The Unknown Ajax

Chapter 10

Major Darracott spent the next week acquainting himself as best he might with his future inheritance. He received no assistance and very little encouragement from his grandfather, his tentative suggestion that my lord enlighten his ignorance being met with a crushing snub. My lord had not enjoyed the novel experience of being left without a word to say, nor was he accustomed to meet with disagreement in the bosom of his family. His sons and his grandsons, and even his spirited granddaughter, had learnt the wisdom of refraining from argument, in general receiving his more dogmatic utterances in silence, and never forcing him into the position of being obliged to defend the indefensible. Such divergent opinions as they might have held remained unuttered, under which arrangement they were at liberty, for anything his lordship cared, to differ from him as much as they chose. It had come, therefore, as a shock to him when Hugo (an upstart, as near to being misbegotten as made no odds), instead of keeping to himself his shabby-genteel notions of morality had not only owned to them without hesitation when challenged, but had had the effrontery to maintain them in the teeth of his grandfather’s disapprobation. That he had taken little part in the resultant argument in no way alleviated my lord’s anger. What he had said had served to compel Matthew, uneasily conscious of his office, to support him. My lord was indifferent to Claud’s revolt, but Matthew’s defection had infuriated him. Forgetting that it was not Hugo, but Vincent, who had tossed the bone of dissension into their midst, he saw Hugo as an impudent make-bait, too full of north-country bumptiousness to realize that he had nothing to do but to hold his peace amongst the relatives who had magnanimously admitted him to a place within their ranks. Far from conducting himself with becoming humility he had, in his maddeningly simple way, exposed the weakness of his grandfather’s case; and, to crown his iniquity, he had recognized and laughed at the absurdity of an aphorism hastily uttered as a clincher to a losing argument.

The hostility which the Major’s style in the saddle had done something to diminish flamed up again; and when he expressed a desire to be instructed in the extent and management of the estates, he was seen as an encroaching mushroom, a burr, and ah irreclaimable commoner, and was informed that his cousin Anthea would tell him as much as it was needful for him to know. My lord added that if he thought he would be allowed to put a finger in a pie not yet his own, he would soon learn his mistake.

It had not been Anthea’s intention to gratify her grand-sire by devoting any appreciable part of her time to the entertainment or the education of Major Darracott. She had not disliked her one expedition in his company: indeed, she had enjoyed it, for she had discovered him to be likeable and amusing. But she had detected in him a certain audacity which set her on her guard, and made her determined to keep him (in a perfectly friendly way) at arm’s length. Had he tried to advance himself in her good graces, or to coax her to ride with him, she would have hardened her heart, and abandoned him to Claud; but the Major committed neither of these imprudences. When Mrs. Darracott, her earlier scruples forgotten, suggested that Anthea should take him to see some view, or picturesque village, he said that he did not wish to be a nuisance to his cousin, who must not feel it to be her duty to entertain him when, no doubt, she had many more important tasks on hand.

Unlike her mother, who thought the Major’s meekness very touching, Anthea regarded him with a good deal of suspicion. She could detect nothing but humble deference in his smile, but she was finding it increasingly difficult to believe that he was either meek or biddable. His countenance was certainly good-humoured, and his blue eyes guileless, but about his firm-lipped mouth and decided chin there was not a trace of weakness or of humility; and although he was unassertive, making no attempt to force his way into the family circle, or to take an uninvited part in any conversation, this modesty carried with it very little suggestion of bashfulness. It had more than once occurred to Anthea that he had a good deal of quiet assurance. He could scarcely be unaware of the hostility with which he was regarded by at least three members of the household; a shy man, she thought, must have been flustered by the knowledge that his every word and movement came under critical survey; but she had yet to see him betray any sign of nervousness. It was significant, too, that the servants, usually quick to take their tone from their betters, treated him with respect, and served him with every appearance of willingness. It might have been expected that he should have the habit of command, but Anthea could not discover that he did command: he merely requested.

“The servants all like him,” Mrs. Darracott told her. “Mrs. Flitwick was saying so to me only this morning, and I am not at all surprised, for I am sure everyone must like him—except, of course, your grandfather and Vincent, which doesn’t signify, because they never like anyone! He is the kindest creature!”

“I can see that you like him, at all events, Mama!”

“Yes, my love, I do like him. I should be a positive monster if I didn’t, for I don’t think I ever met anyone so considerate. Only think of his mending the casement in my bedchamber, just because I told him how disobliging and cross old Rudge is, saying he will do it when he has time to spare, and never making the least push to do anything except what Glossop, or your grandfather, orders him to do!”

“If he borrowed Rudge’s tools, there is one servant who doesn’t like him!”

“Nothing of the sort!” said Mrs. Darracott. “I own, I was very much afraid Rudge would take a pet, but—would you believe it, love?—he came up to my room while Hugo was at work on the window, and actually apologized to me! He wanted to finish the job, but Hugo wouldn’t have it, so, to my amazement, he stayed to help Hugo, telling him all the time what he ought to do, and shaking his head over it, but not in the least disagreeably! And he asked me if there was anything else that needed attention, so I mentioned the loose board in your room, and he has promised he will nail it down this very afternoon! Say what you will, Anthea, he never would have done so for me: he didn’t want Hugo to think he was disobliging, which, of course, he is!”She looked a little anxiously at her daughter, and ventured to say: “I wish you will take pity on him, my dear! Poor boy, he must feel quite wretched, with your grandfather treating him so unkindly, and Matthew very little better, while as for Vincent—Well, I only hope he comes by his deserts!”

So Anthea took pity on her cousin. He did not look at all wretched, although he admitted that he was in disgrace with his grandfather, and, to some extent, he thought, with his uncle.

“Yes, we heard all about it,” she said. “You put my uncle in a fix, you know, for while, on the one hand, he did not wish to vex Grandpapa, on the other, he felt himself to be obliged, as a member of the Government, to condemn the free-traders. My aunt, however, considers that you feel just as you ought, and honours you for it!”

“Now, if you’re going to roast me—!”

“Nothing of the sort! She says you are pretty-behaved, and don’t want for sense. High praise, I assure you!”

“She frightens me to death,” he confided.

She turned her head, and surveyed him thoughtfully. “Will you think me very uncivil if I say that I don’t believe you, cousin?”

“Ay, I shall and-all!” he replied promptly.

Her eyes laughed, but she said: “Then I will merely say that you are what Richmond calls a complete hand. Does Vincent frighten you too?”

“He has me all of a twitter.”

“I shouldn’t wonder at it if he thinks so!” she said, with some tartness. “I wish you will stop shamming it, and tell me how much longer you mean to endure his insolence!”

“Nay, it doesn’t worry me,” he said, smiling.

“It should! It puts me in such a rage when he cuts at you, and you do nothing to stop him!”

“Now, why?”

“Because he would be all the better for a sharp set-down!”

“Happen he’ll get one, but it won’t be from me.”

She rode on in silence for a few moments, but presently said: “It—it is so spiritless of you!”

“I know it is,” he said, with a mournful shake of his head. “Downright malten-hearted, that’s me!”

“Yes, but I don’t think you are! Well, how could you be? You are a soldier!”

“Ay, and a terrible time I had of it, keeping in the rear,” he said falling into reminiscent vein. “When I wasn’t being a Belem-ranger—that’s what we—they!—used to call the fellows who were always going off to hospital in Lisbon, you know—”

“No doubt that’s how you became a Major!” she interrupted.

“No, you’re out there: I had my majority by purchase, of course. Mind you, if it hadn’t been for the losses we suffered at Waterloo—”

“If you mean to continue in this style,” she exclaimed, reining in her mare, “I shall go home immediately!”

“I was being modest,” he explained. “It wouldn’t become me to tell you what a devil of a fellow I was. However, since I see you’ve guessed it, I’ll own that Hector was nothing to me. You’d have thought I was one of the Death or Glory boys!”

“Well, what I think now is that you are the most shameless prevaricator I ever encountered!” retorted Anthea.

“Eh, there’s no pleasing you!” he said, heaving a despondent sigh. “Now, I’ve perjured myself to no purpose at all!”

“You are perfectly ridiculous!” she told him, choking on a laugh. “It would please me—though what you do is quite your own affair, and no concern of mine!—to see Vincent taken at fault for once in his life!”

He rubbed his nose meditatively. “Ay, I can see it would, and that’s where the water sticks, lass! Now, just you tell me what you’d have me do!”

“Good heavens, make it plain to him you’ll stand no more of it!”

“And how will I do that?”

“You have a tongue in your head! If I were in your shoes, I’d give as good as I got!”

He smiled. “I don’t doubt you would. But, setting aside I’ve no taste for fratching, if that didn’t answer I’d be in a bit of a hobble, wouldn’t I?” She looked frowningly at him, and his smile broadened. “Ay, I know what’s in your head. I’d look champion, coming to handyblows with a man two or three stone lighter than I am, and a good three inches shorter!”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted. “What a dead bore it must be to you, being so very large!”

“Ay, it’s a reet handicap,” he agreed gravely. “If I’d been a reasonable size I could have kicked up all sorts of riot and rumpus. I daresay I’d have been a prime favourite with everyone by this time.”

She laughed. “Well, I must own I, at least, shouldn’t blame you if you knocked Vincent down! I see, of course, that you won’t do it—unless, perhaps, he hit you first? I believe he is a very good boxer.”

He grinned at the hopeful note in her voice. “Nay, why should he? If you’re thinking I might provoke him to it, I’m sorry to disoblige you, but my name’s Darracott—not Captain Hackum!”

“No, no, of course I wouldn’t wish you to do that! In fact, I trust you won’t, because there’s no saying, with Vincent—Well, never mind! Let us go on, shall we?”

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, trotting beside her down the narrow lane.

“Into Sussex. We extend for some way across the county border. I’ll make you known to one or two of Grandpapa’s tenants. You may depend upon it they are all agog to see you! They won’t show it, however, so don’t be dismayed if they seem unfriendly. Sussex people are suspicious of foreigners! Your father was well liked, though: that will stand you in good stead! My uncle Granville was not, and nor is Grandpapa—for reasons that will become apparent to you if they are not so already,”

It had been apparent to the Major for several days that his grandfather was a bad landlord; by the time they turned their horses’ heads homewards, after a tour that had included visits to two tenant-farmers of long-standing, and a brief survey of two farms leased on short tenancies, he had a more exact knowledge of the condition of his inheritance.

Wondering what he made of it (for his countenance was inscrutable), Anthea said, breaking a long silence: “Well?”

He glanced down at her, and smiled. “I’m sorry: I was in the clouds!”

“What were you thinking, Hugo?”

“I was wishing I knew more about husbandry—and wondering what the deuce I’m going to do.”

“I doubt if you’ll be permitted to do anything,” she said frankly. “Unless you can contrive to bring Grandpapa round your thumb, and I never knew anyone do that except Richmond. Besides, what could you do?”

“It wouldn’t be a question of bringing him round my thumb, though the Lord knows it would be a ticklish business to do the thing without setting up his back. I’d be loth to do that, for he’s an old man, and my grandfather besides.”

“Do you wish to manage the estates?” she asked, in a little perplexity. “I thought—something you said made me think you didn’t mean to remain here while Grandpapa is alive.”

“I don’t know what I mean to do,” he said. “I didn’t think to stay, but there’s work crying out to be done here, and though I’m not the man to do it I can’t hoax myself into believing that it isn’t a matter of duty to make a push to set things to rights.”

“Hugo,” she said earnestly, “to set things to rights will mean putting money into the land instead of wringing the last groat out of it, and that you’ll never persuade Grandpapa to do! Do, pray, talk to Glossop before you do anything rash!”

“Is he your steward? I can’t talk to him behind my grandfather’s back, but I shan’t do anything rash, I promise you. It’s too soon for me to do aught but feel my way, at any hand.” He saw that she was looking rather anxious, and smiled reassuringly down at her. “Nay, lass, I’m not one to go full-fling at anything! If I don’t feel my way, I’ll be off!”

“But I thought—that is, Grandpapa told us that you had sold out? How will you do, if you don’t remain here?”

“I’ll do well-enough,” he replied, with a chuckle. “I’ve some brass of my own. My grandfather Bray left me what he had—his savings, you might call it. That’s what his lordship calls it, at all events.”

Her brow cleared. “Oh, in that case—! I didn’t know, and was afraid you might, having sold out, be dependent upon Grandpapa. Hugo, take my advice, and don’t let yourself be bullied into staying at the Place! I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve seen what it does to people! There’s never any peace, there never was! Grandpapa quarrels with everyone: I think he enjoys it. Not only with the family, you understand, but with everyone! That’s why you’ll rarely see a guest at the Place, and never a morning visitor. He is not on terms even with the Vicar! When you have lived with us for a little longer, you’ll understand. We are all so fretted and rubbed that our tempers will be as bad as Grandpapa’s in the end: I know mine will! Not Mama’s, but it is worse for her, because she has more sensibility than I have, poor love and is very nervous. But if you had known the family when my father and uncle Granville were alive—! I assure you, you would take care not take up residence under the same roof as Grandpapa, for even your temper would crack under the strain!”

He smiled, but said: “I daresay it would. I haven’t been here many days yet, but I know already that I couldn’t live with his lordship, and I don’t mean to try. And that puts me in mind of something! Who lives in the Dower House?”

“No one, at present. No one but Spurstow, that is. He was Great-aunt Matty’s butler, and when she died Grandpapa said he might remain at the Dower House, to look after it until it should be inhabited again.”

“And who was Great-aunt Matty?” he enquired.

“Oh, she was Grandpapa’s sister! When Grandpapa was married, she and our great-grandmother removed to the Dower House. Great-grandmother died before I was born, and Aunt Matty continued there until she died—oh, nearly two years ago now! She was very eccentric, and she looked exactly like a witch, and was used to mutter to herself. Richmond and I were terrified of her, when we were children, but fortunately she hated to be visited, so that it was only very occasionally that we were obliged to go to the Dower House. She always sat in one room, and kept the blinds drawn in the others, and had dozens of the most odious cats. It used to be one of Richmond’s worst nightmares, that he was shut up in that dark house, with cats’ eyes staring at him wherever he looked, and poor Jane Darracott’s ghost creeping up behind him!”

“I’d forgotten the ghost, Is that why the house stands empty?”

“Well, yes, in a way it is. My Uncle Granville wished to live there, after Aunt Matty died, but Aunt Anne said that she would as lief do anything in the world as set foot inside the house. She’s very fanciful, suffers nervous disorders—distempered freaks, Grandpapa calls them! But I believe the real cause of the scheme’s coming to nothing was that the house was found to be in shocking repair, and, of course, Grandpapa refused to waste any money on it. When Grandpapa practises economy it is always at the expense of his family, never his own! Are you thinking that you might live there? I warn you, it is rat-ridden, ghost-ridden, and damp into the bargain! Spurstow says the roof leaks in several places.”

“It sounds champion!” he remarked. “Don’t tell me it hasn’t dry rots as well, for I wouldn’t believe you!”

“Very likely, I should think.” She threw him a mischievous glance. “And to add to your comfort, there is said to be an underground passage, leading from the cellars to the Place, in which (could you but find it) you would discover the bones of several persons who were so unfortunate as to have fallen out with one—or possibly more—of our ancestors.”

“That adds a cosy touch,” he agreed. “Ralph II?”

“No, we were obliged to abandon that notion,” she said regretfully. “It seems to be established that the passage was walled up long before his time. However, the son of the Darracott who came over with the Conqueror we understand to have been a shockingly loose screw, so we are much inclined to think it was he who hid the bodies of his enemies in it”

“Ay, a passage would be just the place anyone would choose,” he nodded. “And, if you’ve done trying to make an April-gowk out of me, I’d be glad to know why you’re so set on holding me off from the house?”

She laughed. “Oh, I’m not! I merely thought it right to warn you!”

“Eh, that was kind!” he said appreciatively. “Of course, I’d be wasting my time if I tried to find the passage, wouldn’t I?”

“Well, we wasted ours, when we were children,” she admitted, “but if you mean to say that you don’t believe there is a passage I shall take in very bad part. Its existence is one of our more cherished traditions! There’s a reference to it somewhere in our archives. Unfortunately, no hint of its precise locality is vouchsafed, and when Oliver ventured to suggest to Grandpapa that we might discover it with the aid of a pickaxe or two, the notion, from some cause or another, found no favour with him! He did own that in ancient times there had been a passage, but although we—that, Oliver, and Caro, and Eliza, and Vincent, and Claud, and I—thought it could be put to excellent use, he quite failed to enter into our sentiments!”

“I’m not so sure that I blame him!”

She gurgled. “I wish you might have seen his face when Claud and I said that it was his duty to find the bones of our murdered foes, and give them decent burial! You see, we were the youngest, and we became wholly confused by the tales the others made up! I think the bones were Oliver’s contribution to the legend, and to this day I’m not perfectly sure how much belongs to the original legend, and how much was added by the boys. I must say I wish you may persuade Grandpapa to let you have the Dower House (although I fear you won’t!), so that you might do a little excavation, and confirm our ancient tradition! I’ll take you to see it tomorrow, if you would like it.”

The Dower House was situated only some four hundred yards to the north-east of Darracott Place, from which it was hidden by a belt of trees, and a tangle of overgrown bushes. A carriage-drive gave access to it from a narrow lane, but Anthea took the Major there by way of a footpath through the wood, and entered the garden at the side of the house. A ditch surmounted by a black-thorn hedge enclosed the grounds, which seemed, at first glance, to consist almost wholly of a shrubbery run riot. Holding open a wicket-gate, which squeaked on its rusty hinges, Hugo glanced round, remarking that it looked a likely place for a ghost. Anthea, disentangling the fringe of her shawl from the encroaching hedge, agreed to this, and at once took him to see what she called the fatal window. It was at the back of the house, and faced south-east, on to what Hugo took to be a wilderness but which was, she assured him, a delightful pleasure-garden. “If you look closely, you will see that there are several rose-beds, and a sundial,” she said severely. “The lawn, perhaps, needs mowing.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” said Hugo, eyeing the rank grass with disfavour. “Myself, I’d have it ploughed up and re-sown, but I daresay it’s in keeping with the rest as it is.”

“Well, I warned you how it would be. That is the window. The room was originally the best bedchamber, but after the accident—if it wasn’t a murder—none of the subsequent tenants cared to sleep in it, so it was reserved for the accommodation of guests.”

“Ay, it would be. It must go to his lordship’s heart to think he hasn’t a haunted room at the Place: I don’t doubt I’d have found myself in it if there had been one. Is this where the lady walks?”

“Oh, she walks all round the house, and in it, too, according to some! Very few of Aunt Matty’s servants ever stayed for long with her, but I never heard that they saw the ghost. They used to complain that they heard strange noises, but I fancy they wouldn’t have made anything of that if they hadn’t been warned by the villagers. None of them would dream of coming near the house after dark, of course.”

She led the way, as she spoke, towards the front of the house. Here the trees grew so close to the building that a branch of one giant elm almost brushed the roof, seeing which, Hugo said decidedly: “I’d have that down for a start. Eh, but it’s a fine old house!”

“I suppose it is,” Anthea replied, with a certain lack of enthusiasm. “It is older than the Place, I know, and said to be a good example of that style of ancient stone-building, but it has always seemed to me a dreadfully gloomy house.”

“If all that ivy were stripped away, and the bushes uprooted, and some of the trees felled, it wouldn’t be gloomy. I allow there’s no prospect on this side, but there should be as good a one, or better, as there is from the Place, on the garden side, once a clearance was made.”

“Is that what you would do?”

He nodded. “I would, if I meant to live here. I’ve a strong notion that we have only to let in some light and air to lay that ghost of yours.”

“But this is iconoclasm!” she exclaimed. “Lay the Darracott spectre? For shame! Have you no respect for tradition?”

He looked quizzically down at her. “Nay, that’s a matter of up-bringing,” he said. “I wasn’t reared to respect Darracott tradition. Come to think of it, I doubt if I’d respect a ghost that scared the servants out of my house, whatever way I’d been reared. Can we go inside?”

“Certainly—unless Spurstow has gone out, and left the doors locked,” she responded. “If he is in, he won’t accord us a very warm welcome, but don’t be dismayed! He has grown to be as eccentric as ever Aunt Matty was, and regards all visitors in the light of hostile invaders, but he won’t repel us with violence! He has lived for thirty years here, so you can’t wonder at it that he should be a trifle crusty.”

“So he’s not afraid of the ghost?”

“Oh, no! He holds poor Jane in great contempt—like you!”

“Do you believe she haunts the place?” Hugo asked, walking beside her up the weed-grown drive towards the house.

She hesitated. “N-no. At least—I don’t believe it at this moment, in broad sunlight, but—no, I shouldn’t care to come here at night! It isn’t only the villagers who have seen things: Richmond has, too.”

“Has he, indeed? What did he see?”

“A female form. He couldn’t imagine who it was at first. He says he went towards her, and suddenly she vanished. Ugh!”

“Well, if that’s all she does she’s welcome to haunt the place,” said the Major prosaically.

They trod up two worn stone steps into the flagged porch; but as Anthea grasped the rusted iron bellpull the door was opened by a grizzled man in a frieze coat. He looked the visitors over morosely, bade Anthea a grudging good-morning, and said that he had seen her coming up the drive, and supposed that she must be wanting something.

“Yes, I want to show the house to Major Darracott,” she replied cheerfully.

“If you’d have sent me word, Miss Anthea, you were coming here this day-morning I’d have had it ready to be shown,” said Spurstow, with considerable severity. “The rooms are all shut up, as well you know. You’ll have to bide while I get my keys.”

With these quelling words, he admitted them into the hall, and left them there while he went off, grumbling under his breath, to his own quarters. When he presently returned he found that the Major, having opened the shutters covering the windows at the back of the hall, was standing in rapt contemplation of the Cromwellian staircase, while Miss Darracott, holding her flounced skirt gathered in one hand, looked with a wry face at the dusty floor.

“It’s not my fault, miss,” said Spurstow, forestalling criticism. “You shouldn’t ought to have come without you gave me warning.”

“I can see I shouldn’t!” she retorted. “But I have come, and I mean to take Major Darracott over the house, even though it be knee-deep in dust, so you may as well make up your mind to it.”

This forthright speech appeared rather to please than to exacerbate the retainer. He gave a sour smile, and, with only a passing reference to the troublesome characteristics displayed by Miss Darracott in childhood, unlocked the door leading into the dining-parlour, and opened the shutters.

It would not have surprised Anthea if the Major’s wish to inspect the Dower House had deserted him long before their tour of the ground-floor had been completed. Dirty panes and encroaching ivy darkened the rooms; there were several patches of damp on the walls; most of the ceilings were ominously blackened above the old-fashioned fireplaces; every room smelled of must; and a final touch of melancholy was added by the furniture, which had been huddled together in the middle of each room, and covered with newspapers, old sheets, and scraps of sackcloth.

“I warned you what it would be like!” she told Hugo.

“Ay, it’s in bad repair, but it could be put to rights,” he answered.

“That could be done, but it will always be a dark, gloomy house.”

“Nay, if the ivy were stripped from it, and all those bushes cleared away, you’d never recognize it,” he said. “The best of the rooms face to the south-east, but the sun’s shut out by trees and shrubs.”

“Miss Matty, sir,” observed Spurstow, in hostile accents, “wouldn’t have the sun shining in, and fading the carpets.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t, but she wasn’t reared on the edge of the moors,” returned Hugo. “I’m not used to be shut in: I want room to breathe, and never mind the carpets!”

A disapproving sniff was the only answer vouchsafed to this. Spurstow then conducted the unwelcome visitors to the upper floor, and volunteered no further remark until Anthea, showing Hugo Jane Darracott’s bedchamber, asked whether her ghost had been seen there. He said repressively that he took no account of ghosts.

“The Major takes no account of them either,” said Anthea. “He thinks I’m telling him a Banbury story, but the house is haunted, isn’t it?”

“Folks say so,” Spurstow replied. “I never did, miss. I’m not one to talk, and I don’t scare easy. I’ve lived here thirty years and more, and it’s done me no harm. I don’t take any notice.”

Anthea gave an involuntary shiver, but the Major said: “Any notice of what?”

Spurstow looked at him under his brows. “Aught I hear,” he said.

“What do you hear?” enquired Anthea.

“Nothing, miss. It doesn’t worry me,” he said. “Time was when I’d get up out of my bed, thinking there was someone got into the house, but it was all foolishness: you can search from the cellars to the attics, but you’ll see naught. Leastways, I never did. It’s only footsteps, when all’s said.”

“Oh!” said Anthea rather faintly. “Only footsteps!”

“Now, you don’t want to listen to the silly stories folks tell, Miss Anthea!” said Spurstow roughly. “The rest’s naught but the wind in the trees, or an owl, maybe. There are nights when it sounds like someone was moaning outside here pitiful, but lor’ bless you, miss, the wind can make queer noises! I don’t heed it!”

Repressing an impulse to glance over her shoulder, Anthea moved rather closer to the Major, unexpectedly grateful for the presence of so large and solid a body. He looked down at her, and smiled reassuringly. “That makes another good reason for pushing the woodland back from the house,” he remarked. “As for the footsteps, I’d have in the rat-catcher!”

His eyes were on Spurstow as he spoke, but that worthy said nothing. There was nothing acquiescent in his silence, however; his expression was that of one who might, had he chosen to do so, have made further and more alarming disclosures; and Anthea could only be glad that nothing more remained to be seen of the house than the cellars and the servants’ quarters. The Major obligingly disclaimed any interest in these, so they went downstairs again, followed by Spurstow, who broke his silence to inform them that whenever it rained the roof leaked in a dozen places. If they had gone up into the attics, he said, they would have seen the buckets placed there to catch the drips.

On this depressing note they departed, Spurstow, slightly mellowed by the douceur bestowed upon him by the Major, holding open the door for them, and even going so far as to say that they would always be welcome.

“If we were welcome, I’d be sorry for anyone that was unwelcome,” remarked Hugo, as they retraced their steps to the wicket-gate. “Did you say he’d been the old lady’s butler?”

“Yes, but he was never trained to be a butler. Aunt took him out of the stables, because none of the butlers she hired from London ever stayed with her above a month. She didn’t care about his manners, and I must own that he was amazingly faithful to her, and, I think, fond of her, in his rough way. She let him do just as he pleased, and, of course, when she took to living in one room he managed everything, and never cheated her out of a groat, what’s more. He was born and bred on the estate, and his father and grandfather before him, but even Grandpapa wouldn’t have wondered at it if he had feathered his nest at Aunt Matty’s expense. She left him an annuity, but only quite a small one, which was why, I suppose, he was willing to stay on alone in the Dower House. I wouldn’t have done so for a fortune! Didn’t he make your blood run cold when he said it was only footsteps? Just as though that made everything right! I thought it made everything ten times eerier, didn’t you?”

“Ay, he did it very well,” agreed Hugo.

She looked quickly up at him. “Did it very well? Do you mean he was trying to frighten us? It didn’t seem so to me. He made so little of it! He even said the wind was to blame for the moaning noise.”

Hugo chuckled. “So he did! If you could have seen your own face, lass! Not that I think it was you he was trying to scare away. What I did think was that as soon as he suspected I’d a notion of living in the Dower House myself he did all he could to set me against it.”

She knit her brows. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” she said, after considering for a minute or two. “Unless you hired him with the house, which is not very likely, he would be obliged to leave, and I daresay—No, it can’t be that! The house was known to be haunted long before he came to it!”

“If it was half as badly haunted as he’d have us believe, our great-grandmother wouldn’t have gone to live there in the first place, let alone have stayed there till she died!” replied Hugo. “Nay, lass! Spurstow wants to keep people away from it. That might be because he’s afraid of being turned out: I’m not saying it isn’t, but what I suspect is that he’s got some other reason—and a havey-cavey one at that!—for scaring the people roundabout here with his talk of footsteps and pitiful meanings!”

“But Richmond saw the ghost!” she argued. “One or two of the villagers have seen it, too, though not as clearly as he did. Old Buttermere said it was a white thing, that glided over the ground, and vanished into the shrubbery.”

“And a very good place for it to vanish, too,” said Hugo, wholly unimpressed. “Give me a sheet, and a night without too much moonlight, and I’ll engage to do the same!”

“And the form Richmond mistook for a living person?”

“If Richmond came up here expecting to see the ghost of Jane Darracott,” he suggested, after a moment, “and in fact saw that old rascal, draped in a sheet, the likelihood is that his imagination took hold of him, and made him ready to swear he’d seen a deal more than he did see. It’s a queer thing, imagination—and I’d say Richmond’s was a lively one.”

She thought this over, saying at the end of her cogitations: “Well, if you are right, Hugo, I daresay I can guess why Spurstow wishes to keep everyone away from the Dower House. Indeed, I wonder that it shouldn’t have occurred to any of us! Depend upon it, the house is being used by free-traders!”