Part 13 (2/2)

”Queer, dreamy fragments come back to me sometimes,” she said. ”I have a feeling of having seen hills long, long ago. It is strange,” she went on, for by this time they had left the private grounds and were strolling along the hill-path in the direction of the town, ”it is strange that since I came here I seem to have got hold of a tiny bit of these old memories, if they are such. It must be the hills,” and she stood still and gazed round her with a deep breath of satisfaction, ”I could only have been between two and three when I was found,” she went on. ”The only words I said were 'Dada' and 'Nennie'--it sounded like 'Nelly'. That was why Mrs. Bellairs called me 'Ellinor,' and 'March,'

because it was in that month she took me to her house.”

Sybil walked on in silence for a moment or two.

”It _is_ such a romantic story,” she said at last. ”I am never tired of thinking about it.”

They entered Monksholdings again from the east entrance, Ellinor glanced at the stile.

”By-the-bye,” she said, ”this is one of the two old stiles, I suppose.

Have you ever seen your ghost again, Sybil? Have you found out anything about him?”

Sybil looked round her half nervously.

”It is the other stile he haunts,” she said. ”I rather avoid it, at least, I mean to do so now. It is curious you speak of it, for till yesterday I had not seen him again, and had almost forgotten about it.

But yesterday afternoon, just before you came, there he was--exactly the same, staring in. I meant to speak to papa about it, but with the pleasure and bustle of your arrival, I forgot it. Remind me about it. I am afraid he is out of his mind.”

”Poor old man!” said Ellinor. ”I wish we could do something to comfort him. I feel as if everybody _must_ be happy here. It is such a charming, exhilarating place. Dear me, how windy it is! The path is all strewn with the white petals of the cherry blossom.”

”They have degenerated into wild cherry trees,” said Sybil. ”Long ago papa says these must have been good fruit trees of many kinds, and this is a great cherry country, you know.”

The wind dropped that afternoon, but only temporarily. It rose again so much during the night that by the next morning the grounds looked, to use little Annis's expression, ”quite untidy”.

”And down in the village, or just beyond it,” said Mark, who had been for an early stroll, ”at one place it really looks as if it had been snowing. The road skirts that old farmhouse; you know it, father? I forget the name--there's a grand cherry orchard there.”

”'Mayling Farm,' you must mean,” said Mr. Raynald. ”Farmer Giles's. Oh, by the way, that reminds me, Sybil,” but a glance round the table made him stop short. They were at breakfast. He scarcely felt inclined to relate the tragic story before the younger children, ”they might look frightened or run away if they came across the poor fellow,” he reflected. ”I will tell Sybil about it afterwards.”

Easter holidays were not yet over, though the governess had returned, so regular routine was set aside, and the whole of the young party, Ellinor included, spent that morning in a scramble among the hills.

The children seemed untirable, and set off again somewhere or other in the afternoon. Sybil was busy with her mother, writing letters and orders to be despatched to London, so that towards four o'clock or so, when Miss March, having finished her own correspondence, entered the drawing-room, she found it deserted.

Sybil had promised to practise some duets with her, and while waiting on the chance of her coming, Ellinor seated herself at the piano and began to play--nothing very important--just s.n.a.t.c.hes of old airs which she wove into a kind of half-dreamy harmony, one melting into another as they occurred to her.

All at once a shadow fell on the keys, and then she remembered having heard the door softly open a moment or two before--so softly, that she had not looked round, imagining it to be the wind, which, though fallen now, still lingered about.

Now her ideas took another shape.

”It is Sybil, no doubt,” she thought with a smile. ”She is going to make me jump,” and she waited, half expecting to feel Sybil's hands suddenly clasped over her eyes from behind.

But this was not to be the mode of attack, apparently, though she heard what sounded like stealthy footsteps.

”You need not try to startle me, Sybbie,” she exclaimed laughingly, without turning or ceasing to play, ”I hear you.”

It was no laughing voice which replied.

On the contrary, a sigh, almost a groan, close to her made her look up sharply--a trifle indignant perhaps at the joke being carried so far--and she saw, a pace or two from her only, the figure of an old man--a white-haired, somewhat bent form, a worn face with wistful blue eyes--gazing at her.

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