Next day but one Mr. Craven astonished us all by walking into the office
about ten o'clock. He looked stout and well, sunburnt to a degree, and
all the better physically for his trip to the seaside. We were
unfeignedly glad to see him. Given a good employer, and it must be an
extremely bad employé who rejoices in his absence. If we were not
saints, we were none of us very black sheep, and accordingly, from the
porter to the managing clerk, our faces brightened at sight of our
principal.
But after the first genial "how are you" and "good morning," Mr.
Craven's face told tales: he had come back out of sorts. He was vexed
about Miss Blake's letter, and, astonishing to relate, he was angry with
me for having called upon Colonel Morris.
"You take too much upon you, Patterson," he remarked. "It is a growing
habit with you, and you must try to check it."
I did not answer him by a word; my heart seemed in my mouth; I felt as
if I was choking. I only inclined my head in token that I heard and
understood, and assented; then, having, fortunately, work to attend to
out of doors, I seized an early opportunity of slipping down the
staircase and walking off to Chancery Lane. When I returned, after
hours, to Buckingham Street, one of the small boys in the outer office
told me I was to go to Mr. Craven's room directly.
"You'll catch it," remarked the young fiend. "He has asked for you a
dozen times, at least."
"What can be wrong now?" I thought, as I walked straight along the
passage to Mr. Craven's office.
"Patterson," he said, as I announced my return.
"Yes, sir?"
"I spoke hastily to you this morning, and I regret having done so."
"Oh! sir," I cried. And that was all. We were better friends than ever.
Do you wonder that I liked my principal? If so, it is only because I am
unable to portray him as he really was. The age of chivalry is past; but
still it is no exaggeration to say I would have died cheerfully if my
dying could have served Mr. Craven.
Life holds me now by many and many a nearer and dearer tie than was the
case in those days so far and far away; nevertheless, I would run any
risk, encounter any peril, if by so doing I could serve the man who in
my youth treated me with a kindness far beyond my deserts.
He did not, when he came suddenly to town in this manner, stop at
his own house, which was, on such occasions, given over to charwomen
and tradespeople of all descriptions; but he put up at an
old-fashioned family hotel where, on that especial evening, he asked
me to dine with him.
Over dessert he opened his mind to me on the subject of the "Uninhabited
House." He said the evil was becoming one of serious magnitude. He
declared he could not imagine what the result might prove. "With all the
will in the world," he said, "to assist Miss Blake and that poor child,
I cannot undertake to provide for them. Something must be done in the
affair, and I am sure I cannot see what that something is to be. Since
Mr. Elmsdale bought the place, the neighbourhood has gone down. If we
sold the freehold as it stands, I fear we should not get more than a
thousand pounds for it, and a thousand pounds would not last Miss Blake
three years; as for supposing she could live on the interest, that is
out of the question. The ground might be cut up and let for business
purposes, of course, but that would be a work of time. I confess, I do
not know what to think about the matter or how to act in it."
"Do you suppose the place really is haunted?" I ventured to inquire.
"Haunted?--pooh! nonsense," answered Mr. Craven, pettishly. "Do I
suppose this room is haunted; do I believe my offices are haunted? No
sane man has faith in any folly of the kind; but the place has got a bad
name; I suspect it is unhealthy, and the tenants, when they find that
out, seize on the first excuse which offers. It is known we have
compromised a good many tenancies, and I am afraid we shall have to
fight this case, if only to show we do not intend being patient for
ever. Besides, we shall exhaust the matter: we shall hear what the
ghost-seers have to say for themselves on oath. There is little doubt of
our getting a verdict, for the British juryman is, as a rule, not
imaginative."
"I think we shall get a verdict," I agreed; "but I fancy we shall never
get another tenant."
"There are surely as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it," he
answered, with a smile; "and we shall come across some worthy country
squire, possessed of pretty daughters, who will be delighted to find so
cheap and sweet a nest for his birds, when they want to be near London."
"I wish sir," I said, "you would see Colonel Morris yourself. I am quite
certain that every statement he made to me is true in his belief. I do
not say, I believe him; I only say, what he told me justifies the
inference that some one is playing a clever game in River Hall," and
then I repeated in detail all the circumstances Colonel Morris had
communicated to me, not excepting the wonderful phenomenon witnessed by
Mr. Morris, of a man walking through a closed door.
Mr. Craven listened to me in silence, then he said, "I will not see
Colonel Morris. What you tell me only confirms my opinion that we must
fight this question. If he and his witnesses adhere to the story you
repeat, on oath, I shall then have some tangible ground upon which to
stand with Miss Blake. If they do not--and, personally, I feel satisfied
no one who told such a tale could stand the test of cross-examination--we
shall then have defeated the hidden enemy who, as I believe, lurks behind
all this. Miss Blake is right in what she said to you: Robert Elmsdale
must have had many a good hater. Whether he ever inspired that different
sort of dislike which leads a man to carry on a war in secret, and try to
injure this opponent's family after death, I have no means of knowing. But
we must test the matter now, Patterson, and I think you had better call
upon Colonel Morris and tell him so."
This service, however, to Mr. Craven's intense astonishment, I
utterly declined.
I told him--respectfully, of course: under no possible conditions of
life could I have spoken other than respectfully to a master I loved so
well--that if a message were to be delivered _viva voce_ from our
office, it could not be so delivered by me.
I mentioned the fact that I felt no desire to be kicked downstairs. I
declared that I should consider it an unseemly thing for me to engage in
personal conflict with a gentleman of Colonel Morris's years and social
position, and, as a final argument, I stated solemnly that I believed no
number of interviews would change the opinions of our late tenant or
induce him to alter his determination.
"He says he will fight," I remarked, as a finish to my speech, "and I am
confident he will till he drops."
"Well, well," said Mr. Craven, "I suppose he must do so then; but
meantime it is all very hard upon me."
And, indeed, so it proved; what with Miss Blake, who, of course,
required frequent advances to sustain her strength during the
approaching ordeal; what with policemen, who could not "undertake to be
always a-watching River Hall"; what with watchmen, who kept their vigils
in the nearest public-house as long as it was open, and then peacefully
returned home to sleep; what with possible tenants, who came to us
imagining the place was to let, and whom we referred to Colonel Morris,
who dismissed them, each and all, with a tale which disenchanted them
with the "desirable residence"--it was all exceeding hard upon Mr.
Craven and his clerks till the quarter turned when we could take action
about the matter.
Before the new year was well commenced, we were in the heat of the
battle. We had written to Colonel Morris, applying for one quarter's
rent of River Hall. A disreputable blackguard of a solicitor would have
served him with a writ; but we were eminently respectable: not at the
bidding of her most gracious Majesty, whose name we invoked on many and
many of our papers, would Mr. Craven have dispensed with the
preliminary letter; and I feel bound to say I follow in his footsteps
in that respect.
To this notice, Colonel Morris replied, referring us to his solicitors.
We wrote to them, eliciting a reply to the effect that they would
receive service of a writ. We served that writ, and then, as Colonel
Morris intended to fight, instructed counsel.
Meanwhile the "Uninhabited House," and the furniture it contained, was,
as Mr. Taylor tersely expressed the matter, "Going to the devil."
We could not help that, however--war was put upon us, and go to war we
felt we must.
Which was all extremely hard upon Mr. Craven. To my knowledge, he had
already, in three months, advanced thirty pounds to Miss Blake, besides
allowing her to get into his debt for counsel's fees, and costs out of
pocket, and cab hire, and Heaven knows what besides--with a
problematical result also. Colonel Morris' solicitors were sparing no
expenses to crush us. Clearly they, in a blessed vision, beheld an
enormous bill, paid without difficulty or question. Fifty guineas here
or there did not signify to their client, whilst to us--well, really,
let a lawyer be as kind and disinterested as he will, fifty guineas
disbursed upon the suit of an utterly insolvent, or persistently
insolvent, client means something eminently disagreeable to him.
Nevertheless, we were all heartily glad to know the day of war was come.
Body and soul, we all went in for Miss Blake, and Helena, and the
"Uninhabited House." Even Mr. Taylor relented, and was to be seen
rushing about with papers in hand relating to the impending suit of
Blake _v_. Morris.
"She is a blank, blank woman," he remarked to me; "but still the case is
interesting. I don't think ghosts have ever before come into court in my
experience."
And we were all of the same mind. We girt up our loins for the fight.
Each of us, I think, on the strength of her celebrity, lent Miss Blake a
few shillings, and one or two of our number franked her to luncheon.
She patronized us all, I know, and said she should like to tell our
mothers they had reason to be proud of their sons. And then came a
dreadfully solemn morning, when we went to Westminster and championed
Miss Blake.
Never in our memory of the lady had she appeared to such advantage as
when we met her in Edward the Confessor's Hall. She looked a little
paler than usual, and we felt her general get-up was a credit to our
establishment. She wore an immense fur tippet, which, though then of an
obsolete fashion, made her look like a three-per-cent. annuitant going
to receive her dividends. Her throat was covered with a fine white lawn
handkerchief; her dress was mercifully long enough to conceal her
boots; her bonnet was perfectly straight, and the strings tied by some
one who understood that bows should be pulled out and otherwise
fancifully manipulated. As she carried a muff as large as a big drum,
she had conceived the happy idea of dispensing altogether with gloves,
and I saw that one of the fingers she gave me to shake was adorned with
a diamond ring.
"Miss Elmsdale's," whispered Taylor to me. "It belonged to her mother."
Hearing which, I understood Helena had superintended her aunt's toilet.
"Did you ever see Miss Elmsdale?" I inquired of our manager.
"Not for years," was the answer. "She bade fair to be pretty."
"Why does not Miss Blake bring her out with her sometimes?" I asked.
"I believe she is expecting the Queen to give her assent to her marrying
the Prince of Wales," explained Taylor, "and she does not wish her to
appear much in public until after the wedding."
The court was crammed. Somehow it had got into the papers--probably
through Colonel Morris' gossips at the club--that ours was likely to
prove a very interesting case, and though the morning was damp and
wretched, ladies and gentlemen had turned out into the fog and drizzle,
as ladies and gentlemen will when there seems the least chance of a new
sensation being provided for them.
Further, there were lots of reporters.
"It will be in every paper throughout the kingdom," groaned Taylor. "We
had better by far have left the Colonel alone."
That had always been my opinion, but I only said, "Well, it is of no use
looking back now."
I glanced at Mr. Craven, and saw he was ill at ease. We had considerable
faith in ourselves, our case, and our counsel; but, then, we could not
be blind to the fact that Colonel Morris' counsel were men very much
better known than our men--that a cloud of witnesses, thirsting to
avenge themselves for the rent we had compelled them to pay for an
uninhabitable house, were hovering about the court--(had we not seen and
recognized them in the Hall?)--that, in fact, there were two very
distinct sides to the question, one represented by Colonel Morris and
his party, and the other by Miss Blake and ourselves.
Of course our case lay in a nutshell. We had let the place, and Colonel
Morris had agreed to take it. Colonel Morris now wanted to be rid of his
bargain, and we were determined to keep him to it. Colonel Morris said
the house was haunted, and that no one could live in it. We said the
house was not haunted, and that anybody could live in it; that River
Hall was "in every respect suited for the residence of a family of
position"--see advertisements in _Times_ and _Morning Post_.
Now, if the reader will kindly consider the matter, it must be an
extremely difficult thing to prove, in a court of law, that a house, by
reason solely of being haunted, is unsuitable for the residence of a
gentleman of position.
Smells, bad drainage, impure water, unhealthiness of situation,
dampness, the absence of advantages mentioned, the presence of small
game--more odious to tenants of furnished houses than ground game to
farmers--all these things had, we knew, been made pretexts for
repudiation of contracts, and often successfully, but we could find no
precedent for ghosts being held as just pleas upon which to relinquish a
tenancy; and we made sure of a favourable verdict accordingly.
To this day, I believe that our hopes would have been justified by the
result, had some demon of mischief not put it into the head of
Taylor--who had the management of the case--that it would be a good
thing to get Miss Blake into the witness-box.
"She will amuse the jury," he said, "and juries have always a kindly
feeling for any person who can amuse them."
Which was all very well, and might be very true in a general way, but
Miss Blake proved the exception to his rule.
Of course she amused the jury, in fact, she amused everyone. To get her
to give a straightforward answer to any question was simply impossible.
Over and over again the judge explained to her that "yes" or "no" would
be amply sufficient; but all in vain. She launched out at large in
reply to our counsel, who, nevertheless, when he sat down, had gained
his point.
Miss Blake declared upon oath she had never seen anything worse than
herself at River Hall, and did not believe anybody else ever had.
She had never been there during Colonel Morris' tenancy, or she must
certainly have seen something worse than a ghost, a man ready and
anxious to "rob the orphan," and she was going to add the "widow" when
peals of laughter stopped her utterance. Miss Blake had no faith in
ghosts resident at River Hall, and if anybody was playing tricks about
the house, she should have thought a "fighting gentleman by profession"
capable of getting rid of them.
"Unless he was afraid," added Miss Blake, with withering irony.
Then up rose the opposition counsel, who approached her in an easy,
conversational manner.
"And so you do not believe in ghosts, Miss Blake?" he began.
"Indeed and I don't," she answered.
"But if we have not ghosts, what is to become of the literature of your
country?" he inquired.
"I don't know what you mean, by talking about my country," said Miss
Blake, who was always proclaiming her nationality, and quarrelling with
those who discovered it without such proclamation.
"I mean," he explained, "that all the fanciful legends and beautiful
stories for which Ireland is celebrated have their origin in the
supernatural. There are, for instance, several old families who have
their traditional banshee."
"For that matter, we have one ourselves," agreed Miss Blake, with
conscious pride.
At this junction our counsel interposed with a suggestion that there was
no insinuation about any banshee residing at River Hall.
"No, the question is about a ghost, and I am coming to that. Different
countries have different usages. In Ireland, as Miss Blake admits, there
exists a very ladylike spirit, who announces the coming death of any
member of certain families. In England, we have ghosts, who appear after
the death of some members of some families. Now, Miss Blake, I want you
to exercise your memory. Do you remember a night in the November after
Mr. Elmsdale's death?"
"I remember many nights in many months that I passed broken-hearted in
that house," she answered, composedly; but she grew very pale; and
feeling there was something unexpected behind both question and answer,
our counsel looked at us, and we looked back at him, dismayed.
"Your niece, being nervous, slept in the same room as that occupied by
you?" continued the learned gentleman.
"She did," said Miss Blake. Her answer was short enough, and direct
enough, at last.
"Now, on the particular November night to which I refer, do you
recollect being awakened by Miss Elmsdale?"
"She wakened me many a time," answered Miss Blake, and I noticed that
she looked away from her questioner, and towards the gallery.
"Exactly so; but on one especial night she woke you, saying, her father
was walking along the passage; that she knew his step, and that she
heard his keys strike against the wall?"
"Yes, I remember that," said Miss Blake, with suspicious alacrity.
"She kept me up till daybreak. She was always thinking about him,
poor child."
"Very natural indeed," commented our adversary. "And you told her not to
be foolish, I daresay, and very probably tried to reassure her by saying
one of the servants must have passed; and no doubt, being a lady
possessed of energy and courage, you opened your bedroom door, and
looked up and down the corridor?"
"Certainly I did," agreed Miss Blake.
"And saw nothing--and no one?"
"I saw nothing."
"And then, possibly, in order to convince Miss Elmsdale of the full
extent of her delusion, you lit a candle, and went downstairs."
"Of course--why wouldn't I?" said Miss Blake, defiantly.
"Why not, indeed?" repeated the learned gentleman, pensively. "Why
not?--Miss Blake being brave as she is witty. Well, you went
downstairs, and, as was the admirable custom of the house--a custom
worthy of all commendation--you found the doors opening from the hall
bolted and locked?"
"I did."
"And no sign of a human being about?"
"Except myself," supplemented Miss Blake.
"And rather wishing to find that some human being besides yourself was
about, you retraced your steps, and visited the servants' apartments?"
"You might have been with me," said Miss Blake, with an angry sneer.
"I wish I had," he answered. "I can never sufficiently deplore the fact
of my absence. And you found the servants asleep?"
"Well, they seemed asleep," said the lady; "but that does not prove that
they were so."
"Doubtless," he agreed. "Nevertheless, so far as you could judge, none
of them looked as if they had been wandering up and down the corridors?"
"I could not judge one way or another," said Miss Blake: "for the tricks
of English servants, it is impossible for anyone to be up to."
"Still, it did not occur to you at the time that any of them was
feigning slumber?"
"I can't say it did. You see, I am naturally unsuspicious," explained
Miss Blake, naively.
"Precisely so. And thus it happened that you were unable to confute Miss
Elmsdale's fancy?"
"I told her she must have been dreaming," retorted Miss Blake. "People
who wake all of a sudden often confound dreams with realities."
"And people who are not in the habit of awaking suddenly often do the
same thing," agreed her questioner; "and so, Miss Blake, we will pass
out of dreamland, and into daylight--or rather foglight. Do you
recollect a particularly foggy day, when your niece, hearing a favourite
dog moaning piteously, opened the door of the room where her father
died, in order to let it out?"
Miss Blake set her lips tight, and looked up at the gallery. There was
a little stir in that part of the court, a shuffling of feet, and
suppressed whispering. In vain the crier shouted, "Silence! silence,
there!" The bustle continued for about a minute, and then all became
quiet again. A policeman stated "a female had fainted," and our
curiosity being satisfied, we all with one accord turned towards our
learned friend, who, one hand under his gown, holding it back, and the
other raised to emphasise his question, had stood in this picturesque
attitude during the time occupied in carrying the female out, as if
done in stone.
"Miss Blake, will you kindly answer my question?" he said, when order
once again reigned in court.
"You're worse than a heathen," remarked the lady, irrelevantly.
"I am sorry you do not like me," he replied, "for I admire you very
much; but my imperfections are beside the matter in point. What I want
you to tell us is, did Miss Elmsdale open that door?"
"She did--the creature, she did," was the answer; "her heart was always
tender to dumb brutes."
"I have no doubt the young lady's heart was everything it ought to be,"
was the reply; "and for that reason, though she had an intense
repugnance to enter the room, she opened the door to let the dog out."
"She said so: I was not there," answered Miss Blake.
Whereupon ensued a brisk skirmish between counsel as to whether Miss
Blake could give evidence about a matter of mere hearsay. And after they
had fought for ten minutes over the legal bone, our adversary said he
would put the question differently, which he did, thus:
"You were sitting in the dining-room, when you were startled by hearing
a piercing shriek."
"I heard a screech--you can call it what you like," said Miss Blake,
feeling an utter contempt for English phraseology.
"I stand corrected; thank you, Miss Blake. You heard a screech, in
short, and you hurried across the hall, and found Miss Elmsdale in a
fainting condition, on the floor of the library. Was that so?"
"She often fainted: she is all nairves," explained poor Miss Blake.
"No doubt. And when she regained consciousness, she entreated to be
taken out of that dreadful room."
"She never liked the room after her father's death: it was natural,
poor child."
"Quite natural. And so you took her into the dining-room, and there,
curled upon the hearthrug, fast asleep, was the little dog she fancied
she heard whining in the library."
"Yes, he had been away for two or three days, and came home hungry
and sleepy."
"Exactly. And you have, therefore, no reason to believe he was
shamming slumber."
"I believe I am getting very tired of your questions and
cross-questions," she said, irritably.
"Now, what a pity!" remarked her tormentor; "for I could never tire of
your answers. At all events, Miss Elmsdale could not have heard him
whining in the library--so called."
"She might have heard some other dog," said Miss Blake.
"As a matter of fact, however, she stated to you there was no dog in
the room."
"She did. But I don't think she knew whether there was or not."
"In any case, she did not see a dog; you did not see one; and the
servants did not."
"I did not," replied Miss Blake; "as to the servants, I would not
believe them on their oath."
"Hush! hush! Miss Blake," entreated our opponent. "I am afraid you must
not be quite so frank. Now to return to business. When Miss Elmsdale
recovered consciousness, which she did in that very comfortable
easy-chair in the dining-room--what did she tell you?"
"Do you think I am going to repeat her half-silly words?" demanded Miss
Blake, angrily. "Poor dear, she was out of her mind half the time, after
her father's death."
"No doubt; but still, I must just ask you to tell us what passed. Was it
anything like this? Did she say, 'I have seen my father. He was coming
out of the strong-room when I lifted my head after looking for Juan, and
he was wringing his hands, and seemed in some terrible distress'?"
"God forgive them that told you her words," remarked Miss Blake; "but
she did say just those, and I hope they'll do you and her as played
eavesdropper all the good I wish."
"Really, Miss Blake," interposed the judge.
"I have no more questions to ask, my lord," said Colonel Morris'
counsel, serenely triumphant. "Miss Blake can go down now."
And Miss Blake did go down; and Taylor whispered in my ear:
"She had done for us."