The haunted house
But she had the strength to add, before she turned to the ambulance
and to the last attentions due to her dear one: “Jest you wite till I
tells the Prime Minister about you, Hilda Maple! You’ll see what ’e’ll
do to yer! Yus, he will! Not arf!” And with that, amid the embarrassed,
the horrified, the discreet crowd about her, she sobered down to give
still breathless but intelligible orders, sat herself down in the
ambulance beside her husband, against all rules, and was gone.
* * * * *
Rackham Catchings was as quiet as the dusty scene of an explosion when
the rumble is over: but it was as wrecked. And Hilda Maple sat down,
a wreck herself, her elbow upon the table of the hall, her dizzy head
supported in her left hand.
Lord Hambourne did not fail—he could not fail—upon such an occasion.
“I’ve c-c-come to say g-g-good-bye,” he grinned, as though it were the
most ordinary morning that ever had dawned. Hilda Maple could hardly
manage to be civil. She half rose, she asked him if he had a vehicle,
she mechanically said she hoped he would come again.
Hardly had he gone when footsteps approached. It was the cook, heading
her phalanx once again.
“Not as I’d disturb any Lady in your Circumstances, ma’am,” she
declaimed, “but if you please, ma’am, I must be going this very
day. Ow, never mind the month’s wages,” she added loftily, as Hilda
attempted to speak. “And all these poor things,” waving at the herd,
“they say the same as me.”
“Not Alphonse?” asked poor Hilda of the crowd, feebly.
“Not that Toad!” said Mrs. Fry. “Not that I knows on. I won’t speak for
him—I’ll have nothing to do with him. But this day we goes, ma’am, all
of us. We’re all resolved. We won’t sleep under this roof again—for
sleep we can’t.” And there were murmurs and groaning exclamations of
assent from the rest.
“Not Corton?” said poor Hilda, in a still lower voice.
“Mr. Corton,” said Mrs. Fry with dignity, “has informed us that he
prefers to speak to you privately. He will then say whatever he has to
say.”
And with that she sailed out, and with her followed her attendant
nymphs and gentlemen-in-waiting.
Hilda had hardly time for breathing space when John in his turn
appeared.
“John,” said the unfortunate woman, “I feel faint.”
“Of course, Aunt Hilda,” he said sympathetically. “I must give you some
brandy.”
“It’s a thing I never do,” said Aunt Hilda, as her nephew poured out
a stiff dose from a derelict decanter of the night’s debauch, and
squirted a sufficiency of soda into it.
“Drink that, Aunt Hilda,” he said.
“I suppose it’ll do me good,” she answered in a voice still faint. “I
feel more dead than alive.”
She was breathing heavily. Then she said:
“Well, John....”
“I’m still here, Aunt Hilda,” said John dutifully. “Whatever you
want me for, I’m still here. And.... And, Aunt Hilda, I’ll still buy
Rackham.”
“You’ll still what?” said Aunt Hilda, with the ghost of her former
energy reviving.
“What I said,” doggedly repeated John, in an echo of so many
insistencies. “I’ll buy Rackham. You’ve got the papers, Aunt Hilda, and
I’ve got a copy of them here.”
There worked in Hilda Maple’s mind, violently surging one against the
other like opposing strong tides in a strait, the two currents which
have shaken men and women since first they dealt with buying and
selling. She was ruined—no one would buy the place. Her reason told her
in a flash that she was lucky to have such a chance even as this. It
would clear her, at any rate.
And the other current was her pride—after having stood out for so long,
and after having felt such contempt for the foolish boy. Above them
the figure of the Ancestor grinned fatuously, and the young man of
twenty-three and the woman of fifty sat silent under its gaze.
John put the papers down upon the table, and his fountain-pen by the
side.
Then in that silence the Ancestor spoke from his frame. He spoke in a
deep voice, and with a gravity that belied his features.
“Woman! Woman!” he boomed.
Aunt Hilda swerved round, stared a moment at the incredible Thing, gave
a little squeak like a bird.
“Woman! Woman!” boomed on Sir Harry Murtenshaw, Knight, from the depths
of his painted chest. “Is he not the Rightful Heir?”
“Oh, sir!” came abruptly and strongly in sharp agony from Hilda Maple’s
lips. She sank suddenly upon the floor to her knees and clasped her
fingers convulsively, imploring the clemency of her dreadful visitant,
“Oh, sir, I am a sinful woman!” She buried her face in her hands. Even
as she did so she heard that solemn voice, again for the third time,
and in yet deeper tones:
“Is he not the Rightful Heir?”
She reeled a little. John Maple helped her up and seated her. She
signed.
* * * * *
“John,” sighed the unfortunate woman, as she laid down the pen, and
when he had handed her his acknowledgment—the instrument of her
release, the paper that would stop the Esthonian’s bark—“leave me, dear
boy. Leave me!”
“Can’t I...?” he began.
“No, my dear,” she said feebly. She had never been a tithe so
affectionate to him in all these years, as now when he had done her so
ill a service; and it burnt him with remorse—but there was the strong
image of Bo in the background to keep him to the mark. “Leave me,” she
said. And he walked out with bent head.
* * * * *
Hilda Maple broke into a flood of tears, putting her head down upon
her crossed arms, and sobbing freely. She gave full vent to her
relief; and minutes passed before she raised her face again, stained,
distraught—hideous, she was sure. And when she raised it, there stood
respectfully at the door, hesitating whether he should come in, the
tall figure of Lord Hellup. Alone of that household the night vigil had
not ruffled him at all. He had simply changed from his evening dress to
his morning clothes, with all the creases where they should be. He had
shaved, he was as fresh as a daisy. No wonder they make money, and keep
it. But then, they also have hearts of gold.
As she raised her face he knew at once that he was intruding, and
turned to go. But she, the unfortunate, was on her feet.
“Hannibal!... I mean, Hamilcar!” she cried, stretching forth her
extended hands.
He returned. She tottered. And fifty fell into the arms of sixty years.
But there! What difference does ten years make at that time of life?
Transcriber’s Notes:
• Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
• Perceived typographical errors have been corrected:
Page Before After
24 that than
31 premanent permanent
56 £17,324 “£17,324
70 franfreluches fanfreluches
86 Rastaqouère Rastaquouère
99 effectionate affectionate
100 tomorrow to-morrow
113 stagged staged
138 At As
142 gaze( gaze,
172 Beaurevage Beaurivage
209 Jocko Jacko
214 figure's figures ??
215 pitient patient ??
215 eart ’eart
234 or of