Childerbridge Manor is certainly one of the finest mansions in the
County of Midlandshire. It stands in a finely-timbered park of about two
hundred acres, which rises behind the house to a considerable elevation.
The building itself dates back to the reign of Good Queen Bess, and is
declared by competent authorities to be an excellent example of the
architecture of that period. It is large, and presents a most imposing
appearance as one approaches it by the carriage drive. The interior is
picturesque in the extreme; the hall is large and square, panelled with
oak, and having a massive staircase of the same wood leading from it to
a music gallery above. There are other staircases in various parts of
the building, curious corkscrew affairs, in ascending which one is in
continual danger of knocking one's head against the ceiling and corners.
There are long, and somewhat dark corridors, down which it would be
almost possible to drive the proverbial coach and four, whilst there are
also numerous secret passages, and a private chapel, with stained glass
windows connected with the house by means of a short tunnel. That such a
mansion should be provided with a family ghost, goes without saying.
Indeed, Childerbridge Manor is reputed to possess a small army of them.
Elderly gentlemen who carry their heads under their arms; beautiful
women who glide down the corridors, weeping as they go; and last but not
least, a deformity, invariably dressed in black, who is much given to
sitting on the foot rails of beds, and pointing, with the first finger
of his right hand, to the ceiling above. So well authenticated are the
legends of these apparitions, that it would be almost an impossibility
to induce any man, woman, or child, from the village, to enter the gates
of Childerbridge Manor after dusk. Servants who arrived were told the
stories afloat concerning their new abode; and the sound of the wind
sighing round the house on a gusty night immediately set their
imaginations to work, with the result of their giving notice of their
intention to leave on the following morning. "They had seen the White
Lady," they declared, had heard her pitiful death cry, and vowed that
nothing could induce them to remain in such a house twenty-four hours
longer. In fact, "As haunted as the Manor House" had become a popular
expression in the neighbourhood.
When the Standerton's reached England, they set to work to discover for
themselves a home. They explored the country from east to west, and from
north to south, but without success. Eventually Childerbridge Manor was
offered them by an Agent in London, and after they had spent a
considerable portion of their time poring over photographs of the house
and grounds, they arrived at the conclusion that they had discovered a
place likely to suit them. On a lovely day in early summer they
travelled down from London to inspect it, and were far from being
disappointed in what they saw.
When they entered the gates the park lay before them, bathed in
sunlight, the rooks cawed lazily in the trees, while the deer regarded
them, from their couches in the bracken, with mild, contemplative eyes.
After the scorched up plains of Australia, the picture was an
exceedingly attractive one. The house itself, they could see would
require a considerable outlay in repairs, but when that work was
accomplished, it would be as perfect a residence as any that could be
found. The stables were large enough to hold half a hundred horses, but
for many years had been tenanted only by rats. The same might be said of
the buildings of the Home Farm!
"However, taking one thing with another," said Mr. Standerton, after he
had inspected everything, and arrived at a proper understanding of the
possibilities of the place, "I think it will suit us. The Society of the
neighbourhood, they tell me, is good, while the hunting is undeniable.
It is within easy reach of London, and all matters taken into
consideration, I don't think we shall better it."
In this manner it was settled. A contract for repairs and decorations
was placed in the hands of a well-known Metropolitan firm, a vast amount
was spent in furnishing, and in due course Childerbridge Manor House was
once more occupied. The County immediately came to call, invitations
rained in, and having been duly inspected and not found wanting, the
newcomers were voted a decided acquisition to the neighbourhood. William
Standerton's wealth soon became proverbial, and mothers, with
marriageable sons and daughters, vied with each other in their
attentions. James Standerton, as I have already said, was a presentable
young man. His height was something over six feet, his shoulders were
broad and muscular, as became a man who had lived his life doing hard
work in the open air, his eyes were grey like his father's, and there
was the same moulding of the mouth and chin. In fact, he was an
individual with whom, one felt at first glance, it would be better to be
on good terms than bad.
One evening a month or so after their arrival at the Manor House, Jim
was driving home from the railway station. He had been spending the day
in London buying polo ponies, and was anxious to get home as quickly as
possible. His horse was a magnificent animal, and spun the high dogcart
along the road at a rattling pace. When he was scarcely more than half a
mile from the lodge gates of his own home, he became aware of a lady
walking along the footpath in front of him. She was accompanied by a
mastiff puppy, who gambolled awkwardly beside her. As the dogcart
approached them the puppy dashed out into the road, directly in front of
the fast-trotting horse. As may be imagined the result was inevitable.
The dog was knocked down, and it was only by a miracle that the horse
did not go down also. The girl uttered a little scream, then the groom
jumped from his seat and ran to the frightened animal's head. Jim also
descended to ascertain the extent of injuries the horse and dog had
sustained. Fortunately the former was unhurt; not so the author of the
mischief, however. He had been kicked on the head, and one of his
forepaws was crushed and bleeding.
"I cannot tell you how sorry I am," said Jim, apologetically to the
young lady, when he had carried her pet to the footpath. "I am afraid I
was very careless."
"You must not say that," she answered. "It was not your fault at all. If
my silly dog had not run into the road it would not have happened. Do
you think his leg is broken?"
Jim knelt on the edge of the path beside the dog and carefully examined
his injuries. His bush life had given him a considerable insight into
the science of surgery, and it stood him in good stead now.
"No," he said, when his examination was at an end, "his leg is not
broken, though I'm afraid it is rather badly injured."
In spite of the young lady's protests, he took his handkerchief from his
pocket and bound up the injured limb. The next thing to be decided was
how to get the animal home. It could not walk, and it was manifestly
impossible that the young lady should carry him.
"Won't you let me put him in the cart and drive you both home?" Jim
asked. "I should be glad to do so, if I may."
As he said this he looked more closely at the girl before him, and
realised that she was decidedly pretty.
"I am afraid there is nothing else to be done," she said, and then, as
if she feared this might be considered an ungracious speech, she added:
"But I fear I am putting you to a great deal of trouble, Mr.
Standerton."
Jim looked at her in some surprise.
"You know my name, then?" he said.
"As you see," she answered, with a smile at his astonishment. "I called
upon your sister yesterday. My name is Decie, and I live at the Dower
House, with my guardian, Mr. Abraham Bursfield."
"In that case, as we are neighbours," said Jim, "and I must claim a
neighbour's privilege in helping you. Allow me put the dog in the cart."
So saying he picked the animal up and carried it tenderly to the
dogcart, under the seat of which he placed it. He then assisted Miss
Decie to her seat and took his place beside her. When the groom had
seated himself at the back, they set off in the direction of the Dower
House, a curious rambling building, situated in a remote corner of
Childerbridge Park. As they drove along they discussed the
neighbourhood, the prospects of the shooting, and Jim learned, among
other things, that Miss Decie was fond of riding, but that old Mr.
Bursfield would not allow her a horse, that she preferred a country life
to that of town, and incidentally that she had been eight years under
her guardian's care. Almost before they knew where they were they had
reached the cross roads that skirted the edge of the Park, and were
approaching the Dower House. It was a curious old building, older
perhaps than the Manor House, to which it had once belonged. In front it
had a quaint description of courtyard, surrounded by high walls covered
with ivy. A flagged path led from the gates, which, Jim discovered
later, had not been opened for many years, to the front door, on either
side of which was a roughly trimmed lawn. Pulling up at the gates, the
young man descended, and helped Miss Decie to alight.
"You must allow me to carry your dog into the house for you," he said,
as he lifted the poor beast from the cart.
A postern door admitted them to the courtyard and they made their way,
side by side, along the flagged path to the house. When they had rung
the bell the door was opened to them by an ancient man-servant, whose
age could scarcely have been less than four-score. He looked from his
mistress to the young man, as if he were unable to comprehend the
situation.
"Isaac," said Miss Decie, "Tory has met with an accident, and Mr.
Standerton has very kindly brought him home for me." Then to Jim she
added:--"Please come in, Mr. Standerton, and let me relieve you of your
burden."
But Jim would not hear of it. Accompanied by Miss Decie he carried the
animal to the loose box in the deserted stables at the back of the
house, where he had his quarters. This task accomplished, they returned
to the house once more.
"I believe you have not yet met my guardian, Mr. Bursfield," said Miss
Decie, as they passed along the oak-panelled hall. Then, as if to excuse
the fact that the other had not paid the usual neighbourly call, she
added: "He is a very old man, you know, and seldom leaves the house."
As she said this, she paused before a door, the handle of which she
turned. The room in which Jim found himself a moment later was a fine
one. The walls, like the rest of the house, were panelled, but owing to
the number of books the room contained, very little of the oak was
visible. There were books on the shelves, books on the tables, and books
on the floor. In the centre of the room stood a large writing-table, at
which an old man was seated. He was a strange-looking individual; his
face was lined with innumerable wrinkles, his hair was snow-white and
descended to his shoulders. He wore a rusty velvet coat and a skull cap
of the same material.
He looked up as the pair entered, and his glance rested on Jim with some
surprise.
"Grandfather," said Miss Decie, for, as Jim afterwards discovered, she
invariably addressed the venerable gentleman by this title, though she
was in no way related to him, "pray let me introduce you to Mr.
Standerton, who has most kindly brought poor Tory home for me."
The old man extended a shrivelled hand.
"I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Standerton," he said, "and I
am grateful to you for the service you have rendered Miss Decie. I must
apologise for not having paid you and your father the customary visit of
courtesy, but, as you have perhaps heard, I am a recluse, and seldom
venture from the house. I trust you like Childerbridge?"
"We are delighted with it," Jim replied. "It is a very beautiful and
interesting old house. Unfortunately, however, we have been able to
gather very little of its history. I have heard it said that you know
more about it than any one in the neighbourhood."
"I do indeed," Mr. Bursfield replied. "No one knows it better than I do.
Until a hundred years ago it was the home of my own family. My father
sold it, reserving only the Dower House for his own use. Since then the
estate has fallen upon evil times."
He paused for a moment and sat looking into the fireplace, as if he had
forgotten his visitor's presence. Then he added as to himself:
"No one who has taken the place has prospered. There is a curse upon
it."
"I sincerely hope not," Jim answered. "It would be a bad look out for us
if that were so."
"I beg your pardon," the old man returned, almost hastily. "For the
moment I was not thinking of what I was saying. I did not mean of course
that the curse would affect your family. There is no sort of reason why
it should. But the series of coincidences, if by such a term we may
designate them, have certainly been remarkable. Sir Giles Shepfield
purchased it from my father, and was thrown from his horse, and killed
at his own front door. His son Peter was found dead in his bed, some say
murdered, others that he was frightened to death by something, or
someone, he had seen; while his second son, William, was shot in a duel
in Paris, the day after the news reached him that he had come into the
property. The Shepfields being only too anxious to dispose of it, it was
sold to the newly-made Lord Childerbridge, who was eager to acquire it
possibly on account of the name. He remained two years there, but at the
end of that period he also had had enough of the place, and left it
quite suddenly, vowing that he would never enter its doors again. After
that it was occupied off and on by a variety of tenants, but for the
last five years it has been unoccupied. I hear that your father has
worked wonders with it, and that he has almost turned it into a new
place."
"He has had the work done very carefully," Jim replied. "It is very
difficult to repair an old mansion like Childerbridge without making
such repairs too apparent."
"I quite agree with you," said the old man drily. "Your modern architect
is no respecter of anything antiquated as a rule."
"And now I must bid you good-evening," said James. "My father and sister
will be wondering what has become of me."
He shook hands with Mr. Bursfield, who begged him to excuse him for not
accompanying him to the door, and then followed Miss Decie from the
room. They bade each other adieu at the gate.
"I hope your dog will soon be himself again," said Jim, in the hope of
being able to prolong the interview, if only for a few moments. "If you
would like me to have him for a few days I would do what I could for
him, and I would see that he is properly looked after."
"I could not think of giving you so much trouble," she returned. "I
think he will be all right here. I feel certain I shall be able to do
all that is necessary. Will you give my kind regards to your sister? I
should like to tell you that I admire her very much, Mr. Standerton."
"It is very good of you to say so," he replied. Then clutching at the
hope thus presented to him, he added, "I trust you and she will be great
friends."
"I hope so," said Miss Decie, and thereupon bade him good-night.
As he went out to his cart he felt convinced in his own mind that he had
just parted from the most charming girl he had ever met in his life. He
reflected upon the matter as he completed the short distance that
separated him from his home, and when he joined his sister in the
drawing-room later, he questioned her concerning her new acquaintance.
"She must lead a very lonely life," said Jim. "I was introduced to the
old gentleman she calls grandfather, and if his society is all she has
to depend upon, then I do not envy her her lot."
His sister had a suspicion of what was in his mind though she did not
say so. Like her brother she had taken a great liking to the girl, and
there was every probability, as time went on, of their becoming firm
friends.
"It may interest you to hear that she is coming to tea with me on
Thursday," said Alice.
Jim _was_ interested, and to prove it registered a mental vow that he
would make a point of being at home that day. As a matter of fact he
was, and was even more impressed than before.
From that day Miss Decie spent a large proportion of her time at the
Manor House. In less than a month she had become Alice's own particular
friend, and Jim felt that the whole current of his life had been
changed. What Mr. Bursfield thought of the turn affairs had taken can be
seen now, but at the time his views were only a matter of conjecture.
That Jim and Miss Decie had managed to fall in love with each other was
quite certain, and that William Standerton approved of his son's choice
was another point that admitted of no doubt. Helen Decie with her pretty
face, and charming manners, was a general favourite. At that stage their
wooing was a matter-of-fact one in the extreme. Jim had no rival, and at
the outset no difficulties worth dignifying with the name. He was
permitted unlimited opportunities of seeing the object of his affections
and, when the time was ripe, and he informed her of the state of his
feelings towards herself, she gave him her hand, and promised, without
any hysterical fuss, to be his wife, with the full intention of doing
her utmost to make him happy.
"But, Jim," she said, "before you do anything else, you must see Mr.
Bursfield and obtain his consent. He is my guardian, you know, and has
been so good to me that I can do nothing without his approval."
"I will see him to-morrow morning," Jim replied, "and I fancy I can tell
you what his answer will be. How could it be otherwise when he knows
that your happiness is at stake?"
"I hope it will be as you say," she answered, but not with her usual
cheerfulness. "Somehow or another grandfather always looks at things in
a different light to other people."
"You may be sure I will do my best to get him to look at it as we want
him to," her lover returned. "I will bring every argument I can think of
to bear upon him."
Needless to say, Mr. Standerton, when he heard the news, was delighted,
while Alice professed herself overjoyed at the thought of having Helen
for her sister. In Jim's mind, however, there was the remembrance of
Abraham Bursfield, and of the interview that had to be got through with
that gentleman.
"It's no use beating about the bush or delaying matters," he said to
himself. "I'll walk back with Helen and get it over to-night instead of
to-morrow morning."
He informed his sweetheart of his intention. She signified her approval,
and together they strolled across the Park towards the little gate that
opened into the grounds of the Dower House. It was a lovely evening,
and, as you may suppose, they were as happy a young couple as could have
been found in the length and breadth of England. Their engagement had
scarcely commenced, yet Jim was already full of plans for the future.
"I shall take you from that dreary old house," he said, nodding his head
in the direction of the building they were approaching, "and we will
find a place somewhere in the neighbourhood. How you have managed to
exist here for eight years I cannot imagine."
"It has been dull certainly," she answered, "but I have the house and my
grandfather to look after, so that my time is fairly well taken up."
"You must have felt that you were buried alive," he answered. "In the
future, however, we'll change all that. You shall go where, and do, just
as you please."
She shook her head.
"To make you happy," she said, "will be enough for me."