entering fully into her feelings, and the horror and shame she had felt on discovering the way in which her cousin had been thrown with her, detailing his behaviour; and finally, in full, the scene in which Mr Garstang had protected her and spoken out, to the unveiling of the family plans.

“Pray don’t think that I have acted foolishly, dear Jenny,” she said in a postscript.  “It may seem unmaidenly and strange, but I was driven to act as I did.  I dared not stay; and beside being in some way a relative, Mr Garstang is so fatherly and kind that I have felt quite safe and at rest.  Pray write to me soon.  I shall be so glad to hear, for I fear that I shall be rather lonely; and tell your brother how grateful I am to him for his attention to me.  I am much better and stronger now, thanks to him.”

The glow in her cheeks was a little deeper here, and she paused with the intention of re-writing the letter and omitting all allusion to Doctor Leigh, but she felt that it would seem ungrateful to one to whose skill she owed so much; and in spite of a sensation of nervous shrinking, the desire to let him see she was grateful was very strong.

So the letter was finished and directed.

But still she hesitated, and twice over her hand was stretched out to take and destroy the missive, while her brain grew troubled and confused.

“I can’t think,” she said to herself at last with a sigh; “my brain seems weary and confused;” and then she started from her chair in alarm, for Garstang was standing in the room, the thick curtains and soft carpet having deadened his approach; and in fact, he had been there just within the heavy portiere watching her for some minutes.