Less than a week after this Spencer Coyle received a note from Miss
Wingrave, who had immediately quitted London with her nephew. She
proposed that he should come down to Paramore for the following
Sunday--Owen was really so tiresome. On the spot, in that house of
examples and memories and in combination with her poor dear father, who
was "dreadfully annoyed," it might be worth their while to make a last
stand. Mr. Coyle read between the lines of this letter that the party at
Paramore had got over a good deal of ground since Miss Wingrave, in
Baker Street, had treated his despair as superficial. She was not an
insinuating woman, but she went so far as to put the question on the
ground of his conferring a particular favour on an afflicted family; and
she expressed the pleasure it would give them if he should be
accompanied by Mrs. Coyle, for whom she inclosed a separate invitation.
She mentioned that she was also writing, subject to Mr. Coyle's
approval, to young Lechmere. She thought such a nice manly boy might do
her wretched nephew some good. The celebrated crammer determined to
embrace this opportunity; and now it was the case not so much that he
was angry as that he was anxious. As he directed his answer to Miss
Wingrave's letter he caught himself smiling at the thought that at
bottom he was going to defend his young friend rather than to attack
him. He said to his wife, who was a fair, fresh, slow woman--a person of
much more presence than himself--that she had better take Miss Wingrave
at her word: it was such an extraordinary, such a fascinating specimen
of an old English home. This last allusion was amicably sarcastic--he
had already accused the good lady more than once of being in love with
Owen Wingrave. She admitted that she was, she even gloried in her
passion; which shows that the subject, between them, was treated in a
liberal spirit. She carried out the joke by accepting the invitation
with eagerness. Young Lechmere was delighted to do the same; his
instructor had good-naturedly taken the view that the little break would
freshen him up for his last spurt.
It was the fact that the occupants of Paramore did indeed take their
trouble hard that struck Spencer Coyle after he had been an hour or two
in that fine old house. This very short second visit, beginning on the
Saturday evening, was to constitute the strangest episode of his life.
As soon as he found himself in private with his wife--they had retired
to dress for dinner--they called each other's attention with effusion
and almost with alarm to the sinister gloom that was stamped on the
place. The house was admirable with its old grey front which came
forward in wings so as to form three sides of a square, but Mrs. Coyle
made no scruple to declare that if she had known in advance the sort of
impression she was going to receive she would never have put her foot in
it. She characterized it as "uncanny," she accused her husband of not
having warned her properly. He had mentioned to her in advance certain
facts, but while she almost feverishly dressed she had innumerable
questions to ask. He hadn't told her about the girl, the extraordinary
girl, Miss Julian--that is, he hadn't told her that this young lady, who
in plain terms was a mere dependent, would be in effect, and as a
consequence of the way she carried herself, the most important person in
the house. Mrs. Coyle was already prepared to announce that she hated
Miss Julian's affectations. Her husband above all hadn't told her that
they should find their young charge looking five years older.
"I couldn't imagine that," said Mr. Coyle, "nor that the character of
the crisis here would be quite so perceptible. But I suggested to Miss
Wingrave the other day that they should press her nephew in real
earnest, and she has taken me at my word. They've cut off his
supplies--they're trying to starve him out. That's not what I meant--but
indeed I don't quite _know_ to-day what I meant. Owen feels the
pressure, but he won't yield." The strange thing was that, now that he
was there, the versatile little coach felt still more that his own
spirit had been caught up by a wave of reaction. If he was there it was
because he was on poor Owen's side. His whole impression, his whole
apprehension, had on the spot become much deeper. There was something in
the dear boy's very resistance that began to charm him. When his wife,
in the intimacy of the conference I have mentioned, threw off the mask
and commended even with extravagance the stand his pupil had taken (he
was too good to be a horrid soldier and it was noble of him to suffer
for his convictions--wasn't he as upright as a young hero, even though
as pale as a Christian martyr?) the good lady only expressed the
sympathy which, under cover of regarding his young friend as a rare
exception, he had already recognised in his own soul.
For, half an hour ago, after they had had superficial tea in the brown
old hall of the house, his young friend had proposed to him, before
going to dress, to take a turn outside, and had even, on the terrace, as
they walked together to one of the far ends of it, passed his hand
entreatingly into his companion's arm, permitting himself thus a
familiarity unusual between pupil and master and calculated to show that
he had guessed whom he could most depend on to be kind to him. Spencer
Coyle on his own side had guessed something, so that he was not
surprised at the boy's having a particular confidence to make. He had
felt on arriving that each member of the party had wished to get hold of
him first, and he knew that at that moment Jane Wingrave was peering
through the ancient blur of one of the windows (the house had been
modernised so little that the thick dim panes were three centuries old)
to see if her nephew looked as if he were poisoning the visitor's mind.
Mr. Coyle lost no time therefore in reminding the youth (and he took
care to laugh as he did so) that he had not come down to Paramore to be
corrupted. He had come down to make, face to face, a last appeal to
him--he hoped it wouldn't be utterly vain. Owen smiled sadly as they
went, asking him if he thought he had the general air of a fellow who
was going to knock under.
"I think you look strange--I think you look ill," Spencer Coyle said
very honestly. They had paused at the end of the terrace.
"I've had to exercise a great power of resistance, and it rather takes
it out of one."
"Ah, my dear boy, I wish your great power--for you evidently possess
it--were exerted in a better cause!"
Owen Wingrave smiled down at his small instructor. "I don't believe
that!" Then he added, to explain why: "Isn't what you want, if you're so
good as to think well of my character, to see me exert _most_ power, in
whatever direction? Well, _this_ is the way I exert most." Owen Wingrave
went on to relate that he had had some terrible hours with his
grandfather, who had denounced him in a way to make one's hair stand up
on one's head. He had expected them not to like it, not a bit, but he
had had no idea they would make such a row. His aunt was different, but
she was equally insulting. Oh, they had made him feel they were ashamed
of him; they accused him of putting a public dishonour on their name. He
was the only one who had ever backed out--he was the first for three
hundred years. Every one had known he was to go up, and now every one
would know he was a young hypocrite who suddenly pretended to have
scruples. They talked of his scruples as you wouldn't talk of a
cannibal's god. His grandfather had called him outrageous names. "He
called me--he called me----" Here the young man faltered, his voice
failed him. He looked as haggard as was possible to a young man in such
magnificent health.
"I probably know!" said Spencer Coyle, with a nervous laugh.
Owen Wingrave's clouded eyes, as if they were following the far-off
consequences of things, rested for an instant on a distant object. Then
they met his companion's and for another moment sounded them deeply. "It
isn't true. No, it isn't. It's not _that_!"
"I don't suppose it is! But what _do_ you propose instead of it?"
"Instead of what?"
"Instead of the stupid solution of war. If you take that away you should
suggest at least a substitute."
"That's for the people in charge, for governments and cabinets," said
Owen Wingrave. "_They_'ll arrive soon enough at a substitute, in the
particular case, if they're made to understand that they'll be hung if
they don't find one. Make it a capital crime--that'll quicken the wits
of ministers!" His eyes brightened as he spoke, and he looked assured
and exalted. Mr. Coyle gave a sigh of perplexed resignation--it was a
monomania. He fancied after this for a moment that Owen was going to ask
him if he too thought he was a coward; but he was relieved to observe
that he either didn't suspect him of it or shrank uncomfortably from
putting the question to the test. Spencer Coyle wished to show
confidence, but somehow a direct assurance that he didn't doubt of his
courage appeared too gross a compliment--it would be like saying he
didn't doubt of his honesty. The difficulty was presently averted by
Owen's continuing: "My grandfather can't break the entail, but I shall
have nothing but this place, which, as you know, is small and, with the
way rents are going, has quite ceased to yield an income. He has some
money--not much, but such as it is he cuts me off. My aunt does the
same--she has let me know her intentions. She was to have left me her
six hundred a year. It was all settled; but now what's settled is that I
don't get a penny of it if I give up the army. I must add in fairness
that I have from my mother three hundred a year of my own. And I tell
you the simple truth when I say that I don't care a rap for the loss of
the money." The young man drew a long, slow breath, like a creature in
pain; then he subjoined: "_That's_ not what worries me!"
"What are you going to do?" asked Spencer Coyle.
"I don't know; perhaps nothing. Nothing great, at all events. Only
something peaceful!"
Owen gave a weary smile, as if, worried as he was, he could yet
appreciate the humorous effect of such a declaration from a Wingrave;
but what it suggested to his companion, who looked up at him with a
sense that he was after all not a Wingrave for nothing and had a
military steadiness under fire, was the exasperation that such a
programme, uttered in such a way and striking them as the last word of
the inglorious, might well have engendered on the part of his
grandfather and his aunt. "Perhaps nothing"--when he might carry on the
great tradition! Yes, he wasn't weak, and he was interesting; but there
_was_ a point of view from which he was provoking. "What _is_ it then
that worries you?" Mr. Coyle demanded.
"Oh, the house--the very air and feeling of it. There are strange voices
in it that seem to mutter at me--to say dreadful things as I pass. I
mean the general consciousness and responsibility of what I'm doing. Of
course it hasn't been easy for me--not a bit. I assure you I don't enjoy
it." With a light in them that was like a longing for justice Owen again
bent his eyes on those of the little coach; then he pursued: "I've
started up all the old ghosts. The very portraits glower at me on the
walls. There's one of my great-great-grandfather (the one the
extraordinary story you know is about--the old fellow who hangs on the
second landing of the big staircase) that fairly stirs on the
canvas--just heaves a little--when I come near it. I have to go up and
down stairs--it's rather awkward! It's what my aunt calls the family
circle. It's all constituted here, it's a kind of indestructible
presence, it stretches away into the past, and when I came back with her
the other day Miss Wingrave told me I wouldn't have the impudence to
stand in the midst of it and say such things. I had to say them to my
grandfather; but now that I've said them it seems to me that the
question's ended. I want to go away--I don't care if I never come back
again."
"Oh, you _are_ a soldier; you must fight it out!" Mr. Coyle laughed.
The young man seemed discouraged at his levity, but as they turned
round, strolling back in the direction from which they had come, he
himself smiled faintly after an instant and replied:
"Ah, we're tainted--all!"
They walked in silence part of the way to the old portico; then Spencer
Coyle, stopping short after having assured himself that he was at a
sufficient distance from the house not to be heard, suddenly put the
question: "What does Miss Julian say?"
"Miss Julian?" Owen had perceptibly coloured.
"I'm sure _she_ hasn't concealed her opinion."
"Oh, it's the opinion of the family circle, for she's a member of it of
course. And then she has her own as well."
"Her own opinion?"
"Her own family circle."
"Do you mean her mother--that patient lady?"
"I mean more particularly her father, who fell in battle. And her
grandfather, and _his_ father, and her uncles and great-uncles--they all
fell in battle."
"Hasn't the sacrifice of so many lives been sufficient? Why should she
sacrifice you?"
"Oh, she _hates_ me!" Owen declared, as they resumed their walk.
"Ah, the hatred of pretty girls for fine young men!" exclaimed Spencer
Coyle.
He didn't believe in it, but his wife did, it appeared perfectly, when
he mentioned this conversation while, in the fashion that has been
described, the visitors dressed for dinner. Mrs. Coyle had already
discovered that nothing could have been nastier than Miss Julian's
manner to the disgraced youth during the half-hour the party had spent
in the hall; and it was this lady's judgment that one must have had no
eyes in one's head not to see that she was already trying outrageously
to flirt with young Lechmere. It was a pity they had brought that silly
boy: he was down in the hall with her at that moment. Spencer Coyle's
version was different; he thought there were finer elements involved.
The girl's footing in the house was inexplicable on any ground save that
of her being predestined to Miss Wingrave's nephew. As the niece of Miss
Wingrave's own unhappy intended she had been dedicated early by this
lady to the office of healing by a union with Owen the tragic breach
that had separated their elders; and if in reply to this it was to be
said that a girl of spirit couldn't enjoy in such a matter having her
duty cut out for her, Owen's enlightened friend was ready with the
argument that a young person in Miss Julian's position would never be
such a fool as really to quarrel with a capital chance. She was familiar
at Paramore and she felt safe; therefore she might trust herself to the
amusement of pretending that she had her option. But it was all innocent
coquetry. She had a curious charm, and it was vain to pretend that the
heir of that house wouldn't seem good enough to a girl, clever as she
might be, of eighteen. Mrs. Coyle reminded her husband that the poor
young man was precisely now _not_ of that house: this problem was among
the questions that exercised their wits after the two men had taken the
turn on the terrace. Spencer Coyle told his wife that Owen was afraid of
the portrait of his great-great-grandfather. He would show it to her,
since she hadn't noticed it, on their way down stairs.
"Why of his great-great-grandfather more than of any of the others?"
"Oh, because he's the most formidable. He's the one who's sometimes
seen."
"Seen where?" Mrs. Coyle had turned round with a jerk.
"In the room he was found dead in--the White Room they've always called
it."
"Do you mean to say the house has a _ghost_?" Mrs. Coyle almost
shrieked. "You brought me here without telling me?"
"Didn't I mention it after my other visit?"
"Not a word. You only talked about Miss Wingrave."
"Oh, I was full of the story--you have simply forgotten."
"Then you should have reminded me!"
"If I had thought of it I would have held my peace, for you wouldn't
have come."
"I wish, indeed, I hadn't!" cried Mrs. Coyle. "What _is_ the story?"
"Oh, a deed of violence that took place here ages ago. I think it was in
George the First's time. Colonel Wingrave, one of their ancestors,
struck in a fit of passion one of his children, a lad just growing up, a
blow on the head of which the unhappy child died. The matter was hushed
up for the hour--some other explanation was put about. The poor boy was
laid out in one of those rooms on the other side of the house, and amid
strange smothered rumours the funeral was hurried on. The next morning,
when the household assembled, Colonel Wingrave was missing; he was
looked for vainly, and at last it occurred to some one that he might
perhaps be in the room from which his child had been carried to burial.
The seeker knocked without an answer--then opened the door. Colonel
Wingrave lay dead on the floor, in his clothes, as if he had reeled and
fallen back, without a wound, without a mark, without anything in his
appearance to indicate that he had either struggled or suffered. He was
a strong, sound man--there was nothing to account for such a
catastrophe. He is supposed to have gone to the room during the night,
just before going to bed, in some fit of compunction or some fascination
of dread. It was only after this that the truth about the boy came out.
But no one ever sleeps in the room."
Mrs. Coyle had fairly turned pale. "I hope not! Thank heaven they
haven't put _us_ there!"
"We're at a comfortable distance; but I've seen the gruesome chamber."
"Do you mean you've been _in_ it?"
"For a few moments. They're rather proud of it and my young friend
showed it to me when I was here before."