'Tell the lady as kindly as possible that I have no typewriting work
to give out, and that, in fact, I keep a stenographer and typewriting
machine on the premises.'
A few moments later my man returned, and said the lady wished to see
me, not about typewriting, but regarding a case in which she hoped to
interest me. I was still in some hesitation about admitting her, for
my transactions had now risen to a higher plane than when I was new to
London. My expenses were naturally very heavy, and it was not possible
for me, in justice to myself, to waste time in commissions from the
poor, which even if they resulted successfully meant little money
added to my banking account, and often nothing at all, because the
client was unable to pay. As I remarked before, I possess a heart the
most tender, and therefore must greatly to my grief, steel myself
against the enlisting of my sympathy, which, alas! has frequently led
to my financial loss. Still, sometimes the apparently poor are
involved in matters of extreme importance, and England is so eccentric
a country that one may find himself at fault if he closes his door too
harshly. Indeed, ever since my servant, in the utmost good faith,
threw downstairs the persistent and tattered beggar-man, who he
learned later to his sorrow was actually his Grace the Duke of
Ventnor, I have always cautioned my subordinates not to judge too
hastily from appearances.
'Show the lady in,' I said, and there came to me, hesitating,
backward, abashed, a middle-aged woman, dressed with distressing
plainness, when one thinks of the charming costumes to be seen on a
Parisian boulevard. Her subdued manner was that of one to whom the
world had been cruel. I rose, bowed profoundly, and placed a chair at
her disposal, with the air I should have used if my caller had been a
Royal Princess. I claim no credit for this; it is of my nature. There
you behold Eugène Valmont. My visitor was a woman. _Voilà!_
'Madam,' I said politely, 'in what may I have the pleasure of serving
you?'
The poor woman seemed for the moment confused, and was, I feared, on
the verge of tears, but at last she spoke, and said,--
'Perhaps you have read in the newspapers of the tragedy at Rantremly
Castle?'
'The name, madam, remains in my memory, associated elusively with some
hint of seriousness. Will you pardon me a moment?' and a vague thought
that I had seen the castle mentioned either in a newspaper, or a
clipping from one, caused me to pick up the latest bunch which had
come from my agent. I am imbued with no vanity at all; still it is
amusing to note what the newspapers say of one, and therefore I have
subscribed to a clipping agency. In fact, I indulge in two
subscriptions--one personal; the other calling for any pronouncement
pertaining to the differences between England and France; for it is my
determination yet to write a book on the comparative characteristics
of the two people. I hold a theory that the English people are utterly
incomprehensible to the rest of humanity, and this will be duly set
out in my forthcoming volume.
I speedily found the clipping I was in search of. It proved to be a
letter to the _Times_, and was headed: 'Proposed Destruction of
Rantremly Castle'. The letter went on to say that this edifice was one
of the most noted examples of Norman architecture in the north of
England; that Charles II had hidden there for some days after his
disastrous defeat at Worcester. Part of the castle had been battered
down by Cromwell, and later it again proved the refuge of a Stuart
when the Pretender made it a temporary place of concealment. The new
Lord Rantremly, it seemed, had determined to demolish this ancient
stronghold, so interesting architecturally and historically, and to
build with its stones a modern residence. Against this act of
vandalism the writer strongly protested, and suggested that England
should acquire the power which France constantly exerts, in making an
historical monument of an edifice so interwoven with the fortunes of
the country.
'Well, madam,' I said, 'all this extract alludes to is the coming
demolition of Rantremly Castle. Is that the tragedy of which you
speak?'
'Oh no,' she exclaimed; 'I mean the death of the eleventh Lord
Rantremly about six weeks ago. For ten years Lord Rantremly lived
practically alone in the castle. Servants would not remain there
because the place was haunted, and well it may be, for a terrible
family the Rantremlys have been, and a cruel, as I shall be able to
tell you. Up to a month and a half ago Lord Rantremly was waited on by
a butler older than himself, and if possible, more wicked. One morning
this old butler came up the stairs from the kitchen, with Lord
Rantremly's breakfast on a silver tray, as was his custom. His
lordship always partook of breakfast in his own room. It is not known
how the accident happened, as the old servant was going up the stairs
instead of coming down, but the steps are very smooth and slippery,
and without a carpet; at any rate, he seems to have fallen from the
top to the bottom, and lay there with a broken neck. Lord Rantremly,
who was very deaf, seemingly did not hear the crash, and it is
supposed that after ringing and ringing in vain, and doubtless working
himself into a violent fit of temper--alas! too frequent an
occurrence--the old nobleman got out of bed, and walked barefooted
down the stair, coming at last upon the body of his ancient servant.
There the man who arrived every morning to light the fires found them,
the servant dead, and Lord Rantremly helpless from an attack of
paralysis. The physicians say that only his eyes seemed alive, and
they were filled with a great fear, and indeed that is not to be
wondered at, after his wicked, wicked life. His right hand was but
partially disabled, and with that he tried to scribble something which
proved indecipherable. And so he died, and those who attended him at
his last moments say that if ever a soul had a taste of future
punishment before it left this earth, it was the soul of Lord
Rantremly as it shone through those terror-stricken eyes.'
Here the woman stopped, with a catch in her breath, as if the fear of
that grim death-bed had communicated itself to her. I interjected
calmness into an emotional situation by remarking in a commonplace
tone,--'And it is the present Lord Rantremly who proposes to destroy
the Castle, I suppose?'
'Yes.'
'Is he the son of the late lord?'
'No; he is a distant relative. The branch of the family to which he
belongs has been engaged in commerce, and, I believe, its members are
very wealthy.'
'Well, madam, no doubt this is all extremely interesting, and rather
gruesome. In what way are you concerned in these occurrences?'
'Ten years ago I replied to an advertisement, there being required one
who knew shorthand, who possessed a typewriting machine and a
knowledge of French, to act as secretary to a nobleman. I was at that
time twenty-three years old, and for two years had been trying to earn
my living in London through the typing of manuscript. But I was making
a hard struggle of it, so I applied for this position and got it.
There are in the library of Rantremly Castle many documents relating
to the Stuart exile in France. His lordship wished these documents
sorted and catalogued, as well as copies taken of each. Many of the
letters were in the French language, and these I was required to
translate and type. It was a sombre place of residence, but the salary
was good, and I saw before me work enough to keep me busy for years.
Besides this, the task was extremely congenial, and I became absorbed
in it, being young and romantically inclined. Here I seemed to live in
the midst of these wonderful intrigues of long ago. Documents passed
through my hands whose very possession at one period meant capital
danger, bringing up even now visions of block, axe, and masked
headsman. It seemed strange to me that so sinister a man as Lord
Rantremly, who, I had heard, cared for nothing but drink and gambling,
should have desired to promote this historical research, and, indeed,
I soon found he felt nothing but contempt for it. However, he had
undertaken it at the instance of his only son, then a young man of my
own age, at Oxford University.
'Lord Rantremly at that time was sixty-five years old. His countenance
was dark, harsh, and imperious, and his language brutal. He indulged
in frightful outbursts of temper, but he paid so well for service that
there was no lack of it, as there has been since the ghost appeared
some years ago. He was very tall, and of commanding appearance, but
had a deformity in the shape of a club-foot, and walked with the
halting step of those so afflicted. There were at that time servants
in plenty at the castle, for although a tradition existed that the
ghost of the founder of the house trod certain rooms, this ghost, it
was said, never demonstrated its presence when the living
representative of the family was a man with a club-foot. Tradition
further affirmed that if this club-footed ghost allowed its halting
footsteps to be heard while the reigning lord possessed a similar
deformity, the conjunction foreshadowed the passing of title and
estates to a stranger. The ghost haunted the castle only when it was
occupied by a descendant whose two feet were normal. It seems that the
founder of the house was a club-footed man, and this disagreeable
peculiarity often missed one generation, and sometimes two, while at
other times both father and son had club-feet, as was the case with
the late Lord Rantremly and the young man at Oxford. I am not a
believer in the supernatural, of course, but nevertheless it is
strange that within the past few years everyone residing in the castle
has heard the club-footed ghost, and now title and estates descend to
a family that were utter strangers to the Rantremlys.'
'Well, madam, this also sounds most alluring, and were my time not
taken up with affairs more material than those to which you allude, I
should be content to listen all day, but as it is--' I spread my hands
and shrugged my shoulders.