The house did not belong to Miss Blake. It was the property of her niece, a certain Miss Helena Elmsdale, of whom Mr. Craven always spoke as that “poor child.”
She was not of age, and Miss Blake managed her few pecuniary affairs.
Besides the “desirable residence, suitable,” etcetera, aunt and niece had property producing about sixty-five pounds a year. When we could let the desirable residence, handsomely furnished, and with every convenience that could be named in the space of a half-guinea advertisement, to a family from the country, or an officer just returned from India, or to an invalid who desired a beautiful and quiet abode within an easy drive of the West End—when we could do this, I say, the income of aunt and niece rose to two hundred and sixty-five pounds a year, which made a very material difference to Miss Blake.
When we could not let the house, or when the payment of the rent was in dispute, Mr. Craven advanced the lady various five and ten pound notes, which, it is to be hoped, were entered duly to his credit in the Eternal Books. In the mundane records kept in our offices, they always appeared as debits to William Craven’s private account.
As for the young men about our establishment, of whom I was one, we anathematised that house. I do not intend to reproduce the language we used concerning it at one period of our experience, because eventually the evil wore itself out, as most evils do, and at last we came to look upon the desirable residence as an institution of our firm—as a sort of cause célèbre, with which it was creditable to be associated—as a species of remarkable criminal always on its trial, and always certain to be defended by Messrs. Craven and Son.
In fact, the Uninhabited House—for uninhabited it usually was, whether anyone was answerable for the rent or not—finally became an object of as keen interest to all Mr. Craven’s clerks as it became a source of annoyance to him.
So the beam goes up and down. While Mr. Craven pooh-poohed the complaints of tenants, and laughed at the idea of a man being afraid of a ghost, we did not laugh, but swore. When, however, Mr. Craven began to look serious about the matter, and hoped some evil-disposed persons were not trying to keep the place tenantless, our interest in the old house became absorbing. And as our interest in the residence grew, so, likewise, did our appreciation of Miss Blake.
We missed her when she went abroad—which she always did the day a fresh agreement was signed—and we welcomed her return to England and our offices with effusion. Safely I can say no millionaire ever received such an ovation as fell to the lot of Miss Blake when, after a foreign tour, she returned to those lodgings near Brunswick Square, which her residence ought, I think, to have rendered classic.
She never lost an hour in coming to us. With the dust of travel upon her, with the heat and burden of quarrels with railway porters, and encounters with cabmen, visible to anyone who chose to read the signs of the times, Miss Blake came pounding up our stairs, wanting to see Mr. Craven.
If that gentleman was engaged, she would sit down in the general office, and relate her latest grievance to a posse of sympathising clerks.
“And he says he won’t pay the rent,” was always the refrain of these lamentations.
“It is in Ireland he thinks he is, poor soul!” she was wont to declare.
“We’ll teach him different, Miss Blake,” the spokesman of the party would declare; whilst another ostentatiously mended a pen, and a third brought down a ream of foolscap and laid it with a thump before him on the desk.
“And, indeed, you’re all decent lads, though full of your tricks,” Miss Blake would sometimes remark, in a tone of gentle reproof. “But if you had a niece just dying with grief, and a house nobody will live in on your hands, you would not have as much heart for fun, I can tell you that.”
Hearing which, the young rascals tried to look sorrowful, and failed.
In the way of my profession I have met with many singular persons, but I can safely declare I never met with any person so singular as Miss Blake.
She was—I speak of her in the past tense, not because she is dead, but because times and circumstances have changed since the period when we both had to do with the Uninhabited House, and she has altered in consequence—one of the most original people who ever crossed my path.
Born in the north of Ireland, the child of a Scottish-Ulster mother and a Connaught father, she had ingeniously contrived to combine in her own person the vices of two distinct races, and exclude the virtues of both.
Her accent was the most fearful which could be imagined. She had the brogue of the West grafted on the accent of the North. And yet there was a variety about her even in this respect. One never could tell, from visit to visit, whether she proposed to pronounce “written” as “wrutten” or “wretten”;1 whether she would elect to style her parents, to whom she made frequent reference, her “pawpaw and mawmaw,” or her “pepai and memai.”
It all depended with whom Miss Blake had lately been most intimate. If she had been “hand and glove” with a “nob” from her own country—she was in no way reticent about thus styling her grander acquaintances, only she wrote the word “knob”—who thought to conceal his nationality by “awing” and “hawing,” she spoke about people being “morried” and wearing “sockcloth and oshes.” If, on the contrary, she had been thrown into the society of a lady who so far honoured England as to talk as some people do in England, we had every A turned into E, and every U into O, while she minced her words as if she had been saying “niminy piminy” since she first began to talk, and honestly believed no human being could ever have told she had been born west of St. George’s Channel.
But not merely in accent did Miss Blake evidence the fact that her birth had been the result of an injudicious cross; the more one knew of her, the more clearly one saw the wrong points she threw out.
Extravagant to a fault, like her Connaught father, she was in no respect generous, either from impulse or calculation.
Mean about minor details, a turn of character probably inherited from the Ulster mother, she was utterly destitute of that careful and honest economy which is an admirable trait in the natives of the north of Ireland, and which enables them so frequently, after being strictly just, to be much more than liberal.
Honest, Miss Blake was not—or, for that matter, honourable either. Her indebtedness to our firm could not be considered other than a matter of honour, and yet she never dreamt of paying her debt to Mr. Craven.
Indeed, to do Miss Blake strict justice, she never thought of paying the debts she owed to anyone, unless she was obliged to do so.
Nowadays, I fear it would fare hard with her were she to try her old tactics with the British tradesman; but, in the time of which I am writing, co-operative societies were not, and then the British tradesman had no objection, I fancy, to be gulled.
Perhaps, like the lawyer and the unprofitable client, he set-off being gulled on one side his ledger against being fleeced on the other.
Be this as it may, we were always compounding some liability for Miss Blake, as well as letting her house and fighting with the tenants.
At first, as I have said, we found Miss Blake an awful bore, but we generally ended by deciding we could better spare a better man. Indeed, the months when she did not come to our office seemed to want flavour.
Of gratitude—popularly supposed to be essentially characteristic of the Irish—Miss Blake was utterly destitute. I never did know—I have never known since, so ungrateful a woman.
Not merely did she take everything Mr. Craven did for her as a right, but she absolutely turned the tables, and brought him in her debtor.
Once, only once, that I can remember, he ventured to ask when it would be convenient for her to repay some of the money he had from time to time advanced.
Miss Blake was taken by surprise, but she rose equal to the occasion.
“You are joking, Mr. Craven,” she said. “You mean, when will I want to ask you to give me a share of the profits you have made out of the estate of my poor sister’s
husband. Why, that house has been as good as an annuity to you. For six long years it has stood empty, or next to empty, and never been out of law all the time.”
“But, you know, Miss Blake, that not a shilling of profit has accrued to me from the house being in law,” he pleaded. “I have always been too glad to get the rent for you, to insist upon my costs, and, really—.”
“Now, do not try to impose upon me,” she interrupted, “because it is of no use. Didn’t you make thousands of the dead man, and now haven’t you got the house? Why, if you never had a penny of costs, instead of all you have pocketed, that house and the name it has brought to you, and the fame which has spread abroad in consequence, can’t be reckoned as less than hundreds a year to your firm. And yet you ask me for the return of a trumpery four or five sovereigns—I am ashamed of you! But I won’t imitate your bad example. Let me have five more today, and you can stop ten out of the Colonel’s first payment.”
“I am very sorry,” said my employer, “but I really have not five pounds to spare.”
“Hear him,” remarked Miss Blake, turning towards me. “Young man”—Miss Blake steadily refused to recognise the possibility of any clerk being even by accident a gentleman—“will you hand me over the newspaper?”
I had not the faintest idea what she wanted with the newspaper, and neither had Mr. Craven, till she sat down again deliberately—the latter part of this conversation having taken place after she rose, preparatory to saying farewell—opened the sheet out to its full width, and commenced to read the debates.
“My dear Miss Blake,” began Mr. Craven, after a minute’s pause, “you know my time, when it is mine, is always at your disposal, but at the present moment several clients are waiting to see me, and—”
“Let them wait,” said Miss Blake, as he hesitated a little. “Your time and their time is no more valuable than mine, and I mean to stay here,” emphasising the word, “till you let me have that five pounds. Why, look, now, that house is taken on a two years’ agreement, and you won’t see me again for that time—likely as not, never; for who can tell what may happen to anybody in foreign parts? Only one charge I lay upon you, Mr. Craven: don’t let me be buried in a strange country. It is bad enough to be so far as this from my father and my mother’s remains, but I daresay I’ll manage to rest in the same grave as my sister, though Robert Elmsdale lies between. He separated us in life—not that she ever cared for him; but it won’t matter much when we are all bones and dust together—”
“If I let you have that five pounds,” here broke in Mr. Craven, “do I clearly understand that I am to recoup myself out of Colonel Morris’ first payment?”
“I said so as plain as I could speak,” agreed Miss Blake; and her speech was very plain indeed.
Mr. Craven lifted his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, while he drew his cheque-book towards him.
“How is Helena?” he asked, as he wrote the final legendary flourish after Craven and Son.
“Helena is but middling, poor dear,” answered Miss Blake—on that occasion she called her niece Hallana. “She frets, the creature, as is natural; but she will get better when we leave England. England is a hard country for anyone who is all nairves like Halana.”
“Why do you never bring her to see me?” asked Mr. Craven, folding up the cheque.
“Bring her to be stared at by a parcel of clerks!” exclaimed Miss Blake, in a tone which really caused my hair to bristle. “Well-mannered, decent young fellows in their own rank, no doubt, but not fit to look at my sister’s child. Now, now, Mr. Craven, ought Kathleen Blake’s—or, rather, Kathleen Elmsdale’s daughter to serve as a fifth of November guy for London lads? You know she is handsome enough to be a duchess, like her mother.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” agreed Mr. Craven, and handed over the cheque.
After I had held the door open for Miss Blake to pass out, and closed it securely and resumed my seat, Miss Blake turned the handle and treated us to another sight of her bonnet.
“Good-bye, William Craven, for two years at any rate; and if I never see you again, God bless you, for you’ve been a true friend to me and that poor child who has nobody else to look to,” and then, before Mr. Craven could cross the room, she was gone.
“I wonder,” said I, “if it will be two years before we see her again?”
“No, nor the fourth of two years,” answered my employer. “There is something queer about that house.”
“You don’t think it is haunted, sir, do you?” I ventured.
“Of course not,” said Mr. Craven, irritably; “but I do think some one wants to keep the place vacant, and is succeeding admirably.”
The question I next put seemed irrelevant, but really resulted from a long train of thought. This was it:
“Is Miss Elmsdale very handsome, sir?”
“She is very beautiful,” was the answer; “but not so beautiful as her mother was.”
Ah me! two old, old stories in a sentence. He had loved the mother, and he did not love the daughter. He had seen the mother in his bright, hopeful youth, and there was no light of morning left for him in which he could behold the child.
To other eyes she might, in her bright spring-time, seem lovely as an angel from heaven, but to him no more such visions were to be vouchsafed.
If beauty really went on decaying, as the ancients say, by this time there could be no beauty left. But oh! greybeard, the beauty remains, though our eyes may be too dim to see it; the beauty, the grace, the rippling laughter, and the saucy smiles, which once had power to stir to their very depths our hearts, friend—our hearts, yours and mine, comrade, feeble, and cold, and pulseless now.
CHAPTER 2
THE CORONER’S INQUEST
The story was told to me afterwards, but I may as well weave it in with mine at this juncture.
From the maternal ancestress, the Demoiselles Blake inherited a certain amount of money. It was through no fault of the paternal Blake—through no want of endeavours on his part to make ducks and drakes of all fortune which came in his way, that their small inheritance remained intact; but the fortune was so willed that neither the girls nor he could divert the peaceful tenure of its half-yearly dividends.
The mother died first, and the father followed her ere long, and then the young ladies found themselves orphans, and the possessors of a fixed income of one hundred and thirty pounds a year.
A modest income, and yet, as I have been given to understand, they might have married well for the money.
In those days, particularly in Ireland, men went very cheap, and the Misses Blake, one and both, could, before they left off mourning, have wedded, respectively, a curate, a doctor, a constabulary officer, and the captain of a government schooner.
The Misses Blake looked higher, however, and came to England, where rich husbands are presumably procurable. Came, but missed their market. Miss Kathleen found only one lover, William Craven, whose honest affection she flouted; and Miss Susannah found no lover at all.
Miss Kathleen wanted a duke, or an earl—a prince of the blood royal being about that time unprocurable; and an attorney, to her Irish ideas, seemed a very poor sort of substitute. For which reason she rejected the attorney with scorn, and remained single, the while dukes and earls were marrying and intermarrying with their peers or their inferiors.
Then suddenly there came a frightful day when Kathleen and Susannah learned they were penniless, when they understood their trustee had robbed them, as he had robbed others, and had been paying their interest out of what was left of their principal.
They tried teaching, but they really had nothing to teach. They tried letting lodgings. Even lodgers rebelled against their untidiness and want of punctuality.
The eldest was very energetic and very determined, and the youngest very pretty and very conciliatory. Nevertheless, business is business, and lodgings are lodgings, and the Misses Blake were on the verge of beggary, when Mr. Elmsdale proposed for Miss Kathleen and was accepted.
Mr. Craven, by that time a family man, gave the bride away, and secured Mr. Elmsdale’s business.
Possibly, had Mrs. Elmsdale’s marriage proved happy, Mr. Craven might have soon lost sight of his former love. In matrimony, as in other matters, we are rarely so sympathetic with fulfilment as with disappointment. The pretty Miss Blake was a disappointed woman after she had secured Mr. Elmsdale. She then understood that the best life could offer her was something very different indeed from the ideal duke her beauty should have won, and she did not take much trouble to conceal her dissatisfaction with the arrangements of Providence.
Mr. Craven, seeing what Mr. Elmsdale was towards men, pitied her. Perhaps, had he seen what Mrs. Elmsdale was towards her husband, he might have pitied him; but, then, he did not see, for women are wonderful dissemblers.
There was Elmsdale, bluff in manner, short in person, red in the face, cumbersome in figure, addicted to naughty words, not nice about driving fearfully hard bargains, a man whom men hated, not undeservedly; and yet, nevertheless, a man capable of loving a woman with all the veins of his heart, and who might, had any woman been found to love him, have compassed earthly salvation.
There were those who said he never could compass eternal; but they chanced to be his debtors—and, after all, that question lay between himself and God. The other lay between himself and his wife, and it must be confessed, except so far as his passionate, disinterested love for an utterly selfish woman tended to redeem and humanise his nature, she never helped him one step along the better path.
But, then, the world could not know this, and Mr. Craven, of whom I am speaking at the moment, was likely, naturally, to think Mr. Elmsdale all in the wrong.
On the one hand he saw the man as he appeared to men: on the other he saw the woman as she appeared to men, beautiful to the last; fragile, with the low voice, so beautiful in any woman, so more especially beautiful in an Irish woman; with a languid face which insured compassion while never asking for it; with the appearance of a martyr, and the tone and the manner of a suffering saint.
The Occult Detective Megapack: 29 Classic Stories Page 16
