Short Fiction

The above handbill appeared one bright summer’s morning on the walls of Dunwich Police Station, and on all the principal buildings of that busy manufacturing town.

Hardworking men of business found time, in the midst of their buying and selling, to stop and read, and wonder how it was possible that any young lady, well looked after, as Miss Warden undoubtedly was, well-known, too, in the neighbourhood, and surrounded by relations, friends, and servants, could thus disappear from their very midst, at noonday, and leave no trace of any sort.

Harleyford was situated about five miles from Dunwich, and Mr. Warden’s house about three from the local railway station. A well-traversed high road led from his estate to the market town⁠—Dunwich. This the young lady had been seen to enter about ten o’clock on the morning of the 14th of August, by some country people, with whom she exchanged greetings. From that moment nothing more had been seen nor heard of her, and it was, as the country people expressed it in their broad Leicestershire dialect, “as though the earth had opened, and swallowed her up,” so completely had all traces of her been lost.

Well-to-do tradesmen and thriving farmers, passing by, read the handbill with a sort of shudder. Here was a young lady taking her usual morning walk on a bright summer’s day; she wishes her neighbours a gay good morning with a nod and a smile, goes on her way, and lo! nothing more is seen or heard of her.

Gradually the storm subsided, and the rain settled down into a slow steady fall. The breathing of the patient became slower and fainter, and the doctor whispered to Hardcastle that the end was at hand. At that moment a long low wail sounded on the outside of the window, and Hardcastle, peering through the dark panes, could see Presto’s brown head and glittering eyes pressed close against the glass.

He crept softly out of the room to call the dog in, fearful lest he might disturb the solemn watch in the chamber of death. “Quiet, old doggie,” he said, stooping down to pat the hound, all wet and mud-covered as he was. But what is this! What is it makes the young man start and tremble, and his lips and cheeks turn pale? What is it brings that look of horror into his face, and makes his eyes distend and his nostrils quiver? What is this hanging in shreds between the dog’s firmly-set teeth? What is it? Only a few tattered remnants of dark-blue silk!

Buried among the Welsh mountains it was⁠—an old grey stone two-storied house, running into towers, and odd gables, and queer old-fashioned outbuildings with three-cornered windows and five-cornered doors. “The Eyrie” it was called in the liquid unpronounceable language of the district, and it seemed a not inappropriate title when looked at from the low-lying glen at the foot of the brown rugged mountains which shut in this quiet little homestead. For a homestead it was in every sense of the word; one need but cross the somewhat weedy lawn, where wild birds of all sorts and sizes, and squirrels also, loved to congregate, and enter the drawing-room by one of the long narrow French windows, to find tokens of comfort and refinement and a lady’s ruling hand in every nook and corner. An Erard’s grand piano, a harp, an easel in a good northern light, a sculptured group in pure marble, and a delicately-painted medallion on the walls, were the first things that met the eye. But hidden away in corners were greater treasures still: old and priceless books in the deep shelves of the library, rare prints and engravings in the capacious portfolios, and, hanging on the walls of the large central hall, were pictures which Owen Tremarten had spent a lifetime and a fortune in tracing out and purchasing. This hall was the favourite resort of the master of the house, and here stood in a deep recess his daughter’s favourite instrument, a magnificent deep-toned organ.

“Brownie’s curls are too long, Dr. Herron,” she begins apologetically; “they almost hide his new collar; I think I must cut them off; he is looking quite effeminate.”

“Can I be of any service, Miss Tremarten?” asks the doctor, entering into the spirit of the thing, and he too goes down on his knees and commences fumbling about Brownie’s curls, and then somehow their eyes meet, and Lettice’s flash and then droop, and then somehow their hands get very close together, and then Lettice jumps up flushing and shy and yet intent on fun.

“Dr. Herron,” she begins, “I have such glorious news to tell you⁠—I mean I would have told you if everyone hadn’t been out and if you could have come into the house for half-an-hour’s chat.”

“This is the very place for glorious news,” says the doctor brightly, looking round at the pretty garden scene and the lovely mountain picture beyond, and then letting his gaze rest upon the sweet dimpling face in front of him.

“Oh, I can’t stay out here a moment longer,” exclaims Lettice, “I have such a world of things waiting for me indoors, so the good news must keep for another time,” and she makes a little movement towards the house.

“And I too,” says the doctor, again rising to the occasion, “have a world of things waiting for me⁠—not indoors but out⁠—and can only give you three minutes, Miss Tremarten, to hand over your list of sick poor people to be seen after, for I’m off for a long ride.”

Lettice is piqued, and determines to take good aim this time.

“ ‘In this treatise,’ ” read Professor Thurstane, laying down his pen and taking up his manuscript, “ ‘I desire to present the philosopher, not as a man destitute of emotion or passion, but as one having both under such perfect control that he can say to this or that emotion or passion “go,” and it goeth, or “come,” and it cometh.’ Yes, I think that will do for a beginning.” He broke off abruptly, exclaiming, “Confound it, who’s that?” as a timid rap sounded at his door.

The Professor looked sharply round to see if his bolt were drawn. “Who’s there?” he thundered again, upon which a thin, quavering voice, that one could vow belonged to an elderly spinster, replied:

“Cousin John, something particular; I can’t shout it through the keyhole.”

“Let it alone then.”

“But I must, if you don’t open your door.”

“Shout it then, and be done with it.”

A long pause ensued, as if the owner of the timid knuckles couldn’t quite make up her mind what to do. Then just as the Professor was beginning to congratulate himself that he might get back to his work, the lady’s voice was heard again:

“It’s really serious, or I wouldn’t disturb you. Nellie has been skating all the afternoon on the pond with Piers, and it’s getting dark”⁠—here a pause for breath⁠—“and I’ve sent for her, and she won’t come in”⁠—another pause for breath⁠—“and I’ve been out to her; but as soon as she sees me on one side of the pond, she skates round to the other, and I can’t catch her.”