The Four Invisibles/Chapter 1

S THE brown dusk began to rise in the vale of Winterbourne Stanton, one Mr. Daniells—a person of some consequence in that retired nook of “Dorset Dear,” no less an one indeed than butler to Sir Jasper Ferrars of Stanton Manor—was leaning against a stile, lost in disconsolate contemplation. With hands in his breeches pockets, smoking an elfin pipe, he contemplated the cold ruin of what but a week before had been that well-found, alluring known on the road from Poole to Salisbury as the old Three Choughs.

The destruction was complete; the desertion of the spot absolute. The whilom cozy inn and its self-supplying dependencies were razed to the ground, mere heaps of charred stone and all but consumed timber. The blast of an Autumnal storm—and the equinoctial gales of that year, 1817, had been the fiercest in living man's memory—had seen to it that not a foot should be spared. The Three Choughs had been the only duelling on the margin of the bare silent downs within a mile around—a place of pleasant, quietly moving life. But now the great stillness had crept down from the heights and held the spot in its own solemnity.

For many years Mr. Daniells, in his off time, had been a patron of that cheery house of call. Of late, indeed, his office at the manor having sunk into sinecure, he had become something like a standing institution much valued and respected in the snuggery. Now this solatium of a monotonous existence was snatched from him. But the long habit of a leisurely evening walk across corn-fields and meadows to the site of the kindly hostelry had not yet been shaken off. Every sundown since the catastrophe had seen Mr. Daniells at the stile, musing, Marius like, upon the ruins and ready to deplore the new melancholy of the vale with the passer-by.

That evening of October the third the road seemed more than usually deserted. The companionable Mr. Daniells had not had one opportunity for a word with any creature capable of the least interesting gossip, the thinnest discussion. The last cart, thoroughly apathetic, had rumbled past half an hour since. Over the fur rowed stubble on this side of the road, across the bare down stretching yonder away, deep silence reigned, broken only now and again, indeed emphasized, by the melancholy cry of plover or gull, the parting croak of rooks winging off to their roost in the margin woods of Stanton.

The lonely man's pipe had burned down to its end. He straightened himself, reluctantly preparing to retrace his way home toward supper—and another dull evening. But he checked himself; a wayfarer had appeared at the southern bend of the road.

Mr. Daniells leaned back once more, awaiting the event. Had it not been for this impulse of indolent curiosity, more than one episode of a startling nature would never have occurred in parts quite singularly remote from Dorset, and the course of several lives, perfectly unknown to Sir Jasper's butler, would have flowed into strangely different channels.

As the newcomer approached, Mr. Daniells discerned that it was a young man, dressed—as an eye well-accustomed to note such matters promptly recognized—in clothes of well-fitting, gentlemanly cut, if perhaps somewhat outworn, and—what seemed certainly an eccentricity in one thus attired—carrying an obviously irksome portmanteau. The wayfarer's gait indicated weariness. Presently he stopped and cast puzzled looks right and left, as a man might who has lost his bearings. Then, catching sight of the ruined heap, he advanced with quickened step.

After gazing a while, lost in a muse, he slowly turned round and, apparently for the first time noticing the still figure by the stile, addressed it in a voice and manner of easy civility, which confirmed the majordomo's first impression of his social status.

“Can you tell me—surely I'm not mistaken? This was the old inn.”

“Yes—the Three Choughs, sir,” Mr. Daniells replied, with alacrity detaching himself from his resting position to cross over. “Burned down, a week tomorrow. A great loss to the countryside, sir,” he added, touching his cap as if to bring to the stranger's notice the fact that he knew a gentleman, dust, travel-stain and personally carried portmanteau notwithstanding.

“I have no doubt of it,” said the young man. “And a loss to me. I knew the place well. An excellent inn. A loss to me,” he repeated, bringing back his gaze to the scene of destruction, “this evening of all times! I particularly wished to stay here tonight. The Salisbury coach dropped me at the crossway. This is cursed luck. I meant to sleep here tonight. And I am dog tired.”

He wheeled round again, cast his portmanteau on the roadside and sat down on the step of the stile. Then, folding his hands over his tucked-up knees, he resumed for a spell his discontented frowning at the ruins.

“The nearest place, I believe,” he said at last, “is Keyning, and that is”

“A good hour's walk and a bit more. It's—hem—bad luck, as you said, sir,” affirmed Mr. Daniells sympathetically. “I see you know this part of the country. The Harvest Moon, at Keyning, is not a bad lace. But it's not the Choughs. No, not by a long chalk, as they say. I, for one, have regretted the Choughs every evening these seven days, as much, if I may say so, as you do this evening, sir. The only spot, for one thing, where one had a chance of talking, easy-like, to some one after a lonely day. This is a lonely place, sir. And I”

“Ah, well, thank you, my friend,” the young man cut in, wearily getting up again and seizing his bag once more. He was in no mood for chatting, but still spoke pleasantly enough. “No use sitting here, cursing Fate. Good evening to you. It's getting late and I had best get along—unless,” he stopped upon a new thought, unless you could tell me of some decent cottage hereabouts, where they would give me a shake-down and a morsel of supper—for the price I would have paid at the Three Choughs.”

HY, sir—” Mr. Daniells hesitated—“it comes to me—that is, if you cared to accept of it—I could supply you with the accommodation myself. Either free—and welcome, sir. Or,” he hastened to add, “or, if you should prefer it, I say—on the same terms. The Choughs were never the house to fleece the traveler. And it's very lonesome at the hall,” he went on, almost pleading. “Dreary, I call it. It's close by, too”

“At the hall? Close by, did you say? Surely, you never mean Stanton?”

“Stanton, to be sure, sir. I see you know the country—Stanton Manor. Maybe you know Sir Jasper himself—knew him, I should say, for Heaven only knows what's become of Sir Jasper!”

There was a pause. And at last:

“By George!” said the traveler, and that was all.

For a while he remained, gazing absently at the other's face without seeing—he was looking beyond. At length, recovering himself:

“I really beg your pardon, my man,” he said; “my thoughts were far away. Sir Jasper? Yes, I know of Sir Jasper. He is from home, say you? And whom am I speaking to, if you don't mind telling me?”

“I am the butler. Daniells is my name, sir. There is only me and my wife left at the hall. The other servants have been gone these months. But I'm in charge. I think, in a manner of speaking, I may use my discretion. And I wouldn't like to leave a gentleman—for I can see with half an eye when a gentleman is a gentleman, as the saying goes, stranded on our road. And the hall is empty—oh, empty it is, sir—and that lonesome! And it lies closer than any place—now the old Choughs is gone. And I make bold to say, if Sir Jasper were at home, he would approve of my bringing in a gentleman in such circumstances.

A smile hovered for a moment over the young man's lips.

“So you really think, Mr. Daniells, that if Sir Jasper were at home, he would welcome me at Stanton—in the circumstances? I must take your word for that. I would have thanked you for the offer, even if it had not saved me another hour's tramp with this infernal bag. As it is, I accept gratefully—on the condition, however, that we look upon the hall, for tonight, as mine inn by the roadside—you take my meaning? And on you as the cheery landlord of—what shall we call it? The Stanton Arms.”

A grin of satisfaction illumined Mr. Daniells' face.

“That's right, sir,” he said briskly. “The wife happens to have a good cut of mutton on the roasting jack today. Pièce de resistance, as Sir Jasper called the joint. And trimmings, of course. You will be just in the nick, as the saying goes. Meanwhile, sir, allow me.”

And herewith the butler took possession of the portmanteau.

“Three good miles it is, from the crossways,” he remarked feelingly. “A good three miles to carry your own bag. It's only a quarter of an hour's walk, by the short-cut, to the hall. Over the stile, sir.”

Hoisting the package on his shoulder, he stepped a pace aside and respectfully indidicated [sic] the way. The young man permitted the ministration with a nonchalance that raised him yet a point higher in the servant's estimation.

They took their road across the stubble fields, the traveler absorbed in thought, the butler, a pace or so behind, restrained, however regretfully, by long habits of deference from intruding upon the silence. But as they reached the crest of the hill and, at a turn round the copse, the hall came into view a furlong away—one of those wonderful graystone manor-houses which are like gems set in the greening casket of Old World Wessex—the young man gave a subdued exclamation.

He halted a moment, both hands resting on his stick, to gaze upon the scene. A frown was upon his brow, and yet there was a kind of tender smile trembling on his lips. The emotion that had forced out the cry was not one that Mr. Daniells could rightly interpret, but it gave the man a welcome opening for renewed speech.

“Beautiful from here, isn't it, sir? I have sometimes wondered myself why they did not make the entrance to the park this way. Beautiful, I call it. But the avenue up to the hall—there, you see it on the left—is fine, sir, very fine. People do say that Stanton is one of the most perfect manor-houses in all Dorset. I'm sure I think so myself. Pity, isn't it, when you have such a place, to stay so long away from it?”

“So long.”

The young man spoke the words evenly. There was no inquiry in the tone; he seemed rather to be thinking aloud. But the talkative Mr. Daniells found in it sufficient encouragement, and, as they resumed their walk, he delivered himself of information which he considered must in itself be of interest to the guest of chance, whilst it might to some extent justify the irregular behavior of a servant offering the hospitality of his absent master's house to a stranger picked up on the roadside.

“Oh yes, long! Seems long to me, sir.”

It was now the fourth month since Sir Jasper, who up to that time had been leading his usual life, interested in his land, in his sport; entertaining a good deal in a bachelor way—“a widower, you must know, sir”—both his own neighbors and friends from town, had returned from a short absence abroad, oddly changed in his manner.

“Anxious, restless-like, if you know what I mean, sir. One moment one would have thought he was furious; another, that he was afraid—the queerest change, sir, as I have often said to many who came to inquire when Sir Jasper would be back. For it was the very next morning after his return that he went off again. He had never gone to bed! I was kept awake half the night, listening to him moving about the house. And he rang for me two hours before the usual time. He looked poorly—dreadful poorly—wanted his shaving-water, his boots at once and something—anything—to eat in his room. He who was always so very particular about a good breakfast. Thoroughly upset, he was. The look, as the books say, of one haunted”

“Haunted!” echoed the listener, and this time there was a ring in his voice.

The butler drew up level with him and, looking sideways at him, marked the sudden excitement in the face, the new color that had mounted to the forehead, and felt flattered at having at last, as he considered, evoked interest.

“Haunted?” repeated the traveler. “Haunted, did you say?” Then, as if catching himself up, “this is curious, Mr. Daniells—I caught your name right, didn't I? Interesting. Any reason that you could think of?”

O, SIR. As I said, Sir Jasper was unlike himself. No one had ever seen him nervous before. Angry, if you like—oh, angry enough—but never nervous. It was extraordinary. We all said so, in the servants' room, when he was gone. For, half an hour afterward, down he comes without a word to any one, but looking black and scared. I helped him on with his greatcoat—it was a cold morning—and I felt something hard in his side pockets. I knew it was his pistols. And he selected his strongest stick. His face had a mighty odd grin on it. Then he went out—still without a word.

“I could not make anything of it all. And I stood at the front door, watching him go down the avenue quickly. And then I saw—I never would have believed it if I had not seen it myself—I saw him—him such a sportsman—give a jump at the sound of a gunshot! Swerve right across the road, he did, as if he had been shot himself—and yet it was only the keeper at the rabbits. Then he cut through the meadow into the copse. And that, sir, is the last I have seen of Sir Jasper—four months agone.”

“Very strange,” was the comment of the listener.

The Autumnal twilight was fast deepening. The house, as they drew near, loomed almost black against the faint sheen of the sky. A single yellow speck, lamp or candle flame, piercing through one ground-floor window emphasized the gloom of the place.

“And have you not heard from your master since?” he resumed, after a spell.

“Oh, we did get a letter. But that was as strange—to use your own word, sir—as the rest, considering he had gone away on a sudden idea, as one might say, without an ounce of luggage—with just his stick and his pistols. It came the next day, merely a bit of a note, from Salisbury. It's kept in my cash-box, but I can tell every word of it, having puzzled over it often and often. And it's short enough.

“'Daniells,' it says, 'I am kept away on business. I can not say when I shall re turn. When I am able to come back, I shall let you know in good time. Meanwhile you are in charge at Stanton. I know I can trust you to look after my interests.' That was all, except the signature. You may believe, sir, that I keep that letter carefully. My credentials, in a manner of speaking.”

The young man had a faint smile. The speaker certainly allowed himself some latitude in his interpretation of responsibility. Well, Mr. Daniells was in better luck than he deserved; he might have lighted upon a less eligible guest for promiscuous entertainment. Through the darkness the servant could not mark the smile; he went on, as they now emerged from the side path upon the avenue:

“Yes, sir, that is all I know. And many a time I have had to tell the same to gentlemen neighbors who came to ask if we had any news. All I can say to them is that Sir Jasper is to let me hear in time when he means to come back. And 'twas all I could say to the servants who became out of hand and obstrolopous—if you'll excuse the word—there being nothing to do. And they began saying in their opinion Sir Jasper never would come back.

“Stanton, to be sure, was terrible dull, they said. And, besides, they said, it looked queer. And, one by one at first, then the rest all together—except Mr. Withall, the coachman—asked for their wages and took themselves off. Yes, dull enough it was, I must confess, sir. For Sir Jasper used to keep pleasant company. And I found it duller, as you may fancy, when it came to be left my lee-lone at the hall with Mrs. D., for she has not much talk in her, if you see what I mean.

“A good soul and capable, but her Bible and Fox's 'Martyrs' and her cupboards—that is mostly what she cares about. And Mr. Withall keeps to himself over the stables. The Choughs, that was a resource, in a manner of saying. And now that it's gone, you'll understand, sir, I spoke truth when I said it was dreary at Stanton.”

They had arrived at the porch. Mr. Daniells dropped the bag and rang the bell.

“I have the doors always locked, you see, sir, as in duty bound. But she won't be long.”

As they waited on the steps, the young man asked carelessly—

“But did you never write to any of your master's relatives for news of him?”

“Why, sir, as a matter of fact, I didn't know of any one to apply to. I did consult the vicar, and he advised me to communicate with Sir Jasper's lawyer.”

“Ah,” said the guest, in the darkness. “Of course. And—well?”

“I sent him a copy of my master's note. I told him about the servants and. asked his advice. He sent me some money, for we were running short—I having paid the wages myself—and he told me to keep exact accounts and wait, since it was clear, he said, as how Sir Jasper had left me in charge. And that was all. It's all right, Mrs. D., my dear. It's me and a gentleman.” This, in a louder tone, to some one who could dimly be seen peering out of a side window.

“So, sir,” said Mr. Daniells, “if you will please step in, we shall see what we can do for your entertainment. A gentleman, Mrs. D., who has to spend the night here,” he went on, addressing an old lady of wrinkled and somewhat severe countenance, who had opened the door and stood in the hall, a large flat silver candlestick in her hand.

She raised her eyebrows.

“For the night, Daniells?”

“For the night, my dear,” her lord replied in a voice of placid command. “And that means a bed prepared—in the blue room, I think—and a fire. Then some supper on a corner of the dining-room table. You will understand, sir, that—fair is fair, as the saying goes—we can not at short notice have things done as if Sir Jasper were in residence. But it will be as good, I hope, as the Three Choughs. The poor Choughs,” sighed Mr. Daniells. “Now then, Mrs. D., bustle along,” he cried, peremptorily, as the housekeeper, with dismayed countenance, still stood hesitating. “The gentleman is tired and hungry. And, while that's being done, sir, there is a fire in my office, if you don't mind waiting there.”

He stopped, listening. The front door was still wide open; through the night air came the sound of hoofs and wheels on the hard ground of the avenue.

“Why, bless my wig,” he said in a lower tone, “if there isn't a carriage coming up!”