EARLY the next morning, the good old butler came to me, in great
perturbation, for a word of advice.
"Do come, sir, and look at the master! I can't find it in my heart to
wake him."
It was time to wake him, if we were to go to London that day. I went
into the bedroom. Although I was no doctor, the restorative importance
of that profound and quiet sleep impressed itself on me so strongly,
that I took the responsibility of leaving him undisturbed. The event
proved that I had acted wisely. He slept until noon. There was no return
of "the torment of the voice"--as he called it, poor fellow. We passed
a quiet day, excepting one little interruption, which I am warned not to
pass over without a word of record in this narrative.
We had returned from a ride. Romayne had gone into the library to
read; and I was just leaving the stables, after a look at some recent
improvements, when a pony-chaise with a gentleman in it drove up to the
door. He asked politely if he might be allowed to see the house. There
were some fine pictures at Vange, as well as many interesting relics of
antiquity; and the rooms were shown, in Romayne's absence, to the very
few travelers who were adventurous enough to cross the heathy desert
that surrounded the Abbey. On this occasion, the stranger was informed
that Mr. Romayne was at home. He at once apologized--with an appearance
of disappointment, however, which induced me to step forward and speak
to him.
"Mr. Romayne is not very well," I said; "and I cannot venture to ask you
into the house. But you will be welcome, I am sure, to walk round the
grounds, and to look at the ruins of the Abbey."
He thanked me, and accepted the invitation. I find no great difficulty
in describing him, generally. He was elderly, fat and cheerful;
buttoned up in a long black frockcoat, and presenting that closely
shaven face and that inveterate expression of watchful humility about
the eyes, which we all associate with the reverend personality of a
priest.
To my surprise, he seemed, in some degree at least, to know his way
about the place. He made straight for the dreary little lake which I
have already mentioned, and stood looking at it with an interest which
was so incomprehensible to me, that I own I watched him.
He ascended the slope of the moorland, and entered the gate which led
to the grounds. All that the gardeners had done to make the place
attractive failed to claim his attention. He walked past lawns, shrubs,
and flower-beds, and only stopped at an old stone fountain, which
tradition declared to have been one of the ornaments of the garden
in the time of the monks. Having carefully examined this relic of
antiquity, he took a sheet of paper from his pocket, and consulted it
attentively. It might have been a plan of the house and grounds, or it
might not--I can only report that he took the path which led him, by the
shortest way, to the ruined Abbey church.
As he entered the roofless inclosure, he reverently removed his hat. It
was impossible for me to follow him any further, without exposing
myself to the risk of discovery. I sat down on one of the fallen stones,
waiting to see him again. It must have been at least half an hour before
he appeared. He thanked me for my kindness, as composedly as if he had
quite expected to find me in the place that I occupied.
"I have been deeply interested in all that I have seen," he said. "May I
venture to ask, what is perhaps an indiscreet question on the part of a
stranger?"
I ventured, on my side, to inquire what the question might be.
"Mr. Romayne is indeed fortunate," he resumed, "in the possession of
this beautiful place. He is a young man, I think?"
"Yes."
"Is he married?"
"No."
"Excuse my curiosity. The owner of Vange Abbey is an interesting person
to all good antiquaries like myself. Many thanks again. Good-day."
His pony-chaise took him away. His last look rested--not on me--but on
the old Abbey.