THE GREAT MAN FROWNS.
The next morning Chris was awakened by a stream of bright light coming
between the window-curtains and when she looked out of the window, she
gave a scream of delight.
“Oh! mother--mother, this can’t be really November, or we can’t be
really in foggy England!” she cried in an ecstasy, as she drank in,
with greedy eyes, all the loveliness of fresh green grass, and the
varied tints of trees in autumn.
Their bed-room was at the front of the house, and looked inland
over the flower-garden and the park. The beauty of the place became
still more striking to their London eyes, when they went into the
Chinese-room, and saw the view southwards over the sea, and westwards
along the country road to little Wyngham, a mile away.
But while Chris was chiefly occupied with the outlook from the windows,
Mrs. Abercarne’s attention was directed to the interior of the house,
and she made some discoveries in the broad daylight which the gracious
glamour of candles had concealed from her. Curious lapses of knowledge
or taste now betrayed themselves. She perceived a valuable oil-painting
hanging on the wall between a chromo and an oleograph. A rare edition
of Shakespeare stood in the bookcase, side by side with one which was
cheap, worthless and modern. In china the collector’s lack of taste
was still more evident; old and new, good and bad, were treated on
equal terms.
She made no comment aloud, however, having, after the experience of the
previous evening, a discreet fear of being mysteriously overheard.
When they had breakfasted, the head housemaid came up with a message
from Mr. Bradfield, to the effect that he hoped they would begin the
day by inspecting the house, and particularly his “collection.”
“We shall be delighted,” said Mrs. Abercarne, “and where is the special
collection Mr. Bradfield wishes us to see?”
“It isn’t anywhere specially,” answered the woman, a gloomy-eyed and
severe person, who had lived “in noblemen’s families,” and felt her
own condescension in occupying her present situation most deeply. “The
things are all over the place. There are no galleries.”
“A charming arrangement,” murmured Mrs. Abercarne. “So much better than
the usual formal disposal of art treasures, as if in a museum.”
So they made the tour of the mansion, which was a singularly
ill-arranged building, in the style of a rabbit-warren, full of nooks
which were not cosy, and of corners which were well adapted for nothing
except dust. Solemnly they passed down the corridor, the gloomy-eyed
housemaid giving them as they went a catalogue-like description of the
various “objects of interest” as they passed them.
“Model of an ironclad fitted with turret guns, torpedo-catcher,
and all the latest improvements. Specimen of pottery taken from an
ancient Egyptian tomb. Inlaid cabinet, bought by Mr. Bradfield from a
Florentine palace,” chanted the housemaid.
“Beautiful! What a charming design! How very interesting, Chris!”
murmured Mrs. Abercarne.
But Chris, whose taste was raw and undeveloped, was paying small
attention to ancient pottery and torpedo-catchers. Her attention had
been attracted by something which seemed to her to promise more human
interest than paintings or old china. The corridor in which they
were ran straight through the house, past the head of the front and
of the back staircases, into a wing which had been added to the east
sea-front. From behind one of the doors in this wing strange noises
began to reach the ears of Chris, who presently noticed that the
housemaid, while still monotonously chanting her description, glanced
alternately at the door in question, and at Chris herself, as if
wondering what the young lady thought of the unusual sounds.
It was not until they had passed the head of the principal staircase,
by which time the noise had grown louder and more continuous, that
Mrs. Abercarne’s attention was also attracted. An unearthly groan made
her start and turn to the housemaid, who, taking no apparent notice,
proceeded to lead the way downstairs.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercarne, as she glanced nervously at
the door from behind which the noises came. At the same moment the door
was shaken violently, and there was a loud crash as if some heavy body
had been thrown against it.
“And this,” went on the housemaid calmly, pointing to a picture over
her head, “is one of Sir Edwin Landseer’s, while the one on your left
is the portrait of a lady by Sir Thomas Lawrence.”
“Oh, indeed!” murmured Mrs. Abercarne, in a rather less enthusiastic
voice than before.
They went on through the inner hall, the dining-room, two magnificent
drawing-rooms, and a wretched little library, for the smallness of
which the housemaid gloomily apologised.
“Mr. Bradfield’s books, like the rest of the things, were scattered in
all directions about the house,” she said.
But Mrs. Abercarne was no longer charmed by this arrangement. The
poor lady was really alarmed, and even the imposing proportions of
the drawing-room, and the display of magnificent old plate in the
dining-room, failed to rekindle her admiration. They visited the
basement, where the cook and the rest of the household were formally
presented to her, and then she herself cut short the inspection and
returned upstairs. She lingered, as Chris and the housemaid behind her
were forced to linger too, on the staircase. They were opposite a door
which the housemaid had not opened; it was Mr. Bradfield’s study, she
said. Just as Mrs. Abercarne was about to ask a question about the
strange noises, the door from which they had issued was opened quickly,
and a man-servant, out of livery, who looked heated, disordered and
breathless, ran out and locked it quickly behind him.
In answer to an enquiry not spoken, but looked by the housemaid, the
man said, briefly:
“It’s all right. He’s quiet now,” and disappeared quickly down the back
staircase.
Mrs. Abercarne drew a long breath which sounded almost like a stifled
scream; Chris looked fixedly at the locked door.
“What door is that?” she asked.
The housemaid, after hesitating a moment, and glancing towards the door
of the study, answered in a low voice:
“Those are Mr. Richard’s rooms.”
“And who is Mr. Richard?” asked Mrs. Abercarne.
The woman did not immediately answer. During the short pause which
succeeded the lady’s question, the study door was opened suddenly, and
Mr. Bradfield came out, looking very angry.
“Now, haven’t I told you not to make a mystery about Mr. Richard?” said
he sharply to the housemaid. “What do you mean by frightening these
poor ladies out of their wits with your mysterious nods and winks? You
and Stelfox, the pair of you? Why can’t you answer a simple question
straightforwardly, and have done with it?”
The housemaid remained silent, and looked down on the floor.
“I thought, sir--I thought, perhaps, the ladies might be alarmed----”
she began.
“Alarmed!” echoed Mr. Bradfield impatiently. “And who knows it better
than yourself that there is nothing to be alarmed about?” Dismissing
the woman with a wave of the hand, he turned to the ladies. “It is only
a poor young lad, the son of an old clerk of mine. He is not quite as
bright as he might be, poor fellow! but I can’t bear to send him to
a home or an asylum, or anything of that sort. I should never feel
sure how they were treating him. But he is harmless, I assure you.
Perfectly, entirely harmless.”
Mrs. Abercarne professed herself completely satisfied with this
explanation, and affected, out of courtesy, to applaud Mr. Bradfield’s
humanity in keeping him under his own roof. But when she and her
daughter were alone again, safe in their own room, the elderly lady
turned the key hastily, and confided her fears to her daughter in a
tremulous whisper.
“It’s all very well for Mr. Bradfield to say this lunatic’s harmless,”
she said, close to her daughter’s ear, “but I don’t believe it. If he
were harmless, why should he be kept in rooms by himself, and be locked
in? No, Chris; depend upon it, he’s a dangerous lunatic, and that man
who rushed out is his keeper. He had been struggling with him; we heard
him. And I don’t intend to remain under the same roof with a raving
madman for another night.”