"_Any_body make anything of it?" said Loder, turning from one to another. I gathered from Smith's face that he thought one thing might be made of
it--namely, that Loder had invented the whole tale. But even Smith
didn't speak. "Were any English ladies ever found to have lived in the place--murdered,
you know--bodies found and all that?" young Marsham asked diffidently,
yearning for an obvious completeness. "Not that we could ever learn," Loder replied. "We made inquiries
too.... So you all give it up? Well, so do I...."

And he rose. As he walked to the door, myself following him to get his
hat and stick, I heard him humming softly the lines--they are from
_Oft in the Stilly Night_--

"_I seem like one who treads alone
    Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose guests are fled, whose garlands dead,
    And all but he--departed!_"




THE ROCKER


I

There was little need for the swart gipsies to explain, as they stood
knee-deep in the snow round the bailiff of the Abbey Farm, what it
was that had sent them. The unbroken whiteness of the uplands told that,
and, even as they spoke, there came up the hill the dark figures of the
farm men with shovels, on their way to dig out the sheep. In the summer,
the bailiff would have been the first to call the gipsies vagabonds
and roost-robbers; now ... they had women with them too. "The hares and foxes were down four days ago, and the liquid-manure pumps
like a snow man," the bailiff said.... "Yes, you can lie in the laithes
and welcome--if you can find 'em. Maybe you'll help us find our sheep
too--"

The gipsies had done so. Coming back again, they had had some ado to
discover the spot where their three caravans made a hummock of white
against a broken wall. The women--they had four women with them--began that afternoon to weave
the mats and baskets they hawked from door to door; and in the forenoon
of the following day one of them, the black-haired, soft-voiced quean
whom the bailiff had heard called Annabel, set her babe in the sling on
her back, tucked a bundle of long cane-loops under her oxter, and trudged
down between eight-foot walls of snow to the Abbey Farm. She stood in the
latticed porch, dark and handsome against the whiteness, and then,
advancing, put her head into the great hall-kitchen. "Has the lady any chairs for the gipsy woman to mend?" she asked in a
soft and insinuating voice.... They brought her the old chairs; she seated herself on a box in the
porch; and there she wove the strips of cane in and out, securing each
one with a little wooden peg and a tap of her hammer. The child remained
in the sling at her back, taking the breast from time to time over her
shoulder; and the silver wedding ring could be seen as she whipped the
cane, back and forth. As she worked, she cast curious glances into the old hall-kitchen. The
snow outside cast a pallid, upward light on the heavy ceiling-beams; this
was reflected in the polished stone floor; and the children, who at first
had shyly stopped their play, seeing the strange woman in the porch--the
nearest thing they had seen to gipsies before had been the old itinerant
glazier with his frame of glass on his back--resumed it, but still eyed
her from time to time. In the ancient walnut chair by the hearth sat the
old, old lady who had told them to bring the chairs. Her hair, almost
as white as the snow itself, was piled up on her head _à la Marquise_;
she was knitting; but now and then she allowed the needle in the little
wooden sheath at her waist to lie idle, closed her eyes, and rocked
softly in the old walnut chair. "Ask the woman who is mending the chairs whether she is warm enough
there," the old lady said to one of the children; and the child went
to the porch with the message. "Thank you, little missie--thank you, lady dear--Annabel is quite warm,"
said the soft voice; and the child returned to the play. It was a childish game of funerals at which the children played. The hand
of Death, hovering over the dolls, had singled out Flora, the
articulations of whose sawdust body were seams and whose boots were
painted on her calves of fibrous plaster. For the greater solemnity, the
children had made themselves sweeping trains of the garments of their
elders, and those with cropped curls had draped their heads with shawls,
the fringes of which they had combed out with their fingers to simulate
hair--long hair, such as Sabrina, the eldest, had hanging so low down
her back that she could almost sit on it. A cylindrical-bodied horse,
convertible (when his flat head came out of its socket) into a
locomotive, headed the sad _cortège_; then came the defunct Flora; then
came Jack, the raffish sailor doll, with other dolls; and the children
followed with hushed whisperings. The youngest of the children passed the high-backed walnut chair in which
the old lady sat. She stopped. "Aunt Rachel--" she whispered, slowly and gravely opening very wide and
closing very tight her eyes. "Yes, dear?" "Flora's dead!" The old lady, when she smiled, did so less with her lips than with her
faded cheeks. So sweet was her face that you could not help wondering,
when you looked on it, how many men had also looked upon it and loved it. Somehow, you never wondered how many of them had been loved in return. "I'm so sorry, dear," Aunt Rachel, who in reality was a great-aunt, said. "What did she die of this time?" "She died of ... Brown Titus ... 'n now she's going to be buried in a
grave as little as her bed." "In a what, dear?" "As little ... dread ... as little as my bed ... you say it, Sabrina." "She means, Aunt Rachel,

"_Teach me to live that I may dread
The Grave as little as my bed,_"

Sabrina, the eldest, interpreted. "Ah!... But won't you play at cheerful things, dears?" "Yes, we will, presently, Aunt Rachel; gee up, horse!... Shall we go and
ask the chair-woman if she's warm enough?" "Do, dears." Again the message was taken, and this time it seemed as if Annabel, the
gipsy, was not warm enough, for she gathered up her loops of cane and
brought the chair she was mending a little way into the hall-kitchen
itself. She sat down on the square box they used to cover the sewing
machine. "Thank you, lady dear," she murmured, lifting her handsome almond eyes to
Aunt Rachel. Aunt Rachel did not see the long, furtive, curious glance. Her own eyes were closed, as if she was tired; her cheeks were smiling;
one of them had dropped a little to one shoulder, as it might have
dropped had she held in her arms a babe; and she was rocking, softly,
slowly, the rocker of the chair making a little regular noise on the
polished floor. The gipsy woman beckoned to one of the children. "Tell the lady, when she wakes, that I will tack a strip of felt to the
rocker, and then it will make no noise at all," said the low and
wheedling voice; and the child retired again. The interment of Flora proceeded....

An hour later Flora had taken up the burden of Life again.