Under Lock and Key: A Story. Volume 1 (of 3) — John Shaqi
Under Lock and Key: A Story. Volume 1 (of 3)Speight, T. W. (Thomas Wilkinson)
General
Under Lock and Key: A Story. Volume 1 (of 3)
Speight, T. W. (Thomas Wilkinson)
Detective and mystery stories; English fiction -- 19th century
One spray of scarlet geranium was all that I ventured to pluck. But
the odours and the colours were there for all comers, and were as much
mine for the time being as if the flowers themselves had belonged to
me. Suddenly I turned and glanced up at the many-windowed house with a
sort of guilty consciousness that I might possibly be doing wrong. But
the house was still asleep--closed shutters or down-drawn blind at
every window. I saw before me a substantial-looking red-brick mansion,
with a high slanting roof, of not undignified appearance now that it
was mellowed by age, but with no pretensions to architectural beauty.
The sole attempt at outside ornamentation consisted of a few flutings
of white stone, reaching from the ground to the second floor, and
terminating in oval shields of the same material, on which had
originally been carved the initials of the builder and the date of
erection; but the summer's sun and the winter's rain of many a long
year had rubbed both letters and figures carefully out. Long
afterwards I knew that Dupley Walls had been built in the reign of the
Third William by a certain Squire Pollexfen of that date, "out of my
own head," as he himself put it in a quaint document still preserved
among the family archives; and rather a muddled head it must have been
in matters architectural.
After this, I ventured round by the main entrance, with its gravelled
carriage sweep, to the other side of the house, where I found a long
flagged terrace bordered with large evergreens in tubs placed at
frequent intervals. On to this terrace several French windows
opened--the windows, as I found later in the day, of Lady Pollexfen's
private rooms. To the left of this terrace stood a plantation of young
trees, through which a winding path that opened by a wicket into the
private grounds, invited me to penetrate. Through the green gloom I
advanced bravely, my heart beating with all the pleasure of one who
was exploring some unknown land. I saw no living thing by the way,
save two grey rabbits that scuttered across my path and vanished in
the undergrowth on the other side. Pretty frisky creatures! how I
should like to have caught them, and fed them, and made pets of them
as long as they lived!
Two or three hundred yards farther on the path ended with another
wicket, now locked, which opened into the high road. About a mile away
I could discern the roofs and chimneys of a little town. When I got
back to the hall I found dear old Dance getting rather anxious at my
long absence, but she brightened into smiles when I kissed her and
told her where I had been.
"You must have slept well, or you would hardly look so rosy this
morning," she said, as we sat down to breakfast.
"I should have slept very well if I had not been troubled by the
ghosts."
"Ghosts! my dear Miss Janet? You do not mean to say----" and the old
lady's cheek paled suddenly, and her cup rattled in her saucer as she
held it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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