Grey Abbey. A novel. By Old Calabar, etc

Front matter

A GREY ABBEY A Hood. BV OLD CALABAR, ■ — - /C AUTHOR OF ' JACK BLAKE," "OVER TURF AND STUBBLE," "WON IN CANTER," ETC, ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : CHAPMAN & HALL, 193, PICCADILLY 1877- (All Rights Reserved.) CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTER PAGE I. GREY ABBEY . ... I II. HOW JOHNSON TOOK A MIDNIGHT WALK, AND WHAT HE SAW . . .24 III. HOLY JOE . . . . .40 I IV HARWICH HOUSE . . . -73 V. UNCLE WILLIE . . . . I05 VI. LADY BACON'S BALL . . . 139 VIII. THE CURIOUS CASE . . . 162 IX. WHAT WAS FOUND IN THE CELLAR . 1 76 , X. MISSING . . . . .190 XI. THE EARLY BIRD DOES NOT ALWAYS GATHER THE WORM . . . 204 XII. DO YOU REMEMBER THIS? . . 224 XIII. THE PIGEON MATCH . . . 238 XIV. A CHRISTMAS STORY . . . 263 XV. THE CHRISTMAS STORY CONTINUED . Jlcuiratcu ta A PRETTY COUSIN. My Dear Cousin, — - Some time ago you were kind enough to ask me if I could get you a copy of " Over Turf and Stubble," and " Won in a Canter."

My old friend Richard Bentley who published them had no copies of his edition left, but he kindly managed to get one of each, which I duly presented to you ; and wrote on the fly-leaf, in the most approved style, " Presented by the author, with kind, &c." Little did I imagine, on meeting you a few days after, I should be greeted thus : — ■ " Well, of all the yarns I ever read, that owl story of yours beats all. You sporting gentlemen certainly do come out strong." Dedication. VI Come out strong ? My veracity as a novelist's impeached. Ah, well, I'll — no I won't. Never mind; let me ask you, " Did you ever know a sporting man pull the long bow ?" I speak advisedly, and say emphatically, never ! ! ! I might retort, and ask why you, with your pretty and rare voice, will sing duets with those who have no more voice than a tin kettle.

I recollect, at one of your morning receptions, hearing such an at tempt, I rushed wildly from the room, and was seen an hour afterwards on the banks of the Serpentine, contemplating two little fellows sailing their boats. Eschew duets, especially with those who cannot sing — believe me, it is a mistake of the most gigantic dimensions. Touching that same duet, you asked me shortly after, and before the individual who had attempted it, " How I liked it ? I replied, " Of all the execrable performances Dedication. VII I ever heard, it was the very worst. The gentleman glared at me — I hope it did him good — for it did me no harm — on the con trary, it amused me immensely. For the suture, I sincerely hope he will confine his howling to his barrack-room — if he has no feelingfor himself, let him regard the feelings of others.

Chapter I. Grey Abbey

In the new forest, and not very far from. the little marine village of Hythe, stands a fine old house in the Elizabethan style. Its quaint old grey gables are nearly covered with ivy, and some of the windows of the eastern wing, which had not been inhabited for many years, were quite concealed by it. Grey Abbey might well have been called Ivy Abbey, so luxuriantly was the plant growing about it. VOL. I. I "The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed To pleasure his dainty whim. And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green." The inside was nearly as quaint and old-fashioned as the outside ; and though at the time I speak of it was seldom in habited by its present owners, yet there was every luxury and comfort ; the rooms were heavily carpeted and curtained ; the furni ture, of a past age, was massive and im posing, and the light which came from the diamond-paned lattice windows gave to it a still more sombre appearance.

All the windows in the house were deep bayed ones, at least all the sitting-room windows were, and with a good deal of stained glass in them. The dining and drawing rooms, and one or two other chambers, were covered with tapestry ; none of the new-fashioned Gobe lin, but the real thing ; and, although it was considerably faded in colour, yet it was still ingood preservation. Looking at the curious devices that had been traced on the can vass by delicate fingers — long ago gone to dust — it carried one insensibly back to the time it was made — centuries past The entrance-hall, some five or six feet above the ground level, was approached by a flight of stone steps, broad and hand some. The hall itself was a noble one, fifty or more feet long, wide in proportion, and paved with black and white marble in alternate squares.

Suits of old armour hung against the black oak wainscoting, and the ragged and dusty silken banners which were placed high up above each helmet Avith its drooping plumes, were supposed to be the colours of the warriors who had worn those iron coverings. Large and well -painted portraits of both gentlemen and ladies of a bye-gone age adorned the walls, and intermingled with I — them were pictures, sporting and otherwise, of a more modern date. On entering, one could not but feel im pressed with the solitary grandeur of the old hall and the Abbey generally. The gardens were in the style and date of the house ; its labyrinth, or maze, and yew hedge beautifully kept, was quite a sight in itself, as was the handsome terrace which overlooked it, and which com manded a fine view of the extensive and well-timbered park beyond.

It was a lovely evening in the beginning of August when two ladies might have been seen promenading the terrace. The elder of the two was five or six. and thirty, though she looked it not. There was no handsomer or more elegant woman in England than Lady Grier son ; tall, with a beautiful figure, neither too stout nor too thin, she was one of those women one is never tired of looking at. Her magnificent golden hair, which was in great profusion, needed not the aid of a chignon ; it was bound in heavy masses round her small classic head, which had no covering of any sort. Her eyes were of the darkest blue, and in certain lights almost looked black, with long drooping eye-lashes ; the eye-brows were clean cut and well de fined ; her face had a brilliant though delicate complexion, and her mouth was small, with a slightly full under lip, showing when she smiled a set of the most beautiful teeth it was possible to imagine.

Her foot was tiny to a fault, and with its high arched instep proved at a glance that she was of high birth. The lady by her side was not more than eighteen years of age ; she was the exact counterpart of the other ; save that she was a trifle slighter and taller, they might have been taken sor sisters. Yet they were mother and daughter. " Then you have quite decided, mamma," said the younger, " to live here altogether now. What are you going to do with our beautiful little house in town ? You will not sell or let it, will you ?" " No, Edith. I do not intend to part with it, for I suppose you would like to go to London now and then, and especially in the season ?" And she looked inquiringly at her daughter as she asked the question. " I propose," continued the lady, " passing May and June there each year, and a short time in the winter.

Two or three months of gaiety will be quite enough, I think ?" " Oh yes, mamma ; I like the dear old Abbey much better than London. The rides, drives, and walks here are perfectly beautiful. You do not intend giving up riding, I suppose ?" " Oh no, Edith ; we shall, I hope, have many a canter together ; and I intend to get a pair of ponies and a carriage in which we can go about — it is so much pleasanter than having servants with us. We shall not be dull, for there will often be visitors in the house." " It will be delightful, mamma. But the eastern wing ? Do you intend opening that ?" "Not at present, Edith; it has been closed ever since your poor father's death, more than sixteen years ago now. Later I may do so. The house is much larger, as it is, than we have any occasion for. I think we had better go in now, as the dews are falling."

Before we proceed any further with our story, it may be as well to explain that Lady Grierson had married at seventeen, was a mother at eighteen, and a widow before she was twenty. Her father, a needy old colonel, with his one daughter, no mother to overlook and direct her, had sold her to Sir Lionel Grierson, a handsome and wealthy old baronet The marriage had been hastened on because the Colonel had seen a growing attachment between his nephew, Reginald, his only sister's son, and his daughter Maud. Although nothing had been said as regards love between the young couple, the old gentleman's keen eye had discovered such would soon be the case ; so he nipped it in the bud : firstly, by getting his nearly penniless nephew into a West Indian regiment and sending him off; and secondly, by marrying his daughter, as he said, " out of harm's way."

This being accomplished, he took to his arm-chair and brandy-and water, and in a few months went the way of all flesh. Reginald Parker, who was an orphan, and an exceedingly nice and handsome young fellow of eighteen when he left England, had never been heard much of after his departure. He had never written. At least, none of his letters had ever turned up, so his movements were un known. All that had been discovered was that, after remaining some years in the regiment, and pulling through the regular number of yellow fevers, he had quitted his corps and gone to India; as he had no friends or relatives save two, Maud Grierson and his uncle whilst alive, who made any inquiries about him, all trace had been lost. Maud had written several times, but the letters coming back disheartened her from writing any more.

Sir Lionel Grierson had been killed out hunting in less than three years after his marriage. The young widow grieved at his melancholy death. She did not love him, for it had been a match " de conve nance," yet she had the greatest respect for him. And, young as she was, the shock of his untimely death was severe. Sir Lionel was many years her senior — over fifty — Avhen he married her ; so there was little in common between them. In his way, he had been a kind and indulgent husband. She wanted or wished for nothing that she did not have. But her wants were few. Many had been the advantageous offers to her since her long term of widowhood ; but all had been refused. The beautiful Lady Grierson was an enigma to her friends. There were a host of men ready to lay themselves at her feet, and take her for better, for worse ; but she steadily^ repulsed all their approaches, and at the time we commence our tale was likely to die Lady Grierson.

Her daughter had been all her care, and it was for this reason the young mother had remained at her elegant little town house, to give her child all the advantages of a first-rate education that money could command, and the aid of masters of every description, who could not have been found in a remote country place. The mother would not let her beautiful girl go to a boarding-school, but preferred to have her educated under her own eye ; and now that education was finished, she came back to the quiet country home she was so fond of, to escape the whirl and dissipation of a town life. For years they had paid flying visits to the Abbey, for a week or so at a time, but only during Edith's holidays. Well had the girl repaid her mother's trouble. She was a first-rate linguist, a beautiful musician, and drew, painted, and rode as few young ladies of her age could.

As they left the terrace the evening clouded, and the distant rumblings and occasional flashes of lightning foretold a coming storm. In another half hour it was up with a deluging rain; but the inmates of the Abbey saw it not, for the curtains were drawn and the shutters closed. One by one the lights in the house were put out, and all at rest. The turret clock on the stables chimed twelve, yet there was no cessation of the storm. Walking hastily through the park and towards the Abbey were two men. Who or what they were was not easy to be seen, for they were enveloped in long waterproof coats. As they neared the house they became more cautious, and looked carefully about, for the night was now so dark that nothing could be distin guished. "All the lights are out," said one " What a nuisance their coming to live here, and at such a time, too !"

" I suppose the letters and stories of the house being haunted have had no effect, then ?" " You see they have not," replied the one who had first spoken, " from the simple fact that they are here. Well, it cannot be helped, and we must do the best we can. After all, I do not think there is much danger ; they are only two women." " True," said the other ; " but they may have prying people about them. Come along ; hit or miss, we must go on with it." The two approached the eastern wing cautiously. One produced a key and gently unlocked a door that was nearly covered with ivy, and, directly they were inside, noiselessly closed it without locking it. He who had first spoken then produced a dark lantern and showed a light ; but instead of proceeding up stairs to the rooms, they went direct to the cellars.

"We must wait here," exclaimed one, "till they come, which will not be long first," pulling out a gold watch and looking at it ; " it could not be a better night for our purpose, though it is rather cool here, and moist outside." And he sat himself down in an old rickety arm-chair and produced a pipe, which he sit. "Notsuch a bad ideaof yours, old fellow!" exclaimed the other, following his example ; " is there no danger, though ?" " Not in the least. Who do you suppose would come to these dreary old vaults at this time of night ? Pull one of those faggots out and make a seat ; do not uncover anything though. We must get it all away* now as quickly as possible, and look out for a fresh hide. There is a thousand pounds worth here at this present moment, at the very least. Yachting is not such a bad amusement after all, is it ?

" and he laughed noiselessly. He was a young man who had last spoken. Not more than five or six and twenty years of age ; tall, "good looking, and with black whiskers ; the rest of his face was clean shaved ; but there was a rest less covert expression in his cold grey eye which was exceedingly unpleasant. On his fingers were several handsome and valuable rings, one in particular, a large and very bril liant emerald. When he smiled he showed a row of faultlessly white teeth; but there was an undefinable something in that smile that made one shudder, so cold and pitiless, so wolf-like. His companion was somewhat older, and more powerfully made. He, too, had black hair, whiskers, beard and moustache. He seemed a more jovial, rollicking sort of a fellow, with a fund of good humour and merriment in his dark eyes.

" I wish I had something to drink," he exclaimed. " It is deuced cold and damp in this musty well. I am all of a shiver. I shall have the horrors presently. How long they are." If you drink, you must have it neat, Frank ; there is no water to be had, unless you ring for the butler." And he laughed one of his noiseless laughs at his conceit. Going to a corner of the vast cellar, from under the straw he produced a bottle. " Here, take a nip of that," he said, " you ought to know if it is good or not" " By George ! it is good, it has warmed the very cockles of my heart !" he remarked as he passed the bottle to his friend, who in his turn drank some, and hid the bottle in its place again. " List ! I think I hear them ;" but it was a false alarm. The storm was passing away, and the thunder became more distant, and at last entirely ceased.

Then came one of those deathly stilly nights which are so common in our climate in summer, especially after a storm. The two men were getting impatient, and sat smoking in silence. Presently there was heard a slight sound, and he who we have called Frank instantly turned off the light from the bull's-eye. There was no mistake this time, for some one was evidently groping his way along. " Anyone there ? " a voice uttered in a low tone ; " it is Will." " All right," answered he with the lantern, and the light was turned on. " Is everything safe, captain ?" asked the other. "Quite, sir, quite ; a rare soaking we have got, too. Beelzebub, Neptune, and Boreas, all cut to night — bear a hand, lads," and as he uttered this four or five men appeared carrying a couple of coffins. The contents of these were turned out and quickly hidden under the faggots.

" Now, lads," said he who was addressed as captain, pointing to the two ghastly looking black cases ; " take these, go in two different parties across the park, and get on board at once. You, Philip, come on shore 2 vol. 1. again at the old spot for me, I shall not be ten minutes behind you." " All right, sir." And the men departed as noiselessly as they came. " Well, captain," asked he of the emerald ring, " how did you manage — where is the boat ? " " Not a mile from where we are, sir. As the storm came on I thought it would be a good opportunity to bring her lower down and nearer in; she is within biscuit-throw of the shore now, and in another hour will be dry on the mud ; but we have shipped her legs. With the flow in the morning, I shall take her further out." " And how did you bring the coffins up to-night, captain ?"

" On the stretchers, sir. There was no need to shoulder them in such a time as this — not a soul about. A rare load we had, but not far to go, though — this is the most con venient port I ever saw. Come, Mr. Bennet," to the elder of the two, " you are coming with me, of course, and we must do so if we want to get on board ; tide waits for no man." The three then left the cellars, and the door was carefully locked. The captain and Bennet made off in the direction of the shore, the other, he of the emerald ring, across the park quite another way. The startled deer sprang from their soft couches and cantered noiselessly away as he strode through a herd ; but he took no notice of them, continuing his rapid pace till he came to one of the sheds used for feeding the animals in winter time ; there he found a horse saddled and bridled, and tied up to a ring ; loosing the animal, and leading him forth, he mounted him and proceeded at a foot-pace till he came to a wicket-gate which led into the high road, which he no sooner reached than, sending his heels smartly into the animal, 2 — he rode away at a hard canter, without drawing rein for a couple of miles or so, and then pulled up at a small cottage which stood back from the road in its own grounds.

It was a pretty little place,— thatched roof, with quaint old-fashioned windows. The scent of the roses and jessamines which covered the walls perfumed the air, and seemed to be calling up the birds, which were beginning to move, for the day was breaking. The horseman took his way to the back of the house ; there he dismounted, opened the stable door, and led his horse in ; strik ing a sight, he lit the stable lantern ; then he opened another door which led into the harness-room, in a corner of which, on a truck bed, was a man asleep. " Sam !" he said softly ; but the man was asleep, and snored on. " Well, I will not awake you," he said and closing the door quietly, proceeded to unsaddle his horse, which he turned into a large loose box, well littered down. Look ing into the rack and manger to see that corn and hay were not wanting, and cloth ing the animal, he blew the light out, and walked round to the front of the cottage ; in the rosecovered porch he groped about for a short time in search of the key, placed where he could find it ; letting himself in gently he turned up the lamp, which was standing on the hall table, and entered his parlour, where supper was laid out " After two !" he said, looking at his watch ; " later than I thought ; but consider ing all there was to be done, not much time has been lost," and unlacing his boots he sat down to eat.

" Capital thing, cold venison," he uttered, as he helped himself to a large slice. " Very kind of Lady Grierson to send it to me ; most kind, considering I do not know her, or ever saw her ; they say she is beautiful — very beautiful — and her daughter as well. I must call to-morrow and judge for myself ; now, then, for a pipe, a glass of grog, and then to bed." He sat long smoking, and every now and then took a taste of his cold brandy and-water ; at times one of those unpleasant smiles would come across his face, and at others a deep frown overshadowed his brow ; at last, as he saw the daylight show ing through the shutters, he blew out the lamp, went to his bed-room, and was quickly in the arms of Morpheus. Frank and the captain walked quietly to the shore, where the boat waited them ; they were pulled on board, and de scended to the cabin.

There they did what their friend was at the same time doing, namely, had their suppers, not of cold venison, but plain bread and cheese, and then, lighting their pipes and mixing some spirits and water, commenced talk ing. "Oh, there is not the least difficulty in the matter," said the captain ; " if anyone should make a remark, which no one will, I should say she dragged on her anchor during the storm ; but this is nearly her place, so no one will make any remark. At what hour will you please to start for Southamp ton ?" " I think about ten o'clock, captain, or as soon as I have finished breakfast ; good night, or rather good morning."

Chapter II. How Johnson Took

A MIDNIGHT WALK, AND WHAT HE SAW. Lady Grierson and her daughter, when they came in, sat reading and working. " How fearfully it thunders, mamma," ex claimed the girl. " I am quite terrified." " Why, you silly Edith, you cannot see it ; knowing your dread of thunder, I had the shutters closed and the curtains drawn ; if it had not been for you, I should have sat by the open window and watched it, as I have often done before here ; there is something so grand in a thunder-storm !" " Never mind the storm, mamma, tell me all your plans. I suppose you intend to visit and be visited ?" " Well, I suppose so, Edith. I know but few people here now, there have been so many changes of late years. Old friends dead or gone away, and others come in their places ; a few years make a great difference. I hardly like to look back," and she sighed as she spoke.

" There is a new curate since last year, young and handsome, so they say, and preaches beautifully. I am told that the Reverend Joseph Sladen is a great acqui sition — plays the harmonium, sings, takes his hand at whist or croquet, regularly visits the poor, does a great deal of good, and is a very nice amicable person, keeps a horse, shoots, and is fond of boating. The keeper sent him some venison last week, so I suppose he will call, for one. When we are regularly settled, of course, people will come; then we shall have the visits to return, dinners to go to, and dinners to give ; in the summer-time, when we do not wish to ride or drive, we can have a little boat ing, or cross over to Southampton, or even Cowes or Ryde, in the steam launch, which is quite large enough and perfectly safe.

We must get up some croquet and archery parties ; have friends from London, organize pic-nics, and so on. You will not feel lost in the country, I can assure you. Then there are the gardens, the green and hot-houses, the conservatory, an endless source of amusement, and you are so fond of flowers." " Yes, mamma, I know all that ; but still " " But still what, Edith ? Something is dwelling on your mind ; what is it ?" " Well, mamma, the fact is, I cannot get all those anonymous letters out of my head ; those letters, you know, about the house being haunted, and the storm of to night has brought them more forcibly back to my mind than ever ; if I were not sleep ing in the next room to you, with the door open between us, I should be terribly alarmed. I am a great coward, I know, but I cannot dismiss those letters from my mind."

" How can you be so foolish, Edith ? The house haunted ! You cannot believe in such absurd nonsense ? It is doubtless very vexing to receive such letters, but they have only been written by some one for the sake of annoyance ; what their motive can have been I cannot imagine ; if they only knew how little I regarded the warnings in their epistles, they would have saved themselves the trouble of writing. Good heavens ! what is that ?" as a noise was heard in the chimney, and an unfortunate jackdaw, disturbed by the storm, tumbled into the room. The girl screamed, turned deadly pale, and was on the point of fainting ; but her mother reassured her, and pointed out the poor frightened bird, which had hopped into a corner. Ringing the bell, it was taken out and let go again ; but Edith did not recover her presence of mind — she was dreadfully nervous and timid ; what with the thunder, the bird, and thinking of the letters, she was quite unstrung, so much so, that when they retired for the night she slept with her mother.

Amongst the servants was an old one of Lady Grierson's, who had been with her father, a singularly quiet and respectable man ; he had held the place of butler to his mistress ever since her father's death. Lady Grierson could not have got on without Johnson ; he paid all the bills, en gaged the men-servants, and was her right hand ; his word was law in the house. He had known his mistress from her babyhood ; in fact, he had been with the Colonel years before she was born. Shortly* after all had retired, Johnson went round the house to see that it was shut up safely, and the lights put out. On this particular night he had his hat and greatcoat on, and a stick in his hand — an unusual circumstance. After seeing that everything was right, he unlocked the back door and passed out, locking it carefully on the outside, and putting the key into his pocket.