The Haunted House

by Hilaire Belloc

  “He will,” nodded Bo emphatically. “You’ll see. You call that making good?”

  “Seems so,” said her father, with his eyes on the ceiling. “But I can’t join the slats. Where’s it coming from?” He looked a little suspiciously at his daughter. But her sincerity was not to be mistaken.

  “You’re wrong there, Pop,” she said. “Won’t come from me or anywhere I know of. Only I say: watch Jacko. He’ll have this place, and he’ll have it for a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Some boy,” murmured Lord Hellup in his turn.

  Chapter XII

  The evening was far advanced. It had long been time for the ladies to go and dress, especially in such a house as Hilda Maple’s, where things were well organised, prompt and punctual. But to-day was an exceptional day.

  It was time for Bo to dress—if dress it can still be called—anyhow, to wallow in warm water with Smell-Good Crystals added. But business came before pleasure with Bo.

  She sought John, and led him to where she had ready, prepared and folded in a nice little parcel, her nice little cloak. She took it out again and put it over his head, and adjusted the ruff on the top, and patted the sword-hilt sewn into the slit at the side, and patted the sheath behind. Then she crowned the headless figure with the ruff.

  “You look dandy, Jacko,” she said. “I could kiss you if there was anything to kiss.”

  “I can’t see anything,” came a muffled voice from within.

  “There’s an eyelet hole just about opposite your eyes, I guess. Feel for it with your finger.”

  John obeyed, found it, and so widened it; an iris and pupil, grey and young, looked forth.

  “Scares me, that does,” said Bo, drawing back. “But he’ll never see it. You’ll find your way about. Trouble’s about your shoulders—all slopes down, Jacko—makes you look like an elephant.

  “A small elephant,” said he.

  “Yes, but broad,” answered the modest child, with a world of affection in her voice. Then she mused, “Couldn’t we prop up them shoulders, Jacko?”

  “Might stuff ’em,” said he. “They usually have old copies of The Times stacked in the boxroom for packing. The Times makes good stuffing.”

  The young people went off for the paper, and Bo pinned the crushed rolls in. She put the cloak over his head again, and poised the ruff.

  “That’s more like,” she said. “You’re my tall, upstanding, spectral cavalier. You’d be a head taller with a head, Jacko.”

  They debated where to lay the properties, and decided for the lad’s own room. It was the next but one to his victim’s.

  “And how ‘ll you get there, Dog-Man?” she asked.

  “I’ll manage to slip in,” he said. “I can squeeze the cloak over my head between the head of the bed and the wall. And I’ll be waiting in the little room which opens out of his bedroom, and which they never use. They always keep the door locked. And they’ve only got trunks in there. But Corton gave me the key.”

  “Find your own time, Jacko,” she said; and then, snatching a glance at the impossible watch, she saw that she had barely time. But she guessed that the other women would be late that night. And she was right.

  It had long been time for Aunt Hilda to dress; but with her also business came before pleasure; and after she had returned baffled from the great attack upon the Hellup trenches she knew that something desperate must be done, dinner or no dinner. Old Bruvvish would still be in the library—he always went up late. She must get back there at once, and nail him down, or confess herself defeated.

  Ah! And it had been time longer since for Amathea to dress. For Amathea had many things to think of in the affair of dressing, including the choice of hair. But with Amathea also business came before pleasure. She had seen from the end of the passage darling Hilda come out from the library, which she herself had been just about to enter, to convince her husband of the necessity of purchase. She had seen that hostess make straight for the room where she knew Lord Hellup was reading his Motley. She divined that the coast was clear; for the attack on Hellup (which she knew very well was about to take place) would not be over in ten minutes or in fifteen. Therefore it was that even at the moment Aunt Hilda’s entry had supplanted Motley’s Republic in the interest of its reader Amathea was charging for the library and for a decision.

  Lord Mere de Beaurivage saw his wife coming into the library. He told himself that it was time for her to dress. He divined some dreadful purpose in her delay. He saw that she was all smiles, and therefore dreaded the battle that was to come.

  She had behaved well to him all her life—in the first hard days of accumulating that little fortune by the private banking in the Old Kent Road, she had proved as shrewd and as hard as he had, and a loyal partner; in the big affairs of his later life she had never interfered. When he had asked her advice, it had been sound. To-day the only cause of his dread was that he dared not tell her the real reason of his hesitation: he dared not advance the haunting. No man likes to look cowardly in the eyes of his wife—not even a new politicians’ peer.

  Corton also had spoken a word or two, very respectfully, explaining a dark stain on the oak floor, and telling him his own version of the legend.

  What Corton had said still wreathed like a smoke in his mind, and in memory he again heard that Voice—had he heard it?—a little too clearly.

  He braced himself for the discussion that was before him; but he already felt half beaten.

  She sailed in and greeted him kindly; sat down at his side, and told him radiantly that her dream had come true. Dear Hilda had as good as said it.

  “But there weren’t any figures, Uggins,” she added, “and that’s just as well. I like you men to do the figgerin’ part. And you know your way about that well, you do, don’t you, ducky? You remember ow the Prime Minister said …”

  But George Huggins, first Baron de Beaurivage was in a hurry.

  “Yes, Mattie, yes, I remember. He was right, too. But, ’struth, Mattie, her figure’s a corker.”

  “What d’yer mean?” answered the lady anxiously. “Yer not backing out now, George, are yer? Not breakin’ my ’eart?”

  “Don’t you be so quick,” said he testily. “Wot I said was that her figure’s were corkers, and so they were. That woman’s greedy, Mattie,” he added earnestly, and then he growled, with a sudden reversion to his youth, “bleeding greedy,” and his wife reproved him.

  “You haven’t got no cause to use soldier language to me, George Uggins,” she said. “I’ve given you no provercation. And just you be minded of it!”

  He begged her pardon very humbly.

  “It got the better of me, Mattie, it did. It shan’t again. But there! Fifty thousand pounds—guineas she put it. Just for this!” And he waved a short podgy arm vaguely and rheumatically at the book-lined walls.

  Amathea Huggins put into her voice that rich scorn which is rarely heard west of Temple Bar.

  “Ow! So that’s what sticks in yer gizzard, is it, George Uggins? Fifty dirty little thousand!”

  “Guineas it was,” growled the peer.

  “Well, guineas,” said Amathea, suddenly rising, her arms akimbo. “Guineas. Why, George Uggins, you give more’n that for your baronetcy, you did. D’yer remember what you give for the peerage?”

  “Don’t!” said her husband faintly. “Don’t!”

  “Yes, but I will,” said Amathea. “Wot! Yer stick at a gent’s price for a beautiful country ’ouse! And its oaks and all, and its park-like grounds. Like what I’ve read of all my life, and meant to ’ave. Do you know what I’d give for it, George Uggins? If I’ad money of my own? But there, I ’aven’t. I am only just a poor woman, I am. But ’oo ’elped you make your money, George Uggins? Oo stood by yer side, ever pitient, ever true? But there—I don’t count, I don’t.”

  And here there came out suddenly a little five guinea handkerchief with real lace all round it, and it was dabbed upon those poor porcine eyes, while she sank again into her
chair and sobs shook her most substantial frame. “Oo am I? Just a victim, that’s wot I am. Nothing for me. All the work for me. None of the joy, as you may say. And I had so set my eart on it. And so cheap at that,” she said, suddenly removing the handkerchief, and switching across from emotion to reason. “Cheap! Why, George Uggins, can’t you see it’s give away? It’s like pine-apples at sixpence,” she added, reverting to the days of the barrow. “There you are a-haggling and a-hesitating, carrying on like a harea-man. D’you know what I’d ave given? I’d ave given a undred thousand, I would. What’s a hundred thousand to you, George Uggins? You’d give it to-morrow for another step-up, you would; and you know you would. And oo’s it to go to, any ’ow?” she added, short-circuiting. (It was her trump card always, poor woman! That only child who had died before their wealth had ascended upon them from Hell.)

  And George Huggins, First Baronet, and First Baron Mere de Beaurivage, in the county of Berks, struck his colours and handed over his sword.

  “Ave it yer own way, old girl,” he said. “Ave it yer own way.”

  She gave him a large Old Kent Road kiss of the kind that pleased him best, even in his old age. And he was glad to have the battle over, even in defeat. But man as he was, he could not help muttering to himself (which was both inconsiderate of him, and futile):

  “But oh, strike me, fifty thousand guineas!” Then, “What’s fifty thousand shillings?” he asked sharply.

  “Never you mind,” said the lady archly. Now that she had got her way she was full of mature sunshine. “ ’Tain’t as much as counts, and you wait till I’m settled ere, and all the county folk talking on the lawn, and you coming out and shaking hands and sayin’—wotever it is you ought to say,” she concluded lamely. Then she added valiantly, “Oh, them’ll be appy days!”

  In her mind’s eye she saw an endless procession of squires and their ladies: yes, and one or two of the big Houses too; her Rolls Royces parked in front of the new garage she was going to build—for they would have a proper number of cars. She heard the strains of the band …

  It is not true that women have only two happy days of their lives—the day of their wedding and the day of their death. They have from seventeen to twenty others in between, and this was one of Amathea’s. She left her husband thus rewarded.

  Amathea was fully employing her maid, she was dressing triumphantly. She had won.

  Poor George lay limp and too large, and too short, enormous, in the chair. He was conquered. But finding himself alone, he muttered to himself with some relief:

  “Any’ow, the wimmen’s all gone up to dress now, and there’s an hour’s peace. I’ll bide here awhile. No need for me to go for half an hour. Never did take much stock in all them frills. Such nonsense!”

  But hardly had be completed that little monologue when (oh, horror!) the door was opened with decision, and the formidable Hilda strode in.

  “Oh, Lord Mere,” she said, even before she had sat down beside him, “I’m sorry, but I must see you a minute. You see, the truth is, I was rung up on the telephone, and I do honestly think it’s my duty to tell you …”

  “As wot?” said the unfortunate First Baron, trying to lift himself up by the arms of the too deep couch of repose, and sinking back again.

  “You see, dear Lord Mere, everything’s so hurried, isn’t it? But you must hear of this offer, because honestly I think it’d be simply a crime to take it without letting you know first … You’re generous, I know, but you’re the best man of business of our time. You’d despise me if I didn’t tell you the truth.” Here her guest interrupted stentoriously.

  “Not as ever I’d despise you, Mrs. Miple. But clear figures I do like.”

  “My dear Lord Mere,” answered his hostess, leaning forward towards him earnestly, and boldly putting a hand upon his knee, “to be perfectly frank with you after your frankness with me, I have just heard; they’ve just offered £60,000.”

  “ ’Oo’s they?” queried her guest, with the courtesy of an older world.

  “And though they made me promise not to say a word,” went on Aunt Hilda solidly, “I do think it right to tell you … I admit I don’t like to lose … dear Lord Mere … but I must keep my word. We had nothing fixed, but after all, I had already offered you the lesser price, hadn’t I? And you know,” she continued sweetly, and even pensively, “I think that straight dealing has a moral value of its own. It leaves the conscience quiet. And that’s worth any number of thousands.”

  “Yus, yus,” grunted the old man. He paid no attention to her nonsense. He was thinking of Mattie. She would come in and see him again while he was dressing—bound to do that. He couldn’t a-bear being harried. “Once and for all!” was his motter. “It had made him what he was, it had.”

  “Look here, Mrs. Miple,” he said, “I don’t know what about your telephone and all. And I don’t want to. That’s strite, as between friends. But I’ve got to finish this ’ere business one way or t’other, and I’ve made up my mind. You said fifty thousand, and I’ll give fifty thousand.”

  “Guineas,” murmured Hilda gently. “Guineas.”

  “Fifty thousand pounds” answered her guest, sitting up and speaking with a decision that made him look ten years younger, and tapping the padded arm of the low chair as he did so.

  “Oh, really! Lord Mere …”

  “Fifty thousand pounds, ma’am, and we’ll count the dirty lawyers’ frills for the guineas. Now then, are ye’ agreed?”

  Aunt Hilda had never met big business in its more aggressive mood, and I weep to tell you that she was cowed.

  “Very well, Lord Mere,” she said. “Very well.”

  “That’s it, ma’am,” said he, riveting the bargain, and at the same time managing after two efforts to stand up on his poor old gouty legs. “Fifty thousand pounds.”

  He had never learned the silly little social habits of a class which he both envied and despised; therefore he made for the door before his hostess, and she heard him muttering as he went out, leaving her there at once mightily relieved and mightily offended: “Fifty thousand pounds. And I wouldn’t have done it for any but Mattie. Fifty thousand pounds!”

  Chapter XIII

  Dressing in his bedroom, poor Lord Mere de Beaurivage was not content.

  He had only done it for Mattie—and he was not content.

  Two quite separate parts of the man were disturbed; first, the old business part—fifty thousand was monstrously too much: he got feverish over it (and that delayed his dressing. He never would have a man to help him). It was monstrous. Good Lord! There was some he knew would have ’ad it for half. He’d have had it for half himself if he ’d been developing the site. But there—Mattie wanted it.

  Deeper down, and much worse, was the underlying wreathing mist of terror which came and went, half below his consciousness. It worried him extremely. Was he doomed to live under such influences the last poor years of his life? He still delayed his dressing … But there, they’d only come down from London at week-ends. There was no nonsense about the house in Mayfair. That was old, too, but respectable, at any rate. A man could sleep quiet there. Leastways at the back, away from the motors. And there! He ’d done it for Mattie.

  If it be true that this world is governed by appetite, fear, avarice, hate, and affection, in this case affection had conquered—for the moment.

  The poor old boy had nearly finished dressing. He was carefully brushing a scant white wisp of hair over a bold, broad head. As he did so he began nervously to start at a sound which he thought was like a whispering call. He tracked it down; it was only a curtain rustling slightly along the wall before the open window. Once or twice again he found himself looking oddly round as though something might be watching him; but he told himself that one must get rid of all that, or one could not carry on.

  He was still struggling with the tying of his white tie (though he had taken innumerable lessons in the art) when Mattie came in, looking younger than she ought to have looked what
with cosmetics and the rest, and shaded lights. She gave him a powdery kiss to thank him once again; and he was half-consoled when he came down late into the drawing-room and found them all awaiting him to go in to dine.

  During dinner, by Bo’s strict orders (for Bo knew a good deal more about psychology than Lord Hambourne), John said not a word of the ghost.

  It was sound policy to give the old man rope, and a breathing space.

  The greater would come the final shock of surprise; and surprise is the essence of victory. John’s marching orders were not to say a word of it till the women had gone. And even then to play delicately, and not to force the pace.

  She couldn’t prevent Lord Hambourne making a fool of himself and speaking of The Thing once or twice. It was his damned profession to make a fool of himself. Dons all do. She couldn’t prevent her father asking a question or two about measurements—especially what size of ruffs they wore in those days, and how they got their food to their mouths over them, and whether they could see their feet.

  But Hilda Maple had a growing instinct that the subject was dangerous, and though she had fifty thousand pounds as good as in her pocket, that same instinct bade her change this sort of conversation whenever it arose, and, so long as the women remained, it played little part.

  But when they were gone John fulfilled his orders, and over the wine talked discreetly to his three guests.

  He talked of apparitions, of Sussex tales, of the Fates of houses. He flattered the Turtle Professor of Psychology by listening eagerly to his appeals. He managed with great skill to distil some little poison into Lord Mere de Beaurivage’s not heroic veins—principally by dropping the subject once or twice rather obviously. He fought on two fronts, for he knew very well that Lord Hambourne believed in no spirit, creative or uncreative, finite or infinite, human or divine, and he had to make Lord Mere de Beaurivage more and more uncomfortably familiar with a spirit drawing more and more uncomfortably near.

  The men were back in the drawing-room, and the first words they heard as they entered was Isabeau saying: