Mistress Pauncefort smiled and smirked, and, advancing to the old gloomy porch, gave a determined ring at the bell.  Its sound might be heard echoing through the old cloisters, but a considerable time elapsed without any other effect being produced.  Perhaps Lady Annabel would have now given up the attempt, but the little Venetia expressed so much regret at the disappointment, that her mother directed the groom to reconnoitre in the neighbourhood, and see if it were possible to discover any person connected with the mansion.

‘I doubt our luck, my lady,’ said Mistress Pauncefort, ’for they do say that the abbey is quite uninhabited.’

‘’Tis a pity,’ said Lady Annabel, ’for, with all its desolation, there is something about this spot which ever greatly interests me.’

‘Mamma, why does no one live here?’ said Venetia.

‘The master of the abbey lives abroad, my child.’

‘Why does he, mamma?’

‘Never ask questions, Miss Venetia,’ said Mistress Pauncefort, in a hushed and solemn tone; ‘it is not pretty.’  Lady Annabel had moved away.

The groom returned, and said he had met an old man, picking water-cresses, and he was the only person who lived in the abbey, except his wife, and she was bedridden.  The old man had promised to admit them when he had completed his task, but not before, and the groom feared it would be some time before he arrived.

‘Come, Pauncefort, rest yourself on this bench,’ said Lady Annabel, seating herself in the porch; ’and Venetia, my child, come hither to me.’

‘Mamma,’ said Venetia, ’what is the name of the gentleman to whom this abbey belongs?’

‘Lord Cadurcis, love.’

‘I should like to know why Lord Cadurcis lives abroad?’ said Venetia, musingly.

’There are many reasons why persons may choose to quit their native country, and dwell in another, my love,’ said Lady Annabel, very quietly; ‘some change the climate for their health.’

‘Did Lord Cadurcis, mamma?’ asked Venetia.

’I do not know Lord Cadurcis, dear, or anything of him, except that he is a very old man, and has no family.’

At this moment there was a sound of bars and bolts withdrawn, and the falling of a chain, and at length the massy door slowly opened, and the old man appeared and beckoned to them to enter.

‘’Tis eight years, come Martinmas, since I opened this door,’ said the old man, ’and it sticks a bit.  You must walk about by yourselves, for I have no breath, and my mistress is bedridden.  There, straight down the cloister, you can’t miss your way; there is not much to see.’

The interior of the abbey formed a quadrangle, surrounded by the cloisters, and in this inner court was a curious fountain, carved with exquisite skill by some gothic artist in one of those capricious moods of sportive invention that produced those grotesque medleys for which the feudal sculptor was celebrated.  Not a sound was heard except the fall of the fountain and the light echoes that its voice called up.