This feeling of his dead wife’s presence had first become intolerably vivid in the village school-room during the children’s Christmas Day treat.  At one time—­so the clergyman had told him—­Milly had had a sewing-class for the village girls in that very room; but the class had not been a success, and she had given it up after a few weeks.  That was her only association with the ugly little building, and yet—­and yet, once he had got well into his speech, he had suddenly felt her to be there—­and it was not the gentle, fretful, adoring Milly he had known, but a Presence which seemed filled with an awful, clear-eyed knowledge of certain secret facts which his reasoning faculties assured him were only known to his own innermost self.

CHAPTER XI

A turn in the road brought them within sight of Wyndfell Hall, and—­“What a singular, wonderful-looking old place!” exclaimed Dr. Panton.

And, indeed, there was something mysteriously alluring in the long, gabled building standing almost, as it were, on an island, among the high trees which formed a screen to the house on the north and east sides.  It was something solemn, something appealing—­like a melodious, plaintive voice from the long-distant past, out of that Old Country which was the England of six hundred years ago.

“You’ve no idea how beautiful this place is in summer, Panton—­and yet the spring is almost more perfect.  You must come again then, and make a really good, long stay.”

“Span will enjoy a swim in the moat even now,” said the doctor, smiling.  They were going slowly over the narrow brick bridge, and so up to the deep-eaved porch.

A butler and footman appeared as if by magic, and the sound of laughing voices floated from behind them.  There was a pleasant stir of life and bustle about the delightful old house, or so it seemed to the guest.

He jumped out of the car behind his host, then he turned round.  “Span!” he called out.  “Span!”

But the dog was still lying on the floor of the car, and he made no movement, still less any attempt to jump down.

“What an extraordinary thing!” exclaimed Span’s master.  “Come down, Span!  Come down at once!”

He waited a moment; then he went forward and tried to drag the dog out.  But Span resisted with all his might.  He was a big spaniel, and Panton, from where he stood, had no purchase on him.  “There’s something wrong with him,” he said with concern.  “Wait a moment, Varick—­if you don’t mind.”

He got up into the car again and patted Span’s head.  The dog turned his head slowly, and licked his master’s hand.

“Now, Span, jump out!  There’s a good dog!”

But Span never moved.

At last Panton managed to half-shove, half-tumble the dog out.  “I’ve only known him behave like this once before,” he muttered, “and that was with a poor mad woman whom I was once compelled to put up in my house for two or three days.  He simply wouldn’t go near her!  He behaved just as he’s doing now.”