It is quite competent for a person so to manage his affairs, that,
whilst understanding all about them himself, another finds it next to
impossible to make head or tail of his position.
Mr. Craven found that Mr. Elmsdale had effected this feat; entries there
were in his books, intelligible enough, perhaps, to the man who made
them, but as so much Hebrew to a stranger.
He had never kept a business banking account; he had no regular journal
or ledger; he seemed to have depended on memoranda, and vague and
uncertain writings in his diary, both for memory and accuracy; and as
most of his business had been conducted _viva voce_, there were few
letters to assist in throwing the slightest light on his transactions.
Even from the receipts, however, one thing was clear, viz., that he had,
since his marriage, spent a very large sum of money; spent it lavishly,
not to say foolishly. Indeed, the more closely Mr. Craven looked into
affairs, the more satisfied he felt that Mr. Elmsdale had committed
suicide simply because he was well-nigh ruined.
Mortgage-deeds Mr. Craven himself had drawn up, were nowhere to be
found; neither could one sovereign of the money Mr. Harringford paid be
discovered.
Miss Blake said she believed "that Harringford had never paid at all";
but this was clearly proved to be an error of judgment on the part of
that impulsive lady. Not merely did Harringford hold the receipt for the
money and the mortgage-deeds cancelled, but the cheque he had given to
the mortgagee bore the endorsement--"Robert Elmsdale"; while the clerk
who cashed it stated that Mr. Elmsdale presented the order in person,
and that to him he handed the notes.
Whatever he had done with the money, no notes were to be found; a
diligent search of the strong room produced nothing more important than
the discovery of a cash-box containing three hundred pounds; the
title-deeds of River Hall--such being the modest name by which Mr.
Elmsdale had elected to have his residence distinguished; the leases
relating to some small cottages near Barnes; all the letters his wife
had ever written to him; two locks of her hair, one given before
marriage, the other cut after her death; a curl severed from the head of
my "baby daughter"; quantities of receipts--and nothing more.
"I wonder he can rest in his grave," said Miss Blake, when at last she
began to realize, in a dim sort of way, the position of affairs.
According to the River Hall servants' version, Mr. Elmsdale did anything
rather than rest in his grave. About the time the new mourning had been
altered to fit perfectly, a nervous housemaid, who began perhaps to find
the house dull, mooted the question as to whether "master walked."
Within a fortnight it was decided in solemn conclave that master did;
and further, that the place was not what it had been; and moreover, that
in the future it was likely to be still less like what it had been.
There is a wonderful instinct in the lower classes, which enables them
to comprehend, without actual knowledge, when misfortune is coming upon
a house: and in this instance that instinct was not at fault.
Long before Mr. Craven had satisfied himself that his client's estate
was a very poor one, the River Hall servants, one after another, had
given notice to leave--indeed, to speak more accurately, they did not
give notice, for they left; and before they left they took care to
baptize the house with such an exceedingly bad name, that neither for
love nor money could Miss Blake get a fresh "help" to stay in it for
more than twenty-four hours.
First one housemaid was taken with "the shivers"; then the cook had "the
trembles"; then the coachman was prepared to take his solemn affidavit,
that, one night long after everyone in the house to his knowledge was in
bed, he "see from his room above the stables, a light a-shining on the
Thames, and the figures of one or more a passing and a repassing across
the blind." More than this, a new page-boy declared that, on a certain
evening, before he had been told there was anything strange about the
house, he heard the door of the passage leading from the library into
the side-road slam violently, and looking to see who had gone out by
that unused entrance, failed to perceive sign of man, woman, or child,
by the bright moonlight.
Moved by some feeling which he professed himself unable to "put a name
on," he proceeded to the door in question, and found it barred, chained,
and bolted. While he was standing wondering what it meant, he noticed
the light as of gas shining from underneath the library door; but when
he softly turned the handle and peeped in, the room was dark as the
grave, and "like cold water seemed running down his back."
Further, he averred, as he stole away into the hall, there was a sound
followed him as between a groan and a cry. Hearing which statement, an
impressionable charwoman went into hysterics, and had to be recalled to
her senses by a dose of gin, suggested and taken strictly as a medicine.
But no supply of spirituous liquors, even had Miss Blake been disposed
to distribute anything of the sort, could induce servants after a time
to remain in, or charwomen to come to, the house. It had received a bad
name, and that goes even further in disfavour of a residence than it
does against a man or woman.
Finally, Miss Blake's establishment was limited to an old creature
almost doting and totally deaf, the advantages of whose presence might
have been considered problematical; but, then, as Miss Blake remarked,
"she was somebody."
"And now she has taken fright," proceeded the lady. "How anyone could
make her hear their story, the Lord in heaven alone knows; and if there
was anything to see, I am sure she is far too blind to see it; but she
says she daren't stay. She does not want to see poor master again till
she is dead herself."
"I have got a tenant for the house the moment you like to say you will
leave it," said Mr. Craven, in reply. "He cares for no ghost that ever
was manufactured. He has a wife with a splendid digestion, and several
grown-up sons and daughters. They will soon clear out the shadows; and
their father is willing to pay two hundred and fifty pounds a year."
"And you think there is really nothing more of any use amongst
the papers?"
"I am afraid not--I am afraid you must face the worst."
"And my sister's child left no better off than a street beggar,"
suggested Miss Blake.
"Come, come," remonstrated Mr. Craven; "matters are not so bad as all
that comes to. Upon three hundred a year, you can live very comfortable
on the Continent; and--"
"We'll go," interrupted Miss Blake; "but it is hard lines--not that
anything better could have been expected from Robert Elmsdale."
"Ah! dear Miss Blake, the poor fellow is dead. Remember only his
virtues, and let his faults rest."
"I sha'n't have much to burden my memory with, then," retorted Miss
Blake, and departed.
Her next letter to my principal was dated from Rouen; but before that
reached Buckingham Street, our troubles had begun.
For some reason best known to himself, Mr. Treseby, the good-natured
country squire possessed of a wife with an excellent digestion, at the
end of two months handed us half a year's rent, and requested we should
try to let the house for the remainder of his term, he, in case of our
failure, continuing amenable for the rent. In the course of the three
years we secured eight tenants, and as from each a profit in the way of
forfeit accrued, we had not to trouble Mr. Treseby for any more money,
and were also enabled to remit some small bonuses--which came to her,
Miss Blake assured us, as godsends--to the Continent.
After that the place stood vacant for a time. Various care-takers were
eager to obtain the charge of it, but I only remember one who was not
eager to leave.
That was a night-watchman, who never went home except in the daytime,
and then to sleep, and he failed to understand why his wife, who was a
pretty, delicate little creature, and the mother of four small
children, should quarrel with her bread and butter, and want to leave
so fine a place.
He argued the matter with her in so practical a fashion, that the
nearest magistrate had to be elected umpire between them.
The whole story of the place was repeated in court, and the
night-watchman's wife, who sobbed during the entire time she stood in
the witness-box, made light of her black eye and numerous bruises, but
said, "Not if Tim murdered her, could she stay alone in the house
another night."
To prevent him murdering her, he was sent to gaol for two months, and
Mr. Craven allowed her eight shillings a week till Tim was once more a
free man, when he absconded, leaving wife and children chargeable to
the parish.
"A poor, nervous creature," said Mr. Craven, who would not believe that
where gas was, any house could be ghost-ridden. "We must really try to
let the house in earnest."
And we did try, and we did let, over, and over, and over again,
always with a like result, till at length Mr. Craven said to me: "Do
you know, Patterson, I really am growing very uneasy about that house
on the Thames. I am afraid some evil-disposed person is trying to
keep it vacant."
"It certainly is very strange," was the only remark I felt capable
of making.
We had joked so much about the house amongst ourselves, and ridiculed
Miss Blake and her troubles to such an extent, that the matter bore no
serious aspect for any of us juniors.
"If we are not soon able to let it," went on Mr. Craven, "I shall advise
Miss Blake to auction off the furniture and sell the place. We must not
always have an uninhabited house haunting our offices, Patterson."
I shook my head in grave assent, but all the time I was thinking the day
when that house ceased to haunt our offices, would be a very dreary one
for the wags amongst our clerks. "Yes, I certainly shall advise Miss
Blake to sell," repeated Mr. Craven, slowly.
Although a hard-working man, he was eminently slow in his ideas
and actions.
There was nothing express about our dear governor; upon no special
mental train did he go careering through life. Eminently he preferred
the parliamentary pace: and I am bound to say the life-journey so
performed was beautiful exceedingly, with waits not devoid of interest
at little stations utterly outside his profession, with kindly talk to
little children, and timid women, and feeble men; with a pleasant smile
for most with whom he came in contact, and time for words of kindly
advice which did not fall perpetually on stony ground, but which
sometimes grew to maturity, and produced rich grain of which himself
beheld the garnering.
Nevertheless, to my younger and quicker nature, he did seem often
very tardy.
"Why not advise her now?" I asked.
"Ah! my boy," he answered, "life is very short, yet it is long enough to
have no need in it for hurry."
The same day, Colonel Morris appeared in our office. Within a fortnight,
that gallant officer was our tenant; within a month, Mrs. Morris, an
exceedingly fine lady, with grown-up children, with very young children
also, with ayahs, with native servants, with English servants, with a
list of acquaintances such as one may read of in the papers the day
after a Queen's drawing-room, took possession of the Uninhabited House,
and, for about three months, peace reigned in our dominions.
Buckingham Street, as represented by us, stank in the nostrils of no
human being.
So far we were innocent of offence, we were simply ordinary solicitors
and clerks, doing as fully and truly as we knew how, an extremely good
business at rates which yielded a very fair return to our principal.
The Colonel was delighted with the place, he kindly called to say; so
was Mrs. Morris; so were the grown-up sons and daughters of Colonel and
Mrs. Morris; and so, it is to be presumed, were the infant branches of
the family.
The native servants liked the place because Mr. Elmsdale, in view of his
wife's delicate health, had made the house "like an oven," to quote Miss
Blake. "It was bad for her, I know," proceeded that lady, "but she would
have her own way, poor soul, and he--well, he'd have had the top brick
of the chimney of a ten-story house off, if she had taken a fancy for
that article."
Those stoves and pipes were a great bait to Colonel Morris, as well as a
source of physical enjoyment to his servants.
He, too, had married a woman who was not always easy to please; but
River Hall did please her, as was natural, with its luxuries of heat,
ease, convenience, large rooms opening one out of another, wide
verandahs overlooking the Thames, staircases easy of ascent; baths, hot,
cold, and shower; a sweet, pretty garden, conservatory with a door
leading into it from the spacious hall, all exceedingly cheap at two
hundred pounds a year.
Accordingly, at first, the Colonel was delighted with the place, and not
the less so because Mrs. Morris was delighted with it, and because it
was also so far from town, that he had a remarkably good excuse for
frequently visiting his club.
Before the new-comers, local tradesmen bowed down and did worship.
Visitors came and visitors went, carriages appeared in shoals, and
double-knocks were plentiful as blackberries. A fresh leaf had evidently
been turned over at River Hall, and the place meant to give no more
trouble for ever to Miss Blake, or Mr. Craven, or anybody. So, as I have
said, three months passed. We had got well into the dog-days by that
time; there was very little to do in the office. Mr. Craven had left for
his annual holiday, which he always took in the company of his wife and
daughters--a correct, but possibly a depressing, way of spending a
vacation which must have been intended to furnish some social variety in
a man's life; and we were all very idle, and all very much inclined to
grumble at the heat, and length, and general slowness of the days, when
one morning, as I was going out in order to send a parcel off to Mrs.
Craven, who should I meet coming panting up the stairs but Miss Blake!
"Is that you, Patterson?" she gasped. I assured her it was I in the
flesh, and intimated my astonishment at seeing her in hers.
"Why, I thought you were in France, Miss Blake," I suggested.
"That's where I have just come from," she said. "Is Mr. Craven in?" I
told her he was out of town.
"Ay--that's where everybody can be but me," she remarked, plaintively.
"They can go out and stay out, while I am at the beck and call of all
the scum of the earth. Well, well, I suppose there will be quiet for me
sometime, if only in my coffin."
As I failed to see that any consolatory answer was possible, I made no
reply. I only asked:
"Won't you walk into Mr. Craven's office, Miss Blake?"
"Now, I wonder," she said, "what good you think walking into his office
will do me!"
Nevertheless, she accepted the invitation. I have, in the course of
years, seen many persons suffering from heat, but I never did see any
human being in such a state as Miss Blake was that day.
Her face was a pure, rich red, from temple to chin; it resembled nothing
so much as a brick which had been out for a long time, first in the sun
and the wind, and then in a succession of heavy showers of rain. She
looked weather-beaten, and sun-burnt, and sprayed with salt-water, all
at once. Her eyes were a lighter blue than I previously thought eyes
could be. Her cheek-bones stood out more prominently than I had thought
cheek-bones capable of doing. Her mouth--not quite a bad one, by the
way--opened wider than any within my experience; and her teeth, white
and exposed, were suggestive of a set of tombstones planted outside a
stonemason's shop, or an upper and lower set exhibited at the entrance
to a dentist's operating-room. Poor dear Miss Blake, she and those
pronounced teeth parted company long ago, and a much more becoming
set--which she got exceedingly cheap, by agreeing with the maker to
"send the whole of the city of London to her, if he liked"--now occupy
their place.
But on that especial morning they were very prominent. Everything, in
fact, about the lady, or belonging to her, seemed exaggerated, as if the
heat of the weather had induced a tropical growth of her mental and
bodily peculiarities. Her bonnet was crooked beyond even the ordinary
capacity of Miss Blake's head-gear; the strings were rolled up till they
looked like ropes which had been knotted under her chin. A veil, as
large and black as a pirate's flag, floated down her back; her shawl was
at sixes and sevens; one side of her dress had got torn from the bodice,
and trailed on the ground leaving a broadly-marked line of dust on the
carpet. She looked as if she had no petticoats on; and her boots--those
were the days ere side-springs and buttons obtained--were one laced
unevenly, and the other tied on with a piece of ribbon.
As for her gloves, they were in the state we always beheld them; if she
ever bought a new pair (which I do not believe), she never treated us to
a sight of them till they had been long past decent service. They never
were buttoned, to begin with; they had a wrinkled and haggard
appearance, as if from extreme old age. If their colour had originally
been lavender, they were always black with dirt; if black, they were
white with wear.
As a bad job, she had, apparently, years before, given up putting a
stitch in the ends of the fingers, when a stitch gave way; and the
consequence was that we were perfectly familiar with Miss Blake's
nails--and those nails looked as if, at an early period of her life, a
hammer had been brought heavily down upon them. Mrs. Elmsdale might well
be a beauty, for she had taken not only her own share of the good looks
of the family, but her sister's also.
We used often, at the office, to marvel why Miss Blake ever wore a
collar, or a tucker, or a frill, or a pair of cuffs. So far as clean
linen was concerned, she would have appeared infinitely brighter and
fresher had she and female frippery at once parted company. Her laces
were always in tatters, her collars soiled, her cuffs torn, and her
frills limp. I wonder what the natives thought of her in France! In
London, we decided--and accurately, I believe--that Miss Blake, in the
solitude of her own chamber, washed and got-up her cambrics and fine
linen--and it was a "get-up" and a "put-on" as well.
Had any other woman, dressed like Miss Blake, come to our office, I fear
the clerks would not have been over-civil to her. But Miss Blake was our
own, our very own. She had grown to be as our very flesh and blood. We
did not love her, but she was associated with us by the closest ties
that can subsist between lawyer and client. Had anything happened to
Miss Blake, we should, in the event of her death, have gone in a body to
her funeral, and felt a want in our lives for ever after.
But Miss Blake had not the slightest intention of dying: we were not
afraid of that calamity. The only thing we really did dread was that
some day she might insist upon laying the blame of River Hall remaining
uninhabited on our shoulders, and demand that Mr. Craven should pay her
the rent out of his own pocket.
We knew if she took that, or any other pecuniary matter, seriously in
hand, she would carry it through; and, between jest and earnest, we were
wont to speculate whether, in the end, it might not prove cheaper to our
firm if Mr. Craven were to farm that place, and pay Miss Blake's niece
an annuity of say one hundred a year.
Ultimately we decided that it would, but that such a scheme was
impracticable, because Miss Blake would always think we were making a
fortune out of River Hall, and give us no peace till she had a share of
the profit.
For a time, Miss Blake--after unfastening her bonnet-strings, and taking
out her brooch and throwing back her shawl--sat fanning herself with a
dilapidated glove, and saying, "Oh dear! oh dear! what is to become of
me I cannot imagine." But, at length, finding I was not to be betrayed
into questioning, she observed:
"If William Craven knew the distress I am in, he would not be out of
town enjoying himself, I'll be bound."
"I am quite certain he would not," I answered, boldly. "But as he is
away, is there nothing we can do for you?"
She shook her head mournfully. "You're all a parcel of boys and children
together," was her comprehensive answer.
"But there is our manager, Mr. Taylor," I suggested.
"Him!" she exclaimed. "Now, if you don't want me to walk out of the
office and never set foot in it again, don't talk to me about Taylor."
"Has Mr. Taylor offended you?" I ventured to inquire.
"Lads of your age should not ask too many questions," she replied. "What
I have against Taylor is nothing to you; only don't make me desperate by
mentioning his name."
I hastened to assure her that it should never be uttered by me again in
her presence, and there ensued a pause, which she filled by looking
round the office and taking a mental inventory of everything it
contained.
Eventually, her survey ended in this remark, "And he can go out of town
as well, and keep a brougham for his wife, and draw them daughters of
his out like figures in a fashion-book, and my poor sister's child
living in a two-pair lodging."
"I fear, Miss Blake," I ventured, "that something is the matter at
River Hall."
"You fear, do you, young man?" she returned. "You ought to get a
first prize for guessing. As if anything else could ever bring me
back to London."
"Can I be of no service to you in the matter?"
"I don't think you can, but you may as well see his letter." And diving
into the depths of her pocket, she produced Colonel Morris'
communication, which was very short, but very much to the purpose.
"Not wishing," he said, "to behave in any unhandsome manner, I send
you herewith" (herewith meant the keys of River Hall and his letter)
"a cheque for one half-year's rent. You must know that, had I been
aware of the antecedents of the place, I should never have become
your tenant; and I must say, considering I have a wife in delicate
health, and young children, the deception practised by your lawyers
in concealing the fact that no previous occupant has been able to
remain in the house, seems most unpardonable. I am a soldier, and,
to me, these trade tricks appear dishonourable. Still, as I
understand your position is an exceptional one, I am willing to
forgive the wrong which has been done, and to pay six months' rent
for a house I shall no longer occupy. In the event of these
concessions appearing insufficient, I beg to enclose the names of my
solicitors, and have the honour, madam, to remain
"Your most obedient servant,
"HERCULES MORRIS."
In order to gain time, I read this letter twice over; then,
diplomatically, as I thought, I said:
"What are you going to do, Miss Blake?"
"What are _you_ going to do, is much nearer the point, I am thinking!"
retorted that lady. "Do you imagine there is so much pleasure or profit
in keeping a lawyer, that people want to do lawyer's work for
themselves?"
Which really was hard upon us all, considering that so long as she
could do her work for herself, Miss Blake ignored both Mr. Craven and
his clerks.
Not a shilling of money would she ever, if she could help it, permit to
pass through our hands--not the slightest chance did she ever
voluntarily give Mr. Craven of recouping himself those costs or loans in
which her acquaintance involved her sister's former suitor.
Had he felt any inclination--which I am quite certain he never did--to
deduct Miss Helena's indebtedness, as represented by her aunt, out of
Miss Helena's income, he could not have done it. The tenant's money
usually went straight into Miss Blake's hands.
What she did with it, Heaven only knows. I know she did not buy
herself gloves!
Twirling the Colonel's letter about, I thought the position over.
"What, then," I asked, "do you wish us to do?"
Habited as I have attempted to describe, Miss Blake sat at one side of a
library-table. In, I flatter myself, a decent suit of clothes, washed,
brushed, shaved, I sat on the other. To ordinary observers, I know I
must have seemed much the best man of the two--yet Miss Blake got the
better of me.
She, that dilapidated, red-hot, crumpled-collared, fingerless-gloved
woman, looked me over from head to foot, as I conceived, though my boots
were hidden away under the table, and I declare--I swear--she put me out
of countenance. I felt small under the stare of a person with whom I
would not then have walked through Hyde Park in the afternoon for almost
any amount of money which could have been offered to me.
"Though you are only a clerk," she said at length, apparently quite
unconscious of the effect she had produced, "you seem a very decent sort
of young man. As Mr. Craven is out of the way, suppose you go and see
that Morris man, and ask him what he means by his impudent letter."
I rose to the bait. Being in Mr. Craven's employment, it is unnecessary
to say I, in common with every other person about the place, thought I
could manage his business for him very much better than he could manage
it for himself; and it had always been my own personal conviction that
if the letting of the Uninhabited House were entrusted to me, the place
would not stand long empty.
Miss Blake's proposition was, therefore, most agreeable; but still, I
did not at once swallow her hook. Mr. Craven, I felt, might scarcely
approve of my taking it upon myself to call upon Colonel Morris while
Mr. Taylor was able and willing to venture upon such a step, and I
therefore suggested to our client the advisability of first asking Mr.
Craven's opinion about the affair.
"And keep me in suspense while you are writing and answering and running
up a bill as long as Midsummer Day," she retorted. "No, thank you. If
you don't think my business worth your attention, I'll go to somebody
that may be glad of it." And she began tying her strings and feeling
after her shawl in a manner which looked very much indeed like carrying
out her threat.
At that moment I made up my mind to consult Taylor as to what ought to
be done. So I appeased Miss Blake by assuring her, in a diplomatic
manner, that Colonel Morris should be visited, and promising to
communicate the result of the interview by letter.
"That you won't," she answered. "I'll be here to-morrow to know what he
has to say for himself. He is just tired of the house, like the rest of
them, and wants to be rid of his bargain."
"I am not quite sure of that," I said, remembering my principal's
suggestion. "It is strange, if there really is nothing objectionable
about the house, that _no one_ can be found to stay in it. Mr. Craven
has hinted that he fancies some evil-disposed person must be playing
tricks, in order to frighten tenants away."
"It is likely enough," she agreed. "Robert Elmsdale had plenty of
enemies and few friends; but that is no reason why we should
starve, is it?"
I failed to see the logical sequence of Miss Blake's remark,
nevertheless I did not dare to tell her so; and agreed it was no reason
why she and her niece should be driven into that workhouse which she
frequently declared they "must come to."
"Remember," were her parting words, "I shall be here to-morrow morning
early, and expect you to have good news for me."
Inwardly resolving not to be in the way, I said I hoped there would be
good news for her, and went in search of Taylor.
"Miss Blake has been here," I began. "THE HOUSE is empty again. Colonel
Morris has sent her half a year's rent, the keys, and the address of his
solicitors. He says we have acted disgracefully in the matter, and she
wants me to go and see him, and declares she will be back here first
thing to-morrow morning to know what he has to say for himself. What
ought I to do?"
Before Mr. Taylor answered my question, he delivered himself of a
comprehensive anathema which included Miss Blake, River Hall, the late
owner, and ourselves. He further wished he might be essentially
etceteraed if he believed there was another solicitor, besides Mr.
Craven, in London who would allow such a hag to haunt his offices.
"Talk about River Hall being haunted," he finished; "it is we who are
witch-ridden, I call it, by that old Irishwoman. She ought to be burnt
at Smithfield. I'd be at the expense of the faggots!"
"What have you and Miss Blake quarrelled about?" I inquired. "You say
she is a witch, and she has made me take a solemn oath never to mention
your name again in her presence."
"I'd keep her presence out of these offices, if I was Mr. Craven," he
answered. "She has cost us more than the whole freehold of River Hall
is worth."
Something in his manner, more than in his words, made me comprehend that
Miss Blake had borrowed money from him, and not repaid it, so I did not
press for further explanation, but only asked him once again what I
ought to do about calling upon Colonel Morris.
"Call, and be hanged, if you like!" was the reply; and as Mr. Taylor was
not usually a man given to violent language, I understood that Miss
Blake's name acted upon his temper with the same magical effect as a red
rag does upon that of a turkey-cock.