Mrs. Molesworth - The Grim House

“No,” said Isabel, shaking her hood. “It isn’t haunted. At least I have never heard that it was . The real name is ‘Grimsthorpe’ – Grimsthorpe House or Hall, I am not sure which; but it is always called ‘The Grim House,’ and has been, papa says, ever since he can remember. And it seems to suit the present inhabitants and the strange mystery there is about them.”

I was all ears by this time, and scarcely dared to speak for fear of interrupting Isabel.

“Yes,” I said; “do go on.”

“There is so little to tell,” she said; “that is the mystery. These people came there about twenty years ago. The house had been uninhabited for some time before that. It belonged to some one whose affairs had gone wrong, and there was some difficulty about letting it. And it was a good deal out of repair. Still there was no prejudice against it except that it was and is an extraordinarily dreary-looking place. Perhaps that was the attraction to the strange people who did take it. Our old gardener has told us about their coming. One day a gentleman arrived by train and drove out to our village. He went over the Grim House all by himself – there was only an old woman at the lodge who kept the keys, and he wouldn’t let her go through the house with him. He was only about an hour there altogether, and then he drove back to the station as fast as he could.”

“What was he like?” I could not help asking. “Did any one ever tell you?”

“I don’t need to be told,” was the unexpected reply. “I have seen him for myself once a week ever since I can remember. At church, I mean,” she went on, smiling at my puzzled expression. “They do come to church – all of them – and this one is the eldest of them. Of course he must have been younger-looking twenty years ago. Well, a few days after this stranger’s first appearance, workmen arrived at the Grim House, a whole lot of them, Scart – that’s our gardener – says. Some of them from a good distance, and they set to at the house and got it into order in no time. All at the new tenant’s expense. Scart always says it must have cost a ‘sight of money.’ I don’t fancy much was done in the way of making it pretty, for by all accounts, or rather by the few accounts that ever reach us, it is as plain and severe inside as it is grim outside. But any way, it was put into thorough repair, and then – they all came! They arrived late at night, so that no one knew anything about it till the next day.”

Isabel stopped. I think she enjoyed the impression which she saw her story was making upon me.

“And who were the ‘all’?” I asked.

“Four people,” she replied. “Two men and two women – brothers and sisters they were soon known to be. None of them very young even then, and now the sisters both look fifty at least, and the elder brother older than that; the youngest-looking of them is the second brother. They arrived, as I say, twenty years ago, and from that day to this – would you believe it, Regina? – they have never set foot outside their garden wall, except to come to church every Sunday morning, which they do in all weathers. There is a standing order at the inn for a fly to come for them every Sunday all the year round.”

“How extraordinary!” I exclaimed. “Has no one any idea why they behave so strangely? Are any of them out of their minds? Did none of the neighbours call on them?”

“Yes,” said Isabel, replying to my last question first. “Several people tried to do so, but they were always met at the lodge by the information that the ladies could not see any one, and the calls were never returned. Of course all sorts of wild stories got about, but papa does not believe that there is the least foundation for any of them; and ‘out of their minds!’ Oh, no! none of them are that.”

“But what do they do? How can they live? It must be so terribly monotonous?”

“I suppose that they have got used to it,” said Isabel. “And the grounds round the house are very large. Perhaps if they have come through some fearful sorrow or tragedy, the mere feeling of peace must be a boon that we ordinary people can scarcely understand. And they seem devoted to each other. One cannot but hear a little gossip, for they make a point of engaging servants from the immediate neighbourhood, and these all say that they are very kindly treated, and that the Greys – that is the name of the family – ‘are real gentry!’ The only fault the servants find is, that it is very dull; but still, as they are allowed a good deal of freedom, they generally stay some years.”

“It was rather clever not to bring any servants with them,” I said. “Generally in stories of this kind they have some old family confidant bound over to secrecy.”

“Yes,” said Isabel smiling. “But you forget my story is not fiction, but fact. It has been better than fiction to me though,” she went on, “it has been a perpetual romance before my eyes all my life.” Just then, as far as I remember, we were interrupted. I think that was all that Isabel told me that first day, of the strange story. But it had taken a great hold upon my imagination, and though I did not speak of it at home – I was not sure that I had any right to do so – my mind was full of it. And it was not long before the opportunity came for asking further questions about the Grim House and its occupants.

For now, during the two or three weeks that remained of our stay at Weissbad, our new friends and we were almost inseparable, and when father joined us again, the intimacy by no means decreased, and I could see that he, quite as much as mother, approved of Isabel’s companionship for me. It was tacitly agreed by the elders of both parties that the friendship was to be encouraged, and that when we were again settled at home I should be allowed to pay a visit to the Wynyards.

And whenever we spoke of this visit-to-be, the subject of the Grim House was sure to be reverted to.

“I am looking forward tremendously to staying with you,” I said one day to Isabel; “but do you know, even if I were not sure that I should enjoy it in other ways, I should be dreadfully disappointed not to go to Millflowers. I am so exceedingly interested about that queer family, I keep thinking and thinking about them and wondering what their secret can be.”

Isabel looked a very little troubled.

“I hope I didn’t do wrong in telling it you,” she said. “I mean I hope it hasn’t taken too great a hold on your imagination. Papa has always warned us so much not to think more than we can help about it. He cannot bear any sort of gossip, and he has very strong feelings about respecting these poor people’s wish for secrecy and silence. And we have got accustomed to the mystery to a great extent.”

“But there are some things,” I persisted, “that you can’t help knowing about them, without any prying into their affairs. Do they never get any letters, and is ‘Grey’ their real name, do you think?”

It was scarcely fair of me, perhaps, to put these questions to my friend, for, after all, her natural curiosity about her strange neighbours was only dormant. I saw that she hesitated to reply, so I hastened to add assurances of my discretion.

“You need not be afraid of my ever gossipping about the Grim House,” I said. “I have not even mentioned it at home. But one can’t help wondering about it. Do tell me all you know yourself.”

“I think I have told you all there is to tell,” said Isabel. “Nobody knows if ‘Grey’ is their real name or not; and as for their getting letters, I believe they never do – at any rate, not that we have ever heard of. They are good people, of that I am sure. The sisters’ faces are so gentle, though dreadfully sad. The eldest brother is stern-looking, but the younger one looks kind, though very grave. And they are very charitable; the people in the village say they are sure of help from the Grim House whenever they are in trouble. The Greys make their servants tell them of any illness or special poverty; and they are sensible too, the vicar says, in what they do.”