Without, in the churchyard close to the
church, were buried all such of the collaterals as had died within hail
of Norcester. Some there were of course who, having achieved distinction
in various walks of life, were further honoured by a resting-place within
the chancel. The whole interior was full of records of the family. Squire Norman was fond of coming to the place; and often from the very
beginning had taken Stephen with him. One of her earliest recollections
was kneeling down with her father, who held her hand in his, whilst with
the other he wiped the tears from his eyes, before a tomb sculptured
beautifully in snowy marble. She never forgot the words he had said to
her:

'You will always remember, darling, that your dear mother rests in this
sacred place. When I am gone, if you are ever in any trouble come here. Come alone and open out your heart. You need never fear to ask God for
help at the grave of your mother!' The child had been impressed, as had
been many and many another of her race. For seven hundred years each
child of the house of Norman had been brought alone by either parent and
had heard some such words. The custom had come to be almost a family
ritual, and it never failed to leave its impress in greater or lesser
degree. Whenever Harold had in the early days paid a visit to Normanstand, the
church had generally been an objective of their excursions. He was
always delighted to go. His love for his own ancestry made him admire
and respect that of others; so that Stephen's enthusiasm in the matter
was but another cord to bind him to her. In one of their excursions they found the door into the crypt open; and
nothing would do Stephen but that they should enter it. To-day, however,
they had no light; but they arranged that on the morrow they would bring
candles with them and explore the place thoroughly. The afternoon of the
next day saw them at the door of the crypt with a candle, which Harold
proceeded to light. Stephen looked on admiringly, and said in a half-
conscious way, the half-consciousness being shown in the implication:

'You are not afraid of the crypt?' 'Not a bit! In my father's church there was a crypt, and I was in it
several times.' As he spoke the memory of the last time he had been
there swept over him. He seemed to see again the many lights, held in
hands that were never still, making a grim gloom where the black shadows
were not; to hear again the stamp and hurried shuffle of the many feet,
as the great oak coffin was borne by the struggling mass of men down the
steep stairway and in through the narrow door . . . And then the hush
when voices faded away; and the silence seemed a real thing, as for a
while he stood alone close to the dead father who had been all in all to
him. And once again he seemed to feel the recall to the living world of
sorrow and of light, when his inert hand was taken in the strong loving
one of Squire Norman. He paused and drew back. 'Why don't you go on?' she asked, surprised. He did not like to tell her then. Somehow, it seemed out of place. He
had often spoken to her of his father, and she had always been a
sympathetic listener; but here, at the entrance of the grim vault, he did
not wish to pain her with his own thoughts of sorrow and all the terrible
memories which the similarity of the place evoked. And even whilst he
hesitated there came to him a thought so laden with pain and fear that he
rejoiced at the pause which gave it to him in time. It was in that very
crypt that Stephen's mother had been buried, and had they two gone in, as
they had intended, the girl might have seen her mother's coffin as he had
seen his father's, but under circumstances which made him shiver. He had
been, as he said, often in the crypt at Carstone; and well he knew the
sordidness of the chamber of death. His imagination was alive as well as
his memory; he shuddered, not for himself, but for Stephen. How could he
allow the girl to suffer in such a way as she might, as she infallibly
would, if it were made apparent to her in such a brutal way? How
pitiful, how meanly pitiful, is the aftermath of death. Well he
remembered how many a night he woke in an agony, thinking of how his
father lay in that cold, silent, dust-strewn vault, in the silence and
the dark, with never a ray of light or hope or love! Gone, abandoned,
forgotten by all, save perhaps one heart which bled . . . He would save
little Stephen, if he could, from such a memory. He would not give any
reason for refusing to go in. He blew out the candle, and turned the key in the lock, took it out, and
put it in his pocket. 'Come, Stephen!' he said, 'let us go somewhere else. We will not go into
the crypt to-day!' 'Why not?' The lips that spoke were pouted mutinously and the face was
flushed. The imperious little lady was not at all satisfied to give up
the cherished project. For a whole day and night she had, whilst waking,
thought of the coming adventure; the thrill of it was not now to be
turned to cold disappointment without even an explanation. She did not
think that Harold was afraid; that would be ridiculous. But she
wondered; and mysteries always annoyed her. She did not like to be at
fault, more especially when other people knew. All the pride in her
revolted. 'Why not?' she repeated more imperiously still. Harold said kindly:

'Because, Stephen, there is really a good reason. Don't ask me, for I
can't tell you. You must take it from me that I am right. You know,
dear, that I wouldn't willingly disappoint you; and I know that you had
set your heart on this. But indeed, indeed I have a good reason.' Stephen was really angry now. She was amenable to reason, though she did
not consciously know what reason was; but to accept some one else's
reason blindfold was repugnant to her nature, even at her then age. She
was about to speak angrily, but looking up she saw that Harold's mouth
was set with marble firmness. So, after her manner, she acquiesced in
the inevitable and said:

'All right! Harold.' But in the inner recesses of her firm-set mind was a distinct intention
to visit the vault when more favourable circumstances would permit. CHAPTER V--THE CRYPT


It was some weeks before Stephen got the chance she wanted. She knew it
would be difficult to evade Harold's observation, for the big boy's
acuteness as to facts had impressed itself on her. It was strange that
out of her very trust in Harold came a form of distrust in others. In
the little matter of evading him she inclined to any one in whom there
was his opposite, in whose reliability she instinctively mistrusted. 'There is nothing bad or good but thinking makes it so!' To enter that
crypt, which had seemed so small a matter at first, had now in process of
thinking and wishing and scheming become a thing to be much desired. Harold saw, or rather felt, that something was in the girl's mind, and
took for granted that it had something to do with the crypt.