As they drew up at the gate, the Pengarth driver looked with furtive
curiosity at the house-front. Melrose, in the words of Lydia to young
Faversham, had "become a legend" to his neighbourhood, and many strange
things were believed about him. It was said that the house contained a
number of locked and shuttered rooms which were never entered; that
Melrose slept by day, and worked or prowled by night; that his only
servants were the two Dixons, no one else being able to endure his
company; that he and the house were protected by savage dogs, and that
his sole visitors were occasional strangers from the south, who arrived
with black bags, and often departed pursued with objurgations by Melrose,
and in terror of the dogs. It was said also that the Tower was full of
precious and marvellous things, including hordes of gold and silver; that
Melrose, who was detested in the countryside, lived in the constant dread
of burglary or murder; and finally--as a clue to the whole situation
which the popular mind insisted on supplying--that he had committed some
fearful crime, during his years in foreign parts, for which he could not
be brought to justice; but remorse and dread of discovery had affected
his brain, and turned him into a skulking outcast.
Possessed by these simple but interesting ideas, the Pengarth man sharply
noticed, first that the gate of the enclosure was padlocked, Melrose
himself supplying a key from his pocket; next that most of the windows of
the front were shuttered; and lastly--strange and unique fact, according
to his own recollections of the Tower--that two windows on the ground
floor were standing wide open, giving some view of the large room within,
so far as two partially drawn curtains allowed.
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