The haunted house
what a man is worth is one thing, and the free money at his disposal
is another. And Hilda, you know—not that I blame her—but she likes to
have her house full of people....” He paused.
“Yes,” said Henry gently, “yes, she’s the wife of a rising man. She’s
quite right.”
“Well, you see,” went on William, with his eyes still averted from his
brother’s, and scribbling away furiously making circles round and round
that figure of £17,324, “the fact is, that I can’t help thinking you
and I might come to an arrangement which would suit both of us....”
“I don’t doubt it, William,” said Henry gently, and with some
admiration in his voice. He had no idea how these good business men got
on; he felt about them a little as he had felt about the big boys in
the Eleven when he had been a little boy at school. “You have always
been very generous to me, William.”
“I don’t want you to say that, Henry,” said William, decently and
soberly. “I wish I could have done more. At any rate, there it is. And
quite honestly, I shall not be able to go beyond £20,000.”
What now stood up in Henry’s mind out of the mist was the fact
that there was a margin, a margin of well over £2,000, which he
characteristically put down as “about three.” He was just going to
suggest something about that margin, and how useful it would be to him,
when William spoke again.
“Henry,” he said, lowering his voice by a tone or two, and speaking
more slowly, “I don’t want to seem to be giving advice; but I am more
used to precise business perhaps than you are; that is inevitable,
seeing the different kind of life I have had to lead.... But ... I am
rather afraid that if we do not look out, the next few years might be
disastrous to you.”
“Oh,” answered his brother uneasily, “things are bound to turn, you
know. Only this morning I was reading that wheat had gone up another
2s.—it’s true it’s the time of year for that, but....”
William interrupted him firmly, looking him straight in the face for
the first time in all his conversation, and bringing his right hand
firmly down upon the table.
“My dear Henry, _no_,” he said, “_no_. I have seen any amount of this
kind of thing. Honestly, it can’t go on. It’s your business, of course;
I don’t want to interfere. But it would relieve me (and I know I am
doing right in suggesting it) if you would undertake the only form of
retrenchment you can.”
“What?” said Henry bewildered and alarmed. “Sell the place? William?
Sell the place? Sell Rackham?”
“Oh, no!” answered William a little wearily, but trying to use a
soothing tone. “No! No! No! Nothing tragic! But why shouldn’t you
see that the place is properly kept in good hands, and you yourself
_travel_? Travel with the boy? You used to like travelling, and it
would do _him_ all the good in the world, at his age. A gap between the
Preparatory School and the Public School does no harm, and he is just
in the years when a boy takes in what he sees. It is astonishing what
one can save if one travels for a year or two.”
“Travel?” repeated Henry, as though in hesitation. He had loved what
little travelling he had had when he was young; the word appealed to
him. But the ties of his own old place suddenly called him back, as did
the now deep rut of daily habit into which his middle age had fallen.
“I couldn’t bear to let it,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “I
couldn’t let Rackham. Besides, who would take it? Who would keep it up?”
“My dear fellow, I didn’t suggest that you should let it exactly. I
have an idea, and I want to put it before you, and I want you to think
it over really carefully. There’s no hurry. _I_ would look after the
place. I could be here off and on the whole time, week-ends and what
not. I have got the means and I should like the job. I am fond of the
country, you know; and Hilda....”
“Do you mean—_live_ here?” said Henry.
“Well, my dear fellow, only off and on, of course, coming down from
London. But it would be kept up and cost you nothing, and I would see
that it was more or less put to rights, you know. It is a good idea.
And I would set what sum you liked, in reason, as my rent to you
against your interest as it falls due. And then your farm rentals
would come to you—at least, they’d be set against the interest also.”
“The rents don’t come to much now,” said Henry gloomily.
“No; but come—it makes a difference. And you know when one is in a
place one always does something to keep it going and even improve
it. And, you know, as for the balance, I mean _up_ to £20,000, as I
said....”
“Yes, yes,” answered his brother, a little shortly. Then he mused.
William followed up. He rose from his chair and paced the room.
“Look here, Henry,” he said, “the long and the short of it is that
something must be done, and surely this is the sensible thing to
do. You know you like it as far as the travelling goes; it would be
delightful for the boy; and then perhaps when the time comes things
will have taken a turn for the better.” For it was William now who
chose to be vague. He was restless, and sat down again, once more
looking his brother in the face. “I have told you, Henry, and surely
you must see it, there _must_ be a crash if you don’t look out. Living
abroad wouldn’t cost you a half—not a third—of what it costs you to
live here, and I’d take it all over—just for the time; and it will save
the boy’s schooling as well. There’s everything to be said for it, and
nothing against it. Come! Think it over.”
There was a very long silence. By the end of it the elder brother had
taken one of those curiously rapid decisions which the undetermined do
take when they are brought up suddenly against realities.
He simply said:
“Very well, William.” Then he sighed, and added: “Yes ... I think
you’re right.”
Another silence followed, during which the younger and more prosperous
man felt like an exhausted swimmer who touches the shore with his feet.
His speech was lighter when he resumed.
“Well, I am heartily glad of that, Henry. I thank God for it. I do
really think it is the best thing. It is obviously the best thing. If
you had seen what I have seen....”
“Yes, I know,” said Henry gently. “I know.”
“My dear fellow, we see tragedies in my business which....”
“Yes, I know,” said Henry again. “I know.”
“Two years, say, or perhaps three; we could talk about that in good
time. There’s no sort of hurry.”
“There’s no hurry, of course,” said Henry. “But I would make it this
autumn. These things had better be done soon if they’re to be done at
all.”
His tone was not hopeless, nor even cheerless: he knew that he would
have to face a very sad day, but it was natural in such a man to expect
an early return of all that he had known.
“I’ll go south,” he said. “It won’t take you long to make out the
thing in black and white, will it?”
“Oh, we shan’t need anything very formal, letters will do,” said his
brother. “I tell you what,” he added, “you had better have that balance
of £20,000 pretty soon, so that you can make all your arrangements
before you start; and then we’ll draw up some idea of what annual
balance there may be between the rental and what is due, you know, and
we’ll estimate the rest of your income—there is still a good wad of
father’s German Government loan untouched, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” said Henry simply. “I’ve still got that, it’s in the bank at
Lewes. They never brought in much—I don’t know how much—about £400 I
think—or £450. I don’t know.”
“Well,” answered William, “it’s only the usual first-class government
loan rates, but anyhow, German stuff is as safe as gold.”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“You will find the margin ample,” his brother assured him. “Things will
be all quite simple.” They were beginning to seem quite simple to Henry.
He remembered how cheaply he had travelled in the past, and how he
had enjoyed the little places and the simple habits. He thought of a
year of his own boyhood with his own father in Italy just after the
unification. He began to make pictures in his mind of his boy’s delight
at the mountains and at the beauties of the new lands.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “It’s the best thing. Write me the letters when
you choose, and I’ll look over them.”
And that was the way in which Rackham began its fourth transfer—but,
after all, remained under the same blood.
CHAPTER II
It was early in the month of June, 1914. Henry Maple was in
Switzerland, not the tourist Switzerland which he hated, but the
pleasant southern slopes of the Jura overlooking the plain, with the
great mountains to the south.
He was happier than he had been for many years—happier even than at
Rackham. The recent fret of embarrassment, the almost daily shifts and
worries, were ugly memories already faded. In the early part of the
year he had gone back to England alone, and found Rackham already so
nicely set in order by his wealthy brother that he knew not whether to
be pleased at its renewal or pained at the change. But on the whole he
was more pleased; for after all, it was more like the Rackham of his
childhood.
The provision made during the months of his absence had been ample for
his very few needs. The boy was getting good teaching at Solothurn, and
learning French and German thoroughly; in the autumn he would go on to
the Public School his father and his grandfather had gone to; he might
spend part of the holidays with his uncle, but most (he hoped) here in
the Jura with himself. For they had grown very close together during
this little not unpleasant exile, and the lad was coming to have
something of a hero-worship for a father who was always tender to him,
always understanding, and seemed to know so very much and to be able to
show him all that was to be discovered in that new world of travel from
which they had just settled down. He was spending perhaps a quarter
of what he had spent in Sussex—he had even saved! And if William had
punctually paid himself his dues, he had as punctually remitted the
balance of the rental and dividends to the Bank in Berne.
There came the threat of war and the ultimatum to Servia, but Henry
Maple had read too much and knew too much of the past to believe that
war would come.
War came; and the crash had upon this refined, scholarly
far-too-detached character a strange effect of not unwelcome isolation.
His vague hopefulness was still permanent; he had never liked the
Germans; therefore he was sure that they would soon be beaten. He was
secure where he was, and victory would only be a matter of a few weeks.
The Marne confirmed his judgment. Victory went on being a matter of a
few weeks. But in the autumn came a letter from William, explaining why
the next remittance would be considerably smaller than the last. The
German dividend, of course, had failed. He must not mind if there was
a certain irregularity in the payments. Everything was at sixes and
sevens, and it was not at all easy to transfer money; but he could
manage it. He hoped Henry had saved a little, and that the occasional
inevitable delays and the necessary diminution of the total would be
bearable until peace should come—for William agreed it could not be
long delayed. As for the boy, he had better stay safe where he was—he
was getting excellent tuition, and it would not be too late to go on to
his school in England when peace came. He had seen the headmaster and
it would be all right—a few months wouldn’t matter. And after all, John
was barely fourteen.
Yes; Henry had saved a little, for the first time in his life (and how
proud of it he was!). The lessening of income was a nuisance, but it
hardly meant more than that the saving stopped, and that he had to take
a little more care of his very modest expenditure. He secretly rejoiced