The Haunted House

by Hilaire Belloc

  “Yes,” he said gently, looking up a little timidly, “yes, William, I am sure you’re right. I’ll look up my figures.” He had not an idea where they were, nor whether he had them all. “£17,324. I’m sure you are right.”

  William began scribbling at the paper meaning-lessly with the point of a little gold pencil he carried on his watch-chain.

  “You know, Henry, to tell you the honest truth,” he said, “I could not go beyond £20,000. I will be quite plain with you. We have never had any secrets from each other. I am not badly off. I don’t say I am. But what a man is worth is one thing, and the free money at his disposal is another. And Hilda, you know—not that I blame her—but she likes to have her house full of people …” He paused.

  “Yes,” said Henry gently, “yes, she’s the wife of a rising man. She’s quite right.”

  “Well, you see,” went on William, with his eyes still averted from his brother’s, and scribbling away furiously making circles round and round that figure of £17,324, “the fact is, that I can’t help thinking you and I might come to an arrangement which would suit both of us …”

  “I don’t doubt it, William,” said Henry gently, and with some admiration in his voice. He had no idea how these good business men got on; he felt about them a little as he had felt about the big boys in the Eleven when he had been a little boy at school. “You have always been very generous to me, William.”

  “I don’t want you to say that, Henry,” said William, decently and soberly. “I wish I could have done more. At any rate, there it is. And quite honestly, I shall not be able to go beyond £20,000.”

  What now stood up in Henry’s mind out of the mist was the fact that there was a margin, a margin of well over £2,000, which he characteristically put down as “about three.” He was just going to suggest something about that margin, and how useful it would be to him, when William spoke again. “Henry,” he said, lowering his voice by a tone or two, and speaking more slowly, “I don’t want to seem to be giving advice; but I am more used to precise business perhaps than you are; that is inevitable, seeing the different kind of life I have had to lead … But … I am rather afraid that if we do not look out, the next few years might be disastrous to you.”

  “Oh,” answered his brother uneasily, “things are bound to turn, you know. Only this morning I was reading that wheat had gone up another 2s.—it’s true it’s the time of year for that, but …”

  William interrupted him firmly, looking him straight in the face for the first time in all this conversation, and bringing his right hand firmly down upon the table.

  “My dear Henry, no,” he said, “no. I have seen any amount of this kind of thing. Honestly, it can’t go on. It’s your business, of course; I don’t want to interfere. But it would relieve me (and I know I am doing right in suggesting it) if you would undertake the only form of retrenchment you can.”

  “What?” said Henry bewildered and alarmed. “Sell the place? William? Sell the place? Sell Rackham?”

  “Oh, no!” answered William a little wearily, but trying to use a soothing tone. “No! No! No! Nothing tragic! But why shouldn’t you see that the place is properly kept in good hands, and you yourself travel? Travel with the boy? You used to like travelling, and it would do him all the good in the world, at his age. A gap between the Preparatory School and the Public School does no harm, and he is just in the years when a boy takes in what he sees. It is astonishing what one can save if one travels for a year or two.”

  “Travel?” repeated Henry, as though in hesitation. He had loved what little travelling he had had when he was young; the word appealed to him. But the ties of his own old place suddenly called him back, as did the now deep rut of daily habit into which his middle age had fallen.

  “I couldn’t bear to let it,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “I couldn’t let Rackham. Besides, who would take it? Who would keep it up?”

  “My dear fellow, I didn’t suggest that you should let it exactly. I have an idea, and I want to put it before you, and I want you to think it over really carefully. There’s no hurry. I would look after the place. I could be here off and on the whole time, week-ends and what not. I have got the means and I should like the job. I am fond of the country, you know; and Hilda …”

  “Do you mean—live here?” said Henry.

  “Well, my dear fellow, only off and on, of course, coming down from London. But it would be kept up and cost you nothing, and I would see that it was more or less put to rights, you know. It is a good idea. And I would set what sum you liked, in reason, as my rent to you against your interest as it falls due. And then your farm rentals would come to you—at least, they’d be set against the interest also.”

  “The rents don’t come to much now,” said Henry gloomily.

  “No; but come—it makes a difference. And you know when one is in a place one always does something to keep it going and even improve it. And, you know, as for the balance, I mean up to £20,000, as I said …”

  “Yes, yes,” answered his brother, a little shortly. Then he mused. William followed up. He rose from his chair and paced the room.

  “Look here, Henry,” he said, “the long and the short of it is that something must be done, and surely this is the sensible thing to do. You know you like it as far as the travelling goes; it would be delightful for the boy; and then perhaps when the time comes things will have taken a turn for the better.” For it was William now who chose to be vague. He was restless, and sat down again, once more looking his brother in the face. “I have told you, Henry, and surely you must see it, there must be a crash if you don’t look out. Living abroad wouldn’t cost you a half—not a third—of what it costs you to live here, and I’d take it all over—just for the time; and it will save the boy’s schooling as well. There’s everything to be said for it, and nothing against it. Come! Think it over.”

  There was a very long silence. By the end of it the elder brother had taken one of those curiously rapid decisions which the undetermined do take when they are brought up suddenly against realities.

  He simply said:

  “Very well, William.” Then he sighed, and added: “Yes … I think you’re right.”

  Another silence followed, during which the younger and more prosperous man felt like an exhausted swimmer who touches the shore with his feet. His speech was lighter when he resumed.

  “Well, I am heartily glad of that, Henry. I thank God for it. I do really think it the best thing. It is obviously the best thing. If you had seen what I have seen …”

  “Yes, I know,” said Henry gently. “I know.”

  “My dear fellow, we see tragedies in my business which …”

  “Yes, I know,” said Henry again. “I know.”

  “Two years, say, or perhaps three; we could talk about that in good time. There’s no sort of hurry.”

  “There’s no hurry, of course,” said Henry. “But I would make it this autumn. These things had better be done soon if they’re to be done at all.”

  His tone was not hopeless, nor even cheerless: he knew that he would have to face a very sad day, but it was natural in such a man to expect an early return of all that he had known.

  “I’ll go south,” he said. “It won’t take you long to make out the thing in black and white, will it?”

  “Oh, we shan’t need anything very formal, letters will do,” said his brother. “I tell you what,” he added, “you had better have that balance of £2,000 pretty soon, so that you can make all your arrangements before you start; and then we’ll draw up some idea of what annual balance there may be between the rental and what is due, you know, and we’ll estimate the rest of your income—there is still a good wad of father’s German Government loan untouched, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” said Henry simply. “I’ve still got that, it’s in the bank at Lewes. They never brought in much—I don’t know how much—about £400 I think—or £450. I don’t know.”

  “Well,” answered Wil
liam, “it’s only the usual first-class government loan rates, but anyhow, German stuff is as safe as gold.”

  “Yes,” said Henry.

  “You will find the margin ample,” his brother assured him. “Things will be all quite simple.” They were beginning to seem quite simple to Henry.

  He remembered how cheaply he had travelled in the past, and how he had enjoyed the little places and the simple habits. He thought of a year of his own boyhood with his own father in Italy just after the unification. He began to make pictures in his mind of his boy’s delight at the mountains and at the beauties of the new lands.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “It’s the best thing. Write me the letters when you choose, and I’ll look over them.”

  And that was the way in which Rackham began its fourth transfer—but, after all, remained under the same blood.

  Chapter II

  It was early in the month of June, 1914. Henry Maple was in Switzerland, not the tourist Switzerland which he hated, but the pleasant southern slopes of the Jura overlooking the plain, with the great mountains to the south.

  He was happier than he had been for many years—happier even than at Rackham. The recent fret of embarrassment, the almost daily shifts and worries, were ugly memories already faded. In the early part of the year he had gone back to England alone, and found Rackham already so nicely set in order by his wealthy brother that he knew not whether to be pleased at its renewal or pained at the change. But on the whole he was more pleased; for after all, it was more like the Rackham of his childhood.

  The provision made during the months of his absence had been ample for his very few needs. The boy was getting good teaching at Solothurn, and learning French and German thoroughly; in the autumn he would go on to the Public School his father and his grandfather had gone to; he might spend part of the holidays with his uncle, but most (he hoped) here in the Jura with himself. For they had grown very close together during this little not unpleasant exile, and the lad was coming to have something of a hero-worship for a father who was always tender to him, always understanding, and seemed to know so very much and to be able to show him all that was to be discovered in that new world of travel from which they had just settled down. He was spending perhaps a quarter of what he had spent in Sussex—he had even saved! And if William had punctually paid himself his dues, he had as punctually remitted the balance of the rental and dividends to the Bank in Berne.

  There came the threat of war and the ultimatum to Servia, but Henry Maple had read too much and knew too much of the past to believe that war would come.

  War came; and the crash had upon this refined, scholarly far-too-detached character a strange effect of not unwelcome isolation. His vague hopefulness was still premanent; he had never liked the Germans; therefore he was sure that they would soon be beaten. He was secure where he was, and victory would only be a matter of a few weeks.

  The Marne confirmed his judgment. Victory went on being a matter of a few weeks. But in the autumn came a letter from William, explaining why the next remittance would be considerably smaller than the last. The German dividend, of course, had failed. He must not mind if there was a certain irregularity in the payments. Everything was at sixes and sevens, and it was not at all easy to transfer money; but he could manage it. He hoped Henry had saved a little, and that the occasional inevitable delays and the necessary diminution of the total would be bearable until peace should come—for William agreed it could not be long delayed. As for the boy, he had better stay safe where he was—he was getting excellent tuition, and it would not be too late to go on to his school in England when peace came. He had seen the headmaster and it would be all right—a few months wouldn’t matter. And after all, John was barely fourteen.

  Yes; Henry had saved a little, for the first time in his life (and how proud of it he was!) The lessening of income was a nuisance, but it hardly meant more than that the saving stopped, and that he had to take a little more care of his very modest expenditure. He secretly rejoiced at the suggestion that his son would not have to leave him permanently just yet, or have to attempt to rejoin him during the holidays under the very difficult conditions of war-time. Of course, John would go to school a little late, but he comforted himself by remembering that, after all, he would have the boy with him so much longer, and that was a great delight. The delay postponed for the lad one great advantage, but it gained him others. It was a very good thing for a young Englishman to have known other countries and other languages well as a boy, and things would right themselves somehow.

  So it went on through the better part of ’fifteen. Remittances came sufficiently often and of sufficient amount to keep things just barely going; but no more. Victory was due almost any day—though, it’s true, it was getting late. Towards the end of the year Henry Maple began to feel he knew not what difference in his gentle vigour and in his hopefulness. It was as though the world were losing its taste.

  He put it down to the war—but it was not the war. 1916 went by, and that internal enemy, whatever it was, took more and more of the man’s life. Yet he put it down to nothing but the restrictions and fatigues and anxieties of the time. The progress of the disease was slow, his son hardly noticed it. To boys of his age a man of over fifty seems very old, and that his father should now no longer be able to take the long walks he had, or to read quite so long at a time, seemed to him nothing but the natural process of age.

  So it went on for two years more. Twice Henry had made the resolution to get back home to see if—late as it was—the boy couldn’t be got to his school. Twice he had abandoned that resolution. The increasing difficulties of travel appalled him, and it must be admitted that a stronger motive was his clinging to John’s companionship. His brother’s urgent appeals to him not to move, the assurance that he was better where he was, and sundry hints in the letters, hints which escaped the censorship, that England might not be quite secure confirmed his lethargy. His increasing weakness did the rest. He would wait till the war was over—still confident that it would be over “almost any time now,” and over in the right way.

  * * * * *

  On the 2nd May, 1918, not for the first time, but hardly for more than the second time in Henry Maple’s life, he was pulled up sharply against reality. A telegram came from Hilda, saying that William had died suddenly—a letter would follow.

  The shock fell on a man much nearer death than either he or his child had imagined. He went down a further step in the descent out of this life. He had been really fond of his brother; too grateful for a generosity that had been very much more like an investment; and he was bound—as such natures are—by the common memories of childhood.

  But there was a good side even to that, and it put some light into the mind of the dying man—for dying he now was, though slowly. After all, John was the heir. William had died childless. John was the heir: not only to dear Rackham and its impoverished fields, but to that solid fortune which William had created—always subject, of course, to Hilda’s life-rights: that was only just.

  Henry honestly admitted to himself that he had never liked Hilda; she was too loud for him. He used to say to himself, that she was not quite a lady. But he would be just; of course she ought to have the usufruct of the greater part as long as she lived. It was only right. Never mind: John was the heir. Henry knew of himself, by this time, that he was dying: but John was the heir, and all was well. The boy was nearly eighteen, they must be thinking of the University soon: the war could not go on for ever; and in a way it was a sort of providence, was it not, that poor William should have gone when he did? And yet, no, that was a thought he must put away. William would have looked after the boy, anyhow … It had better be Oriel. He did not know how Oriel stood now, but he had been at Oriel himself, and that was reason enough. Oriel it should be. He had everything arranged.

  He made no doubt at all as to what William’s will would be, though he had been too delicate to discuss it with him those five years before, when they had l
ast met; it would be the normal will of an enriched, childless younger son standing thus in a landed family; there would be the life interest for Hilda—perhaps large—but the rest of the income would accumulate for the boy until he was of age; and meanwhile there would be an allowance for his education. Perhaps Hilda would be made guardian; he would regret it, but he did not mind. He could not think long on these things: he could not concentrate. He awaited the papers.

  Instead of the papers, only a couple of rare letters came through from his sister-in-law, but all that late summer of 1918 went by, with the war now at last manifestly closing, the turn of the tide, the Armistice. At the end of the year Hilda herself, too soon after a message announcing her coming, was in the sick man’s room.

  She stayed exactly two days in the little house on the slope of the Jura, just gracious to her nephew, just sufficiently affectionate to her brother-in-law, and no more. Mrs. William Maple was a business woman, and she had come to talk business.

  And the business was this. William Maple had left everything to her absolutely. That was the first point. Yes? (putting up her hand) surely he did not suspect her? She would do her duty, and she knew what her duty was. But so far as the legal terms of the will went, there it was. That was how it stood. It was not her doing. She had known nothing about it till it was read. Henry must remember it was her husband’s money, and, for her part, she thought he had done rightly.

  So much for that. Now about Rackham.

  She changed her tone somewhat when she came to this. She was not exactly ashamed, but she was just a trifle embarrassed. She owed it to herself to do what she had to do, but she did not like doing it. However, these things have to be done, and she was as brief as she was clear.