The haunted house
that even at the moment Aunt Hilda’s entry had supplanted Motley’s
_Republic_ in the interest of its reader Amathea was charging for the
library and for a decision.
Lord Mere de Beaurivage saw his wife coming into the library. He told
himself that it was time for her to dress. He divined some dreadful
purpose in her delay. He saw that she was all smiles, and therefore
dreaded the battle that was to come.
She had behaved well to him all her life—in the first hard days of
accumulating that little fortune by the private banking in the Old
Kent Road, she had proved as shrewd and as hard as he had, and a loyal
partner; in the big affairs of his later life she had never interfered.
When he had asked her advice, it had been sound. To-day the only cause
of his dread was that he dared not tell her the real reason of his
hesitation: he dared not advance the haunting. No man likes to look
cowardly in the eyes of his wife—not even a new politicians’ peer.
Corton also had spoken a word or two, very respectfully, explaining a
dark stain on the oak floor, and telling him his own version of the
legend.
What Corton had said still wreathed like a smoke in his mind, and in
memory he again heard that Voice—had he heard it?—a little too clearly.
He braced himself for the discussion that was before him; but he
already felt half beaten.
She sailed in and greeted him kindly; sat down at his side, and told
him radiantly that her dream had come true. Dear Hilda had as good as
said it.
“But there weren’t any figures, Uggins,” she added, “and that’s just as
well. I like you men to do the figgerin’ part. And you know your way
about that well, you do, don’t you, ducky? You remember ow the Prime
Minister said....”
But George Huggins, first Baron de Beaurivage was in a hurry.
“Yes, Mattie, yes, I remember. He was right, too. But, ’struth, Mattie,
her figure’s a corker.”
“What d’yer mean?” answered the lady anxiously. “Yer not backing out
now, George, are yer? Not breakin’ my ’eart?”
“Don’t you be so quick,” said he testily. “Wot I said was that her
figures were corkers, and so they were. That woman’s greedy, Mattie,”
he added earnestly, and then he growled, with a sudden reversion to his
youth, “bleeding greedy,” and his wife reproved him.
“You haven’t got no cause to use soldier language to me, Uncle Uggins,”
she said. “I’ve given you no provercation. And just you be minded of
it!”
He begged her pardon very humbly.
“It got the better of me, Mattie, it did. It shan’t again. But there!
Fifty thousand pounds—guineas she put it. Just for this!” And he waved
a short podgy arm vaguely and rheumatically at the book-lined walls.
Amathea Huggins put into her voice that rich scorn which is rarely
heard west of Temple Bar.
“Ow! So that’s what sticks in yer gizzard, is it, George Uggins? Fifty
dirty little thousand!”
“Guineas it was,” growled the peer.
“Well, guineas,” said Amathea, suddenly rising, her arms akimbo.
“Guineas. Why, George Uggins, you give more’n that for your baronetcy,
you did. D’yer remember what you give for the peerage?”
“Don’t!” said her husband faintly. “Don’t!”
“Yes, but I will,” said Amathea. “Wot! Yer stick at a gent’s price for
a beautiful country ’ouse! And its oaks and all, and its park-like
grounds. Like what I’ve read of all my life, and meant to ’ave. Do you
know what I’d give for it, George Uggins? If I ’ad money of my own? But
there, I ’aven’t. I am only just a poor woman, I am. But ’oo ’elped you
make your money, George Uggins? Oo stood by yer side, ever patient,
ever true? But there—I don’t count, I don’t.”
And here there came out suddenly a little five guinea handkerchief with
real lace all around it, and it was dabbed upon those poor porcine
eyes, while she sank again into her chair and sobs shook her most
substantial frame. “Oo am I? Just a victim, that’s wot I am. Nothing
for me. All the work for me. None of the joy, as you may say. And I
had so set my ’eart on it. And so cheap at that,” she said, suddenly
removing the handkerchief, and switching across from emotion to
reason. “Cheap! Why, George Uggins, can’t you see it’s give away? It’s
like pine-apples at sixpence,” she added, reverting to the days of the
barrow. “There you are a-haggling and a-hesitating, carrying on like
a harea-man. D’you know what I’d ave given? I’d ave given a _undred_
thousand, I would. What’s a hundred thousand to you, George Uggins?
You’d give it to-morrow for another step-up, you would, and you know
you would. And oo’s it to go to any ’ow?” she added, short-circuiting.
(It was her trump card always, poor woman! That only child who had died
before their wealth had ascended upon them from Hell.)
And George Huggins, First Baronet, and First Baron Mere de Beaurivage,
in the county of Berks, struck his colours and handed over his sword.
“Ave it yer own way, old girl,” he said. “Ave it yer own way.”
She gave him a large Old Kent Road kiss of the kind that pleased him
best even in his old age. And he was glad to have the battle over, even
in defeat. But man as he was, he could not help muttering to himself
(which was both inconsiderate of him, and futile):
“But oh, strike me, fifty thousand guineas!” Then, “What’s fifty
thousand shillings?” he asked sharply.
“Never you mind,” said the lady archly. Now that she had got her way
she was full of mature sunshine. “’Taint as much as counts, and you
wait till I’m settled ere, and all the county folk talking on the lawn,
and you coming out and shaking hands and sayin’—wotever it is you ought
to say,” she concluded lamely. Then she added valiantly, “Oh, them’ll
be appy days!”
In her mind’s eye she saw an endless procession of squires and their
ladies: yes, and one or two of the big Houses too; her Rolls Royces
parked in front of the new garage she was going to build—for they would
have a proper number of cars. She heard the strains of the band....
It is not true that women have only two happy days of their lives—the
day of their wedding and the day of their death. They have from
seventeen to twenty others in between, and this was one of Amathea’s.
She left her husband thus rewarded.
Amathea was fully employing her maid, she was dressing triumphantly.
She had won.
Poor George lay limp and too large, and too short, enormous, in the
chair. He was conquered. But finding himself alone, he muttered to
himself with some relief:
“Any’ow, the wimmen’s all gone up to dress now, and there’s an hour’s
peace. I’ll bide here awhile. No need for me to go for half an hour.
Never did take much stock in all them frills. Such nonsense!”
But hardly had he completed that little monologue when (oh, horror!)
the door was opened with decision, and the formidable Hilda strode in.
“Oh, Lord Mere,” she said, even before she had sat down beside him,
“I’m sorry, but I _must_ see you a minute. You see, the truth is, I was
rung up on the telephone, and I do honestly think it’s my duty to tell
you....”
“As wot?” said the unfortunate First Baron, trying to lift himself up
by the arms of the too deep couch of repose, and sinking back again.
“You see, dear Lord Mere, everything’s so hurried, isn’t it? But you
must hear of this offer, because honestly I think it’d be simply a
_crime_ to take it without letting you know first.... You’re generous,
I know, but you’re the best man of business of our time. You’d despise
me if I didn’t tell you the truth.” Here her guest interrupted
stentoriously.
“Not as ever I’d despise you, Mrs. Miple. But clear figures I do like.”
“My dear Lord Mere,” answered his hostess, leaning forward towards him
earnestly, and boldly putting a hand upon his knee, “to be perfectly
frank with you after your frankness with me, I have just heard; they’ve
just offered £60,000.”
“’Oo’s _they_?” queried her guest, with the courtesy of an older world.
“And though they made me promise not to say a word,” went on Aunt Hilda
solidly, “I do think it right to tell you.... I admit I don’t like to
lose ... dear Lord Mere ... but I must keep my word. We had nothing
fixed, but after all, I had already offered you the lesser price,
hadn’t I? And you know,” she continued sweetly, and even pensively, “I
think that straight dealing has a moral value of its own. It leaves the
conscience quiet. And that’s worth any number of thousands.”
“Yus, yus,” grunted the old man. He paid no attention to her nonsense.
He was thinking of Mattie. She would come in and see him again while he
was dressing—bound to do that. He couldn’t a-bear being harried. “Once
and for all!” was his motter. “It had made him what he was, it had.”
“Look here, Mrs. Miple,” he said, “I don’t know what about your
telephone and all. And I don’t want to. That’s strite, as between
friends. But I’ve got to finish this ’ere business one way or t’other
and I’ve made up my mind. You said fifty thousand, and I’ll give fifty
thousand.”
“Guineas,” murmured Hilda gently. “Guineas.”
“Fifty thousand _pounds_,” answered her guest, sitting up and speaking
with a decision that made him look ten years younger, and tapping the
padded arm of the low chair as he did so.
“Oh, really! Lord Mere....”
“Fifty thousand _pounds_, ma’am, and we’ll count the dirty lawyers’
frills for the guineas. Now then, are ye’ agreed?”
Aunt Hilda had never met big business in its more aggressive mood, and
I weep to tell you that she was cowed.
“Very well, Lord Mere,” she said. “Very well.”
“That’s it, ma’am,” said he, riveting the bargain, and at the same time
managing after two efforts to stand up on his poor old gouty legs.
“Fifty thousand pounds.”
He had never learned the silly little social habits of a class which
he both envied and despised; therefore he made for the door before
his hostess, and she heard him muttering as he went out, leaving her
there at once mightily relieved and mightily offended: “Fifty thousand
pounds. And I wouldn’t have done it for any but Mattie. Fifty thousand
pounds!”
CHAPTER XIII
Dressing in his bedroom, poor Lord Mere de Beaurivage was not content.
He had only done it for Mattie—and he was not content.
Two quite separate parts of the man were disturbed; first, the old
business part—fifty thousand was monstrously too much: he got feverish
over it (and that delayed his dressing. He never would have a man to
help him). It was monstrous. Good Lord! There was some he knew would
have ’ad it for half. He’d have had it for half himself if he’d been
developing the site. But there—Mattie wanted it.
Deeper down, and much worse, was the underlying wreathing mist of
terror which came and went, half below his consciousness. It worried
him extremely. Was he doomed to live under such influences the last
poor years of his life? He still delayed his dressing.... But there,
they’d only come down from London at week-ends. There was no nonsense
about the house in Mayfair. That was old, too, but respectable, at any
rate. A man could sleep quiet there. Leastways at the back, away from
the motors. And there! He’d done it for Mattie.
If it be true that this world is governed by appetite, fear, avarice,
hate, and affection, in this case affection had conquered—for the
moment.
The poor old boy had nearly finished dressing. He was carefully
brushing a scant white wisp of hair over a bold, broad head. As he did
so he began nervously to start at a sound which he thought was like a
whispering call. He tracked it down; it was only a curtain rustling
slightly along the wall before the open window. Once or twice again he
found himself looking oddly round as though something might be watching
him; but he told himself that one must get rid of all that, or one
could not carry on.