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He could not but put down that unpleasant, sinister phenomenon to the presence of Bubbles, for he had been at Wyndfell Hall all the summer, and though the place had been Milly's birthplace where, too, she had spent her melancholy, dull girlhood no thought of her had ever come to disturb his pleasure in the delightful, perfect house and its enchanting garden.
The latter had asked: "Where's Miss Bubbles?" with an injured air as if he thought she ought to be forming part of the excellent breakfast. Mr. Burnaby was determined to get away from Wyndfell Hall as soon as possible, and by eleven o'clock the whole party, excepting Bubbles, was in the hall, bidding him good-bye.
Varick spoke in measured tones, but deep in his heart he not only hoped, but he was determined on something very different namely, that the girl now turning her bright, guileless, eager face to his would then be installed at Wyndfell Hall as his wife, and therefore as mistress of the wonderful old house.
So far had he actually travelled in his own mind, as he escorted his young lady guest about the upper rooms and corridors of Wyndfell Hall. As he glanced, now and again, at the girl walking composedly by his side, he felt he would have given anything anything to have known what was behind those candid hazel eyes, that broad white brow.
He is sorry you came here, to Wyndfell Hall. Do you follow me?" But Helen shook her head. She felt bewildered and oppressed. "I wonder," she said falteringly, "if he could give me a sign? I do so long to know if it is really my dear, dear father." Blanche Farrow turned a little hot. It was too bad of Bubbles to do the thing in this way!
He had seen an Indian swarm up the rope and disappear into thin air! What had he called it? Collective hypnotism? Yes, that was the expression he had used. Some such power Bubbles certainly possessed, and perhaps to-day she had chosen to exercise it by recalling to the minds of those simple village folk the half-forgotten figure of the one-time mistress of Wyndfell Hall.
He had ended his note with the words: "I do not think it can last long now, and I rather hope it won't. It is very painful for her, as well as for me." And it had not lasted very long. Seven weeks later Miss Farrow had read in the first column of the Times the announcement: "Millicent, only daughter of the late George Fauncey, of Wyndfell Hall, Suffolk, and the beloved wife of Lionel Varick."
Before him there rose a vision of the respectable old butler, and of the two tall, well-matched, but not physically strong-looking footmen. This must be the work of some man he had not yet seen? Of course there must be many men employed about such a place as was Wyndfell Hall. He retraced his steps. "I think you and Mr.
"I'm sure" and then he saw a change come over her face "and yet I don't know that I am quite sure," she murmured dreamily. As Dr. Panton went down the shallow oak staircase he felt in a turmoil of doubt and discomfort. To his mind there was no reasonable doubt that Miss Pigchalke had somehow effected an entrance to Wyndfell Hall.
Even to Blanche there was something pathetic in the thought of "poor Milly," whose birthplace and home this beautiful and strangely perfect old house had been. It was Milly not that sinister figure that Pegler thought she had seen whose form ought to haunt Wyndfell Hall. But there survived no trace, no trifling memento even, of the dead woman's evidently colourless personality.
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