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 Russell
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
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 GIFT OF 
 
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 Frank II. Wadsworth
 
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 IS HE THE MAN?
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS 
 
 ON 
 
 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' It will keep — else I am much mistaken — a good many people, young 
 and old, out of their beds. For " Is he the Man ? " is compact of mystery 
 and excitement. The nearer you draw to the end, the deeper grows the 
 mystery and the intenser the interest.'— Morning Leader. 
 
 ' It is an entertaining and interesting book, and it will have a certain 
 novelty to Mr. Clark Russell's readers as not taking them completely 
 away from terra Jirma.' — SCOTSMAN. 
 
 ' A rattling tale of mystery and adventure which, if it lacks something of 
 its author's later spirit, was still quite deserving of recrudescence. . . . 
 The story is a good one — it would do no discredit to the "later Clark 
 Russell" who gave us "Round the Galley Fire." It is not a tale of 
 the sea, but the story of an unhappy marriage. ... It will be read with 
 profit.'— Sun. 
 
 ' For genuine excitement it will compare favourably with some of the 
 author of " The Woman in White's " best work. The characters are well 
 drawn, and . . . there is a force and a vigour of treatment about them 
 that is rare indeed at the present day. The novel will doubtless be very 
 popular.' — Liberal. 
 
 'In reprinting "Is he the Man?" Messrs. Chatto & Windus have 
 rendered novel-readers a service. It is a stronger and more intensely 
 interesting story than ninety-nine out of every hundred of works of the 
 same class that are issued to-day. . . . " Is he the Man?" would keep 
 the most hardened sinner of a novel-reader out of his bed until he had 
 finished reading the story.' — Sporting Life. 
 
 * It is quite worthy of Mr. Russell's great ability, and is told with 
 pleasant art and most absorbing interest.' — Liverpool Daily Post. 
 
 ' A novel to which peculiar interest attaches, as it was written twenty 
 years ago by that clever spinner of sea-yarns, Mr. Clark Russell. . . . For 
 our part, we may say that it is good . . . and will repay perusal for 
 its own sake as well as for the personal reasons, which will doubtless gain 
 for it a large share of public favour.' — Home News. 
 
 'There is plenty of old-fashioned " blood and thunder " in the book, 
 which contrasts oddly with the breezy sea-stories now associated with 
 Mr. Russell's name.' — Globe. 
 
 ' Though there is little in common between this story and Mr. Russell's 
 tales of the sea, there is quite enough in the book to justify its repub- 
 lication now that its author can appeal to a wider circle than that 
 which he could command when he began his career as a novelist.' 
 
 Speaker. 
 
 •An excellent story, that is certainly worth reading.' 
 
 Black and White.
 
 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 BY 
 
 W. CLARK RUSSELL 
 
 author of 
 
 "the wreck of the grosvenor' 'alone on a wide wide sea* 
 
 'the convict ship' 'the phantom death' etc. 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CHATTO & W INDUS 
 1898
 
 TKINTED BY 
 
 SP0TT1SWO0DE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 LONDON
 
 PI? 
 
 Mt 
 PREFACE 
 
 I wrote this book twenty years ago. In the twenty years I 
 have never once read the story. I do not recollect a syllable 
 of it ; nothing survives in memory but the title and the name 
 of the publisher, the purchaser of the original copyright. 
 That publisher desired to sell his remaining rights in a novel 
 to which he was good enough to say my name as it now stands 
 in public esteem might communicate some trifling signi- 
 ficance. He first asked me to buy it ; he then went to my 
 friend Mr. Andrew Chatto, of the firm whose imprint this 
 volume carries, and Mr. Chatto begged me to allow him to 
 reprint the story, which he assured me had kept him out of 
 bed ; he was also desirous of serving a brother publisher. 
 The reader will not of course accept it as Clark Russell's, but 
 as the composition of a jolly young waterman of that name, 
 who flourished twenty years ago at Ramsgate, where he 
 wrote this and other stories which a later Clark Russell is 
 extremely pleased to know are entirely forgotten. I will not 
 say that this book is good ; but — it may be read. 
 
 \V. Clark Russell. 
 Bath, June 1895. 
 
 1 *~i 
 
 '"Jk 3
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 TAOB 
 
 The Colonel's Storey ........ i 
 
 The Housekeeper's Story 57 
 
 The Colonel's Story {continued) 183 
 
 The Housekeeper's Story {continued) 209 
 
 The Colonel's Story {concluded) . . , . .321
 
 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 
 
 Not to diminish the apparent improbability of this narrative, 
 but to prove my own veracity in my relation of the share I 
 took in it, I have called upon one of the actors to furnish me 
 with her own experiences of what she saw and did. By her 
 respectable testimony, if I do not persuade others, I may at 
 least convince myself that the past, to which I recur, is not 
 the distempered dream which, since I became old and infirm, 
 I have been often disposed to consider it. 
 
 For the misfortunes that befell me and my child I have 
 myself only to blame. I was guilty of two deplorable errors, 
 both arising from a want of moral strength and courage. But 
 the very sensibility which was at the root of the misfortunes I 
 have had to lament, should supply a sufficient guarantee that 
 my sufferings have abundantly expiated my irremediable 
 mistakes. 
 
 Let this brief avowal suffice. 
 
 In the summer of the year 18 — my daughter Phoebe 
 having recovered from a slight indisposition, I was advised by 
 Dr. Redcliff to remove her for a few weeks to the seaside ; and 
 chose Broadstairs, in those days a town little troubled by 
 visitors. I hired some rooms in the Albion Hotel, and had 
 soon the gratification of witnessing a great improvement in 
 my daughter's health. She regained her old looks, her old 
 vivacity of spirits, and within a fortnight of our arrival was 
 strong enough to take an oar in a boat. Rowing soon became 
 her favourite pastime, and she grew before long so expert at 
 the oars as to be able to row a boat by herself. I mention 
 this trivial matter to prepare the way for the circumstance I 
 shall presently relate. 
 
 B
 
 2 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Phoebe was then twenty years old : in many respects re- 
 sembling her mother, whom I had lost by death but three 
 years before. She was dark, with a small, handsome, decided 
 face ; her hair was black and abundant, and she wore it with 
 much grace, anticipating a later fashion : that is, in plaited 
 coils, a mode that admirably suited the Greek cast of her 
 features. Her nose was straight, her eyebrows narrow but 
 very black, and so arched as to give her face, in repose, a pre- 
 vailing expression of pretty surprise. Her mouth was small, 
 the under-lip full, her complexion colourless, but delicate and 
 healthy ; her forehead low and square, and her chin and 
 throat beautiful in their outlines. Her height was above the 
 middle stature ; but she wore her dresses long, and suggested 
 a more commanding presence when she walked than she pos- 
 sessed. Her character we shall gather as we progress. 
 
 Broadstairs fits the white cliff on which it stands with a 
 snug air of design, and from the sea satisfies the eye with an 
 aspect of rough and sober completeness. The rude, well- 
 tarred pier, stumpy and solid, with the transparent breakers 
 rattling the shingle under the creviced flooring, is a finishing 
 detail of which the omission would leave a blank in the salt 
 sentiment of the place. A simplicity strangely primitive and 
 strictly maritime seems somehow to keep the town fresh as 
 the breezes which sweep through its little ancient archway 
 and rattle the windows of the cheery Frigate Inn ; and tins 
 characteristic defies the eliminating magic of the trowel, for 
 the sense of it is as strong to-day as it was years ago ; when 
 much overgrown matter had no being, and the delightful 
 traditions of tbe smugglers — the dark nights, the subtle 
 lugger, the mystified coastguard — lay all unencumbered to 
 tax-bating imaginations by the bricks and mortar which now 
 vex, and in some measure defy, them. 
 
 Phoebe did ample justice to the place by taking the best 
 pleasure it offered. My faith was pinned to the dry land. The 
 sands brought me to as close an acquaintance with the sea as 
 I cared about ; and there, bard by the cliff, I would sit, book 
 m hand, a pocket-telescope by my side, idly speculating on the 
 missions of the ships that went and came, or watching the 
 little children paddling, bare-legged, in the sea, while Phoebe 
 rowed herself from point to point in a boat, alone, feathering 
 her oars like any young waterman, and often exciting the 
 comments of loungers who, like myself, could find no easier 
 diversion than staring.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 3 
 
 One morning I was at the end of the little pier, sheltered 
 from the sun by an awning. The sea was glassy, and crept, as 
 softly as the touch of a blind man's fingers, up and down the 
 beach, and around the projecting rocks near the pier. Great 
 clouds, glorious to behold, white as wool with an edging of 
 silver, and darkening their extremities to the richest cream- 
 colour when they drew away from the sun, hung over the 
 polished deep. The sunshine made the little bay that gapes 
 before the town festive with light, spangling the dry white 
 sand near the cliffs, and deepening the hue of the brown-ribbed 
 shore over which the water had washed, and giving relief to 
 the spots of colour lent to the scene by the apparel of the 
 women and children on the beach by the vivid brightening of 
 the chalk cliffs. 
 
 Phoebe was rowing as usual in one of the wherries be- 
 longing to the place. She had gone some distance in an 
 easterly direction and was now returning with a fair tide. 
 She passed the pier at a distance of a hundred yards, and it 
 was a sight worthy of any man's admiration to remark the 
 wonderfully graceful inclination of her form, her finely 
 modelled bust, as she brought her firm, small white hands up 
 to it. The keen stem of the wherry chipped the blue water 
 into a spout of foam, and the oars flashed. 
 
 The great, stooping clouds overhead, the background of 
 many- shadowed water, speckled with white sails, and this 
 near boat, with its faultless figure of a girl impelling it for- 
 ward, made a picture worth converting into a permanent 
 memory. 
 
 ' What a charming woman ! How admirably she rows ! 
 Pray, sir, can you tell me who she is ? ' exclaimed a voice at 
 my side. 
 
 I turned and saw a young man staring at the boat through 
 a field-glass. 
 
 ' She is my daughter,' I answered. 
 
 ' I really beg your pardon,' he said, covering his embarrass- 
 ment with a well-bred bow and a pleasant smile. ' I trust 
 you will consider my question as a piece of mental admiratiun 
 unconsciously expressed aloud rather than as a direct interro- 
 gatory.' 
 
 ' Then,' said I, ' I must esteem myself the more flattered. 
 My daughter certainly does use her oars dexterously, but I 
 wish she would take a boatman with her when she goes on 
 the water.' 
 
 b2
 
 4 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 1 1 think she would act wisely in doing so. You will 
 allow me to repeat my apology for my heedless question.' 
 
 He raised his hat and walked away. He could have done 
 no more nor less. What intrusion there was had been on 
 his side ; he had acted properly in withdrawing, and his per- 
 ception of fitness pleased me, and, I thought, showed him a 
 gentleman. By such small circumstances are we prejudiced 
 in life. I met him again in the afternoon, when I was with 
 Phoebe. He took no notice of either of us ; but I watched 
 him with a friendly eye, and when, my memory having been 
 freshened by the sight of him, I had mentioned the incident 
 of the morning to my daughter, I noticed that she looked in 
 the direction where he had come to a stand by the rail upon 
 the cliff, and turned her eyes askant upon me with a half- 
 smile of gratification in them. 
 
 A few days after this, I was seated at the window of my 
 sitting-room in the hotel, killing the hour before dinner with 
 a novel. The afternoon was very sultry ; few persons were 
 to be seen ; the sun poured upon the chalk, and filled the air 
 to a height of some feet with a haze, through which objects 
 were magnified and distorted, as though watched through a 
 medium of steam. Phoebe as usual was rowing, but the hotel 
 stood back, and the pier and the sea about it were hidden 
 from me by the cliffs. 
 
 Interested as I was by my book, I was presently sensible 
 of a gathering and ominous stillness in the air, coupled with 
 an increase of heat, of which the effect upon the skin was to 
 make it clammy. Overhead, and on either side of me, the 
 sky was blue, though with a livid rather than an azure tint 
 upon it. A distant grumbling like the rolling of a heavy 
 van despatched me to the parade, to view the gathering 
 storm, which I knew could not be very far off. It was 
 stretched right behind the hotel from north to south — a long, 
 scowling bank of cloud, straight as a line, as though ruled off 
 upon the sky, and black as midnight, with the sun's rays 
 upon it. 
 
 Where was Phoebe ? I ran to the edge of the cliff, but 
 could see no boat. I thence concluded that she had landed, 
 and walked quickly towards the pier, thinking I should meet 
 her. I asked two boatmen, one of whom was looking through 
 a glass in the direction of the sea, if my daughter had come 
 ashore. 
 
 ' There she is yonder,' he answered.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 5 
 
 I shaded my eyes with my hand, but my sight being bad 
 could see nothing. 
 
 ' Where ? where ? ' I exclaimed, hurriedly. 
 
 He gave me the glass, and levelling it at the spot he 
 indicated, I saw, but very imperfectly, two boats, one about 
 a quarter of a mile from the other ; but I could not make out 
 either of their occupants. 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' I cried, ' do you mean to say my 
 daughter is in one of those boats alone ? ' 
 
 • Ay,' answered one of the men, ' that's her.' 
 
 ' But what is she doing out there ? Can't she see the 
 storm brewing yonder ? ' I exclaimed. 
 
 1 She's been carried away by the tide. I knew that 'ud 
 happen one o' these fine days,' observed the man who had 
 handed me the glass. ' Me and my mate has been'waitin' 
 to see her signal for help, and until she gives us a sign I for 
 one won't go arter her. I had enough o' trying to save 
 visitors' lives last year.* 
 
 He laughed knowingly, and the other man said, ' A gent 
 and his wife was carried out by the tide last year, and arter 
 Bill there had towed 'em in, blowed if the gent didn't offer 
 to row him for a wager.' 
 
 Just then came a sullen moan of thunder. 
 
 ' For God's sake,' I cried, half-wild with excitement and 
 indignation at the coolness of the rascals, ' jump into a boat 
 and bring her in at once. I'll give you what you like— only 
 lose no time ; the storm will be on us in ten minutes.' 
 
 ' We'll tow her in for ten shillings, said one of them. 
 
 ' You shall have it ; off with you at once ! ' I exclaimed, 
 stamping my foot. 
 
 The promise transformed them. They had whipped off 
 their coats, scrambled into a boat, and were rowing like mad- 
 men ere I could have counted twenty. I watched them with 
 great agitation, vowing never again to suffer Phoebe to enter 
 a boat alone, until they dwindled out of reach of my sight. 
 Meanwhile the storm, instead of gathering overhead, arched 
 itself towards I he east ; some thunder-charged clou. Is rolled 
 out of it, and brought up a breeze, gentle at first, but gaining 
 strength at every puff. The storm gathered in the direction 
 of Deal, over the sea, and when the southern horizon was 
 black with it, it broke. I could see the zig-zag lightning 
 flashing upon the water, and hear the booming of the thunder 
 as it swept with a clear intonation along the sheer surface of
 
 6 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 the sea. The water bubbled and leapt under the pressure of 
 the wind ; the atmosphere cooled, and the boats about the 
 pier bobbed up and down with quick, sousing plashes. The 
 wind blew right off the land, but, fortunately, grew steady, 
 after having increased to what sailors would call a fresh 
 breeze. 
 
 For a long three quarters of an hour I kept my eyes fixed 
 upon the point of the water whence I expected the boats to 
 emerge, and then I saw them. Very slowly they advanced ; 
 a strong tide and a strong wind and a jumping sea were 
 against them. Not until they were within half a mile of the 
 pier could I clearly discern them, and then I observed that 
 there were three boats, and that the first boat, which towed 
 the others, contained four rowers. These rowers were my 
 daughter, the boatmen, and a stranger, whoso face, until the 
 boats were within a stone's throw of the pier, I could not see ; 
 but on his looking around, presently, I recognised in him 
 the person who had addressed me on the pier a few days 
 before. 
 
 By this time the storm had entirely cleared away in the 
 east, but had left behind it many clouds of long attenuated 
 shapes, which chased the sky with torn limbs, and here and 
 there poured a quick shower of rain upon the sea. The 
 hindermost wherry, as the boats hauled alongside, shipped 
 enough water on a sudden to log her and set the oars afloat. 
 My daughter called a cheery greeting to me, but I had been 
 made peevish by anxiety and suspense, and returned no 
 answer, merely posting myself at the head of the steps up 
 which she presently came. 
 
 ' I hope,' I exclaimed warmly, pulling out a half-sovereign 
 and handing it to the man who had helped her up the steps, 
 ' you have received a lesson that will put an end to your going 
 on the water alone. You have frightened me out of my wits.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry, papa,' she answered, and if she had felt 
 any fear all trace of it was gone. Her face was flushed with 
 the exertion of rowing, and her eyes sparkled like the water 
 where the sunshine shone on it. ' I'll take care to profit by 
 the lesson. I mistook the tide and rowed out, thinking that 
 by the time I was tired the current would bring me back. 
 Will you thank the gentleman,' she whispered, motioning with 
 her head towards the boat where the young fellow was stand- 
 ing whilst he put on his coat, ' for coming to my assistance ? 
 I really might have been lost but for him.'
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 7 
 
 1 Why,' I exclaimed, ' I thought he had been in the same 
 pickle, and had got the men I sent to you to tow him in.' 
 
 He was now coming up the steps, and Phoebe could enter 
 into no further explanations, so I stepped up to him and ex- 
 tending my hand said, ' My daughter tells me you rowed to 
 her help, seeing the plight she was in. Allow me to thank you 
 cordially for your service.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I am only too happy to have been of use to her,' 
 he answered, taking my proffered hand. ' I saw that if she 
 drifted out much further she would soon need help, if she did 
 not actually want it then ; so I jumped into a boat and rowed 
 out to her. These wherries are rather too heavy for a lady to 
 row against a current.' 
 
 ' They are indeed,' exclaimed Phoebe, speaking with a 
 heightened colour and a bright smile. ' My courage was fail- 
 ing me fast, and I can't describe the joy I felt when I saw your 
 boat coming towards me.' 
 
 ' To think,' I cried, turning angrily towards the boatmen 
 who were baling out the wherry, ' that those rascals should 
 require a bribe of ten shillings to save a human life ! ' 
 
 ' We couldn't have done without them,' said the stranger 
 ' It was as much as the four of us could do to reach the land, 
 and this lady pulled as strong an oar as any of us.' 
 
 He here raised his hat and was going, but I exclaimed, ' I 
 have not half expressed to you the gratitude I feel. We are 
 returning to dinner, and your company will give us great 
 pleasure.' 
 
 He thanked me in a hesitating manner, glanced at Phoebe, 
 and accepted my invitation. I gave him my card and took his, 
 on which I read the name Mr. Saville Eansome, and then we 
 walked in the direction of the hotel. 
 
 I was naturally profuse in my thanks, for I really con- 
 sidered he had acted with great consideration and courage in 
 hastening to Phoebe's assistance, and his pleasant evasion of 
 the topic pleased me as an illustration of modesty. He men- 
 tioned that he was in lodgings in the High Street, and that he 
 had been in Broadstairs since the previous Wednesday, and 
 that he purposed stopping another month in the town. He 
 said that he was very fond of travelling. 
 
 ' I sometimes,' he exclaimed, laughing and addressing 
 Phoebe, ' terrify my mother by quitting her house without say- 
 ing a word. She is, perhaps, used to this habit now. I relish 
 unexpected things, and one of my whims is to act in such a
 
 8 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 manner as to prove myself ignorant of my own motives. After 
 all, Miss Kilmain, novelty is the salt of life. To make up one's 
 mind to do a thing is to extract all the pleasure of achievement 
 out of it.' 
 
 ' That must depend,' said I, smiling at the oddness of the 
 remark, ' on the thing you mean to do.' 
 
 ' If you act as you say, then you are governed by impulse,' 
 said Phoebe. 
 
 ' And so I am.' 
 
 'To judge by the illustration you have given us just now 
 of the quality of your impulses, you have every reason to be 
 proud of their control,' said I. 
 
 We had now reached the hotel, and I led the way upstairs. 
 The dinner was over-cooked, of course. It was half-past six, 
 and we were to have dined at half-past five. However, I had 
 recovered my temper by this time, and found nothing to be 
 aggrieved with in the fault that was entirely of our own con- 
 triving. The danger Phoebe had escaped, instead of silencing 
 and making her reflective as, perhaps, it should have done, 
 had raised her spirits, while the presence of Mr. Ransome gave 
 a peculiar lightness and grace to her words and laughter, and 
 imbued her with enough of self-consciousness to render her 
 manner piquant. 
 
 As for Mr. Ransome, he was a good-looking young man 
 whom I had set down roughly as about thirty years old. The 
 seaside sun had burnt his face, and the brown became bim. 
 It was my belief then, as it is now, that he had Indian blood 
 in him, for his eyes were of the dusky hue that spreads like a 
 stain upon the whites, and the whole cast of his face was 
 Eastern — the nose aquiline, the forehead high at the temples, 
 the jawbones long, the complexion sallow, the under-lip full, 
 and so moulded as to convey in repose the suggestion of a 
 slight sneer. He wore a moustache which left a space of clear 
 flesh under the nose ; his ears were small, and lay flat against 
 his head ; his hair was close-cropped at the back, and brushed 
 up, without a parting, over his forehead. He was a trifle above 
 the average height, but looked smaller than he was owing to 
 the slimness of his shape. His hands and feet were small 
 almost to deformity ; he held himself erect as a ramrod, and 
 had a trick of quick, furtive glancing, and appeared to busy 
 himself with details which most persons would overlook. 
 
 The mention of this last characteristic hints roughly at a 
 peculiarity of manner which, because of the subtlety of its
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 9 
 
 action, is scarcely to be described. It was an effect produced 
 by quick, nervous movements of the body, sharp impulsive 
 glances, abrupt exhibitions of energy taking an almost pas- 
 sionate character from contrast with the trivial occasions which 
 exercised them, a restlessness of his hands and legs, and a habit 
 of beginning a sentence in a clear, decided voice, which would 
 falter and die away, so to speak, in a singular sing-song ca- 
 dence, as though his meaning evaporated before he could fairly 
 pin it down with a full stop ; but no description of this man- 
 ner and the impression it produced on me could submit its real 
 character and influence to your mind. 
 
 His remarks often bordered on the eccentric, and were yet 
 qualified again by much good sense and a clear thread of 
 shrewdness that bound them together and kept them logical 
 by making them consistent. Phoebe was much amused by 
 his conversation. He had started with some show of reserve, 
 but broke through it after a while, and chatted freely. But, 
 despite his oddities, I was satisfied that he was a gentleman. 
 His breeding showed itself in numberless little touches, and in 
 a marked degree in his courteous deference to Phoebe. 
 
 I was by no means ill-pleased at the prospect of finding an 
 agreeable acquaintance in this gentleman during the remainder 
 of my stay at Broadstairs. Having lived much abroad in my 
 youth, and mixed largely with men, I had little of the reserve 
 or suspicion that keeps people asunder among us. Indeed, if 
 the army fails to cosmopolitanise a man there is no hope for 
 him. I had felt the want of a companion now and again — 
 someone to smoke a cigar with, to exchange remarks with on 
 current newspaper topics, to kill the tedium of the time when 
 Phcebe was upon the water, or after she had gone to bed. 
 
 I went with him on the balcony after dinner. Phoebe 
 joined us and spoke of her adventure that afternoon. 
 
 ' I shall never go in a boat again,' she said ; ' I was much 
 more frightened than I seemed, Mr. Ransome.' 
 
 ' You were nervous, indeed, as the most courageous person 
 in the world would be under such conditions ; but your courage 
 could not have been very far off, for you soon recovered it.' 
 
 ' How did you manage ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' On reaching Miss Kilmain's boat,' he replied, ' I got 
 into it and attached my own boat to the stern. I then seized 
 the oars and began to row towards Broadstairs, but I do not 
 suppose that I did more than keep the boat steady against the 
 current. When the other boat arrived Miss Kilmain and I
 
 10 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 scrambled into her and made up four oars, and in this trim 
 reached home.' 
 
 I caught Phoebe watching him with a pair of very bright 
 smiling eyes as he spoke ; but, happening to meet mine, her 
 gaze fell, and there was an air about her for a brief moment 
 of a sudden confusion. I paid no attention to this, nor, indeed, 
 to various other trifling signs with which she illustrated the 
 pleasure she received from Mr. Kansome's company. We had 
 seen almost nothing of society since my wife died, and it was 
 very natural that Phoebe, in the presence of a good-looking 
 young gentleman who had done her a very great service and 
 treated her with thoroughbred courtesy, should be a little 
 more ingenuous in her behaviour than she would have been 
 had she been disciplined by the custom of meeting young men 
 in ball-rooms many nights in the year, as would probably 
 have been her fortune had her mother been spared to me. 
 
 It might have been, perhaps, a sensitiveness that made 
 him feel the insufficiency of his introduction to us which set 
 him talking about his mother and relating some particulars of 
 his past. He said that he was afraid he had astonished me 
 by the queer account he had given of his migratory habits. 
 
 ' Not at all,' I answered ; ' you converted your habits into 
 philosophic actions by the explanation of your reasons for 
 seeking novelty. The first ambition of every young man 
 should be to travel. He can hardly ever hope to think rightly 
 until he has seen the world.' 
 
 ' I am afraid,' he exclaimed, laughing, ' that I can hardly 
 dignify my excursions by calling them travels. I live at 
 Guildford — at least my mother has a house there. Do you 
 know Guildford, Miss Kilmain ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' There is some charming scenery in the neighbourhood. 
 My mother has lived there nearly all her life. She inherited 
 a little — a very little estate just outside the town, from her 
 father, who, by the way,' he said, turning to mc, ' served many 
 years in India— General Shadwell.' 
 
 ' I know the name well,' I replied. ' Was not he a brother 
 of Lord Canunore ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, the younger brother of a well-entailed family, who 
 had literally to carve his fortune with his sword. My mother 
 is sometimes a little fretful with me for my mysterious dis- 
 appearances,' he continued, addressing Phoebe : ' but I cannot 
 settle. I have been a week at Broadstairs, I talk of stopping
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY II 
 
 here another month, and probably after having persuaded 
 myself into a conviction that I shall serve out my allotted 
 time, will one morning start away for Wales or Scotland. 
 But then I mustn't allow myself to think of this as a possible 
 intention, or I shall defeat all the pleasure of impulse.' 
 
 He shook his head with a gravity which I thought affected, 
 conceiving that he spoke really in fun. 
 
 The sun was now setting, there was a crimson haze in the 
 air, which made the sea a violet colour, and the clouds, as they 
 whirled across the sky from the hazy south, had an edging of 
 brilliant gold at their side. I caught myself watching Mr. 
 Ransome, and thinking him, by this flattering purple light, 
 much handsomer than he had at first struck me. There was 
 comething that particularly pleased me in the manliness of 
 his face and upright figure ; his eyes, though they wanted 
 fire, were filled with a suggestion of active sensibility. But 
 still there was a prevailing oddness in his manner, vehicled 
 by his voice and gestures, and seldom to be gathered from his 
 bare words, which defeated the theories of him I now and 
 again formed as we continued chatting. 
 
 The wind fell at sundown, and a calm delicious night came 
 on, with a bright moon, which steeped a broad space of silver 
 in the sea, and made the land and water holy. We kept our 
 places on the balcony until ten o'clock, when Mr. Ransome 
 rose and wished us good night. I shook hands very warmly 
 with him on parting at the door of the hotel, and assured him 
 that I should be at all times glad to see him both at Broad- 
 stairs and at Gardenhurst, where my house was. He thanked 
 me for my hospitality, and implying a neat compliment both 
 to myself and Phoebe in a well-turned reference to his and 
 her adventure, raised his hat and walked away. 
 
 I returned to Phoebe, whom I found yawning on the sofa. 
 
 1 Well, my dear, what do you think of our new acquaint- 
 ance ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' I am almost too sleepy to think,' she replied ; ' but — well, 
 he is a very nice young fellow, is not he ? ' 
 
 1 He is gentlemanly.' 
 Very.' 
 
 ' I can't quite make out that manner of his. I should put 
 it down to nervousness were it not that he is not nervous.' 
 
 ' What manner, papa ? ' 
 
 ' Why, his odd, quick gestures, and his way of looking at 
 one, and then again his die-away voice when he begins a
 
 12 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 sentence with energy and falls into a dream before he reaches 
 the end of it.' 
 
 ' I didn't notice this.' 
 
 ' Not his restlessness ? ' 
 
 1 He has a habit of twitching his hands a little when he 
 speaks,' she answered ; ' but there is nothing in that.' 
 
 1 That only shows what different impressions the same 
 man will produce on different people,' said I, laughing. ' He 
 appears to me to be a bundle of nerves, partially controlled by 
 earnestness, which now and again suffers from remissions, and 
 then off go his hands and feet. Has not he Indian blood in 
 him, Phoebe ? ' 
 
 ' He is too handsome for an Indian, isn't he ? ' she replied, 
 with a soft laugh, leaving the sofa and standing at the window 
 with her eyes on the bright moonlight on the water. ' Fancy,' 
 she continued, pointing to the sea, where it lay black against 
 the reflection of the silver light, ' fancy my having been alone 
 in a boat out there ! Had he not come to me, where should I 
 be now ? Miles and miles away, perhaps, if the boat had not 
 sunk when the wind rose. Imagine my loneliness when the 
 night fell, and when I should see vessels passing me at a dis- 
 tance, like phantom ships in the moonlight, too far off to hear 
 my cries ! I must think of something else,' she exclaimed, 
 with a shudder, leaving the window, ' or I shall not be able to 
 sleep.' 
 
 Her words seemed to rebuke the criticism I had passed on 
 the man who had helped to rescue her from the dangerous 
 position her fancy was recalling. 
 
 1 There is no doubt,' said I, feelingly, ' that we are both 
 under a very great obligation to Mr. Eansome. He acted 
 with spirit and humanity, and I shall certainly lose no oppor- 
 tunity of testifying my gratitude by every civility it is in my 
 power to show him.' 
 
 * I shall go to bed now,' said Phoebe. 
 
 I kissed her and she left the room. 
 
 ii 
 
 It was unavoidable that I should see a good deal of Mr. 
 Eansome. We met on the sands, on the parade, sometimes 
 walking in the flat green country round about the town. In 
 spite of our friendly dinner he seemed rather shy at our first 
 few meetings ; but at last gave up all notion of being
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 13 
 
 regarded as an intruder, and joined us as often as he saw 
 us. 
 
 Meanwhile the fright Phoehe had received had effectually 
 put a stop to her boating. She now went to the other ex- 
 treme, and refused to enter a boat on any condition. Her 
 resolution pleased me on the whole, for, though there was no 
 doubt that the exercise had done her good, the risk she ran, 
 even with a boatman to take care of her, more than counter- 
 balanced the benefit she derived from the pastime. 
 
 To console her for the loss of this pleasure I hired a 
 phaeton for the remainder of my stay, in which we enjoyed 
 many drives. Mr. Eansome frequently accompanied us on 
 these excursions, and on one occasion took the reins ; he 
 handled them capitally ; but the horse proving restive, he 
 began to flog him, then urged him into a headlong gallop, 
 which forced me into an indecorous attitude by obliging me 
 to hold on tightly to my seat, though Phoebe appeared to 
 enjoy the swift and menacing motion. I was heartily glad 
 when the jaded beast faltered at last into a trot ; and deter- 
 mined to give Mr. Eansome no further chance of breaking 
 our necks, I took the reins from him under the plea that it 
 was my turn to do duty. 
 
 I should not have mentioned this but for one circumstance, 
 which left its impression at the time, though I did not then 
 bestow much attention upon it ; I mean, that whilst he was 
 flogging the horse a fierce expression entered his face ; he 
 used the whip as a savage woman, mercilessly, and when, the 
 horse pelting along at full gallop, he turned to look at me, I 
 noticed that his face was pale, the smile he gave me almost 
 malevolent, with its strange suggestion of passion, and that 
 his eyes glowed with a light which strongly recalled the ex- 
 pression I had seen in the eyes of natives of India when 
 inflamed with rage. 
 
 Now, though Phoebe may not have seen his face at that 
 moment, she could have scarcely failed to notice the extrava- 
 gant heat with which he had whipped the horse ; but when I 
 spoke of this after our drive, she declared that she had not 
 remarked anything excessive in the flogging ; on the contrary, 
 she thought Mr. Eansome perfectly understood horses, that 
 he had curbed the restiveness of the animal as only a man 
 thoroughly acquainted with horses could have done, and that 
 as for the headlong speed at which he had driven us, she had 
 always heard that the only way to deal with a horse afflicted
 
 14 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 with runaway tendencies was to give it its full fling, taking 
 care to keep the animal up to the mark with the whip, and so 
 cure it by exhausting it. 
 
 Her defence of Mr. Ransome proved one thing to me — 
 that she admired him, and was therefore likely to find provo- 
 cation of admiration even in doubtful conduct ; but, believe 
 me as you will, I never for a moment suspected that there 
 might be a deeper emotion than admiration at work in her. 
 That discovery was reserved for a later time. 
 
 A few days before we left Broadstairs, I found by the 
 merest accident in the world confirmation of the truth of the 
 incidental account he had given of his antecedents. I had 
 received a letter from Dr. Redcliff, inquiring after Phoebe ; 
 and in order to fill a page, I mentioned in reply that we had 
 made the acquaintance of a gentleman named Saville Ran- 
 some, of Guildford, who had helped to amuse us during our 
 stay at Broadstairs ; and I then related the manner of our 
 introduction to him. After some time Phoebe heard from Dr. 
 Redcliff, who, in referring to my letter, wrote that a cousin of 
 his, a doctor, was in practice at Guildford, that they some- 
 times corresponded, and that he remembered his cousin 
 speaking in one of his letters of a patient of his named Mrs. 
 Ransome — a well-connected, odd, old-fashioned lady, whose 
 son was named Saville. She had made rather a joke of herself 
 by her fretful manner of speaking of her son's eccentric habit 
 of leaving her without notice. 
 
 I was with Phoebe when we met Mr. Ransome a few hours 
 after this letter had been received. Phoebe, in her outspoken 
 way, told him in substance what Dr. Redcliff had written. 
 
 1 Oh, then,' he said, ' Redcliff is Dr. Tobin's cousin, for 
 Tobin attends my mother.' 
 
 I was afraid, from the uncalculating way in which Phoebe 
 had fallen upon the subject, that he would imagine we had 
 been making inquiries about him ; and so, in the best way I 
 could, I explained why it was that Dr. Redcliff had mentioned 
 his name. He appeared perfectly to appreciate my thoughts, 
 and deprecated the implied apology with great good-nature ; 
 and then, recurring to what Phoebe had said, exclaimed with 
 a laugh : 
 
 'I told you, Miss Kilmain, that my habits sometimes put 
 my mother in a fever.' 
 
 ' But you should correct them if they distress her,' 
 answered Phoebe.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 15 
 
 There was a freedom in the words, though none in the 
 manner, of her reply, that made me look at her with slightly 
 raised eyebrows. But if she had paid Mr. Ransome a com- 
 pliment he could not have appeared more gratified. 
 
 ' You make me very happy,' he said, in a subdued voice, 
 1 by taking interest enough in my hcabits to honour them with 
 your reproof, l'ou set my conduct in a new light. I will 
 endeavour to get the better of my caprices.' 
 
 ' Phoebe is rather fond of holding up moral looking-glasses,' 
 I said. ' I suppose ifc is my own fault that I am sometimes 
 dissatisfied with the peeps she obliges me to take. Monsieur 
 de Miroir is occasionally an insulting personality, though he 
 is always our nearest and dearest friend.' 
 
 ' How finely the clouds colour the sea ! ' exclaimed Phoebe, 
 changing the subject with a slight air of confusion. ' Those 
 long violet streaks look beautiful against the light green out 
 there.' 
 
 ' The wind is in the east ; we should be able to see the 
 coast of France,' said I ; and so we talked of other things. 
 
 We left Broadstairs in the first week in August. Mr. 
 Ransome dined with us the day before our departure ; and 
 warming to the memory of the agreeable hours we had passed 
 together, I pressed a cordial invitation upon him to see us at 
 Gardenhurst, should he ever find himself in our neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 Phoebe that evening was not in the good spirits that usually 
 possessed her. I said to Mr. Ransome : 
 
 1 My daughter is sorry to leave the sea, although she owes 
 it a grudge. Phoebe, would you rather live here than at 
 Gardenhurst ? ' 
 
 1 At Gardenhurst certainly, papa,' she answered, with a 
 glance at Mr. Ransome. 
 
 ' But you are sorry to go home ? ' 
 
 4 No, though I like Broadstairs.' 
 
 ' We will stop here another week or fortnight if you wish. 
 Shall I write home to that effect ? ' 
 
 She hesitated, swung her foot — Mr. Ransome was looking 
 at her — and replied : 
 
 1 We have made up our minds to go to-morrow, papa, and 
 so we will go.' 
 
 ' Very well, my dear. So far as I am concerned I have 
 had enough of the sea. I want to get back to my books and 
 pursuits, and the quietude of the country. We have had a
 
 16 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 pleasant holiday, and next year, please God, we will come 
 here again ; where, Mr. Kansome, we must hope to find you.' 
 
 He smiled and, after a short silence, thanked me for the 
 politeness and hospitality I had shown him, in a curiously 
 impulsive way, beginning the sentence energetically, and end- 
 ing in the sing-song subdued cadence that made such an 
 extraordinary feature of his conversation. 
 
 Phoebe rose and walked on to the balcony. Mr. Ransome 
 exclaimed, ' Is the night fine, Miss Kilmain ? ' and stepped on 
 to the balcony himself. I joined them after a few moments, 
 and saw them standing together ; he was pointing to the sea, 
 and raised his voice as I passed through the window to let 
 me hear that he was talking about the lights near the 
 Goodwin Sands. 
 
 ' They call that the North Sand Head Light,' said I, for 
 he spoke of it as the Gull. Perhaps, had I known their con- 
 versation before my interruption, I might have considered his 
 inaccuracy very reasonable. ' Come, Phoebe,' I continued, 
 1 it is rather too chilly for you to stand here without any 
 covering on your head.' 
 
 She passed into the sitting-room without a word, and a 
 few moments after Mr. Ransome wished me good night, and 
 went away. 
 
 in 
 
 Gardenhurst was situated within a mile of Copsford, a 
 handsome little town rich in antiquities. All about us were 
 hills shagged with wood, and creating vistas to the horizon, 
 through which, at the setting of the sun, it was a glory to 
 look ; for then the land seemed heaped up with mountains of 
 gold with dark green shadows upon their sides, while their 
 outlines lay shaped in black lines upon the valleys. Very 
 sweet was the summer wind that came floating down these 
 hills, making shifting colours in the sward as it pressed the 
 grass, and bringing to us dwellers above the valleys the 
 fragrance of the hay and the ripe odours of the gardens and 
 orchards of the lower grounds. 
 
 Gardenhurst stood midway on the slope of one of the hills 
 called the Cairngorm Mount, because of the strange pale 
 yellow tint it took at sunset, when viewed at a distance, and 
 when all the other hills were ruddy with the expiring light. 
 The slope was very gradual, and contrasted grandly with the 
 sharp declivity of the adjacent hill, which overhung the
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 17 
 
 valley gloomily, and showed a precipitous front with its grey 
 jagged rocks and swarthy verdure. The main road bordered 
 the walls of the estate, turned sharply at its foot, and ran 
 forward in a gentle descent to Copsford. 
 
 My house stood in the midst of some thirty acres of ground, 
 and, though of middling size only, was considered one of the 
 prettiest specimens of old-fashioned architecture in that part 
 of the country. The walls fronting the decline were of red 
 brick, of which time had softened the vividness of the colour. 
 On either side the door were tall windows with a stone 
 balcony not above two feet high above the lawn, with a little 
 flight of steps to the grass. Above these were bay windows, 
 bold and striking additions, which produced the picturesque 
 effect of overhanging stories, such as you find in gable-roofed 
 houses, without trenching upon the strength of the foundations 
 as overhanging stories do. On the left side was a terrace 
 supported by handsome Doric columns, the roof of which in 
 summer was converted by the gardeners into a parterre. The 
 windows of the drawing-room opened upon this terrace, and 
 the contrast of the blue or crimson drapery with the white 
 pillars and chequered marble pavement was charming. At 
 the back were the greenhouses ; on the right was the 
 principal house-door with a carriage drive from it through an 
 avenue. 
 
 This house, not above a hundred years old, stood in 
 grounds which had known the cultivation of three centuries. 
 The result was, the growth of vegetation was extraordinarily 
 luxuriant ; for the soil was fat and black with vegetable 
 decay, and so prolific as to keep the gardeners incessantly 
 employed in freeing the beds and walks from the nameless 
 fungi, weeds, and plants which would grow and flourish 
 wildly in a week. 
 
 I had followed my father's taste in keeping the flower 
 gardens well-ordered, but in giving Nature her own will under 
 the trees down at the foot of the estate. There the grounds 
 were densely wooded, and the grass was knee deep, while the 
 ivy and other parasites cloaked the trunks with their tenacious 
 leaves, and swung their curling tendrils from the long boughs. 
 It made a pleasant contrast to pass from the flower gardens, 
 gaudy with brilliant colours, and fatiguing with monotonous 
 uniformity of carefully dug and fastidiously kept beds, to the 
 green, cool, remote tranquillity of the trees, through which 
 the sunshine shimmered soft streams of light at unequal 
 
 c
 
 1 8 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 distances upon the high grass, and where from time to time 
 the rich and glorious tones of the blackbird or the thrush 
 would rise and seem to silence and constrain the other birds to 
 listen. Voices and influences gathered about one there to 
 subdue one's heart to deep moods of repose. For many 
 weeks after my wife died, I would haunt the soft shadows and 
 linger among them for hours, finding such soothing inspira- 
 tions as I could draw from no other sources in the tranquil 
 twinkling of the leaves overhead, in the vague and sleepy 
 murmurs creeping here and there, and originating, I knew 
 not whence, in the broad luminous stare of a rabbit, which 
 a moment after would vanish like an apparition in the long 
 grass. 
 
 A fortnight had passed since we left Broadstairs. I had 
 settled down once more to the very placid life I had been 
 leading before Phcebe's illness had interrupted it, and had 
 well-nigh forgotten all about Mr. Ransome. 
 
 I need scarcely detain you with an account of my habits, 
 or of the manner in which Phoebe and I managed to pass our 
 days. Interests are created in the country which the denizens 
 of cities might hardly conceive, and which they would laugh 
 at for their triviality were they to be told of them. One 
 may stake a large share of personal anxiety on the building of 
 an outhouse, and the rearing of fancy poultry may absorb one's 
 sympathies quite out of the highway of current political and 
 social events. Do not suppose that we were hermits. The 
 death of my wife, to which I have referred, had given me 
 a distaste for society. I had still many friends and acquaint- 
 ances in the neighbourhood ; but my consistent parrying of 
 their invitations had given them at last to understand that I 
 no longer relished the entertainments which had amused 
 me in my wife's lifetime. Phoebe shared in my indifference 
 to society, and so I could not charge myself with selfishness 
 in leading the retired life I then did. But we would now and 
 again spend an evening at a friend's house, or invite a 
 neighbour to a quiet dinner, and sometimes make up a little 
 party for a round game. But balls and large assemblies of all 
 kinds we eschewed with a very sufficient reason ; and so, 
 whilst we managed to keep our friends about us, we contrived 
 to escape the arduous obligations which attend the lovers 
 of society. 
 
 One evening near the end of August, I left the grounds, 
 where I had spent half an hour chatting with one of the
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 19 
 
 gardeners, and repaired to a room which I had converted into 
 a study, built over the porch of the door. 
 
 Phoebe had left the house shortly after dinner for a walk 
 to Copsford. I was deep in a book that had taken my fancy, 
 and when I gained my study, resumed it with all the sense of 
 comfort that is begotten by a snug armchair and a luxurious 
 silence. But interesting as my author was, he could not 
 detain me from the prospect. For ever my eye was wandering 
 from the pleasant page to the near and distant hills, and the 
 deepening sky, and the magical colouring imparted by the 
 evening to the high trees, the green valleys, the yellow spaces 
 of the harvest fields. There was a wonderful repose in the 
 air. The summits of the higher hills were still purple with 
 the beams of the sun, whose descent they overlooked when 
 their sides midway were dark with the shadow of night. 
 Some of the hills seemed wreathed with foliage. Far down 
 on the left I could trace the mere white line of the London 
 Eoad veining the shadowy valleys, vanishing here and there 
 under soft dark clouds of trees, and hugging the base of the 
 hill close, round which it twisted its way to Copsford. That 
 town was hidden from me, but many villages speckled the 
 broad hilly landscape, and a few miles distant the smoke of a 
 large manufacturing town clouded the sky of the horizon and 
 gave a curious delicacy of outline to the wooded ridges behind 
 which its houses were packed. 
 
 It presently grew too dark for me to read. I put my book 
 down and left my chair, meaning to see if Phoebe had 
 returned ; as I approached the door she came in. 
 
 ' Oh, papa ! guess whom I met at Copsford ! ' she exclaimed. 
 
 1 Whom, my deaa' ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Kansome ! ' 
 
 1 Indeed ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I was in Queen Street, looking into a shop. A voice 
 said, " How do you do, Miss Kilmain ? " It was Mr. Ransome. 
 I was quite surprised.' 
 
 • Really ? ' said I, with a half smile, and perhaps more 
 drily than I meant. 
 
 She blushed, and laughed, and looked grave all at once, 
 saying— 
 
 ' Of course I was surprised, papa. I did not know he 
 was in Copsford.' 
 
 ' No, naturally not. And what had he to say for himself ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, he was very polite and agreeable. He said that he 
 
 c2
 
 20 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 left Broadstairs two days ago, and ran down here, meaning to 
 spend a day or two in Copsford in order to see you before he 
 returned home. He recalled our strange adventure on the 
 water, and then said, as I was alone, that he would do him- 
 self the pleasure to see me home. He walked with me to the 
 gate, and would have left me there, but I could not do less 
 than ask him in. He is downstairs.' 
 
 ' Where ? ' 
 
 ' In the drawing-room.' 
 
 He was at the window with his back to the door, but he 
 turned with a swift gesture peculiar to himself when I entered, 
 and came to me quickly. 
 
 * How do you do, Colonel ? I am very glad to meet you 
 again. I hope you will require no apology for my intrusion 
 upon you at this hour. I could not suffer Miss Kilmain to 
 walk alone, and she was good enough to ask me in.' 
 
 • You are very welcome,' I answered. ' Pray be seated. I 
 should have taken it ill had you come as far as my house and 
 returned without seeing me.' 
 
 I rang the bell for the lamp. 
 
 ' You have quitted Broadstairs earlier than you intended, 
 have you not ? ' I continued. 
 
 m ' To tell you the truth,' he replied, laughing softly, and 
 lying back in his chair, but with an air of easy good-breeding, 
 'I found Broadstairs slow. There was nothing to do but 
 bathe, and you know a man can't be bathing all day long. 
 How well Miss Kilmain is looking ! ' 
 
 1 Yes, her trip did her a great deal of good. Where are 
 you stopping ? ' 
 
 1 At the Blue Boar in George Street.' 
 
 ' You should have come to my house. Remain with us 
 now — I can give you a bedroom, and my man shall go for 
 your luggage.' 
 
 He reflected a moment, and then declined. 
 
 ' What I have seen of Copsford,' he said, ' makes me 
 think I shall like to spend some time here, and ' 
 
 I went to his relief, seeing him falter, and exclaimed — 
 
 ' You can stop here as long as you like without the least 
 fear of being thought an intruder.' 
 
 ' You are extremely good. I am throwing away a happi- 
 ness ' and he stammered out another refusal. 
 
 I had no more to say. He knew his own business best. 
 Perhaps he was right to prefer the independence of an hotel
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 21 
 
 life to the unavoidable restraints our mode of living would 
 impose upon him as a guest. At this juncture a servant 
 brought in the lamp, followed by Phoebe. 
 
 She had changed her dress for a white muslin, with a 
 black sash and other half-mourning appendages, which I am 
 not properly qualified to write about. The blush I had 
 brought to her face in the study seemed to have settled there, 
 and her eyes took a fine lustre and a bright vivacity from the 
 contrast. I had good reason to be proud of her. It was not 
 alone her beauty that gratified me ; her manner was charm- 
 ing : a mixture of maidenly modesty with womanly dignity. 
 There was just enough of natural languor about her to soften 
 the sharpness of outline which a radically impulsive nature 
 would communicate to behaviour, and she could scarcely 
 assume an attitude in which you could not have found a 
 grace. 
 
 Mr. Eansome spent an hour with us, and then his manner 
 became spiritless, and he got up quite suddenly and wished us 
 good night. I did not ask him to stop, having come to the 
 conclusion that he was best pleased when left to act as he 
 chose. I walked with him as far as the gate, and as I shook 
 hands with him, asked him to name a day convenient to him- 
 self on which he would dine with me. His time, he answered, 
 was mine ; any day would suit him. So I fixed Thursday — 
 that was, three days hence. 
 
 Of course I never for a moment guessed that he was likely 
 to protract his stay at Copsford. I merely looked upon him 
 as one of those fugitive acquaintances one makes in one's 
 progress through life, who had taken me at my word to call 
 on me if he passed through Copsford, whom I could not do 
 less than ask to dinner ; and who, when he quitted our neigh- 
 bourhood — which I supposed he would do within a week at 
 the very outside — I should never hear of again. 
 
 When I returned to Phoebe, I could not help saying : 
 
 ' There appears to be something very odd about Mr. 
 Ransome.' 
 
 I What, papa ? ' 
 
 • His manner is so strange. Did you notice how all the 
 life seemed to go out of him just before he jumped up to say 
 " good-bye " ? ' 
 
 I I think he is nervous,' she replied, ' with a very proper 
 dislike of being thought an intruder.' 
 
 ' Well, there may be something in that,' said I.
 
 22 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' I like people with a dash of oddness about them,' she 
 continued : ' were it not for the peculiarities you notice in Mr. 
 Kansome, his behaviour would be as insipid as other men's.' 
 
 ' Oh ! and so you don't find his insipid ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 I was silent a moment or two, and then said : 
 
 ' I have asked him to dinner on Thursday. You can 
 invite Dr. Eedcliff to meet him.' 
 
 ' Very well, papa.' 
 
 ' Did he tell you how long he meant to stop at Copsford ? ' 
 
 ' I didn't ask him. Our conversation as we walked home 
 was all about Broadstairs.' 
 
 ' It seems odd that we should find him in our neighbour- 
 hood so soon, doesn't it, Phoebe ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose he must be somewhere ; and Copsford lies in 
 his way home.' 
 
 ' How do you mean ? Copsford is miles out of his way 
 from Broadstairs to Guildford.' 
 
 She made no answer, and I was going to ask her if she 
 thought Mr. Bansome admired her, nay — I was going to put 
 the question in less doubtful language than this, but thought 
 better of it, and made a remark which changed the subject 
 altogether. 
 
 IV 
 
 Phcebe and I had our different occupations and interests, 
 which would keep us away from each other a whole morning 
 or afternoon at a stretch. I might spend two or three hours 
 in the grounds or in my study, while she was out walking with 
 a friend, or reading or sewing in another room. Then, again, 
 I was fond of riding, and, starting away for a canter after 
 lunch, I would not meet Phoebe again until dinner time. 
 
 She was never dull ; it was easy to tell that by her spirits. 
 Indeed, I think that the apparent monotony of her life suited 
 her, and that she would have been discontented had she been 
 taken away from the tame and tranquil interests which she 
 created for herself day by day. Her character in this respect 
 was a very promising one ; and I would sometimes think that 
 the man who obtained her love would find her a good wife. 
 But this was a thought that very seldom occurred to me. The 
 monotony of our life rendered her marriage a subject that 
 rarely troubled us. Had we mixed much in society the case 
 would have been different. I should probably have seen her
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 23 
 
 surrounded with admirers — I may justify my assumption by 
 instancing her beauty and the fortune she would inherit from 
 me — and then consideration of her marriage would have been 
 a permanent one. But she had no admirers now. We had 
 withdrawn from the world, and the world had forgotten us. I 
 clung to her as my only child, my only companion, and re- 
 solutely blinked the thought which would now and again 
 enter my mind that in all probability a lover would one day 
 appear and take her away from me. 
 
 That Mr. Eansome would be that man I had no more con- 
 ception at the date to which this portion of my story refers, 
 than I have now of living another fifty years. Though he 
 admired her, and of this I had no doubt, I could not imagine 
 that he was in the smallest degree likely to win her affection. 
 Of course I fell into the common error of parents. I saw him 
 with my eyes, and assumed her judgment to be based on my 
 perceptions, Tome he was nothing more than a gentlemanly 
 young fellow, odd in his manners, with a capacity of quick 
 and even fierce passions, amusing, companionable, but essen- 
 tially a fugitive acquaintance — one whom we had known by 
 an accident, who would presently pass away and leave us 
 scarcely a memory of him. And so I dealt with the super- 
 ficial facts, such as they presented themselves to my view, 
 instead of adopting Phoebe's sight and looking deeper, and 
 finding in his dark and masculine face a beauty that would 
 wonderfully commend itself to women ; in his very capacity 
 of passion an antithetical quality of profound tenderness, not 
 the less agreeable to the feminine nature because of the capri- 
 ciousness that dictated its movements ; in his oddness a 
 characteristical flavour which a girl would relish as a redeem- 
 ing excellence in a behaviour which she might otherwise find 
 flatly conventional. 
 
 Thursday afternoon came, and with it my two guests, who 
 arrived almost together. 
 
 Dr. Eedcliff was a man for whom I had a great esteem. 
 He had attended my family for many years and had faithfully 
 and patiently watched my wife through a long and painful 
 and fatal illness. He was a short, stout man, with a very 
 intelligent face, shrewd blue eyes, and invariably wore a tail 
 coat and a white cravat. He greeted Phcebe with a cheerful 
 familiar inquiry after her health, and I then introduced him 
 to Mr. Eansome, who had arrived a few minutes before. 
 There was something stiff and almost haughty in the bow
 
 24 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Mr. Ransome gave him, but I put this down to nervousness. 
 My friend apparently attributed his manner to the same cause, 
 for he began to speak in his quick, cheerful voice of his cousin 
 Tobin of Guildford, asking what practice he had, and if he 
 had started a carriage yet, and so forth. Mr. Ransome an- 
 swered him civilly, but preserved his distant manner, and 
 then took an opportunity, when the doctor turned to me, to 
 go over to Phcebe. 
 
 In a few moments dinner was announced ; I told Redcliff 
 to take my daughter, and we entered the dining-room. 
 
 Mr. Ransome was curiously taciturn for some time, re- 
 sponding to my well-meant endeavours to draw him into con- 
 versation in monosyllables. I often caught his dark and 
 nimble eyes travelling over us— resting longest, perhaps, on 
 Phoebe, but taking a keener intelligence when they settled on 
 the doctor. I considered his silence owing to the constraint 
 which his nervousness would impose on him in the presence 
 of a stranger amid those who were familiar to him. But all 
 the same I was rather disposed to quarrel with his want of 
 grace ; for his behaviour was inconsistent, and certainly not 
 in accord with his usual conduct when with us. 
 
 The conversation during the first part of the dinner was 
 almost entirely between the doctor and myself ; it did not flag, 
 for Redcliff was a most talkative man, with a mind stored 
 with odd experiences, which he related drily and well. 
 
 I happened presently to refer to my daughter's adventure 
 at Broadstairs, and the part Mr. Ransome had taken in it. 
 
 ' And the tide carried you nearly out of sight of land, Miss 
 Kilmain ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no, Dr. Redcliff, but a very great distance ; almost 
 two miles, I should think.' 
 
 ' At all events, I had to look through a glass before I could 
 see her, Redcliff,' I said. 
 
 'I suppose, Mr. Ransome, you found her very pale and 
 frightened ? ' exclaimed the doctor. 
 
 1 Rather pale, Miss Kilmain, were you not ? but not 
 frightened,' he replied, smiling at her and answering her as 
 though she had put the question. 
 
 She raised her fine flashing eyes. 
 
 'You found my courage as you rowed from Broadstairs 
 and brought it to me,' she said. ' It fell overboard, I think, 
 when I was about a quarter of a mile from the land, and found 
 the tide carrying me away.'
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 25 
 
 1 1 know a man who went mad from an accident of this 
 kind,' said the doctor. ' Shall I tell you the story, Miss 
 Kilmain ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, please, Doctor.' 
 
 ' He lived in Jersey, and had a little boat of his own in 
 which he went fishing every day, weather permitting. He 
 loved the sport, and was his own society, for he rarely took 
 anybody with him. One day he hoisted his sail and steered 
 for his regular fishing-ground, reached it, threw his anchor, 
 and began to fish. One of the sudden dense fogs which 
 haunt that coast rose and hid the land from him. It grew 
 thicker and thicker, frightened him at last, and he pulled up 
 his anchor and began to row — there was no wind — for the 
 shore, as he thought. He rowed until he was exhausted, but 
 never approached the land. The night came, the fog lifted, 
 and he found himself far out at sea, long miles of water on 
 all sides of him, the glittering stars overhead. You must 
 follow him in imagination, conceive the agony of his mind, 
 his sufferings, his terror, as best you may : he never told the 
 tale himself. Two days, nay, nearly three days afterwards he 
 was discovered by a French fishing-smack. They described 
 their sighting a little boat, their approaching it, and their 
 observing a man crouched near the mast counting his fingers. 
 They hailed him, and he looked up and grinned at them with 
 dry, cracked lips, and went on counting his fingers. They 
 got him on board, and found him an idiot, too idiotic to 
 explain that he was dying from hunger and thirst.' 
 
 ' What became of him ? ' asked Phoebe. 
 
 ' His idiocy developed into madness. A few years ago he 
 was one of the most dangerous lunatics in the asylum at 
 L .' 
 
 ' Think, Phoebe, what you escaped I ' I exclaimed, much 
 impressed by this narrative. 
 
 'No — I will not think of it — it is too dreadful, papa.' 
 
 ' That was a terrible misfortune to befall a man,' said Mr. 
 Ransome. 
 
 ' I should have thought his senses would have returned to 
 him when he found himself safe,' exclaimed Phoebe. 
 
 ' Once mad, always mad, more or less, my dear.' 
 
 ' Why do you say that ? ' demanded Mr. Ransome. 
 
 Redcliff looked at him with momentary surprise, and 
 answered : ' It is a dogma of mine, but you need not be- 
 lieve it.'
 
 26 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' But you should know, as a medical man, whether your 
 dogmas are right or wrong. Are you right in this ? ' 
 
 I saw a queer light kindle in his eyes as he spoke, but 
 there was no temper in his manner. 
 
 ' My experience of mad people is very small,' said Redcliff. 
 ' But I don't remember ever having met a man whose unsound 
 intellect had been perfectly recovered.' 
 
 ' What wr madness ? ' asked Mr. Ransonie, in a low tone, 
 resting his chin on his hand, and revolving a wineglass. 
 
 ' Now you would pin me down to a definition,' responded 
 the doctor, laughing, and looking at me. ' Colonel, can you 
 answer Mr. Ransome ? ' 
 
 ' No, indeed ! ' said I. 
 
 ' Don't mad persons think sane people mad ? ' asked 
 Phoebe. 
 
 ' Very often, and perhaps always, if every madman would 
 express his views,' answered Redcliff. ' For my part, I am 
 inclined to think that there are two sorts of madness— sanity 
 and insanity. The only question is, which is the worst kind ? ' 
 
 He looked at Mr. Ransome to see how the young man 
 would like this evasion of his question ; but he took no notice 
 of him ; he was looking at Phoebe intently— so intently, 
 indeed, that I wondered she could sustain the fixed regard 
 without a blush. But there was no rudeness in his gaze ; 
 nothing but an expression of profound and absorbed contem- 
 plation such as might possess a painter's eye in maturing a 
 picture. The silence aroused him ; he started hastily, looked 
 around him with, a half-scared frown, and then smiled, and 
 addressing me, said that he was thinking of the wretch who 
 had gone mad with fear in the open boat. 
 
 I purposely emphasize his behaviour by exhibiting these 
 small details of it, that the story I have yet to tell may lose 
 nothing by want of consistency. I recall his behaviour now 
 with a particular reference to subsequent events, and neces- 
 sarily, therefore, witness in it the significance which it certainly 
 did not possess in the days of which I am writing. He was 
 merely odd, in my opinion — nothing more ; and there were 
 times when the grace and even sweetness of his manner and 
 its perfect keeping with all established theories of good 
 breeding, would entirely qualify and even obliterate the ideas 
 he had before suggested to me. 
 
 We sate awhile over our wine when Phoebe had with- 
 drawn, and knowing Redcliff to be a miserable man without a
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 27 
 
 pipe or cigar after his dinner, I invited my guests to stroll in 
 the garden where we could smoke and enjoy the night. 
 
 There was a bright moon over the trees, and the near hills 
 were white in its radiance, and down in the dark valleys the 
 lights of cottages burned, and all about the horizon the 
 heavens were brilliant with stars which twinkled largely 
 through the warm air, but the moonlight made the centre of 
 the sky pale. 
 
 We measured the lawn three or four times and then drew 
 near the terrace on the left of the house, where the drawing- 
 room windows were open and the lamplight shone softly on 
 the black-and-white marble of the pavement. 
 
 Phoebe, who possibly imagined we were still lingering at 
 the dinner-table, stood in one of the open windows and made 
 a singular picture with her head drooping on her fingers, her 
 left hand supporting her elbow, her eyes bent downwards, and 
 the warm yellow lamplight on her back and her left side 
 whitened with the moonshine. She heard my voice and made 
 a movement to join us, but Redcliff exclaimed — 
 
 ' The dew is heavy, my dear ; don't attempt to come upon 
 the grass.' 
 
 Mr. Ransome threw away his cigar and went to her. I 
 was following, but Redcliff said— 
 
 ' A moment, Colonel : I must finish this cigar ; ' passed his 
 arm through mine and walked me across the lawn. 
 
 4 What do you think of Mr. Ransome, Redcliff ? ' I asked. 
 
 1 I'll be shot if I can tell you. One requires time to make 
 up one's mind about some people. But I can give you an 
 idea which I'll wager a hat you don't possess.' 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 1 Your daughter's in love with him.' 
 
 ' Are you in earnest ? ' I exclaimed, hastily. 
 
 ' Indeed I am. Do you tell me you cannot see this for 
 yourself? ' 
 
 ' No ; and I think you are mistaken. He may be in love 
 with her, for I won't pretend to understand so odd a character ; 
 but her heart is still her own.' 
 
 Redcliff laughed. 
 
 ' This always happens,' he exclaimed. ' The head of the 
 family never sees what is going on under his nose. Take my 
 word for it, the young people are in love with each other, and 
 before long you'll be hearing of it from one of them.' 
 
 But am I to suppose,' I said, ' that my daughter has
 
 28 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 fallen in love with a man whom she met for the first time in 
 her life not a month ago, and of whom she knows nothing 
 beyond that his name is Eansome, and that he has a mother 
 who lives at Guildford ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Colonel,' replied Eedcliff, throwing his cigar 
 away, ' never take a view of love from the standpoint of 
 reason. Besides, because a thing is strange or sudden, is that 
 a reason why it couldn't have happened ? You seem to have 
 forgotten, first, that Phoebe is young ; secondly, that Eansome 
 is good-looking ; thirdly, that he has rendered her a service of 
 some magnitude and of a character which must very eloquently 
 appeal to feminine sentiment ; fourthly, that you saw a great 
 deal of him at Broad stairs, had him sometimes to dinner, and 
 treated him with a great deal of attention ; and lastly, that 
 during the fortnight of your intimacy with him, his oppor- 
 tunities of seeing your daughter were plentiful enough to 
 account for every apparent erotic impossibility you can name.' 
 
 ' I am perfectly bewildered ! ' I cried. ' Phcebe in love 
 with this young man ? Impossible ! I never yet introduced 
 a man to her who pleased her. There was young Cornwallis 
 — you remember him — as fine a young fellow as ever wore 
 uniform — she laughed at him ; her poor mother could scarcely 
 induce her to treat him with common civility. And now comes 
 Mr. Eansome, with his half-cracked manners and mysterious 
 habits and dubious antecedents — for what on earth more does 
 Phcebe know of him than I know ? and all that I know is, he 
 comes from Guildford and that his mother is well-connected — 
 I say, here comes this stranger, with his odd laughter and 
 singular eyes, and gets my daughter to love him in a few 
 weeks — I might say a few days ! Impossible ! ' 
 
 I had quickened my pace as I spoke and approached the 
 terrace. I was looking anywhere but straight before me, 
 when I felt Bedcliff's hand upon my shoulder. 
 
 ' See them ! ' he whispered. 
 
 The windows were open. A cool breath of air was bellying 
 one of the curtains inwards and exposing a portion of the 
 room ; and where the curtain, but for the wind, would have 
 screened them, I saw Eansome stand close by Phcebe, in 
 the act of kissing her hand. 
 
 • There, Colonel, you have confirmation strong as proof of 
 holy writ,' said Eedcliff. 
 
 I walked quickly forwards and entered the room. I 
 longed to say something, and yet, for the life of me, could find
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 29 
 
 nothing to say. I wanted an excuse to consider that Eansome 
 had been acting an underhand part, that Phoebe had been 
 deceiving me, but no excuse presented itself, for the very good 
 reason that there was none. 
 
 No ! indignation, pain, temper would not do. What had 
 happened was my own fault. I had made much of Mr. Ean- 
 some at Broadstairs ; I had invited him to Gardenhurst. _ I 
 had never considered the probability of his falling in love with 
 Phoebe, of her falling in love with him, and it was proper that 
 I should pay the penalty of my shortsightedness. 
 
 Phoebe looked at me as I entered, and I was struck by the 
 expression in her eyes, at once wistful and mutinous. Red- 
 cliff came in chafing his hands, and admonished me with a 
 brief intelligible glance to keep my counsel and my temper. 
 
 ' I am going soon, my dear,' said he, ' but before I leave 
 you must sing me a song.' 
 
 * Yes, gladly. What shall I sing ? ' she answered. 
 
 There was an undoubted reference to me in her manner. 
 Perhaps my face conveyed a little story to her. I was certain 
 she felt that I had guessed her secret. 
 
 ' Sing me a Scotch ballad, no matter what so it be Scotch.' 
 
 She smiled, gave me another glance, and went to the 
 piano. 
 
 ' I don't know music, and so cannot offer my services to 
 turn the pages,' said Eansome in his most affable manner to 
 Eedcliff, presenting an odd contrast with the demeanour he 
 had assumed when I first introduced him. ' Perhaps you will 
 officiate.' 
 
 ' Miss Kilmain won't require either of us. She sings from 
 memory.' 
 
 And Eedcliff seated himself while Mr. Eansome leaned 
 against the mantelpiece and there stood without movement, 
 his eyes on the floor, all the time Phoebe sang. It was 
 impossible to watch her fine figure, her graceful attitude, to 
 hear her rich and thrilling voice lending the subtlest signifi- 
 cance to every note she delivered, and not find an apology in 
 it all for his love, if love he really felt for her. I could never 
 hear her sing without a strange feeling of tenderness coming 
 upon me. Her voice was very full of memories to my ear. 
 My mood softened as she continued singing. I leaned my 
 face on my hand and scanned Mr. Eansome as he stood 
 opposite me, recalling special points in his behaviour to make 
 the present issue consistent, and discovering a quite new
 
 SO IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 interest in him as one who had the most forcible claims upon 
 my attention that any man could come to me armed with. 
 
 Redcliff clapped his hands as Phoebe ceased, and then, 
 looking at the clock, jumped up and said he must be off. 
 
 ' Don't let my departure hasten yours,' he exclaimed, 
 seeing Mr. Ransome come to us. 
 
 1 Thank you — it is past nine,' answered Mr. Ransome, who 
 then thanked me for my hospitality and shook hands with 
 Phcebe. I did not press him to stop. We walked to the hall. 
 I should have liked to exact a parting consolation from Redcliff, 
 but even an ' aside ' was impossible, for Ransome kept close 
 to us. 
 
 I shut the hall door upon them and returned to Phoebe. 
 
 She seemed prepared ; she stood at the table with her 
 hand upon it ; the lamplight was full on her face, and her 
 shining eyes met mine with a straight, steady outlook as I 
 entered. I am not sure that I should have spoken at once of 
 the matter of which my mind was full, but her attitude was a 
 challenge not to be waived, so I said — 
 
 ' Phoebe, as I crossed the lawn I saw Mr. Ransome kiss 
 your hand at the window there. What does that mean ? ' 
 
 Instantly a violent blush suffused her face ; it was clear 
 she did not know that I had witnessed Ransome 's action. 
 She pursed up her mouth to disguise or control the tremor of 
 her lips, and after a pause of some moments answered in a 
 low tone. 
 
 ' Papa, we love each other.' 
 
 ' Is it really so ? ' I cried, somehow startled by the answer 
 for which, nevertheless, I was prepared. ' Redcliff told me the 
 truth then ! His eyes are keener than mine. Phcebe, is it 
 possible that you can be in love with a man whom you met 
 but the other day — a perfect stranger to you ? ' 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 ' How long has this been going on, tell me ? ' 
 
 1 Wo loved each other before we left Broadstairs.' 
 
 ' But why did you not tell me ? Why keep such a secret 
 from me ? You could have helped me to guard you from this 
 danger. What friend have you in this wide world but my- 
 self? Who loves you, who has your happiness always at 
 • heart, but your father ? You should have taken me into your 
 confidence, Phoebe.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa, do not be angry with me ! ' she exclaimed. 
 1 If I have kept this secret from you it was because I knew
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 31 
 
 you would reproach me for loving him. Why do you call it 
 a danger ? Is he not a gentleman ? Is he not my equal and 
 my better ? You know him only by his manner : but I know 
 his mind — I know how tender, how affectionate, how high- 
 minded he is, how unobtrusive and shy and sensitive. It was 
 as much to guard his feelings as to spare my love from your 
 reproofs that I have kept the truth hidden from you.' 
 
 I was amazed by the passionate energy with which she 
 spoke, and above all by her profession of knowledge of him, 
 which was as emphatically expressed as though they had 
 known each other for years. 
 
 For some moments I could not speak, during which she 
 watched me with the dark blush suffusing her cheeks, and her 
 eyes absolutely liquid with emotion. 
 
 ' But you don't know anything about him, Phoebe. You talk 
 of him as though you were sure of the qualities you name.' 
 
 ' I am sure, papa.' 
 
 ' You have literally no proof in the world beyond the bare 
 hints Kedcliff gave you in his letter that his antecedents are 
 even respectable. What do you know of his mother, of his 
 family, of his past ? But these things are nothing. The 
 real miracle is that a girl of your spirit, who has never before 
 allowed a thought of love to trouble her, whom I have some- 
 times thought I should never be able to find a husband good 
 enough for— that you should fall in love with a perfect 
 stranger, a fortnight, nay, a week after you had met him. It 
 is incredible. Where is your pride, Phoebe ? Where is your 
 affection for me ? ' 
 
 She shook her head quickly to drive the tears from her 
 eyes, but remained silent. 
 
 Then my own mood changed. I felt that I was speaking 
 with unnecessary severity, and certainly exhibiting but small 
 knowledge of human nature in expressing astonishment at 
 the suddenness of her love. The fact of my not being able 
 to witness in Eansome the attraction and fascination which 
 had conquered Phoebe could supply me with no argu- 
 ment. If I was to reason her into what I chose to consider 
 common sense, I must not only not lose my temper, but I 
 must take care to fasten upon and strictly confine myself to 
 the really weak point of the affair, and that was our total 
 ignorance of Mr. Ransome as man and boy. 
 
 ' We will discuss the subject no further to-night, Phcebe,' 
 I said ; ' I am positive you will require only a very little
 
 32 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 reflection to bring you over to my view of this matter. You 
 have allowed your generous impulses to hurry you into an error. 
 You have considered yourself under a serious obligation to 
 Mr. Kansome for putting off to your assistance at Broadstairs, 
 and your resolution to feel grateful has misled you into a 
 sentiment which cannot be deep, considering that it has had 
 no time to take root. You are right to feel grateful to Mr. 
 Eansome for the service he did you ; but really, were the 
 obligation fiftyfold heavier, you could discharge it abundantly 
 by a much more trifling tribute than the gift of your heart.' 
 
 I turned away, but she sprang forward and seized my arm. 
 
 ' Papa, you may think I mistake my feelings ; but as I hope 
 to go to heaven, I swear I love Mr. Eansome. I have pro- 
 mised to marry him, and not even my love for you shall 
 prevent me from keeping my promise.' 
 
 An angry answer rose to my lips, but I forbore to speak 
 it, and left the room, but more agitated, vexed, and astonished 
 than I can well find words to express. 
 
 I did not see Phoobo again that evening. She went to 
 bed shortly after I had left the drawing-room, and I passed 
 the rest of the hours up to hard upon one o'clock in the 
 morning alone. 
 
 I did my best to mentally fasten a quarrel upon Mr. 
 Kansome. I endeavoured to convince myself that he had 
 acted meanly and dishonourably in taking advantage of the 
 confidence I reposed in him as a gentleman, to make love to 
 my daughter. But my arguments brought no satisfaction 
 with them. It was idle to call him dishonourable for falling 
 in love. The fault of it all was entirely mine. So far from 
 his showing any boldness in putting himself forward, I had 
 had much trouble to get him to come forward ; he had hung 
 back with a modesty or bashfulness that was almost pheno- 
 menal in a man of his age ; my invitations to dinner, my 
 cordial receptions and greeting only had set him at ease at 
 last, and then I suppose ho fell in love with Phoebe, and, 
 having regard to my polite and considerate treatment, con- 
 eluded that his advances for her hand would mest with ray 
 approval. 
 
 The suddenness of it !— but then I had made up my mind 
 not to consider this extraordinary, remembering how very
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 33 
 
 quickly and easily I fell in love, and how very abruptly num- 
 berless persons of both sexes are smitten. 
 
 So I turned my attention entirely to him, his character, 
 and to what I could recall of the little domestic disclosures he 
 had sometimes made me in moments of mellow intimacy at 
 Broadstairg. 
 
 My reflections ended pretty well as they had begun, in 
 mingled bewilderment and anxiety. Not just yet could I 
 feel the pain which would attend the conviction that my 
 daughter had absolutely surrendered herself to Ransome, and 
 that I must lose the only companion whom God in His mercy 
 had left me to soothe my solitude. 
 
 Next morning at breakfast Phoebe was very silent. She 
 was pale, and the hollows under her eyes were dark, whilst the 
 eyes themselves were dull, and proved either that she had 
 shed many tears, or had passed a sleepless night. I was 
 pained by this contrast with the bright sweet vivacity that 
 usually kindled in her face and never shone more fairly than 
 when she had just risen, and said, gently — 
 
 ' Phoebe, you are looking ill. Have you been fretting over 
 what I said to you last night ? ' 
 1 ' You spoke harshly, papa.' 
 
 ' My dear, I did not mean to speak harshly. I have only 
 your happiness at heart — I told you so last night. I con- 
 sidered that you had acted hurriedly and without judgment in 
 allowing yourself to fall in love with Mr. Ransome without 
 taking me into your confidence, and not giving yourself time 
 to learn his character.' 
 
 1 1 do know it, papa.' 
 
 1 You think you do, Phoebe ; but it is impossible that you 
 should really know it considering how brief has been the time 
 of your acquaintance with him. I who have lived much in 
 the world, and should therefore possess shrewder penetration 
 than you, am puzzled by him. He seems to me to have many 
 good qualities, and, so far as outward bearing goes, he is 
 undoubtedly a gentleman. But there are many strange 
 characteristics mixed up with these good points, and they 
 render his nature purely problematical. I have doubts of hia 
 temper. He has the eye of a man who is easily mastered by 
 fiery and dangerous passions. I may be wrong, but how can 
 you expect me to sanction your love until I have satisfied 
 myself that he is worthy of it ? ' 
 
 ' But you can satisfy yourself.' 
 
 D
 
 34 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 'How ? He is only stopping here for a few days.' 
 
 1 He would not be in a hurry to leave if he thought you'd 
 sanction his love. He would visit us often, and then vou 
 would see I was not mistaken.' 
 
 ' Has he actually asked you to be his wife ? ' 
 
 She answered ' Yes,' in a low voice. 
 
 ' When ? ' 
 
 ' The day before yesterday.' 
 
 ' He did not call here ? ' 
 
 ' No, I met him.' 
 
 ' By appointment ? ' 
 
 < Yes.' 
 
 I felt myself grow pale. Here had been a real deception. 
 She had never before deceived me in her life, and this first 
 deceit shocked me as a bitter discovery. 
 
 ' Have you appointed to meet him again ? ' I asked quickly, 
 and with a frown. 
 
 4 Yes, papa.' 
 
 ' To-day ? ' 
 
 ' This afternoon.' 
 
 ' Phoebe, you are right to tell me the truth. I thank you 
 at least for that. But I cannot permit you to meet him alone.' 
 
 She gave me a sharp rebellious look and then bent her 
 eyes downwards. 
 
 ' Since it has come to this,' I continued, leaving my chair 
 and pacing the room, ' my resolution must be taken at once. 
 God knows I would preserve you if I could from your own 
 inexperience of life. But if you are determined not to heed 
 my advice, then you shall receive my countenance, for under 
 no circumstances can I allow you to contract an engagement 
 of this kind but as a lady. Understand me, Phoebe; my 
 sanction is not voluntary ; it is extorted from me because I 
 feel I can no longer trust you, and that only by sanctioning 
 your love can I save you from lowering your dignity by stealthy 
 meetings and deceitful practices. These things must not be. 
 You have ehosen your own course, against my wishes ; but 
 youi? desertion of me shall not give mean excuse. for ceasing. 
 £o protect you whilst you still remain under my care. ' There' 
 shall be no shame in your love at all events; since you will 
 meet Mr. Eansome, you shall meet him in my house, in the 
 presence of my friends, andwith my professed consent, not in 
 secret, not in such a way as to supply the gossips with tittle- 
 tattle.'
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 
 
 35 
 
 I spoke vehemently but decisively. She watched me 
 earnestly, with compressed lips, and when I ceased, lowered 
 her eyes again, but offered no remark. 
 
 ' At what hour is your appointment ? ' 
 
 ' At three o'clock.' 
 
 ' Where ? ' 
 
 She felt the shame of this examination and hesitated, but 
 was mastered by my emphatic manner. 
 
 ' Near Kose Common,' she replied ; and then the same 
 dark burning blush that had suffused her face the evening 
 before mounted to her cheeks. 
 
 ' I will keep this meeting for you,' I said. ' If my explana- 
 tion does not satisfy Mr. Ransome the fault will not be mine.' 
 
 I turned to the window, whereupon she left the table and 
 walked out of the room. She sobbed once as she passed 
 through the door. She had left her breakfast untasted, and 
 for my part I had scarcely broken bread. 
 
 I was too much disturbed in my mind to care about riding 
 that morning, and I passed the time as best I could in my 
 study, where I gave myself up to much bitter reflection on the 
 unfair and undutiful way in which Phoobe had treated me in 
 withholding her confidence. She did not come near me, as I 
 hoped she would, that I might sound her thoughts and prepare 
 myself for my interview with Mr. Ransome. I presume she 
 kept her room all the morning, for the servant found her 
 there at lunch-time when I sent him to call her to the meal, 
 and returned with the message that her head ached, and tbat 
 she did not feel well enough to join me. This excuse, of 
 course, merely meant that she was ashamed to meet me. 
 
 I seated myself at the table with a sorrowful heart. This 
 was the first quarrel my daughter and I had ever had. It 
 was an ominous quarrel, because it initiated a scheme which, 
 so far as I could possibly foresee, must end in parting us. 
 There appeared to me, besides, something of ingratitude 
 mixed up in her behaviour. She had been ungrateful not to 
 trust me, in shunning me when I was about to repay her 
 deceit by setting her love for Mr. Ransome on an honourable 
 and candid footing. A feeling of loneliness came over me ; I 
 felt myself wronged by her to whom my life had been devoted ; 
 I realised the truth, that the thanklessness of a child is 
 sharper and crueller than a serpent's teeth, and my emotion 
 was so great that it forced me into shedding a few unmanly 
 tears. 
 
 d2
 
 36 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 I presently conquered my weakness and sat awhile, until 
 it was half-past two, when I took my hat and walked in the 
 direction of Eose Common. 
 
 This common was situated at the foot of the hill that 
 bounded Copsford on the west, and was a good twenty minutes' 
 walk from my house. The afternoon was lovely ; the sun's 
 heat was tempered by the moderate breeze that swept the 
 slender stems of the ripe cornfields, and a brief fall of rain 
 in the morning had laid the dust in the road and freshened 
 into vividness the green of the hedges and the emerald coating 
 of the hills. The country, golden with harvest, was now to be 
 enjoyed ; early as the season was, the chink of the sharpened 
 scythe stole through the breast-high fields : on the far-off 
 hills the hand of autumn had pressed a pale red tint, and the 
 trees in the valleys had a richness and fulness of foliage rarely 
 to be seen in the less mature periods of the summer. 
 
 But I was in no temper to relish the ripe and swelling 
 scene. I walked forward moodily, engrossed in thoughts of 
 the language I was to hold to Mr. Ransome. A few minutes 
 before the hour I reached the common, a broad tract of grass 
 on which some goats were browsing, with a cottage or two 
 peeping out from the dense shrubbery on the left, and the hill 
 rearing its vivid bulk on the right and completely hiding the 
 town that lay on the other side of it. 
 
 A narrow walk skirting the base of this hill took you to 
 Copsford ; along this walk, ere I had waited two minutes, 
 came Mr. Ransome, slowly. He saw me at once, and stopped, 
 for an instant only, then approached me swiftly. 
 
 ' Colonel,' he exclaimed, ' I have come to meet your 
 daughter — you know this ? ' 
 
 I Yes,' I replied, ' and am here instead of her.' 
 
 ' Hear me ! ' he cried, subduing his voice, but looking at 
 me with glowing eyes ; ' Miss Kilmain loves me, and our love 
 for each other is assured. I have staked my happiness upon 
 making her my wife. Have you come to separate us ? ' 
 
 I I have come merely to tell you this, Mr. Ransome ; that 
 from a conversation I had with my daughter this morning I 
 discovered that she loves you, and that she is in the habit of 
 meeting you secretly ; that I think her love ill-advised, hasty, 
 and insecure ; and that had her pride restrained her passion 
 from indecorum, I should have resolutely withheld my sanc- 
 tion to her love ; but that, since she has already committed 
 herself by meeting you, since I judge by her language that I
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 37 
 
 am unlikely to possess further control over her in this matter, 
 I have determined, at least, that no impediment she can find 
 in me shall supply her with an excuse for forgetting the posi- 
 tion she holds as a lady and as my daughter. I have come, 
 then, to tell you that you need be no longer under the em- 
 barrassment of meeting each other by stealth. My house is 
 open to you, and there your interviews need not alarm me with 
 apprehensions of gossip, which, long as my family have 
 resided in this neighbourhood, no member of it has ever, until 
 now, in the smallest degree excited.' 
 
 ' Until now ! Who has been talking, Colonel Kilmain ? ' 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 ' I have yet to learn,' I answered. 
 
 ' Your daughter's reputation is as dear to me as to you. I 
 would not commit her to an action that could provoke a 
 whisper from malice itself,' he said hurriedly and tremulously. 
 ' What manner of delicacy is to be outraged by the meeting of 
 lovers in secret ? Can such meetings, which are thought 
 harmless in others, be guilt in us ? We dreaded your know- 
 ledge of our secret, because we guessed the arguments you 
 would use against it. Our love was too young to be risked 
 on an act of honesty of which you might have misconstrued 
 the motive. I begged Miss Kilmain to meet me in secret, 
 that, by strengthening her love by companionship, I might 
 defy your objections, ay, Colonel, and your influence when you 
 should find our secret out.' 
 
 He spoke rapidly, fluently, without a pause, ending in the 
 sing-song tone that was now familiar to me. Had he been 
 dealing with any other topic he would have amused me, for 
 his odd rhetoric was irresistibly suggestive of the declama- 
 tion put into the mouths of stage lovers on precisely such 
 occasions as we were then acting in. 
 
 1 Mr. Ransome,' I answered, ' no arguments can be of use 
 now. The matter has gone too far. I tell you candidly that 
 I do not approve of this hasty love-making, these precipitate 
 engagements. We are scarcely more than strangers to each 
 other. I do not question your honesty, nor will I charge you 
 with deception in keeping the truth from me, because I look 
 for protection from such painful situations to my daughter — 
 to no one else.' 
 
 ' I had no wish to deceive you. I have had no time, even 
 had it been my wish to do so. Your daughter consented to be 
 my wife only three days ago.'
 
 38 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' I have said all discussion must prove useless. Will you 
 walk ? I am returning to my house, and I invite you to 
 accompany me. 
 
 1 Colonel, if I enter your house I must be welcome,' he 
 said, drawing himself up. 
 
 ' Welcome ! ' I exclaimed, forcing a smile ; ' what man is 
 welcome to a father who would take from him his only child ? ' 
 
 He softened with extraordinary impulse. 
 
 ' I do not take her love from you. As my wife she is still 
 your child.' 
 
 * No, you alter love when you change its conditions.' 
 
 I turned and walked a few paces away, thinking he would 
 follow me, but he stood still. 
 
 ' Tell me I shall be welcome,' he said, ' and I will join 
 you. I must assert my claims as a gentleman. If I am 
 not that, I am not fit to marry your daughter, and in this 
 respect you shall not get me to disqualify myself.' 
 
 I hesitated. I scarcely knew what to say or do. I thought 
 him right to insist upon my recognition of his self-respect ; 
 but then how could I pretend, after what I had said, that 
 he would be welcome ? 
 
 ' You have hitherto, I believe, always found a welcome in 
 my house as a guest,' I said. 
 
 He made no answer, and almost losing my temper on 
 finding how absurdly our positions were reversed, I ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 ' I wish you to understand, Mr. Eansome, that my 
 daughter shall not meet you again secretly. I give you, 
 for the reasons I have already stated, the option of see- 
 ing her at my house. You may accept it or not, as you 
 please.' 
 
 So saying, I turned, and resolutely walked away. In a 
 few minutes I heard his quick step behind me. He came to 
 my side, and said — 
 
 1 You are right, Colonel. I am sensitive and obstinate. 
 You have met me as a gentleman, and I am therefore bound 
 to accept your offer.' 
 
 Vexed and agitated as I was, I had to bite my lip to 
 restrain a smile. Indeed, there was something ridiculous 
 enough in the notion of his making a favour of courting my 
 daughter in my own home. But my light mirth was very 
 short-lived. I was harass d tired, and offended, and would 
 willingly have walked the whole way to my house without
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 
 
 39 
 
 opening my lips again. But be soon forced me into con- 
 versation. 
 
 ' Colonel,' he said, ' why did you call your daughter's love 
 for me ill-advised ? ' 
 
 ' If you will but consider, you may easily answer that 
 question yourself,' I replied. 
 
 ' Is it because I am poor ? if that is your belief, Colonel, 
 you are mistaken. I am not rich, but I am independent, and 
 could support your daughter without the help of one penny 
 from you.' 
 
 ' You misunderstand me. I am not one of those fathers 
 who take a mercenary view of their children's prospects. I 
 would first seek in my daughter's engagement a more fruitful, 
 and a more permanent source of happiness than money can 
 supply. I would know if the man she has chosen for her 
 husband is truly fond of her, not merely taken by her beauty, 
 but resting his affection on other and more durable qualities ; 
 if their tempers agree ; if he is a moral man with common 
 sense enough to appreciate the weight of the obligation he 
 incurs by assuming the charge and taking upon himself the 
 happiness of a human life.' 
 
 ' One must hope for the best,' he answered with a queer 
 little shrug of the shoulders. ' There are some things quite 
 impossible to find out before marriage, and character is one of 
 them.' 
 
 ' I don't agree with you. Some infirmities may indeed be 
 concealed, but as much will be apparent as we need know to 
 base our judgment upon, if the man or woman be not a mere 
 actor. But then you must have time to make such discoveries, 
 and that explains my meaning when I speak of Misslvilmain's 
 love as ill-advised. She does not know you.' 
 
 ' She does, Colonel ; she does, indeed,' he replied, earnestly. 
 
 ' We need not argue the point,' I said. ' She is quite old 
 enough to know her own wishes, and to judge how wise or 
 foolish they are. I leave her to her own judgment, only 
 stipulating that, whilst she remains under my roof, she will 
 never forget her dignity as a lady.' 
 
 ' Good God, Colonel ! ' he cried, excitedly, ' would you 
 imply that she loses dignity by loving me ? ' 
 
 ' I have implied nothing of the kind,' I answered, chafing 
 under his stupid misapprehension of my meaning. 
 
 He did not offer to speak for some minutes. 
 
 The more I considered the false position my daughter's
 
 40 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 folly had placed me in, the more vexed and anxious I grew. I 
 could never have anticipated for myself a more disagreeable 
 look-out than the prospect of having to argue and quarrel with 
 the man who should ask her to be his wife. Such a possi- 
 bility could never have occurred to me, because I considered 
 that she was never likely to accept the offer of any man whom 
 I should disapprove of, or contract an engagement without 
 giving me plenty of leisure to consider its propriety before 
 being called upon for my decision. So far, indeed, unless I 
 except the absurdity of his making a favour of attending me 
 to my house, I could find nothing to object to in Mr. Ran- 
 some's reception of my remarks. I had said a good deal 
 which a quarrelsome man would fasten upon and fly into a 
 rage over ; but he had shown no temper. He was warm 
 only when he spoke of his love, and, prejudiced as I was, I 
 could not deny to myself that his love seemed perfectly sin- 
 cere, for I found the chief exhibitions of it more in his 
 manner than in his language. In truth, had I been asked 
 the real cause of my annoyance, I should have put it down 
 to the suddenness with which the discovery of Phoebe's love 
 had broken upon me, and to the artfulness its concealment 
 illustrated. 
 
 He interrupted my reflections after a long silence by 
 saying : 
 
 ' Colonel, it is my duty to be perfectly frank with you. If 
 I have not sympathised with your misgivings on this subject, 
 it is because it has not occurred to me before now that while 
 Miss Kilmain knows as much of my history as I know myself, 
 you are in entire ignorance of it. You will allow me to 
 assure you that so far as my birth is concerned, I am a 
 gentleman.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Ransome, I never doubted that.' 
 
 ' My father,' he continued, eagerly, ' was a barrister, and 
 came of a good Lincolnshire family. My mother — but a 
 man doesn't take his position from his mother — I can only 
 promise that you will find her a lady.' 
 
 1 Indeed Mr. Ransome, these confidences are quite needless.' 
 
 ' I do not think they are ; you must remember that you 
 have said you consider Miss Kilmain's love ill-advised, because 
 you know nothing of me. You cannot believe that I have 
 been influenced by the least mercenary motive in making love 
 to your daughter. She has made me very happy by consent- 
 ing to be my wife ; but she would make me happier still by
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 41 
 
 taking me as I am — I mean by sharing in what I possess and 
 allowing me to be under no other obligation to you than what 
 I should acknowledge in your consent to our marriage. I am 
 totally ignorant of your means ; and were you to tell me that 
 you are worth a million I should find as little to interest me 
 in the statement as I find in this stone.' 
 
 He kicked a flint out of his path with a highly melo- 
 dramatic gesture, and fastened his dark eyes on mo. He 
 seemed honest enough and certainly his words were strongly 
 flavoured with manly disinterestedness ; but that peculiar 
 manner of his, which no words can express, and which was 
 as elusive to the faculty of definition as the thread of a spider's 
 web floating in air is to the fingers, curiously qualified to my 
 instincts the impression his words should have produced and 
 made me more secretly restless than his ' confidences ' had 
 found me. 
 
 But by this time we had entered the gates of the grounds, 
 and were approaching my house along the avenue. I scarcely 
 realised the full embarrassment of the position in which I 
 was placed until we were in the drawing-room. Mr. Eansome 
 had seated himself and was looking at me with speculative, 
 watchful eyes. Meanwhile I had rung the bell and desired a 
 servant to inform my daughter that I had returned with Mr. 
 Ransome. What was now to be done ? Nothing better, it 
 seemed to me, than to assume an easy manner, treat Mr. 
 Ransome as an afternoon visitor, and after that to leave 
 matters to shape themselves as they might. So by way of 
 breaking the ice, and letting him guess my resolution, I called 
 his attention to the richness of the trees at the bottom of the 
 grounds, and the charming contrast of the green with the 
 pale yellow of the further landscape. He came to the window 
 and at once adopted my tone, commenting upon the beauty ol 
 the flower-gardens and praising the taste they exhibited. My 
 sense of the ridiculous smarted to the absurdity of all this ; 
 and yet what other course could I have taken consistent with 
 the part I had made up my mind to play ? To be hard upon 
 him, to say bitter things, to reproach him now that he was 
 under my roof, was not to be dreamt of. He was here at my 
 own invitation. On the highway I might say what I pleased ; 
 but in my house, whither he had accompanied me with 
 reluctance, he was in a measure sacred as my guest. 
 
 So for some minutes we stood conversing as though there 
 was nothing in the world between us to cause either of us the
 
 42 IS HE THE MAlv? 
 
 smallest uneasiness, and then the door opened, and Phoebe 
 came in slowly, with hesitation in every movement, her large 
 full eyes luminous with hope and doubt and surprise. But 
 that subtle expression of determination which I had noticed 
 in her face the night before was not absent now. 
 
 I watched him approach her and take her hand. If ever 
 I had doubted the sincerity of her love, my doubt must have 
 vanished before the swift, beautiful glance she gave him, the 
 momentary leaning forwards, the bashfulness thinly icing her 
 deportment for a moment and then melting away under the 
 smile which parted her lips and enriched her cheeks with a 
 bright spot of red. Then she looked at me and an expression 
 of misgiving and even fear, almost pitiful to behold, crept 
 over her face. 
 
 ' Miss Kilmain,' said Mr. Kansome, slowly and in a clear 
 voice, ' your father disapproves of our meeting in secret. We 
 must both think he is right. He has given me permission to 
 see you here, and our thanks are due to him for removing 
 the only unpleasant obligation that has attended our inter- 
 course.' 
 
 ' With that explanation,' I exclaimed, ' I must beg, Mr. 
 Ransome, that you wall allow the subject to drop. I have put 
 my daughter in full possession of my motives, I think I have 
 been sufficiently explicit with you, and since you can recon- 
 cile my attitude with your happiness there can be no possible 
 need for further recurrence to the subject.' 
 
 Mr. Ransome bowed, handed a chair to Phoebe, and re- 
 sumed his seat ; but let him mask his emotions as he would 
 with urbanity he could not prevent his eyes from expressing 
 his thoughts ; and the brief glance I received from them ere 
 he bent his gaze dowmvards enabled me quite to understand 
 what is meant by the expression ' looking resentment with a 
 smile.' 
 
 The small scene that followed would have amused a dis- 
 interested spectator, but there was something painfully 
 disagreeable in it all to me. We conversed upon matters as 
 trivial as the weather and the crops, and Phoebe joined in the 
 conversation, forcing upon herself the easy manner that sat 
 lightly on Mr. Ransome, but which needed a great effort of 
 my will to preserve in me.
 
 THE COLONEES STORY 43 
 
 VI 
 
 It did not take me long to discover it was my daughter's 
 destiny that she should marry Mr. Eansome. The privilege 
 he now possessed of calling to see her when he pleased would 
 strengthen their love and render it more durable by supply- 
 ing it with a conscience. My wishes had been defied, my 
 control set at naught, I could not take interest in a matter I 
 did not approve. My daughter had developed a quite unsus- 
 pected quality of headstrong, rebellious resolution ; I felt the 
 powerlessness of my parental authority to cope with, or divert 
 her from her passion ; and dreaded any exercise of severity 
 lest it should hurry her into an elopement and so bring dis- 
 grace upon me and sorrow and remorse upon her. I therefore 
 left her to herself, believing that her pride would draw its best 
 sustenance from freedom, and that her self-control which the 
 liberty I permitted would make obligatory, would save her 
 from the commission of any worse disobedient act than what 
 she had already committed in engaging herself to Mr. Ean- 
 some without my knowledge. 
 
 But, as I have said, the one result of her liberty was to 
 deepen her love by placing her constantly in the society of her 
 lover. I rode, I went about my pursuits, I loitered in my 
 study as usual ; I dared not, nor indeed did I choose to act 
 the part of dragon. A man must trust his child. Truly 
 enough Goldsmith has said, that the virtue that requires a 
 sentinel is not worth the guarding. 
 
 I had taken Eedcliff into my confidence at an early stage 
 in the story of this love affair, and to my surprise got no 
 sympathy from him. 
 
 He allowed that Phcebe had acted unfairly in consenting 
 to marry Eansome before speaking to me ; but, if I would 
 bate that, all the rest was human nature. 
 
 ' When men get old,' said he, ' they forget that they were 
 once young. How often was I in love from the age of fifteen 
 to thirty? Don't talk to me of fathers and mothers and 
 guardians ! I would have laughed at them all. Why, your 
 stealthy meetings, your furtive kissings under the moon, are 
 the real poetry of love. What song is so sweet as the words 
 of the heart set to a nightingale's tune ? When do eyes look 
 dearer than when they reflect the starlight ? Would you 
 have people make love under chandeliers, in the highways, in 
 the society of relations ? Be charitable, and this you can be
 
 44 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 by subtracting twenty from fifty and thinking out of the 
 balance.' 
 
 1 This may be very well ; but suppose I tell you that I 
 don't like Ransome ? ' 
 
 ' ~l\lrj don't you like Ransome ? ' 
 
 • One reason is, I think him half-cracked.' 
 ' Because he wants to get married ? ' 
 
 I laughed, though God knows my humour was grave 
 enough. 
 
 • Suppose he is half-cracked — Phoebe should know ; if he 
 is, he keeps his madness well under — suppose, I say, he is 
 half-cracked, what better evidence would you require of his 
 aristocratical descent ? Isn't he a gentleman ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. He is a gentleman.' 
 
 ' Isn't he good-looking ? ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' Hasn't he means of his own, enough to lift him above 
 the possibility of his turning out a mere hungry adventurer ? ' 
 
 4 He says he has.' 
 
 1 Isn't there a lord in his mother's family ? Isn't he 
 unmistakably fond of Phoebe ? Isn't she dying for him ? 
 What more would you have in this nation of mesalliances ? 
 When Addison's Dutch philosopher fell from the masthead 
 of a ship and broke his leg, he thanked God it wasn't his 
 neck. Phoebe might have married a man entirely after your 
 heart — and she might have married a man very much the 
 other way. She has married neither. She is not the fiancee 
 of a duke, nor is she planning an elopement with your gar- 
 dener. She has found a well-looking, middle-class, educated 
 young gentleman to fall in love with. He is satisfied ; she 
 is satisfied ; and all that you have got to do is to rest satisfied 
 yourself.' 
 
 All this was quite in reason. There are really few objec- 
 tions a man may have to his child's marriage which his 
 friends will sympathise with, although there is no other 
 matter in which they are more disposed to interfere. That 
 Redcliff, perceiving my uneasiness, could honestly think the 
 match a good one for Phoebe, I will not believe. He had 
 sense enough to see that Phoebe meant to marry Ransome 
 whether I liked it or not ; and in a true spirit of friendship 
 set the affair before me in the brightest colours he could 
 invent to console me, in some sort, for the anxiety and depres- 
 sion I would not conceal from him.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 45 
 
 Meanwhile the days were passing rapidly, and still Mr. 
 Eansome remained in Copsford. He had shifted his lodgings 
 from the Blue Boar to a farmhouse on this side of the town, 
 and here it was plain he meant to stop until his marriage 
 with Phoebe should consign him to a house of his own. 
 
 By this time the engagement was generally known and 
 talked about. I was frequently stopped out of doors and 
 congratulated, and several persons who had not visited me 
 since my wife's death called, no doubt under the impression 
 that my daughter's engagement was to initiate our return to 
 society. Of course my pride would never permit me to sug- 
 gest that I was not satisfied with Phoebe's choice. I was 
 asked questions about Eansome with a great show of interest 
 by my acquaintances, and I told them how Lord Carnmore 
 was his uncle, and how he was sprung on his father's side 
 from an ancient Lincolnshire family, which was true enough. 
 His appearance and manners they could judge of for them- 
 selves. Indeed, Phoebe received many compliments on the 
 good looks of her lover, and on his bearing and behaviour. 
 Whether he was rich or poor our friends could not discover, 
 nor on this point did I think proper to enlighten them. He 
 was quite rich enough to please me could I have satisfied 
 myself with him in other respects. It had always been my 
 intention to give up Gardenhurst to Phoebe on her marriage, 
 and settle half my fortune on her. My old home would 
 cease to be tolerable to me under changed conditions. 
 Memory would make it painful without the companionship of 
 one or the other of the two whose presence had thronged it 
 with its sweetest associations, and I could not tolerate the 
 idea of sharing it with the master whom Phoebe's marriage 
 would put in possession of it. 
 
 So that, with this plan in my mind, the idea of Mr. Ban- 
 some having but a small income could not have prejudiced me 
 against him, since the fortune I was able to give her would 
 make her rich enough to support her position with dignity and 
 elegance. My real objection to Mr. Eansome lay in a secret 
 and fixed dislike, not to be explained by any effort of my 
 judgment. Often, I will admit, my prejudice seemed unjust 
 to me because of my inability to refer it to a motive. Eedcliff 
 once attacked this antipathy, and pretended to prove that it 
 could not exist, because nothing I could say against Mr. Ean- 
 some was sufficiently conclusive to account for it. He made 
 out a catalogue of virtues belonging to the man — his modesty,
 
 46 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Iu3 good breeding, his deference to me, his obviously sincere 
 devotion to Phoebe— to every item of which I had to assent. 
 How then could I justify my dislike of a man so deserving of 
 esteem ? But the enumeration of his good points did not 
 soften my prejudice. Were he less deserving I might find 
 him more deserving. 
 
 ' You are angry with him,' Bedcliff said, ' for being the 
 cause of your daughter's disobedience, and for diverting her 
 love for you into a new channel.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so,' I replied. 
 
 I could not explain an instinct. Why I did not like him I 
 knew not ; I could only say and mean that I did not like him. 
 
 Matters had been going on in this way for over a month, 
 when one afternoon Phoebe came to me in the grounds to tell 
 me that Mrs. Kansome was in the drawing-room, and wished 
 to see me. 
 
 I had often wondered to myself how long it would be 
 before this lady came upon the scene, whether, indeed, it 
 might not end in my having to go to her. But her visit now 
 surprised me, for I had no idea that she was at Copsford, and 
 neither Phoebe nor Eansome had hinted that she was likely to 
 visit us. 
 
 I was walking towards the house, when Phoebe said — 
 
 ' Papa, I did not know that Mrs. Eansome was in Cops- 
 ford.' 
 
 ' I could not assume you were ignorant by your not telling 
 me,' I replied. 
 
 ' I have no secrets from you now,' she exclaimed, quickly. 
 ' You wrong me if you think I have.' 
 
 ' Is Mr. Eansome with his mother ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 1 Did he know she was coming to Copsford ? ' 
 
 'No. She arrived at half-past twelve to-day, and took 
 Saville by surprise.' 
 
 I asked no more questions, but went straight to the draw- 
 ing-room. I heard Mrs. Eansome's voice before I opened the 
 door — a shrill, eager, excited voice, so characteristic that I 
 think I could have formed a tolerably accurate idea of the 
 woman it belonged to before seeing her. 
 
 I entered the room, followed by Phoebe, and found mother 
 and son standing together by the table — the son looking a 
 giant beside the dwarf who had given him birth. She was 
 the smallest woman I ever saw outside a travelling circus.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 47 
 
 But no part of her was out of proportion : her head, arms, and 
 hody were in perfect keeping one with another. So far as I 
 could judge, she was about sixty years old ; she had a long, 
 aquiline nose, her eyes were a light moist blue ; her cheeks 
 were pale, and the skin of the face tight upon it, so as to take 
 a polish from its contraction over the cheek-bones and chin. 
 Her forehead presented the most delicate network imaginable 
 of wrinkles, which crossed and re-crossed each other, each 
 wrinkle as fine as the line of a spider's web. She wore sausage 
 curls confined to their place by stout tortoiseshell combs. 
 Her bonnet was large, and made larger yet by a big grey 
 feather ; her dress consisted of a rich silk mantle and a black 
 satin gown. There was exquisite neatness in her attire ; her 
 gloves were new, and fitted her faultlessly ; her collar was of 
 fine lace, her parasol lined with crimson. 
 
 No description would better express her than to say that 
 she resembled a large, well-formed woman viewed through the 
 wrong end of an opera-glass. 
 
 She was rattling away shrilly and volubly when I entered, 
 but instantly held her tongue and approached me with a short 
 flighty walk, consisting partly of a hop and partly of a stride. 
 Mr. Eansome introduced us ; but she was not satisfied with 
 bowing ; she ran up to me holding out her hand. 
 
 ' Extremely glad to meet you, Colonel Kilmain. Have 
 heard so much of you from Saville, that I seem to know you 
 as well as if we had been acquainted for years. Pray tell me, 
 now, aren't you surprised to see me ? Saville was quite 
 astonished when he found me in his sitting-room at the farm- 
 house, weren't you, my dear ? You see, I didn't know whether 
 to come or not. Of course I was anxious to meet my dear 
 daughter-in-law who is to be — ah ! Colonel Kilmain, you are 
 indeed fortunate in having such a beautiful girl for a child. 
 Well, as I was saying, for the last week I had been making up 
 my mind to come to Copsford. I wouldn't say a word about 
 it to Saville for this reason : if I couldn't come on the day he 
 expected me, he would be disappointed. But here I am now, 
 and oh, those horrid coaches ! I was never so jumbled and 
 : haken in all my life. My dear, can you oblige me with a 
 fan ? ' 
 
 Phoebe took one from the table, and Mrs. Bansome sank 
 into an armchair, having delivered the above speech in a 
 breath. 
 
 Whilst Phoebe rang the bell for wine, the old lady atten-
 
 4 3 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 tively observed me, and then asked her son to name the person 
 I reminded her of. She gave him no time to answer, but 
 instantly said, ' Sir Percival Sheldon, her husband's dearest 
 friend. I was the living image of him. Ah ! he was a 
 fine gentleman, one of the old school — people must go a long 
 way to meet men of his stamp now.' 
 
 Garrulous as she was, still she was a lady. She articulated 
 her words with a refined and cultured accent, she fanned her- 
 self with just the sort of air with which one would imagine a 
 fan to have been used by a lady of fashion and distinction fifty 
 years before, and there was an antique grace in the very atti- 
 tude she adopted when she sank into her chair. Her littleness 
 seemed to purify her. Her minute manners, her trim affecta- 
 tions were like miniature painting on ivory ; the same subject 
 transferred to larger canvas would have borrowed a quality of 
 coarseness from the mere effect of size. 
 
 She sipped her wine, chatting away freely. I watched 
 Phoebe to observe the effect the little old lady produced on 
 her ; but she seemed merely amused, laughed often, whilst 
 her heightened colour showed her by no means insensible to 
 the direct bits of praise she from time to time received from 
 Mrs. Eansome. 
 
 Mr. Eansome was silent, as indeed he could hardly help 
 being, seeing that it was almost impossible to edge in a word 
 amid his mother's swiftly uttered sentences ; but he had an 
 unconcerned face, and appeared in no wise embarrassed by her 
 volubility. 
 
 Presently she turned to them, and said — ' Go into the 
 garden, my dears. I wish to have a private chat with Colonel 
 Kilmain.' 
 
 Phcebe laughed outright, but rose nevertheless and went 
 to the window, which she opened. I was rather astonished 
 by the old lady's cool dismissal of these two, but offered no 
 remark. Eansome looked at me, and, after a slight hesitation, 
 exclaimed — ' I hope, Colonel, that our withdrawal will not be 
 disagreeable to you ? ' He chided his mother with a quick 
 glance. 
 
 I answered, ' Certainly not. But there is no necessity for 
 you to leave the room. Mrs. Eansome and I can converse in 
 the library.' 
 
 ' Ah, you are too amiable,' she cried. ' I expect the young 
 to oblige the old — that is, their elders. Why should we leave 
 when they can leave ? '
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 49 
 
 • I want to speak to the gardener ; and thank you for giving 
 me an opportunity to go to him at once,' said Phoebe, laughing ; 
 and out she went, followed by her lover. 
 
 It struck me that she would not have been pleased with so 
 peremptory a dismissal from anybody else — certainly not 
 from me. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome ran to look at them walking together, and 
 came back exclaiming — 
 
 ' Are they not a handsome couple ? Are they not beauti- 
 fully matched ? ' and then cackled on, ' I thought I would 
 lose no time in calling upon you and talking this marriage 
 over. I give my heartfelt sanction, because Saville is quite 
 too clever to be mistaken in his choice. Your daughter 
 is a delightful lady, and I am persuaded they will be 
 happy.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' said I, ' you know that we met your son 
 accidentally at Broadstairs, and that he and my daughter 
 profess to have been in love with each other before we left the 
 seaside, which would scarcely give them a fortnight to become 
 acquainted in ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Saville wrote that it was love on both sides at first 
 sight. And you see they are not mistaken. They have 
 shown great constancy, have they not ? ' 
 
 A little triumphant light shone in her eyes as she cast 
 them around the room. Where his great constancy was I 
 could not see ; but Phoebe had certainly shown obstinate 
 constancy in persevering in a cause which had cooled my 
 heart towards her. 
 
 ' As the parents of these young people,' I exclaimed, stirred 
 somewhat by the thought I have just written, ' there should 
 be no lack of sincerity between us, and you must therefore 
 allow me to say that I think this engagement injudicious, for 
 the reason that it was entered on without either of our 
 consents having been asked, and, I may add, persisted in in 
 opposition to my implied wishes.' 
 
 She opened her little eyes wide, and turning up her small 
 face, marked with a striking expression of gravity, exclaimed, 
 shortly — 
 
 ' What makes you averse to your daughter's marriage with 
 Saville ? * 
 
 ' My daughter knew nothing of the character of your son 
 at the time of bestowing her love on him. There was an 
 impulsive haste in this secret surrender of her affections which 
 
 E
 
 50 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 annoyed and filled me with anxiety when I eventually 
 discovered it.' 
 
 ' Well,' she replied, coolly, ' I thought the same thing 
 when Saville wrote to tell me that he was engaged to be 
 married, and how long he had known your daughter. What 
 did he know of her character ? How was he to judge that she 
 would make him a good wife ? But there is Saville's weakness. 
 His confidence is too generous ; he distrusts nobody but him- 
 self ; he is all intellect and sensibility.' 
 
 I controlled the irritation which this highly maternal view 
 of Mr. Ranfome excited, and said — 
 
 ' What has happened is, I am afraid, past the time of cure, 
 if not of regret. My daughter is old enough to be her own 
 mistress ; she has taken her course and must walk in it, since 
 she will not acknowledge my direction.' 
 
 I waited to receive her reply, but finding her silent, 
 exclaimed, leaving my chair — 
 
 'I don't think we need keep the young people from the 
 room any longer ? ' 
 
 ' No reason at all why they shouldn't join us. I am glad 
 to have had this conversation with you. It is proper for 
 parents, situated as we are, to understand one another. I do 
 hope that Saville and dear Phoebe ' (there was some acrimony 
 in the pronunciation of that word ' dear ') ' will be happy. 
 They deserve to be, I am sure. Their affection is quite 
 beautiful. I noticed their greeting when I called with my son ; 
 and an old woman like me doesn't require to see much to 
 judge by.' 
 
 She gave me an odd look, and turned her eyes upon the 
 window. 
 
 I was anxious to cut short her chattering, and called to 
 Phoebe, who was pacing the lawn hand in hand with Ransome. 
 What particular object the old lady had had in inviting me to 
 a ' quiet conversation,' as she called it, I could not guess. 
 There had been nothing of the slightest importance in what 
 she had said, nor in what I had said. It might be (sub- 
 sequent events will show that the harshest suspicion cannot 
 wrong her) she meant to inquire into the commercial aspect 
 of her son's engagement, and was deterred by my manner, 
 which was certainly stiff and grave enough to suggest 
 that she would blunder if she showed herself the least bit 
 too curious. 
 
 But this is a mere surmise. If she did not strike me
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 51 
 
 as being as eccentric then as I afterwards found her, she 
 exhibited quite enough oddness to make me see where Ran- 
 some had got his character from ; and it was quite possible 
 that nothing but craziness was at the bottom of her wish 
 to talk with me in private. 
 
 ' Your conversation has not lasted very long,' said Phoebe, 
 entering the room with a smile. 
 
 ' I hope, mother, you have not wearied Colonel Kilmain ? ' 
 exclaimed Ransome, sending a sharp glance first at the old 
 lady and then at me. 
 
 ' My dear son, how can you ask such a question ? ' answered 
 Mrs. Ransome, slapping her dress and then fanning herself. 
 ' You young lovers will never allow that your poor old parents 
 may take as much interest in your marriages as in any of 
 your other affairs. Yet they come to us in their troubles, 
 don't they, Colonel Kilmain ? They find out their best 
 friends wben they want them.' 
 
 I looked at Phoebe, but she avoided my eye. It was nearly 
 five o'clock, and I had a letter to v/rite before the quarter past, 
 ready for the postman, who called at that hour in the after- 
 noon. So, having mentioned this to excuse myself for leaving 
 the room, I asked Mrs. Ransome to stop to dinner, inviting 
 her out of pure form, and most inhospitably hoping that she 
 would decline. It seemed to me certain that she would have 
 accepted but for her son, who regarded her fixedly. She 
 smiled — caught her son's eye — and declined. Then he 
 stepped in, thanked me for my politeness, but regretted that 
 his mother's health was wayward, that she was used to regular 
 and primitive habits, &c. &c, to all which she said, ' Yes, 
 it is so.' 
 
 I bowed to her and left the room, and when I passed the 
 drawing-room twenty minutes afterwards they were gone. 
 
 VII 
 
 Phoebe asked me, when we met, what I thought of Mrs. 
 Ransome. My answer was — 
 
 ' What do you think ? My opinion is nothing. She will 
 be your relative, not mine.' 
 
 ' I like her,' she replied. ' She is quaint and old-fashioned, 
 and is the oddest little body to look at that ever I heard of. 
 But I am quite sure she is good-natured, and would be 
 thought a model little lady by the people of her generation.' 
 
 e2
 
 52 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Very well, my dear ; if you like her, that is enough.' 
 
 « But don't you like her ? ' 
 
 ' I should not fancy her as a mother-in-law,' I replied, 
 shortly. 
 
 ' But I am not going to live with her. And she is cer- 
 tainly not a connection to be ashamed of should she visit me 
 after my marriage.' 
 
 The confident way in which she spoke of her marriage, as 
 though my consent were perfectly genuine, and I could find 
 no single ground for dissatisfaction, always irritated me. But 
 I never permitted myself to lose my temper with her. For 
 what good ? as the French say. I had been forced by her 
 covert actions at the beginning of her engagement into ac- 
 quiescence in her wishes ; the attitude I had then taken I had 
 never departed from. If the days which were passing over 
 her head were not modifying the conclusions she had formed 
 of Ransome's character, temper, and virtues, her want of per- 
 ception was not my fault. Had she permitted me, I would 
 have done my duty by her faithfully ; but she had rejected 
 my advice, she had thrust me aside from her counsels, and 
 there was simply nothing for me to do but let matters take 
 their course. 
 
 Any attempt at forcing her away from her wishes must 
 have ended in my defeat. I lacked the moral power to make 
 my love wise with severity. Besides, I knew enough of her 
 character to fear the effect of determined behaviour, had I 
 not been too weakly soft-hearted to exercise it. 
 
 Having once met Mrs. Eansome, I expected to see her 
 every day at my house ; but I was agreeably disappointed. 
 She seemed to be inspired with the same bashfulness that 
 had restrained her son when we had first known him ; and 
 during the three weeks she stopped at Copsford, she dined 
 with us once and called four times only. 
 
 On these occasions she had talked with her accustomed 
 volubility, and I had noticed that she always seemed best 
 pleased when her son was out of the room ; for he decidedly 
 influenced her choice of topics, though when she was free to 
 speak as she chose, nothing ever escaped her which her son 
 could have found fault with. 
 
 So garrulous a lady would soon make acquaintance in the 
 neighbourhood ; and before she was at Copsford a fortnight, 
 people were talking of her as the mother of the gentleman 
 Miss Kilmain was going to marry. I learned t from the way
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 53 
 
 she discussed the affair, that she was very proud of her son's 
 engagement, and I was also told that she spoke in high 
 terms of me, affirming that I was a man after her own heart, 
 with other compliments which I need not repeat. 
 
 The day before she returned to Guildford, Mrs. Ransome 
 called to say good-bye. She caught me as I was about to 
 mount my horse. I accompanied her to the drawing-room, 
 but fortunately the horse at the door was too broad a hint for 
 her to miss, and she did not stay above ten minutes. 
 
 ' I don't know,' she said, in the course of our brief con- 
 versation, ' if Phoebe has named the day. Saville is close ; I 
 can't get to hear from him when he is to be married.' 
 
 ' My daughter has hitherto acted quite independently of 
 me,' I replied ; ' so there is no reason to suppose that she has 
 not fixed a day for her marriage because I am ignorant of 
 it.' 
 
 ' Do I understand, Colonel Kilmain, that at this eleventh 
 hour you still withhold your consent from your daughter's 
 marriage ? ' cried the little lady, staring at me with vague, 
 dilated eyes. 
 
 ' I thought I had explained,' I answered stiffly. ' My con- 
 sent has been given— after a manner. Phcebe exactly knows 
 its character, and how far she may congratulate herself upon 
 its cordiality.' 
 
 She left her chair, shaking her head and exclaiming, 
 ' The course of true love never did run smooth ! ' And then, 
 looking at me very steadily, and with quite a sinister expres- 
 sion in her eyes, she added, ' If I were Saville, I would not 
 lower myself by deigning to accept a gift so grudgingly 
 bestowed as Phoebe's hand. I only hope that his wife will 
 appreciate the sweetness and temper he has shown throughout 
 this strange engagement.' 
 
 I received her satirical curtsey in silence, shrinking from 
 the skirmish her words threatened to involve me in. I ac- 
 companied her to the hall ; she dropped me another curtsey, 
 and went away. 
 
 A week or two after Mrs. Ransome had left Copsford, her 
 son called upon me. From the dining-room window I saw 
 him come along the avenue. He asked the servant if I was at 
 home, and this inquiry for me at once decided in my mind 
 the object that had brought him to the house. 
 
 He was nervous and pale. I requested him to be seated, 
 and remained silent, determined not to help him one jot to-
 
 54 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Wards an issue I had never more sincerely deprecated than at 
 that moment. 
 
 ' I'll not beat about the bush, Colonel,' he began, locking 
 his hands to steady the nervous twitchings of his arms, and 
 regarding me with strange and almost pathetic wistfulness. 
 'Phoebe has consented to marry me on the second of next 
 month, and we only wait to receive your approval.' 
 
 1 Very well,' I answered. ' She knows better than I whether 
 that will give her time for her preparations. If you have fixed 
 on the second of next month, let the ceremony take place on 
 that day. What will satisfy her will satisfy me.' 
 
 ' I wish we had your sympathy. I do not speak for myself, 
 but for her. So far as I am concerned, I do not hope to re- 
 move your prejudices to this marriage ; though I protest before 
 heaven, I am ignorant of the reasons you have for your special 
 dissatisfaction with Phoebe's choice.' 
 
 ' This is hardly fair to either of us, Ransome,' I exclaimed, 
 forcing a smile. ' Of one thing be assured — you wrong me if 
 you think you have not my sympathy. I wish you both all 
 joy, and shall prove my sincerity by doing my utmost to con- 
 tribute to your happiness.' 
 
 He bowed, but my tone was too constrained to permit him 
 to accept my words with the significance they would have 
 taken from a cordial manner. 
 
 Observing him silent, I continued — 
 
 1 It is proper I should explain my plans to you with respect 
 to my daughter's settlement, from which it was never my in- 
 tention to depart under any circumstances. I shall resign 
 this house to her, and settle upon her a fortune that will en- 
 able her to support her position with dignity and comfort. In 
 the event of her dying without issue, the property reverts to 
 me, or, in case of my death, to my next-of-kin. I intend no 
 disrespect by these arrangements. Had Phoebe married the 
 first lord in the country, I should have insisted upon the same 
 conditions.' 
 
 ' You are quite right. I would much rather she should 
 keep what she brings. There is no sacrifice, short of re- 
 linquishing her, which I would not make to prove that I marry 
 Phoebe for herself only.' 
 
 ' Oh, I could not question your sincerity in the face of her 
 convictions. She must know you better than I, and her con- 
 stancy should prove yours.' 
 
 Here all that need be repeated of our conversation termi-
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 55 
 
 nated. I think he was surprised to find how •easily I had ac- 
 quiesced in his arrangements. But he was greatly mistaken 
 if he supposed I should review my objections in the teeth of 
 an opposition which I knew must eventually defeat me. 
 
 But I had still one final word to say to Phoebe. I joined 
 her in the drawing-room after Kansome had left the house, 
 and said — 
 
 ' Mr. Bansome tells me you have fixed upon the second of 
 next month for your marriage.' 
 
 She coloured up, but answered steadily — 
 
 1 Yes, papa. Is it too soon ? ' 
 
 ' You should know better than I. Have you thoroughly 
 considered the step you are about to take ? ' 
 
 1 Thoroughly ; and I am happy.' 
 
 ' You arc not disturbed by the thought that the sanction 
 of my heart does not accompany you ? ' 
 
 ' Papa, if I understood your prejudice, I should respect it, 
 though it would not influence me, because there is nothing in 
 Saville to justify any prejudice. But I do not understand it. 
 You were annoyed in the first instance by my loving Saville 
 without your knowledge. But I could not help loving him, 
 and I was afraid to take you into my confidence for the very 
 reason you afterwards proved to me I was right to fear — the 
 dread of your ridiculing my love by declaring it could not 
 exist in so short a time. And then my secret meetings vexed 
 you, and though I knew I was to blame, yet I felt I was suffi- 
 ciently punished by your severity afterwards. These things 
 prejudiced you without reason against Saville, who surely did 
 not act wrongfully in falling in love with me. Your sanction 
 would make me happier than I am if I had it ; but your dis- 
 approval docs not pain me, because I feel sure that the time 
 will come when you will find out that Saville's nature is 
 honourable and good, and that I was right in giving him my 
 love.' 
 
 I listened to her without interruption, and then said — 
 
 ' I pray God that that time may come, my child. But 
 whether it comes or not, never, until you are a parent, will 
 you understand the anxiety and grief you have caused me 
 since you first confessed your love for Mr. Kansome. No ! ' I 
 continued, holding up my hand to silence her, * I must say 
 this ; but do not let it provoke a discussion. We are all the 
 sport of circumstance, and though my heart has misgivings 
 which you are right in saying I cannot so convey as to make
 
 56 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 them intelligible, yet I have a humble trust in God's provi- 
 dence, and resign your future into His hands with a prayer 
 that He will watch over you. May He bless you and guide 
 you, and make you happy ! Our separation may be lasting — for 
 on the day of your marriage I leave this house never to return 
 to it but as a visitor, whose coming must be altogether depen- 
 dent upon the welcome he receives — but rest assured that my 
 love will follow you while my life lasts. Let your future be 
 what it will, on one friend you may always count who will 
 never betray nor forsake you.' 
 
 She ran to me and I folded her in my arms. We both of 
 us shed tears, but I will own that my words had relieved my 
 heart of a weight and that I felt happier for having spoken 
 kindly to my daughter. 
 
 But a very few lines need be devoted to the marriage. A 
 few of my best friends were present, but Mrs. Ransome wrote 
 a letter at the last moment to say that the state of her health 
 would not permit her to join us. Phoebe seemed perfectly 
 happy. She cried a little when we parted ; but I caught a 
 glimpse of her face in the carriage just before it drove off, and 
 she was smiling with an expression of triumph and devotion 
 at her husband. 
 
 I now lay down my pen for the present, leaving the inter- 
 val between my introduction and the story I have yet to 
 relate to be filled up with the narrative of Miss Avory, my 
 daughter's housekeeper, who was an eye-witness of events 
 and actions of which only the rumours reached me.
 
 57 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 
 
 The share I had in the story to which I have been asked to 
 contribute begins in the summer of the year 18 — . 
 
 In the first months of that year I was housekeeper to a 
 gentleman and his wife named Mortimer. My wages were 
 liberal, my duties small, and I was congratulating myself on 
 the ease and security of my situation, when Mr. Mortimer 
 suddenly died. His wife, through grief, fell seriously ill ; her 
 relatives — she had no children — took charge of her ; her home 
 was broken up, and I was dismissed with a gift, to procure, if 
 I could, another situation. 
 
 My having to obtain a livelihood by employment of this 
 kind was owing to the villainy of a lawyer who robbed me of 
 the small fortune — two thousand pounds — which my father 
 had left me. My father was a Dissenting minister who, by 
 great care and self-denial, had succeeded in laying by a sum 
 of money sufficiently large, as he thought, to supply me, his 
 only child, with a competence for life. He had entrusted his 
 will to the custody of one, Mr. Williams, a solicitor practising 
 in the town in which my father dwelt, a man in whom he had 
 the utmost confidence, and whom he would hold up as a pattern 
 of honesty and sincerity. I was twenty-one when my father died, 
 and three days after his death Mr. Williams left the country, 
 having, as I afterwards ascertained, sold the whole of the 
 securities which my father had placed with him for me, and 
 leaving me not one sixpence even to pay the expenses of the 
 funeral. Fortunately the house in which my father had lived 
 and the furniture were his own ; these were sold by auction to 
 pay off certain debts, and the remainder of the money was 
 given to me, with which I went into lodgings, and shortly 
 after obtained a situation as governess. My duties were so 
 arduous, and the treatment I received so bad, that I threw up 
 the post in disgust, and on the recommendation of a friend of 
 my father, applied for the place of housekeeper to a family,
 
 58 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 with whom I lived for six years. My work was comparatively 
 menial, and at first my pride revolted ; but I soon found out 
 that what apparent indignity may lie in humble avocations 
 depends altogether upon fashion and not at all upon fact — 
 that a governess, taking a higher stand in the social scale 
 than a housekeeper, substantially does work which no house- 
 keeper is ever expected or desired to do. Good sense should 
 free us from such silly prejudices as these. 
 
 The Mortimers' house had been in London. When the 
 old gentleman died and I was thrown once more on the world, 
 my health was not good. I thought a change in the country 
 would benefit me, and wrote to a respectable farmer's wife, 
 Mrs. Campion, who lived at a place called Copsford, about 
 forty miles from town, asking if she could spare me a bed- 
 room for a week or two. She replied that there was a room 
 at my service whenever it pleased me to visit her. So next 
 day I packed my trunk, took the coach, and with thirty 
 pounds in my pocket, all the money I had, went down to 
 Copsford. 
 
 I recall this journey by coach for the sake of the impres- 
 sion one of the passengers made on me. When we had gone 
 about fifteen miles, the coach Avas stopped, and a gentleman 
 scrambled down from the roof and got inside. He was a 
 dark-complexioned young man, with very black eyes and a 
 short moustache, and I thought he was a foreigner, until he 
 exclaimed in good English against the dust and the wind, the 
 first of which he said was enough to choke him, and the other 
 to cut his ears off. He might have been right about the dust, 
 for it rose in clouds under the wheels, and the gentleman's 
 hat and coat were w T hite with it ; but if he meant that the 
 wind was keen, he talked nonsense, for the day was oppres- 
 sively hot, and the atmosphere of the interior of the coach 
 suffocating. 
 
 An old gentleman, with a very red face, who sat in the 
 corner of the coach, with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief 
 over his head, asked him if he really meant that the wind was 
 cold by saying that it was enough to cut his ears off. 
 
 ' I didn't say cold, nor am I aware that I addressed myself 
 to you or anybody else,' replied the young man. 
 
 ' I really beg your pardon,' said the other, bobbing his 
 head in a kind of contorted bow, ' I mistook you. I thought 
 you a gentleman, or I should not have spoken.' 
 
 4 What do you mean, sir ? ' cried the young man.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 59 
 
 The old gentleman pulled out a book and began very 
 gravely to read. The other muttered something inaudible 
 through his teeth, but finding that his staring produced no 
 impression whatever upon the old gentleman, he jerked his 
 hat off, fanned his face with it, and grumbled that the place 
 was hot enough to cook a goose in. A moment after he 
 roared out to the guard — Let me out ! I shall die here.' 
 The guard said that he couldn't stop the coach again ; the 
 gentleman must wait until they arrived at L . 
 
 ' We'll see about that,' said the young man, who jumped 
 up, seized the door, and began to rattle it with all his strength, 
 crying at the top of his voice : ' Stop ! coachman. I'm being 
 murdered ! ' 
 
 I could hardly forbear laughing at the consternation his 
 outcries would excite among the passengers outside, but they 
 produced the effect he desired ; the coach was stopped, and 
 the young man, firing off a volley of curses at the guard, 
 sprang out, and presently I heard his feet clattering on the 
 roof. 
 
 There were several of us ' insides,' and you may believe, 
 now we knew the young man could not hear us, that we made 
 very free with him in our remarks. The ladies unanimously 
 agreed that he was no gentleman : a young fellow in 
 spectacles declared that, a minute more, and he would have 
 knocked him down ; and the old gentleman in the corner 
 suggested that he was a madman, and bade me, who sat near 
 the door, to keep a sharp look-out for the keepers, who were 
 probably in full pursuit of the coach in a chaise. 
 
 However, I heard no more of the dark-faced gentleman 
 until I alighted at Copsford. A phaeton waited for him, 
 into which he jumped, and was driven off; whilst I hired a 
 fly, and was carried with my luggage to the farmhouse. 
 
 On my arrival Mrs. Campion came out to meet me, and I 
 walked through a pleasant garden to a large, white-fronted, 
 thatched-roofed building, with a porch rich with woodbine 
 and honeysuckle, and many handsome trees at the back where 
 the outbuildings were, and where the hens were cackling and 
 fluttering as they strove for their perches, while the air all 
 about me was deliciously aromatic with the smell of hay and 
 flowers. The house, indeed, with the sheds at the back, of 
 which I had caught a glimpse as I passed along the road, was 
 just a farm of the real kind, exquisitely neat and picturesquely 
 rustic, without one ornate touch of any description to make a 
 * model ' of it.
 
 60 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Mrs. Campion welcomed me cordially, and led me into her 
 kitchen parlour, which the house door directly opened into, 
 where I found her husband — a big, honest-faced man, who 
 nodded pleasantly to his wife's introduction of him. This 
 parlour made a picture it perfectly soothes the memory 
 to recall, and I only wish my story lay in this house, that I 
 might have a good excuse for describing it fully. I could 
 desire no better Paradise in this life than such a place to live 
 in, with the sweet- smelling porch close against the sitting- 
 room, the room itself cosily decorated with burnished brass 
 dish-covers and candlesticks, and a capacious fireplace, in 
 which one might sit and look up, when the fire was out, and 
 see the stars as from the bottom of a well, and a broad, solid 
 table, scrubbed to the purity of snow, and an evenly-tiled 
 floor and comfortable armchairs, and cheerful prints upon the 
 brown walls. 
 
 Mr. Campion went to fetch my trunk, and his wife took 
 me to my bedroom and sat with me whilst I removed my 
 bonnet and shawl. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Avory,' said she, folding her arms upon her 
 plump figure, while the kindliest smile lighted up her comely 
 face ; ' what I want you to know at once is, you are my guest 
 and not a lodger, which I should be ashamed to allow your dear 
 father's child to be. Please don't thank me ; for if I oblige 
 you in this, you oblige me just as much by coming, and so 
 we're equal.' 
 
 Her kindness of course involved us in a little amiable dis- 
 pute, which ended in my giving in, and then we went down- 
 stairs, where a servant-girl was preparing the table for tea. 
 And what a tea it was ! Rich brown bread and delicioua 
 butter, and new-laid eggs, and fragrant bacon, and sweet 
 cream, and tea the like of which I have never since tasted. 
 Even had my appetite not been good, Mr. Campion's must 
 have proved contagious. Such a tea as he made I never 
 should have thought lay within the power of mortal man. 
 His honest, cheerful laughter rang merrily across the table ; 
 through the open door came the delicate perfumes of the gar- 
 den ; the setting sunshine glittered in ruby stars in the dish- 
 covers and candlesticks, and the air was vocal with the songs 
 of birds singing among the trees at the back of the house. 
 
 I need not tell you how I, who had been cooped-up in 
 London for many months past, enjoyed this radiant scene, 
 this peaceful, exquisite change.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 6l 
 
 When tea was over we drew our chairs to the porch, while 
 farmer Campion lighted his pipe, and his wife drew forth a 
 bundle of knitting. We talked of many things, and I related 
 some of my experiences as housekeeper, and explained that I 
 could not possibly remain long idle, since my stock of money 
 was slender, and I had nothing to depend on but my calling. 
 Farmer Campion looked concerned, and asked me why I did 
 not get married ; to which I replied that nobody had as yet 
 done me the honour of offering for my hand. He pulled his 
 pipe from his mouth in order to laugh freely, and, striking his 
 knee, cried out that if it wasn't for Sally, meaning his wife, 
 I might depend upon not being obliged to remain single long ; 
 which, as it was the only compliment of the kind I ever re- 
 ceived in my life, I consider it due to myself to repeat. As 
 Mrs. Campion's face looked doubtful, I changed the subject 
 by speaking of the extraordinary behaviour of the gentleman 
 I had travelled with from London. 
 
 ' If that wasn't Squire Ransome, it was Old Nick ! ' ex- 
 claimed the farmer, who had listened to me attentively, and 
 now addressed his wife. 
 
 ' Was he dark-faced, with a bit of hair over his upper lip, 
 and a queer black eye ? ' asked Mrs. Campion. 
 
 ' Yes,' said I, ' and he had a strange sort of voice that died 
 away at the end of his words.' 
 
 ' That's him ! that's him ! ' cried the farmer. ' And he 
 called out murder, did he ? I reckon it was a mercy that he 
 didn't make someone else call it out.' 
 
 ' Who is this Squire Ransome ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Why, a bit of a mad chap that came among us two years 
 ago, and married poor old Colonel Kilmain's girl — Phoebe she 
 was called, as likely a lass as you'll see in these parts,' answered 
 the farmer. 
 
 ' Not so mad as you think,' replied Mrs. Campion, quietly. 
 ' More of a fool than a madman ; though it was always my 
 belief as his mother was wrong in the inside. He lodged with 
 us two years ago, the time he was courting Miss Phoebe, and 
 often and often I've had 'em standing in this very porch hold- 
 ing each other's hands, and whispering under their breaths 
 as though they were really dying of love ; which they might 
 have been in those days. But time brings wonderful 
 changes.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Ransome was with us three weeks,' said the farmer ; 
 1 as queer a little body as ever I saw — no higher than that,'
 
 62 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 he added, holding his hand above the floor, ' with just the 
 sized face yours would show were you to look into one of 
 them dish-covers.' 
 
 1 It was a queer affair, the courting between that couple,' 
 Mrs. Campion went on. 'I used to say that the Colonel hated 
 the thoughts of Miss Phoebe marrying her sweetheart, though 
 there was a deal of pride in him — there was no getting at his 
 feelings by his face.' 
 
 ' But the truth came out once, didn't it, wife ? ' said the 
 farmer. ' I heard Johnson, the chemist over at Copsford, say 
 as how Dr. Kedcliff, who was very often at Gardenhurst in 
 the Colonel's time, told the young people, when he was in a 
 rage with them for quarrelling, that they were badly matched, 
 and didn't deserve to prosper, because the Colonel never 
 wished to see them mated, and that he blamed himself for 
 not helping his old friend to put a stop to it, instead of pre- 
 tending it was all nature and the likes of that. That came 
 to Johnson by Mary, the housemaid, as overheerd the parties 
 talking.' 
 
 ' You never told me that before,' exclaimed Mrs. Campion. 
 
 ' Oh, it went out of my mind ; other people's business 
 don't trouble me long,' answered the farmer, shaking the 
 ashes out of his pipe. ' Kedcliff was a good man, and, I 
 believe, stuck to the lady while he lived. But, lor bless me ! 
 taking sides never does in marriage. No good ever comes of 
 pitting man and wife against each other. If they can't agree, 
 let 'em separate — nothing' else '11 do, as any lawyer will tell 
 you.' 
 
 I was about to ask some question, when farmer Campion, 
 suddenly wheeling his big body round until he faced his wife, 
 and giving the arm of his chair a mighty slap, cried out : ' It's 
 just come into my head, Sally, that they're wanting a house- 
 keeper at Gardenhurst.' 
 
 ' Are you sure ? Who told you ? ' 
 
 He scratched the back of his head, and said that he was 
 blessed if he could tell, though he did think it was Mr. Sim- 
 mons, the baker. But, however that might be, he'd find out 
 and let me know. 
 
 ' It would be curious if they do want a housekeeper,' said 
 Mrs. Campion to me. ' You'd be pretty sure to suit Mrs. 
 Ransome ; but I don't know,' she added, shaking her head, 
 * whether it's a family that would suit you. That was the 
 master, recollect, who came down with you in the coach.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STOR^ 63 
 
 ' But I should have nothing to do with him.' 
 ' No, that's quite right ! ' exclaimed the farmer. ' He's very 
 little at home, they say : always tramping or riding about the 
 country. No one sees much of him excepting his wife, who, I 
 dare say, wouldn't break her heart if she had to dispense 
 altogether with his company.' 
 
 Saying this, he left us to look after his men. My curiosity 
 had been excited by what I had heard of the Ransomes, and 
 by their want of a housekeeper, and I asked Mrs. Campion 
 some questions about them ; but she knew very little to tell 
 me. All that she could say w 7 as, that they had the reputation 
 of being a very unhappy couple ; that Mr. Ransome had a 
 very bad temper, and that his temper had quite spoilt his 
 wife's. 
 
 We went early to bed at that pleasant farmhouse, and my 
 mind does not hold a prettier memory than that of the sweet, 
 fresh, pink-and-white bedroom in which I slept that night. 
 There was a great moon over the hills, and I sat long in its 
 gentle light at the open window, drinking in the rich night 
 air that crept over the whitened flow r ers to me, and thinking 
 that I could hardly wish for more happiness than to find a 
 comfortable berth in this delightful neighbourhood, that I 
 might sometimes climb those noble hills and live in the 
 presence of the gracious scene into which chance had led me. 
 
 I was awakened by the noise of the farmyard, and opened 
 my eyes upon a room brilliant with sunshine. It was long 
 since I had enjoyed so healthful and refreshing a sleep. 
 There w T as a bouquet on the toilet-table, for which, I after- 
 wards learnt, I had to thank Mrs. Campion, who had brought it 
 into my room before I was awake. A hearty greeting welcomed 
 me when I got downstairs, and soon we were seated at break- 
 fast, with a blackbird singing loudly in a cage in the porch, 
 and the breezy morning air perfectly melodious with the 
 humming of the wasps and gold-ribbed flies among the 
 flowers. 
 
 'I mean to inquire about that housekeeping matter for 
 you this morning,' said farmer Campion ; ' and I hope you'll 
 get it, for then you'll be near us, and we shall see something 
 of you.' 
 
 I told Mrs. Campion that, while she went about her work 
 after breakfast, I would go for a walk, and inquired the way 
 to Gardenhuxst. But before I started she must first show me
 
 64 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 over the farm ; and I was taken to a great open space at the 
 back, with a little forest of stately trees all about it, where 
 countless hens scratched and grumbled and cackled, and kept 
 the scene moving with their restless bodies. Here were the 
 cowsheds, but they were empty, for the cows had been milked, 
 and were away munching the buttercups and daisies in a 
 distant paddock ; here was a dirty pond, with ducks sailing 
 upon its dirty bosom ; and in a long range of styes a great 
 concourse of pigs were fretting the woodwork with their 
 punctured snouts, climbing on each others' backs, squealing 
 with voracity, and contributing a curious bass to the sharp 
 trebles that rang from other portions of the enclosure. But I 
 would no longer detain Mrs. Campion from her duties, and so, 
 promising to be back in time for dinner at half-past twelve, I 
 passed down the garden and entered the road. 
 
 ii 
 
 I walked straight forward, and arrived at a broad stretch 
 of grass, sheltered by a hill, and faced by some dense shrubbery, 
 which I afterwards heard was called Rose Common, and then, 
 proceeding along a level road for a short distance, gained the 
 bottom of the lane which led up the side of the Cairngorm 
 Mount. 
 
 The prospect, as I advanced, unfolded itself, and I repeatedly 
 stopped to dwell upon its beauties. The hills lay heaped all 
 around me, but scarcely any two of them presented the same 
 colour. The sides of some were densely shagged with wood, 
 and I pictured the delicious coolness and solitude under the 
 shadows of the leaves, the squirrels frisking among the boughs, 
 the sweet wind rushing from the hill-tops through the trees. 
 The little villages peeping out of the valleys were sharply 
 defined in the brilliant atmosphere. Yonder, on the spire of a 
 church, a gilt vane shone like a gold-coloured flame against 
 the rich background of the dark green hill. The month was 
 June, and the crops were still green, though high and wavy, 
 and the larks soared over them, inviting the eye to seek them 
 in the air, where the vain search was rewarded by the spectacle 
 of the soft blue heavens, with here and there a cloud, as wan 
 as the moon and no bigger, melting in the azure depths. 
 
 After I had walked and loitered awhile, I got into a main 
 road, and came presently to a wall, which ran a long distance 
 up this road and terminated at a gateway. The gates were
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 65 
 
 open, and did not look as if they were ever closed. From the 
 description of the estate which Mrs. Campion had given me, I 
 knew this to be the residence of the Ransomes ; but I could 
 see nothing of the house, owing to the trees of the avenue, 
 which wound away to the right and afforded no glimpse even 
 of the grounds behind them. 
 
 The idea now occurred to me that I might as well call and 
 inquire if the family were in want of a housekeeper since I 
 was on the spot. Even supposing Mr. Campion had been 
 misinformed, I could hardly be thought intrusive if I explained 
 that the farmer had told me the situation was vacant. It was 
 certain I could not long afford to be idle ; nor could I trespass 
 beyond a week at the outside on the Campions' hospitality. 
 To be sure I had not been greatly prejudiced in Mr. Ransome's 
 favour by his behaviour in the coach, supposing that queer 
 individual to have been Mr. Ransome. But my experience as 
 housekeeper had shown me that I should have little to do 
 with the master. One place might prove as good as another. 
 All about Copsford was delightful country ; it would be 
 pleasant to have such friends as the Campions in the neigh- 
 bourhood ; and so, everything considered, if I could obtain 
 the post of housekeeper at Gardenhurst, I might consider 
 myself lucky. 
 
 But it was too early to call yet ; indeed, it was not yet 
 ten. In an hour's time I might venture ; so I walked slowly 
 forwards, and, coming to a grassy plot, sat down near the 
 hedge, finding that the road branched off, and began to look 
 dusty and hot as the sun mounted. A cart came by presently, 
 the driver asleep, with his back to the horse and his head on 
 his knees ; but the horse went up the hill more steadily than 
 had his master held the reins. Then several tramps came 
 down the hill, walking in a line, and kicking up the dust with 
 their dogged lazy feet. They did not see me, or I should 
 have probably had them swarming about me to beg for money. 
 There was a woman among them with her bonnet on her 
 back, and her hair glued in black streaks upon her forehead 
 with perspiration, who took strides as long as any man among 
 them, and spoke in a thick voice, and had a wonderfully 
 coarse laugh, and was, I think, the most unwomanly woman 
 I ever saw in my life. I speculated upon their intentions as 
 they swung down the hill en route for Copsford, until they 
 had tramped themselves out of sight ; and then an old pedlar, 
 with his pack on his back, came by, leaning on his stick and 
 
 F
 
 66 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 stopping ever and again to peer among the stones at the side 
 of the road, turn the thing that arrested him ahout with his 
 stick, kick it viciously, and march forwards again, working 
 his under lip. 
 
 When presently I looked at my watch I found that a 
 whole hour had slipped by since I first seated myself; so I 
 got up and walked down the hill to the gates, not without a 
 misgiving that I was acting boldly in assuming the family's 
 want of a housekeeper on the mere strength of an unaffiliated 
 report. 
 
 There was no lodge and no bell ; so I passed through the 
 open gates along the delicious avenue, where the hard ground 
 I trod on and the velvet sward under the trees were twinkling 
 with the shadows of the leaves. On coming to a bend, I saw 
 the house in the sunshine, with the conservatories gleaming 
 at the back, and a broad lawn stretching in front of it like a 
 carpet. A footman came to the door. 
 
 ' Does Mrs. Eansome live here ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Yes, mem.' 
 
 ' I have been told that she is in want of a housekeeper. Is 
 that so ? ' 
 
 ' Quite correct. Do you apply for the situation ? ' 
 
 ' Is Mrs. Eansome to be seen at this hour ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Then ask me no questions, but go and tell her I am here.' 
 
 The footman stared, then sauntered off, and disappeared 
 through a door. He returned in five minutes, and asked me 
 to .accompany him, and conducted me through a small ante- 
 room into what seemed to me, and which really was, another 
 hall, with doors on either side. He knocked on one of these 
 doors, threw it open, and in I walked. 
 
 I found myself in a large room, pleasantly though plainly 
 furnished, with pretty pictures on the walls and flowers on the 
 sideboard. A young lady with a small handsome face, dark 
 eyes, and narrow, well-defined eyebrows, sat near the open 
 window with a book in her lap. She inclined her head when 
 I entered, and told me to take a chair. 
 
 • You have applied for the situation of housekeeper ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, madam ; I have been told that you are in want of a 
 housekeeper, and took an early opportunity of calling to offer 
 my services.' 
 
 She said that her housekeeper had left her in May, and 
 that she had been making inquiries since that time for some
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 67 
 
 one to replace her. What was my name, and my age ? and 
 where had I lived '? and what salary did I expect ? and did I 
 thoroughly understand my duties ? 
 
 Whilst I answered her questions she observed me narrowly, 
 and whilst she spoke I examined her. Her conclusions, as 
 the issue afterwards proved, were satisfactory ; mine, I will 
 confess, were somewhat doubtful. 
 
 First of all I was struck by her haughty manner, expressed, 
 not so much by her speech as by her lofty upholding of her 
 head and the deliberate gaze she fastened upon me, as though 
 her scrutiny was in no sense to be regulated by the embarrass- 
 ment its intentness might cause. Her eyes were very fine and 
 flashed as sbe moved them ; her mouth was small and the 
 lips compressed ; her complexion quite colourless ; her dress 
 simple in fashion, but rich in material, and it fitted her fine 
 figure exquisitely. Her face was thinner than the peculiar 
 character of her beauty admitted ; in health (I thought), or 
 were she happy, those dark lines under her eyes would not be 
 there, nor would her lips look pallid with habitual com- 
 pression. 
 
 I was with her not longer than a quarter of an hour, 
 during which (having exhausted her questions) she had ob- 
 served that her household was a small one and that her 
 reason for engaging a housekeeper was not to save herself 
 trouble, but to obtain help in her efforts to economise. I told 
 her that I thought myself qualified to assist her in that, as 
 my knowledge of servants was great, and in my last situation 
 I had the entire control of the housekeeping duties, and had 
 done so well as to save Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer a fair sum of 
 money a week out of the amount they had allowed me for keeping 
 house. She would write to Mrs. Mortimer and communicate 
 her decision. Where was I stopping at Copsford '? 
 
 ' At Eose Farm,' I replied. 
 
 ' Oh, then you know the Campions ? ' 
 
 ' Quite well. I am their guest at present.' 
 
 ' They are worthy people,' she said, and her eyes wandered 
 to the window and she fell into deep thought. I remembered 
 then that Ptose Farm had been the scene of her and Mr. Ran- 
 some's love-making. She looked up in a few moments and 
 exclaimed, 'I will write to you when I have heard from 
 Mrs. Mortimer. Should her answer justify me in engaging 
 you, you can enter upon your duties at the beginning of next 
 week.' 
 
 f2
 
 68 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Upon this I bowed and left the room. 
 
 I got back to the farm by twelve o'clock. Farmer Cam- 
 pion was in the porch when I approached the house, and 
 called out— 
 
 ' It's quite right, Miss Avory. They're in want of a house- 
 keeper up at Gardenhurst. I saw Larkins the butcher who 
 serves 'em, likewise Miss Beddish, who keeps a stationer's 
 shop in King Street, and knows all about everything, and 
 they both said t'other housekeeper left in May, and a new one 
 was wanted.' 
 
 ' Very well,' I answered ; ' I'll see what's to be done in a 
 day or two.' 
 
 My interview with Mrs. Eansome had taken place on a 
 Tuesday. On the Friday following the Bansomes' footman 
 called at Eose Farm wilh a note addressed to me, which, on 
 opening, I found to contain this formal communication : — 
 
 ' Mrs. Eansome, having received a satisfactory reply from 
 Mrs. Mortimer respecting Miss Avory's character and ex- 
 perience, begs to say that Miss Avory may consider herself 
 engaged from Monday next.' 
 
 ' No answer,' said I to the footman ; and gave the note to 
 Mrs. Campion to read. 
 
 ' I don't doubt you'll suit them,' she exclaimed, handing 
 me back the letter ; ' and I only trust they may suit you. 
 But I'm pretty sure before you have been at Gardenhurst a 
 month, you'll have seen some quser goings on. I'm much 
 mistaken if the young wife don't want a good friend at her 
 back with such a husband as the Squire to deal with. If she 
 hasn't wonderfully changed since she used to come here and 
 chat as pleasantly as yourself with me, you'll like her. But 
 mark my words, you'll have seen some rare goings on before 
 you're a month older.' 
 
 So I did, and within the time my friend had prophesied. 
 Vihtxt these ' goings on ' were I will endeavour to relate as 
 faithfully as I can, bating no jot of the truth, and I trust that 
 my frankness will never be mistaken for freedom by the 
 gentleman who has requested me to write down all that I 
 know about his daughter and son-in-law.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 69 
 
 in 
 
 Monday morning having come, I was driven over to 
 Gardenhurst by Mr. Campion, who carried my box to the 
 house. The footman treated me with proper respect now that 
 he knew I was housekeeper, took my box, and asked me 
 whether I would see the mistress at once or go to my 
 bedroom. 
 
 ' What is your name ? ' I asked him. 
 
 • Maddox — John Maddox,' he answered. 
 1 How do they call you here ? ' 
 
 * Maddox.' 
 
 ' Then, Maddox,' said I, ' put that box down and send one 
 of the housemaids to me.' 
 
 ' Yes, mem,' he replied, and went away. 
 I was determined to let him see by my behaviour that this 
 was not my first place. Never in my life did I attempt to 
 conciliate the servants I have had to rule by bland manners. 
 
 A good-looking housemaid arrived and conducted me to 
 my bedroom, which, though at the top of the house, was no 
 great distance to climb, as the building consisted only of 
 two stories. On the first landing I passed a large room on 
 the left, the door of which was open, and enabled me to catch 
 a glimpse of a handsome bedstead richly draped, satin- covered 
 chairs, and other luxurious furniture. 
 
 ' Whose bedroom is that ? ' I asked the girl. 
 ' Mistress's,' she answered. ' Yonder is the master's ; ' 
 she pointed to a door on the right. 
 
 ' Stop a moment,' I said to her as she was leaving my 
 bedroom. ' I shall want you to show me downstairs to the 
 housekeeper's room.' 
 
 I took off my bonnet and smoothed my hair with my 
 hands, and then threw a brief glance round to judge the ac- 
 commodation I had been provided with. I could not grumble. 
 The bedroom was neatly furnished and in front of the house ; 
 that is to say, it overlooked the grounds, which sloped for 
 nearly a mile, it seemed to me, down the hill; at the 
 bottom were the dense trees entirely blotting out the prospect 
 in that quarter ; between them and the house were the flower- 
 gardens, and all on the right was the kitchen-garden, 
 where the gardeners were at work. The left was clear and 
 submitted a magnificent prospect of hills stretching to the 
 horizon.
 
 7o IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 'How many indoor servants are there ? ' I inquired. 
 
 'Four,' answered the girl. 
 
 ' Do Mr. and Mrs. Eansome see much company ? ' 
 
 4 Hardly no one. They did when they were first married, 
 but they don't seem to have no friends now.' 
 
 ' How long have you been in your situation ? ' 
 
 ' A year and ten months, this week, miss.' 
 
 This looked promising. I followed the girl downstairs 
 and reached the basement, where the housekeeper's room was, 
 adjoining the kitchen. The cook, a middle-aged woman, 
 came in to see me under the excuse to get a piece of news- 
 paper, and whilst I was questioning her about her work that 
 I might obtain some insight into mine, a bell rang, and pre- 
 sently Maddox came to say that I was wanted in the dining- 
 room. 
 
 I went upstairs, and after a little hesitation, owing to the 
 two halls, which puzzled me, found the door to which I had 
 been conducted by the footman on my first visit, knocked and 
 entered. 
 
 Mrs. Eansome was alone, walking up and down before the 
 open window with her hands behind her. There was a slight 
 flush on her marble-coloured cheeks, and an angry light in 
 her eyes. The smell of a newly-lighted cigar lingered in the 
 room, but the smoker was not visible. 
 
 She turned her head with a strangely haughty gesture, 
 and, forcing a composure upon herself, said in a rich, tremu- 
 lous voice — 
 
 ' When did you arrive, Miss Avory ? ' 
 
 ' Just now, madam.' 
 
 'I wish to say at once that you will recognise no 
 other superior in this house but me, that you will obey no 
 other orders but those you receive from me. You under- 
 stand ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly,' I replied, somewhat surprised. 
 
 ' The reason I discharged my last housekeeper was because 
 she thought fit to disobey my orders by obeying those of 
 another person, who visited us in April. If I die for it,' she 
 exclaimed passionately, ' I will claim my own rights to the 
 last.' 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 'The lady I wrote to, Mrs. Mortimer, told me that you are 
 the daughter of a Dissenting minister. Have you seen much 
 trouble ? '
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY Ji 
 
 ' I had much trouble when I began life ; but since then 
 my troubles have been commonplace enough.' 
 
 She bent her eyes on me with a frown of earnest scrutiny. 
 I was struck by the intentness of her gaze, which, so far as I 
 could read expression, seemed indicative of habitual distrust. 
 Her beauty at that moment was very striking. She swept 
 her hair behind her ear, and, pulling an envelope from her 
 pocket, exclaimed — 
 
 ' I received this letter an hour ago from my husband's 
 mother. She was here in April — she is coming to stop here 
 again next week. She is a meddlesome woman, Miss Avorv. 
 I put you on your guard against her. If you value my 
 pleasure suffer her on no account to dictate to you.' 
 
 This frankness must surprise the reader more than it sur- 
 prised me. I own that I was not so astonished by it — stranger 
 as I was to her, and occupying as I did a humble position in 
 her household — when I looked at he and saw that her mind 
 was struggling with a painful grievance, and that her candour 
 was the result both of helplessness and irritation. 
 
 ' Madam,' I replied, Mrs. Campion's words coming into my 
 mind ; ' depend upon it I shall recognise no mistress but you 
 whilst I remain in your house. I have had some experi- 
 ence of meddlers, but was never influenced by them in my 
 life.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' she answered simply ; and the hard expres- 
 sion went out of her face, and she looked at me with some- 
 thing almost of gentleness in her eyes. 
 
 She then spoke of my duties, of which she explained the 
 nature fully ; and which, greatly to my satisfaction, I found 
 would give me more liberty than I had ever before enjoyed. 
 There were no more outbreaks of temper ; but several times, 
 when she was silent a moment or two, I heard her sigh 
 bitterly ; and once, when one of the gardeners passed the 
 window, she turned quickly, evidently mistaking his footstep, 
 with a glance of scorn and dislike that made her face 
 tragical. 
 
 I left her and went downstairs, where I found the house- 
 maid whom I had before talked with sewing in my room. 
 Being anxious to learn as much as I could of the characters 
 of the people I had come to live with, I resolved to put a few 
 judicious questions, concluding that the two years she had 
 lived in the house would qualify her to satisfy me on most of 
 the points I considered it my policy to learn.
 
 72 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Is this your regular time for sewing ? ' I inquired, by 
 •way of opening the conversation. 
 
 < Yes, miss, from twelve to one, after I have helped Susan 
 to finish upstairs.' 
 
 ' Do you like your place ? ' 
 
 ' Why, yes, it suits me pretty well. Mistress is kind, 
 though she is often put out by master.' 
 
 ' Has Mrs. Eansome any relatives living in the neighbour- 
 hood ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' None that I know of. She has a father who is an officer, 
 and lives somewhere in France. He came here six months 
 ago to visit his daughter, but the quarrels was so constant 
 that they made the poor old gentleman dreadfully uneasy. 
 I did think it hard that he couldn't find hisself comfortable 
 here considering it were his house before he gave it to his 
 daughter. He said to Mrs. Simpson, as were then house- 
 keeper — "For God's sake," he says, "be a friend to my 
 child and protect her as much as you can from her own 
 temper," he says, "and the aggravating man she's married." 
 I don't know what he expected Mrs. Simpson to do, but 
 Mrs. Simpson told me this herself.' 
 
 ' Perhaps the quarrels were caused by his interference,' 
 said I, rather doubting that little bit about ' the aggravating 
 man ' which she had put into the Colonel's mouth. 
 
 ' No, indeed, they were not. I can answer for that 
 myself. The Colonel's a perfect gentleman, and was always 
 trying to pacify them.' 
 
 ' But what is the reason of these quarrels ? ' I exclaimed, 
 disposed to consider them largely due to Mrs. Eansome, who 
 'had struck me as possessing a very dangerous temper. 
 
 ' Nothing but wickedness,' answered the girl, sewing 
 quickly, ' and I don't care who hears me say so.' 
 
 ' Who is to blame ? ' 
 
 ' Why, the master,' she cried, looking up. ' I heard it 
 said at Copsford — that's where I belong to — before I came 
 here, that, there was a good deal of love between them, but 
 most on her side ; and for a time things did go on very 
 pleasantly, but they got arguing at last, and then took to 
 quarrelling ; and sometimes I'm truly grateful no one can 
 hear 'em but those in the kitchen, for he talks so madly and 
 she screams, you'd hardly think you were in a gentleman's 
 house. I've heard a thing or two since I've been here, 
 though not through listening, but because the secrets was
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 73 
 
 forced upon my ear by the loud voice they were spoken 
 in.' 
 
 ' These secrets are nobody's concern.' 
 
 ' No, certainly not, and I never talk of them, only when 
 I'm questioned like.' 
 
 ' Do you know Mr. Eansome's mother ? ' 
 
 'Her that was here in April? Yes— she's no bigger 
 than my sister's child who was eleven in December,' she 
 exclaimed, bursting into a laugh. ' Such a bit of a woman, 
 miss, you might hide her in a fish-kettle.' 
 
 ' Does she attempt to order you about when she comes 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' That she does, but I never mind her. I forgot to make 
 her bed once, and she came running into the kitchen after 
 lunch calling for me, and was in such a passion, I thought 
 she'd go off in a fit. "Oh, you wicked girl!" she says: 
 "Oh, you bad-hearted thing! how dare you neglect me?" 
 she says. After she had stormed at me, she climbs upstairs 
 again, and I heard her complaining to mistress, and just to 
 make sure that she told no lies, I listened in the hall ; and 
 mistress says, " My servants are engaged to wait upon me ; 
 if you want proper attendance, you may get it in a lodging." 
 This pleased me, for it served the old lady right for abusing 
 me for forgetfulness. Well, out flounced old Mrs. Eansome, 
 and I had to hide behind the hat-stand to prevent her seeing 
 of me; and she ran upstairs calling, " Saville ! Saville!" 
 meaning her son ; and soon she comes down again, followed 
 by the master, and then they both go to where the mistress 
 was, and such a dreadful quarrel followed that I was quite 
 scared, and went into the kitchen where the servants stood 
 listening with white faces expecting I don't know what.' 
 
 I was really too interested to silence her before she stopped 
 of her own accord ; but when she had done, my judgment 
 stepped in and warned me against encouraging this gossip. 
 I thereupon changed the subject, and shortly afterwards left 
 the room for the kitchen, where I got into a very homely 
 conversation with the cook upon prices, tradesmen, and such 
 matters. 
 
 When I left the kitchen I went upstairs to my bedroom 
 to unpack my box. There was nobody about, and I peeped 
 into Mrs. Eansome's bedroom when I passed it, where I saw, 
 hanging on the left-hand wall, a half-length portrait, the size
 
 74 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 of life, of a gentleman in military uniform, the face fair- 
 complexioned, the eyes brown, and the hair short. I had no 
 difficulty in telling by the eyes alone that this was a near 
 relative of Mrs. Ransome, if, indeed, it were not her father. 
 Other pictures were around the room, chiefly of a devotional 
 character. I was again struck by the luxuriousness of the 
 furniture — the satin-covered sofa at the foot of the bed, the 
 rich, pink-lined window drapery, the carpet that felt like 
 piles of velvet beneath the foot, the elaborate bedstead, and 
 the beautiful knick-knacks — smelling-bottles, ivory hand- 
 glasses, &c. — upon the toilet-table. These things impressed 
 me only so far as they contrasted with the plain furniture of 
 the other rooms. They pointed, I thought, to a quality of 
 selfishness which made the personal comfort of the occupant 
 of the bedroom an affair of essential importance. 
 
 I reached my bedroom, and set to work to fill the chest 
 of drawers, and give a look of habitation to the apartment. 
 Whilst my hands were busy, I constantly found my thoughts 
 running on the gossip the housemaid had bestowed on me ; 
 but 1 must own that I found little to interest me in the 
 mere narrative of quarrels, in the account of old Mrs. Ran- 
 some, and of her son's evil temper ; what troubled me was, 
 how long could I hope to hold my situation in a house 
 where so much bad passion was rife, and where collisions 
 of a most irritating nature might be of hourly occurrence ? 
 I was quite sure the place would suit me if Mr. and Mrs. 
 Ransome would allow me to do my work without interfering 
 with me ; but I made up my mind not to submit a moment 
 to any ill-usage. 
 
 Having finished with my box, I started upon an exploring 
 expedition through the house. The servants' rooms were 
 next to mine ; I examined the women's and found them tidy 
 enough, but Maddox's presented a most dissipated appear- 
 ance. There was a pair of trousers under the bed, and a 
 waistcoat in the fender, and by the bedside, on a chair, was 
 a flat candlestick richly festooned with grease, and beside it 
 a volume bound in sheepskin, which I examined, and dis- 
 covered to be ' The Life and Adventures of Mr. Jeremiah 
 Abershaw,' with a horribly coarse woodcut for a frontispiece 
 representing a gallows surrounded by a crowd eagerly ob- 
 serving a procession apparently emerging from a wall, the 
 procession consisting of the Ordinary (labelled), Jack Ketch 
 (labelled), some figures in the rear, and the Felon with his
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 75 
 
 face turned to the mob, and a balloon coming out of his 
 mouth inscribed ' I die game ! ' 
 
 ' Mr. Maddox keeps good company,' I thought, and pro- 
 ceeded on my tour d'iusjicction, meaning presently to have a 
 talk with my footman. 
 
 I reached the second landing where Mrs. Eansome's bed- 
 room was, and knocked on the door facing hers. No answer ; 
 so I was about to turn the handle when the door flew open, 
 and a gentleman dressed in a light suit presented himself. 
 The moment I saw him I recognised him as the hot-headed 
 individual who had travelled with me from London. 
 
 His dark eyes fastened themselves upon me with a look of 
 surprise, and he exclaimed, ' What do you want ? ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' I replied, ' I did not know you were 
 in this room.' 
 
 ' Who are you ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Avory, the housekeeper.' 
 
 ' Oh, my wife's choice, aren't you ? ' 
 
 I Mrs. Ransome engaged me on Saturday.' 
 
 ' Why did you knock ? does anybody want me ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir ; I was looking into the rooms merely to see how 
 the servants did their work.' 
 
 ' Oh, I understand. And you are the new housekeeper, 
 eh ? my wife's choice, are you ? ' 
 
 He stared at me with his strange eyes, running them over 
 my figure, and after a short silence said — 
 
 ' Where have I seen you ? ' 
 
 That he should have had the smallest recollection of my 
 face, considering that I had been one of a number and in 
 no manner attracted his notice in the coach, showed that he 
 possessed a good memory. But I was not going to help 
 him, for the reason that he might take a prejudice to me 
 for having witnessed him make such a thorough donkey of 
 himself. 
 
 ' Where have I seen you ? ' he repeated. 
 
 I I think I meet you now, sir, in this house for the first 
 time,' I replied. 
 
 ' I've seen you somewhere,' and he looked annoyed and 
 frowned as he fixed his eyes on the ground. 
 
 I gave him a bow and turned away, but he stared after 
 me until I was on the stairs, and then I heard him shut his 
 door by slamming it to. 
 
 I had not seen enough of him yet to enable me to de-
 
 76 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 scribe him fairly, but his blunt, unfortunate manner did not 
 prevent me from thinking him a very good-looking man. 
 His eyes were the most peculiar part of him, restless, glowing 
 and black, the whites a darkish pearl-colour. His forehead 
 was high, but the shape of his head was not good ; the 
 brows were narrow and the back of the head flat. I particu- 
 larly noticed that he twitched his hands incessantly whilst 
 he stood asking me questions, and he had the same nervous 
 affection in his lower lip, which he would draw sideways and 
 disclose the teeth under his small black moustache. Another 
 peculiarity : he invariably raised his voice in the beginning 
 and sank it into a drawl at the end of a sentence. This 
 might have seemed nothing but habitual indolence, as though 
 a sentence tired his voice before he had done with it, had not 
 the numberless suggestions of excitable activity which ap- 
 peared in his gestures and manner flatly contradicted the 
 idea. I chafed a little when I reflected on the imperious and 
 offensive way in which he had asked me what I wanted, but 
 tranquillised myself presently by allowing that I had annoyed 
 him by breaking in upon his privacy and in a measure deserved 
 his impatience. 
 
 I was resolved to carry out my programme, and the next 
 room I came to was the drawing-room, the door of which was 
 ajar. I peeped in, and seeing nobody advanced and gazed 
 about me. This was undeniably the most charming room in 
 the house, although here again the furniture was not nearly so 
 costly as that in Mrs. Eansome's bedroom. There was a tall 
 window facing the door, which led on to the lawn, and more 
 windows on the right, through which I could see a row of 
 pillars. A stream of sunshine lay upon the carpet, and I ap- 
 proached the window through which it shone to draw down 
 the blind. 
 
 Just then Mrs. Eansome came in. 
 
 ' That's right Miss Avory,' said she. ' I am glad to see 
 you so careful. Have you been over the house yet ? ' 
 
 ' I am now going over it,' I replied. 
 
 ' Have you any fault to find with the servants ? ' 
 
 1 No,' I answered, not choosing to do Maddox an ill-turn 
 before speaking to him. 
 
 ' I can see that you will not require to be instructed in 
 your work, and I am very glad of it, for reasons you can 
 guess from what I have already said. Your experience will 
 always enable you to remember who the mistress of this
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 77 
 
 house is. My last housekeeper's ignorance on this point 
 was, as I have told you, the cause of my dismissing her.' 
 
 Why this extraordinary jealousy of her position? It 
 seemed" to me that she would better consult her dignity by 
 insisting less upon her mistresship. 
 
 'When my father lived here,' she continued, 'we used 
 always to occupy this room ; but we chiefly use the dining- 
 room now ; and I would not use that if I could help it. I 
 would lock up the house and save it for its real owner, my 
 father — do you hear, Miss Avory ? He gave it to me, but I 
 don't wish to keep it, and should like to be a beggar ! ' 
 
 She made this singular speech with her eyes flashing as 
 they rested upon mine. Her frankness surprised me ; there 
 was a want of dignity in it which I could not reconcile with 
 her haughty bearing. Could she not reserve her complaints 
 for an equal ? 
 
 She may have read my thoughts, for she drew close to 
 me and exclaimed, throwing her handsome obstinate face 
 back — ■ 
 
 ' I don't know how long you may stop with me, Miss 
 Avory — perhaps a year — perhaps a week ; but though you 
 should remain no longer than a day, you are certain to find 
 out the secret of this house, and you shall learn the truth 
 from me at once, before your mind is poisoned by false- 
 hoods. Answer me a question : Did the Campions speak of 
 me ? ' 
 
 'Yes, madam.' 
 
 ' What did they say ? ' 
 
 I would not tell her what they said for many reasons, so I 
 answered — 
 
 ' They spoke of you as wanting a housekeeper, and sug- 
 gested if I applied that I might obtain the situation.' 
 
 ' I don't mean that,' she exclaimed impatiently. ' Did 
 they speak of my husband and me ? ' 
 
 ' I scarcely remember,' I stammered, really confounded by 
 this examination. 
 
 ' I ask you because, when Mrs. Eansome was here, she did 
 not scruple to go about telling the most wilful falsehoods of 
 me. Thanks to her and her son I have lost my friends, my 
 house is shunned, and though I can prove nothing, I know 
 that my character has been atrociously misrepresented.' 
 
 She stamped her foot and frowned, but not more from 
 temper than from an effort to repress he/' tears.
 
 7& IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Although I cannot pretend to remember accurately what 
 the Campions said,' I replied, ' I can assure you that not a 
 syllable was breathed by either of them that did not natter 
 your character, and make me eager to serve under you.' 
 
 She watched me distrustfully, then sighed bitterly, and 
 murmured — 
 
 ' It must be so ! How can I have such grief and not speak 
 it ? I am friendless — those who would serve me are afraid to 
 hear me— my own poor father dare not come to me. Oh, my 
 God ! if I knew how to end it ! ' 
 
 She put her hands to her face and burst into tears. Her 
 grief seemed to bring her to my level, and to justify me in 
 offering her my sympathy. But what could I say ? I knew 
 nothing of her sorrow, nor would my own self-imposed rigid 
 training suffer me to endure the thought of permitting the 
 removal for a moment, of our distinctions, by attempting to 
 soothe her. I stood irresolute and silent, listening to her 
 sobs, and wondering how much of the grief that racked her 
 was of her own making. 
 
 _ Suddenly Mr. Eansome came into the room. He entered 
 quickly, walked right up to us, and stood for some seconds 
 fronting his wife and staring at her before she was conscious 
 of his presence. 
 
 ' What now ? ' he exclaimed. 
 
 At the sound of his voice her hands dropped from her face, 
 she drew herself slowly erect, looking at him from foot to 
 head with an indescribable expression of scorn in her eyes, 
 then wheeled sharply about from him. Contempt was never 
 more fiercely expressed than in this quick action. 
 
 1 What is your name ? ' he said to me ; 'I forget it.' 
 ' Miss Avory.' 
 
 ' What has my wife been saying to you, Miss Avory ? ' 
 ' That is my business ! ' she exclaimed, turning upon him. 
 ' Miss Avory, leave the room if you please.' 
 
 I hurried away, only too glad to make my escape ; but 
 before I reached the door Mr. Eansome called out— 
 * Stop ! ' 
 
 ' Go ! ' cried his wife. ' Miss Avory, remember who is 
 mistress here.' 
 
 ' I insist upon your answering my question,' he exclaimed, 
 coming to the table. 
 
 I looked from one to the other of them ; they were both 
 watching me with passionate eyes ; one or the other was to be
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 79 
 
 obeyed ; I ranged myself with the weaker side, reckless of 
 consequences. 
 
 ' I was engaged by Mrs. Eansome, and am bound to 
 consider her my mistress. I therefore obey her orders.' And 
 out I went. 
 
 She came after me and caught my arm when I was in 
 the hall. 
 
 ' Miss Avory, I shall not forget your courage,' she said in a 
 feverish whisper. ' Thank you 1 ' 
 
 IV 
 
 I gained my private room in the basement, and was thankful 
 to find it empty. I threw myself into a chair with a mind as 
 weary and upset as if I had been engaged for hours in violently 
 quarrelling. These people, from what I had heard, had been 
 married two years. Two years ago they were making love in 
 Eose Farm, standing hand-in-hand in the porch, while Mrs. 
 Campion watched them as they whispered, and thought, to 
 use her own expression, ' that they must be dying of love.' 
 And now they were living the life of cat and dog, and behaving 
 as though not even a memory of their love survived in them 
 to give some sort of dignity to their mutual hate. I had not 
 been in the house three hours, and yet more had been revealed 
 to me than I should have expected to hear and see in a 
 twelvemonth. Since they were so miserable together, why 
 did not her father take her away and keep her with him ? 
 What was at the bottom of these quarrels — Temper? 
 Jealousy on one side or the other? Had the precious idol 
 that love had reared been found the veriest plaster of 
 Paris ? 
 
 I sat in this room which, to distinguish it, I will for the 
 future call my room, moralising and speculating until I had 
 recovered my composure, and then, wondering if they were 
 still quarrelling upstairs, I went to the door and listened, but 
 all was quiet. 
 
 Maddox was in the pantry cleaning the plate. I called to 
 him, and he came to my room, holding a spoon in one hand 
 and a piece of washleather in the other. He was a wiry man, 
 about as tall as Mr. Eansome, and bating the moustache, not 
 unlike his master in his complexion, the shape of his nose, 
 and the length of his jawbones. His hair was dark brown, 
 his eyes the same colour, sly, shrewd, and vigilant. They
 
 So IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 twinkled when he stood before me. He had an idea, I 
 suspect, that I was going to pump him about his master. 
 
 ' I went into your bedroom just now,' I said, ' and found it 
 in a disgraceful state. When you have finished cleaning the 
 plate, go and fold up your clothes — I should be ashamed to 
 ask the housemaid to do it for you— and pray give me no 
 further chance of detecting your slovenliness. Do you read 
 in bed ? ' 
 
 He was staggered by my address ; his eyes ceased to 
 twinkle, and his mouth slowly opened. 
 
 ' Eead in bed ? ' he echoed. 
 
 1 Yes. There is a greasy candlestick on a chair close to 
 your pillow, and a book near it which, were Mr. Eansome 
 to see it, he would order you to burn.' 
 
 ' Burn ! ' he exclaimed, trying to become indignant. ' I 
 should like to see any one burn it. It's my book, and that's 
 my bedroom, and it's law for a man to do wot he likes with 
 his own. And if I choose to keep awake all night, and 
 beguile the time with reading, wot's that to you, mem ? ' 
 
 ' We'll see,' I answered calmly, for Maddox was by no 
 means the first footman I had had to deal with ; ' if you like 
 to hide that book in your box, you may ; but if I find it by 
 your bedside again I shall take it to Mr. Eansome, and ask 
 him if it is his wish that works of that kind should be intro- 
 duced into his house. You had better do what I tell you ; I 
 never argue with servants I am hired to control. Do your 
 work properly, keep your bedroom in order, and we shall get 
 on ; but be quite sure that no impertinence will check my 
 interference when I find things going wrong ; and I consider 
 that things are going very wrong when I learn that the foot- 
 man sleeps with a lighted candle and a book about thieves 
 against his pillow, and leaves his master's clothes heaped 
 about the fender/ 
 
 ' I don't know what you refers to, mem,' said he, doing 
 his best to speak with lordly contempt ; ' but master's clothes 
 are in his dressing-room, and not in the fender, if, mem, 
 you'll be pleased to look for yourself.' 
 
 ' The waistcoat in the fender belongs to your livery. Do 
 you find yourself in clothes, or is your livery paid for by your 
 master ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I see your meaning ! ' he exclaimed, tossing his 
 head, but looking at me very angrily ; ' and it does you very 
 great credit, mem, to be so hobservant of your betters' interest.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 81 
 
 And I hope, mem,' he continued, edging towards the door, 
 1 for your betters' sake, as you'll go on as you've begun, and 
 not deceive of their expectations,' he said, gaining the passage, 
 ' by turning out worse nor them as you've pleased to abuse. 
 
 And hl'm blowed ' His voice died away in a growl, and 
 
 presently I heard him hissing over the plate in the pantry 
 with great ferocity, and intermingling his sibillation with 
 angry exclamations, to which I paid no more attention than I 
 did to the flies that buzzed about the ceiling. 
 
 But that first day of my arrival was not yet ended. At 
 half-past two Maddox came to my room to lay the cloth for 
 my dinner. He snuffed through his nose as he slided round 
 the table and slapped the knives and forks down angrily, and 
 now and again I caught him glancing at me morosely out of 
 the corners of his eyes. 
 
 ' What will you be pleased to drink ? ' he inquired with 
 an air of frigid obsequiousness. 
 
 I told him ale. 
 
 ' Oh, I thought you might hev been a water-drinker,' he 
 observed, evidently intending to be cuttingly sarcastic. 
 
 How was it that I could not think of him but with refer- 
 ence to his volume on Jerry Abershaw ? The gallows, the 
 procession, the crowd of tbat coarse frontispiece always came 
 into my head when I looked at him, and I wished, to save the 
 prejudice that had grown in me and that had really notbing 
 to do with his behaviour, that I had not found that book in 
 his bedroom. 
 
 There was nothing for me to do about the house that 
 afternoon ; so I told the housemaid named Mary to give me 
 the work she had been upon in the morning, and spent an 
 hour in sewing. 
 
 My room was not a cheerful one. The window facing the 
 avenue was sunk below the ground, and the grass upon the 
 cutting was long and obscured the light. A great linen 
 closet occupied the whole of one side ; there was also an old- 
 fashioned safe for the plate, a clock with a hoarse tick on the 
 mantelpiece, some prints, a couple of wooden armchairs, and 
 a big glass case containing a number of shelves loaded with 
 handsome crockery. 
 
 It was nearly four o'clock when I heard a quick step 
 descending the kitchen staircase, and a moment after my 
 door was pushed open and Mr. Ransome stepped in. 
 
 I put down my work and rose. There was a wandering 
 
 o
 
 82 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 expression in his eyes as he surveyed me some seconds before 
 addressing me ; his fa^e was pale and he held his hands 
 behind him. 
 
 ' Will you be good enough to tell me your name ? ' he 
 said ; ' it's always going out of my head.' 
 
 ' Miss Avory, sir.' 
 
 1 Avory — Avory — Ivory — Avory — very well ! now I'll re- 
 member. Sit down — you needn't stand.' 
 
 I seated myself. 
 
 ' Who told you to obey my wife before me, Miss Avory ? ' 
 he continued, twitching his mouth oddly, and shifting the 
 weight of his body first on one leg and then on the other. 
 
 ' No one, sir.' 
 
 ' Then when I told you in the drawing-room to stop, why 
 didn't you stop? ' 
 
 ' I obeyed the first command that I received,' I answered, 
 controlling as best I could the nervousness his curious eyes 
 inspired. 
 
 ' Did she tell you not to obey my orders ? ' 
 
 ' If you mean Mrs. Eansome — certainly not, sir.' 
 
 He looked at me angrily and exclaimed : 
 
 ' How the deuce do I know that you are speaking the 
 truth ? ' 
 
 I coloured up at this ugly speech and bit my lip. He 
 saved me from speaking the sharp answer that was on my 
 tongue by saying : 
 
 ' Are you a trustworthy person ? Have you ever been 
 housekeeper before ? ' 
 
 ' Mrs. Eansome has received my character. I have been 
 housekeeper fourteen years to various families.' 
 
 ' Are you a lady by birth ? ' 
 
 ' Sir,' I answered warmly, ' my origin has nothing to do 
 with my duties. If I serve you properly my birth cannot 
 matter.' 
 
 ' Come, madam, I desire no airs. My reason for making 
 these inquiries is to learn whether you are a proper person to 
 confide in. Let me hear whether you can keep a secret or 
 not,' 
 
 ' I would rather not know any secrets, sir.' 
 
 ' Look here,' he exclaimed, holding up his hand, ' do you 
 give me to understand that you would rather believe my wife 
 than me ? ' 
 
 'I am afraid, sir, I do not understand you.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 83 
 
 He looked cautiously towards the door and closed it. He 
 then returned to me, approaching me so close that I shrunk 
 back in my chair, while my heart began to beat quickly and 
 I felt myself grow pale. He bent his face forward and 
 whispered : 
 
 ' My wife is mad ! ' 
 
 When he had said this he drew himself erect, frowned, 
 and stood watching me with his arms folded. I stared at him 
 with astonishment. 
 
 1 That's the secret,' he went on, drawing a chair to the 
 table and seating himself ; ' and now you can understand 
 why I asked you if you were trustworthy.' 
 
 Whether he spoke the truth, or whether he himself was 
 mad and thought his wife so, I couldn't yet tell ; but to judge 
 from what I had seen of their conduct I think, had my 
 opinion been asked, I should have pronounced them both mad. 
 
 ' Follow me, if you please,' he resumed, holding up hig 
 hand with one finger extended. 'All mad people are cun- 
 ning. Madness begins first in hallucinations accompanied by 
 violent outbreaks of temper. This is my wife's case. She 
 imagines herself both master and mistress in this house, 
 speaks of me, her lawful husband, as an intruder, and is for 
 ever threatening to lock up the home and go forth into the 
 world as a pauper. What is this but madness ? Is it sanity ? 
 You look a clear-headed woman — answer me.' 
 
 ' I cannot venture to give an opinion until I have seen 
 more of Mrs. Kansome,' I answered, utterly confounded by 
 the man. 
 
 ' But you have seen something of her.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' What was she talking to you about when I interrupted 
 her conversation in the drawing-room ? ' 
 
 I could find no reply to make. One of his feet beat softly. 
 
 ' Was she not insisting upon her being sole mistress 
 here, and cautioning you against obeying anybody else's 
 command ? ' 
 
 I dared not, with his glaring eyes upon me, remain silent. 
 I answered, ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ' he exclaimed triumphantly, springing up and 
 resting his hand upon the back of the chair. ' Continue — 
 recite me all that conversation.' 
 
 ' Sir, I beg you not to press me ; there was nothing in 
 £hat conversation which would interest you to hear.'
 
 84 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Did she talk of locking up tins house ? ' 
 
 1 She meant ' 
 
 'Answer me,' he cried harshly. 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, my reply wrung from me by the fear his 
 manner had renewed. 
 
 He lowered his head and said in a gentle voice — ■ 
 
 ' Miss Avory, I entreat you not to attend to what she says. 
 She is mad, poor girl, on this subject of mastership — nay, on 
 other subjects ; but this is the central hallucination round 
 which other delusions cluster. She thinks my temper pas- 
 sionate ; but she herself is all passion, and confounds my 
 remarks with her own wild speeches. Her madness takes the 
 form of extraordinary aversions. There is my mother — a 
 harmless, tender-hearted old lady — my poor wife hates her. 
 The sight of her, nay, the name of her, flings her into a fury. 
 Has she spared you? Wait awhile. I only ask you that, 
 when by some innocent action or speech you have kindled her 
 passion, bear with her. Eemember how she is afflicted ; but 
 never heed her calumnies, her temper, her wild, ungovernable 
 wishes.' 
 
 He raised his forefinger mysteriously, smiled softly, bowed 
 with singular grace, and quitted the room. 
 
 The manner of his leaving me gave to his words a signi- 
 ficance that utterly deceived me. There had been sense and 
 tenderness in his final words, and these, taken with the pre- 
 cision with which he had counted off his wife's ' delusions,' 
 thoroughly disposed me to believe that Mrs. Ransome was 
 mad. His statement was not to be weakened by recollection 
 of his behaviour in the coach, by his rude and even insolent 
 manner to me, by my sincere doubts even of his own sanity. 
 I had to consider that what be had said of his wife was true ; 
 that she had insisted upon my recognising her sole authority ; 
 that she had declared her wish to lock up the house ; that she 
 had implied her husband was something very much worse 
 than an intruder, and that she abhorred her mother-in-law. 
 Were these things signs of madness ? Why, yes, if I put 
 myself in his place, and argued with a presumption of her 
 madness ; if I considered that the temper that was shown 
 was always on her side, and that her grievances were entirely 
 imaginary. As yet I could not suppose otherwise. But what 
 could I know of the truth in the short time I had been in the 
 house ? His behaviour might mean no more than an offen- 
 sive mannerism ; but hers, so much at least as I had seen of
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 85 
 
 it, was better to be explained by madness than any other 
 reason I could assign to it. 
 
 Determining not to allow my mind to dwell upon these 
 matters until I was able to form a definite opinion of them, 
 I went into the kitchen where the cook was getting ready the 
 dinner. Maddox had been rung for by his master, and was 
 upstairs. I asked one of the housemaids where Mrs. Eansome 
 was. ' In her bedroom,' was the answer. 
 
 ' Has she been out this afternoon ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, she never goes further than into the grounds 
 now.' 
 
 ' It were otherwise when the Colonel lived here,' said the 
 cook. ' Him and her used often to be out riding or walking 
 together. I've meet 'em, when I've been coming over from 
 Ulverston in my brother Tom's cart, as fur as Thorney 
 Mount, a good eight mile from here, walking for their enter- 
 tainment an' looking as cheerful as young lovers.' 
 
 Just then Maddox came in. 
 
 1 Master don't dine at home to-day, cook,' said he. 
 
 ' What ! an' his favourite jint down too ! Well, it's poor 
 cooking for people who's up and away when you're striving 
 your best to please.' 
 
 ' I've put my room to rights, mem,' said Maddox, 
 sardonically. ' It's open to your inspection now.' 
 
 ' Very well,' I replied. 
 
 ' Where's master going to to-day, I wonder,' remarked 
 the housemaid Mary. ' Last fortnight he told Maddox he'd 
 be back for dinner and didn't come home for a whole week. 
 He's a rare gentleman for travelling. If I had his money 
 I'd travel too.' 
 
 ' It isn't often he comes into this part of the house,' said 
 the cook, looking at me with an eye full of curiosity. 
 
 ' One would think,' observed Maddox, sitting down and 
 letting his head fall backwards under a Dutch clock that 
 wagged its pendulum over his nose, ' that he'd quite forgotten 
 there was other rooms in the place beside those he's used to.' 
 
 ' He came to-day, though,' said the cook. 
 
 ' Yes, I heerd him,' returned Maddox. 
 
 1 Did you listen ? ' I exclaimed, turning sharply upon him 
 with a profound conviction in my mind that he was capable 
 of greater meannesses. 
 
 ' Listen ! ' he answered suddenly ; ' of course I didn't ; 
 but as the pantry's not a mile off, and your door ain't fitted
 
 86 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 for a dungeon, it wasn't my fault if Lis words struck upon 
 my ear and obliged me to take them in.' 
 
 ' What did he say ? ' asked the cook, who was bursting 
 with curiosity. 
 
 'Why,' said the footman quickly, so as to prevent my 
 silencing him, and giving me an extravagantly cunning leer 
 as he spoke, ' he told Miss Avory as mistress was mad.' 
 
 He laughed, hummed a tune through his teeth, and while 
 I was striving to find fit words for the indignation that 
 possessed me, walked slowly out of the kitchen. 
 
 ' Mistress mad ! ' cried the cook. ' That I don't believe.' 
 
 ' Nor I ! ' exclaimed both housemaids together. 
 
 ' No more mad,' continued the cook warmly, ' than I am. 
 But I'll tell you what she is, miss ; she's a ill-used woman, 
 and I don't care a farden if master hears me say so ! ' she 
 cried, polishing a soup-plate with great excitement. 
 
 ' That footman,' I exclaimed energetically, ' must have a 
 very mean nature. I wonder what Mr. Eansome would say 
 if I told him that his man listened to his private conversation 
 with me.' 
 
 1 He'd kick him,' said one of the housemaids. 
 
 ' It wouldn't be the first time,' said the other. 
 
 ' Such languidge,' continued the housemaid who had first 
 spoken, ' as goes on between them two sometimes of a morn- 
 ing, I never heard the likes of. It's enough to make one 
 downright wicked to listen to it.' 
 
 ' Only think of the sinfulness of calling mistress mad ! Poor 
 dear lady who was as happy as the days were long when she 
 lived with her father, a perfect gentleman, and his wife a 
 sweet lady who had a kind word for every one,' cried the cook, 
 who was clearly her mistress's partisan. 
 
 ' We have no right to talk of these things,' I said. ' You 
 have only the footman's word to go by, and the word of a man 
 who can listen to a private conversation is not to be taken on 
 oath.' And I ended the subject by starting Mary on an errand, 
 and recommending the cook to look to her joint. 
 
 The rest of the day passed without my seeing either Mr. or 
 Mrs. Eansome again. The young mistress dined alone, which 
 I learnt was much more the rule than the exception. Mary 
 gave me this piece of information when she brought me my 
 tea, but I offered her no encouragement to talk. 
 
 After tea I went upstairs to the bedrooms, where I lingered 
 awhile, and returned to my room, not having met Mrs. Kan-
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 87 
 
 some. I thought she must feel very lonely upstairs, and 
 wondered how she managed to get through the time, if she 
 amused herself no better than she had amused herself that 
 day. 
 
 I inquired of the cook, who came to ask me a question, if 
 Mrs. Eansome played the piano. 
 
 ' Why, yes, miss,' she answered. ' Mary, who's been here 
 longest of any, says she plays and sings beautifully ; but I've 
 not heard the piano since I've been in the house, an' that'll 
 be getting on for four months.' 
 
 ' I suppose she passes her time in reading.' 
 
 ' I am sure that's more than I can tell you. She's a poor 
 lonely lady for certain, and I can't get what that Maddox said 
 out of my mind. I know who's the mad one of them two.' 
 
 This reference silenced me, and the cook withdrew. At ten 
 o'clock the footman passed my room bearing a tray containing 
 water and glasses. He went upstairs, and shortly after I 
 heard the sound of excited voices which came out through the 
 dining-room door that Maddox had opened. I could not dis- 
 tinguish the words that were spoken, but the voices belonged 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Kansome, and of the two, hers was decidedly 
 the loudest and most impetuous. They were hushed on Mad- 
 dox closing the door. When he came downstairs, I said — 
 
 ' Has Mr. Eansome returned ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, he hev, mem.' 
 
 ' What time do the servants go to bed ? ' 
 
 ' Half -past ten,' he answered shortly, and scarcely able to 
 address me civilly. 
 
 ' Does Mr. Eansome lock the house up '? ' 
 
 ' No, mem, he don't ; specially when he doesn't come in all 
 night.' 
 
 I told him he could go ; and presently a bell rang violently, 
 and after awhile Mary came to tell me that mistress was going 
 to bed, and wished me to see that the doors were fastened, and 
 the lights out before I went to my room. 
 
 I asked the cook to accompany me, lest I should overlook a 
 door ; and when the other servants were out of the kitchen, 
 we went upstairs and locked the hall-doors, and closed the 
 drawing-room windows, and then entered the dining-room, 
 where the windows were wide open. The smell of tobacco- 
 smoke was still strong in the room, and I looked into the little 
 balcony that stood a foot or two above the lawn to make sure 
 that Mr. Eansome was not smoking there. There were some
 
 88 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 bottles on the table with the corks out, and a man's hat on 
 the sofa. Whilst I placed the bottles in the sideboard I looked 
 about me for signs to suggest how Mrs. Ransome had spent 
 the evening. But there were no books, and no work-table or 
 basket, and in the absence of these I could only conclude that 
 she had sat with her hands before her. 
 
 ' Strange,' said the cook in a whisper, ' what pleasure mas- 
 ter can have in going out an' leaving his wife alone. It isn't 
 as if there was theaytres, and the likes of that to entice him. 
 He does nothing but walk. The milkman told me the other 
 morning that he was coming to Copsford by the Dawling road 
 at half-past nine at night, and who should pass him, walking 
 all by himself, but Mr. Ransome.' 
 
 ' He certainly chooses odd hours for his excursions,' I re- 
 plied ; ' will you close that Avindow, cook ? Thank you.' 
 
 I extinguished the lamp, and there being no other room to 
 look to, bade the cook good-night and went to bed. The night 
 was sultry. The moon was in the south, and the hills under 
 it were black, but its silver light lay pale in some of the val- 
 leys. I went to the open window to breathe the air. So deep 
 was the silence that I could hear the wheels of a vehicle upon 
 the London road away down on my left, in the further valley, 
 which was a mile off. Some big clouds, resembling motionless 
 volumes of steam, hung overhead, and presently one of them 
 approached the moon, and then the fine white light that floated 
 in a silvery haze over the land went out, and the outlines of 
 the hills were swallowed up in the darkness. 
 
 I was about to leave the window when I heard a woman's 
 voice exclaim : 
 
 ' If you knew how hateful the sight of your face is to me, 
 you would never come near me ! ' 
 
 A man's voice answered, but the tones were smothered, and 
 I could not catch the words. 
 
 My first impression was that the speakers were below on 
 the lawn ; and I stretched my head out of the window to see 
 them. A faint atmosphere of light was reflected from the 
 window exactly under me, and, recalling the situation of the 
 apartment I was in, I at once perceived that the room under 
 mine was Mrs. Ransome's bedroom. Her window was open ; 
 she must have stood near it to enable me to hear her so dis- 
 tinctly. 
 
 ' My father ? ' I heard her exclaim ; ' how dare you men- 
 tion his name ? He hated you from the first ! He knew you
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 89 
 
 were a madman ; and I should have known it too, but you 
 deceived me with your madman's cunning — lonely, miserable 
 creature _ that I am ! But he shall know — he shall know, 
 though it break his heart, for I cannot go on enduring this 
 terrible life ! ' 
 
 His answer was still inaudible, but he had evidently drawn 
 nearer to the window, for I clearly remarked the emphasis of 
 savage contempt in the tone of his voice. 
 
 _ ' Keep away from me ! ' I heard her cry. ' You want to 
 drive me mad, and you shall be answerable for what I do in 
 my madness. Why do you come to my room ?— no, not one 
 word ! not one word ! — but to-morrow she shall know more — 
 take your hand off ! ' she cried with a half-suppressed shriek. 
 ' Oh, coward ! coward ! ' There was a trampling of feet for a 
 moment, a low fierce laugh, and a door was banged. Then 
 followed a profound stillness, presently disturbed by sounds of 
 piteous sobbing. 
 
 I had listened without a moment's reflection that I was 
 acting dishonourably in doing so. This thought could not 
 occur amid the intense agitation which these unintelligible 
 words, the startling shriek, the pitiful after-sobbing had excited 
 in me. I shrunk away from the window with my heart beating 
 wildly, my hands cold as death, my forehead damp with per- 
 spiration. For many minutes I stood near the toilet-table 
 listening for further sounds with strained and painful atten- 
 tion, but soon the sobs died out and I heard the window 
 closed. 
 
 What horrible quarrels were these? Was I in a mad- 
 house? Such sounds, and above all, that strange fierce laugh, 
 by whomsoever uttered, would seem only possible in a lunatic 
 asylum. Long after I had heard her close the window, I 
 found myself still standing and listening. My hands trembled 
 violently when I began to undress myself, and the looking- 
 glass reflected a face as white as a sheet. It was one o'clock 
 before I fell asleep, and throughout my slumbers that horrible 
 laugh, that half-suppressed shriek, mixed their wild part in 
 my dreams, and made my repose more unrefreshing than had 
 I lain sleepless in my bed.
 
 9o IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 The sunshine awoke me ; it was seven o'clock. The morn- 
 ing was glorious, the birds sang loudly from the trees, and 
 numberless butterflies hovered about the rich flower-beds, and 
 gave life to the bright verdure of the lawn. 
 
 The moment I recalled the quarrel of the night I became 
 as agitated and nervous as if the conversation I had heard 
 had passed but five minutes before. The servants were busy 
 in the rooms downstairs when I descended, and I found 
 Maddox in his shirtsleeves cleaning the dining-room win- 
 dows. He bestowed a sour glance upon me as I stood for a 
 moment watching him, but made no response to my ' Good 
 morning.' 
 
 I did my best to abstract my mind from the unpleasant 
 memory that haunted it by going busily about my work ; and 
 at eight o'clock went to breakfast. Mary had prepared my 
 table, and when I sat down she lingered at the door and said : 
 
 ' Did you hear anything last night, miss ? ' 
 
 ' Why do you ask ? ' 
 
 ' I only thought, as you sleep over mistress's bedroom, 
 that you might have been frightened, being new to the ways, 
 if you ivas disturbed.' 
 
 ' Did you hear anything ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she exclaimed with a shrug, ' we're always hearing 
 something.' 
 
 I was anxious to know if the quarrel I had overheard was 
 unusual. If the thing was frequent I might take courage 
 and compose my nerves. 
 
 ' What do you hear ? ' I inquired. 
 
 ' Why, the most dreadful quarrels between master and 
 mistress. It's enough to turn one's blood cold to hear 'em 
 sometimes. What with him with his laughs, and her with 
 her screams, it's truly awful.' 
 
 ' Then these quarrels often take place ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, pretty near as often as they are together. I ought 
 to know, for I act as lady's-maid to mistress ; and sometimes 
 of a mornin', when I'm doing her hair, if master comes in, 
 the words between 'em so scares me that I often don't know 
 whether I'm standing on my head or my heels.' 
 
 ' How long have these quarrels been going on ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, for a good while now. They're his fault, mind you, 
 miss. He do say the most outrageous things ; and once '
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 91 
 
 ' And once what ? ' 
 
 ' Once he caught her by the hair and clenched hi3 fist, and 
 made as though he would hit her on the face.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' I exclaimed. ' Why doesn't her father 
 interfere ? Why doesn't she leave him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, she's been going to leave him ever so many times to 
 my certain knowledge. But there's a wonderful deal of pride 
 in her. You see, miss, if she was to go in for a divorce all 
 the truth would come out, and everybody would be talking of 
 her. An' as to leaving him — well, I don't know anything 
 about that. Her father hasn't any idea of what she has to 
 go through. I heard her tell master she'd rather die 
 than that the Colonel should learn what a dreadful mistake 
 she had made in marrying of such a man. But he must 
 have seen a good deal when he was here ; quite enough to 
 make him understand that his daughter was the reverse of 
 happy.' 
 
 As I had heard all I felt disposed to learn from her, I told 
 her she might now leave me and go about her work. Although 
 servants are not very veracious sources of information, I did 
 not doubt that what Mary had told me was substantially cor- 
 rect ; and I might now console myself with reflecting that in 
 spite of the cry and the laugh that still rang in my ears, 
 there had been nothing more tragically significant in the 
 quarrel I had overheard than in any other of the quarrels 
 which were perpetually occurring. But surely, I thought to 
 myself, these are scenes that must soon come to an end. 
 Mrs. Bansome's piteous reference to her loneliness and misery, 
 her wild cry, ' I cannot go on leading this terrible life,' should 
 lead me to conclude that any near day would find her home 
 broken up, herself seeking her father's protection. I could 
 not doubt that there had been too much real anguish in her 
 voice last night to mislead me on this point. What had 
 forced that shriek from her? — that bitter exclamation, 'Oh, 
 coward ! coward ! ' Had he struck her ? The thought sent 
 the blood tingling through my veins. 
 
 I was afraid, should he remember that I slept over his 
 wife's bedroom, he might suppose I had overheard the quarrel 
 and would seek me with some fierce explanation. I therefore 
 kept to the lower part of the house to avoid reminding him of 
 my existence by meeting him, until I heard one of the servants 
 say that he had gone out. 
 
 I asked if Mrs. Kansome had breakfasted, but wa3 told
 
 92 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 that she had not yet left her room. It was then nearly ten 
 o'clock. I was going upstairs when I met Mary coming 
 through the hall. 
 
 ' Oh, if you please, mistress wants you. She's in her 
 bedroom.' 
 
 ' Alone ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, miss.' 
 
 The girl's manner was strange, though I scarcely noticed 
 it at the time. She hurried off when she had made her 
 answer as though she wished to avoid further questioning. 
 
 I found Mrs. Kansome reclining on the sofa at the foot of 
 her bed. A tray was on a little table at her side with some 
 tea and dry toast. She had on a handsome dressing-gown 
 which was unbuttoned at the neck and displayed the exceed- 
 ing whiteness and purity of her skin. But her face was so 
 miserably pale as to neutralise the effect of her beauty. She 
 turned her eyes about with slow, weary movements, and kept 
 her left arm motionless by her side as though it pained her. 
 
 ' Sit down, Miss Avory,' she said languidly. 
 
 I took a chair near the door, but she exclaimed : 
 
 ' Come nearer, sit there,' and pointed to a chair opposite 
 the sofa. She was silent for some moments, during which 
 she kept her eyes fastened upon her right hand, which lay on 
 her lap. Then turning to me : ' You saw enough yesterday, 
 Miss Avory, to know the kind of life I am leading. I was 
 maddened when I sent for you in the morning by a dispute I 
 had had with Mr. Eansome over the letter I received from his 
 mother ; and in the fulness of my bitterness I spoke my 
 thoughts aloud. I do not regret having done so. I do not 
 recall a single word. Was I not right in saying that you 
 could not be an hour in this house without learning its secrets ? 
 I could not endure the thought of your imperfectly knowing 
 the truth, of your getting one version from a servant, another 
 version from your own observation. If I had any pride left — 
 God knows I have none now — I should not be the less plain 
 with you. I must have sympathy. It is horrible, amid the 
 bitter loneliness of my present life, to feel myself misjudged.' 
 
 She sighed heavily. 
 
 ' I am sure you will not consider my sympathy the less 
 sincere,' I replied, 'if I use it to entreat you respectfully to 
 consider that you may be showing a want of judgment in 
 taking strangers into your confidence. You have received no 
 assurance that I am one jot better than the majority of the
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 93 
 
 persons in my station of life, who have little feeling outside 
 their own interests, and are incapable of appreciating the 
 suffering that puts them in possession of the heart-secrets of 
 their employers.' 
 
 ' Oh, you are different — you are very superior to such per- 
 sons—but understand me, Miss Avory : what you heard from 
 me yesterday was forced from me by the anger which Mrs. 
 Ransome's threatened visit excited in me. To-day I should 
 have confined myself to your duties — well, but I have told 
 you I do not regret my frankness. But whether I am deceived 
 in you or not,' she continued, a sudden light coining into her 
 eyes, ' you shall know the truth. You have already heard a 
 terrible falsehood — I have called you here expressly to tell 
 you how infamous is the he my husband told you about me 
 yesterday morning.' 
 
 ' This is Mary's doing ! ' I thought to myself. Now what 
 mischief was that girl's wretched love of gossip about to 
 occasion ? 
 
 ' I paid no attention to what he said,' I replied. 
 
 ' Oh yes, you did ! — reflect — when he told you I was mad, 
 you thought he spoke the truth.' 
 
 ' Why should you think this ? ' I exclaimed, not the less 
 conscience-stricken because there was something in her 
 manner now that convinced me of the profound wrong I 
 had done her in harbouring a moment's doubt of her sanity. 
 
 ' Pray answer me ! ' she cried, shaking off her languor, 
 and eyeing me with jealous eagerness. ' Did you not believe 
 him?' 
 
 ' No, I will not go so far. I considered his assertion 
 barely probable only.' 
 
 ' Because of my temper yesterday ? — because of my blurting 
 out my grief almost at our first meeting ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, madam.' 
 
 ' But do you think me mad now, because I wish to remove 
 from your mind the horrible suspicion my husband's words 
 created ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not. I would only ask, taking my humble 
 position into consideration, why my opinions should in any 
 way be of the least importance to you ? ' 
 
 She started from the sofa and stepped across the room, 
 holding her dressing-gown tightly about her, by folding her 
 arms on her bosom. 
 
 ' I cannot explain,' she said, stopping and looking at me
 
 94 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 from the end of the room. ' I do not sometimes understand 
 myself. When my mind is full, my thoughts will find 
 utterance, and I cannot help myself. But do I humiliate 
 myself by wishing you to know the truth ? ' 
 
 ' I should have found it out soon, madam.' 
 
 ' No ; you mistake ! ' she cried passionately. ' He would 
 have won you over, and it is agony to me to feel that his 
 cunning can make people think that all the wrong-doing is 
 on my side.' 
 
 She came close to me, pulled the sleeve of her dressing- 
 gown above her elbow, and exposed her bare arm. 
 
 ' Look at those marks ! ' she said, through her compressed 
 lips. ' They were made by his fingers last night. Did you hear 
 me cry out ? You sleep overhead — you might have heard me.' 
 
 There were five small livid marks upon her arm just above 
 her elbow, and where they were the arm was swollen. 
 
 ' I heard you cry out,' I answered. 
 
 ' Who would believe,' she moaned, adjusting her sleeve, 
 ' that he is the savage he is ? I was awake all last night 
 with the pain in this elbow. My father would shoot him if 
 he knew how he treats me.' 
 
 ' Why do you not go to your father ? ' I exclaimed. 
 ' Mr. Kansome is too dangerous a man for any woman to live 
 with.' 
 
 She made no answer at once, but resumed her seat on the 
 sofa, and leant her cheek on her hand. 
 
 ' If I leave him,' she said, speaking in the tone of one 
 who thinks aloud, ' I must abandon my old home, the home 
 my dear father loves, and I must own that I was guilty of a 
 miserable sin in loving him.' She stopped and looked at me. 
 ' Miss Avory, the story of my marriage is a long one. The 
 telling of it would show you that my father abhorred the 
 thought of my becoming Mr. Eansome's wife, and that I was 
 madly obstinate and deaf and blind to signs in the man 
 which my instincts perceived and warned me against. How 
 I advocated him ! how I strove against my father to save the 
 sensitiveness I thought he possessed ! How I proved, knowing 
 all the time that my father's misgivings were merely sterner 
 forms of my own secret doubts, that he was sweet-tempered, 
 manly, upright, generous, and a gentleman ! Can I unsay all 
 this to my father? Above all,' she cried, 'shall I allow my 
 husband to drive me from my own home and make me a 
 subject of the gossip which my father detests ? '
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 95 
 
 These words explained everything to me. 
 
 Had she spent hours over the narrative she could not have 
 made me see the story of her marriage more clearly. The 
 indignation the sight of her arm had raised in me had forced 
 me into offering her one piece of advice ; but now that my 
 temper had cooled I would not take it upon myself to express 
 any further opinion unless challenged to do so. Her frankness 
 astonished me ; but it did not render our relative positions 
 the less denned nor offer justification for any expression or 
 behaviour on my part that should not be in perfect keeping 
 with the situation I filled in her household. 
 
 ' Can you understand me ? ' she continued, softening her 
 voice, and speaking with one of the saddest smiles I ever saw 
 on the human countenance. ' It is easy to advise husband 
 and wife to separate, but who but a wife can appreciate the 
 humiliation, the misery, the lonesomeness that horrible 
 alternative involves ? Do not mistake me ! I hate my 
 husband — ah, God help me ! I am a wretched sinner to say 
 this ; but he has made me hate him. If he only should 
 prove the sufferer, I would separate from him this day. But 
 I think of my poor father — the shame of it ! . . . . my hand 
 shall not do it ! The child he loved and honoured must not 
 break his heart ! ' 
 
 She sobbed and pressed a handkerchief to her eyes angrily. 
 ' He knows that I am unhappy, but he does not know koto 
 unhappy. I could not help his finding out much of the truth 
 when he came to see me. I did not want him to come. I 
 dreaded the discovery he was bound to make ; but I dared 
 not urge him to stop away, for that would have told him too 
 much. In no letter of mine has he ever read a single line 
 that would make him think I was the miserable woman I am. 
 There is a secret he suspects, but is not sure of. Must I tell 
 it you ? . . . My husband is mad ! . . . Miss Avory, tell 
 me — you know this ? ' 
 
 ' I should conclude he was, if on no other evidence than 
 those marks on your arm.' 
 
 ' But when he told you I was mad, did you not guess the 
 truth about him ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, madam, I was bewildered — I have had no time 
 for reflection — I am so great a stranger to you — I so little 
 
 anticipated these disclosures ' 
 
 She raised her head haughtily. 
 
 ' There it is, Miss Avory. You are like the rest of the
 
 9 6 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 world— discreet. The life I am compelled to lead, which 
 every morning brings to me regularly, you are afraid to hear. 
 You feel that safety lies in ignorance.' 
 
 ' You wrong me,' I exclaimed, flushing up. ' I am pained 
 but not frightened. Your experiences are very new to me. 
 If I knew how to help you— with the deepest respect I say so 
 —there is little you could command which you would find me 
 unwilling to perform. But I trust I have sense enough to 
 perceive that yours is one of those cases in which the sufferer 
 must help himself. No good wishes, no advice, no inter- 
 ference can be of use. Your reason for not leaving your 
 home, that you may not give pain tc Colonel Kilmain, does 
 honour to your heart as a child ; what purpose could be served 
 by my urging you to weigh your present unhappiness against 
 the unhappiness your leaving your husband would cause your 
 father ? You would still be guided by your own judgment, 
 and my arguments, by being impracticable, would become 
 officious.' 
 
 • You speak reasonably,' she answered thoughtfully ; ' but 
 I beg, Miss Avory, that you will not let me feel that I have 
 acted foolishly in talking of my troubles to you. I have been 
 forced into these disclosures. Yesterday morning, before I 
 sent for you, my husband had cruelly insulted me. My 
 bitterness lay close to my lips. I could not help giving vent 
 to it. It tormented me all day, and when I saw you again in 
 the drawing-room, I was impelled, I could not silence myself, 
 to speak to you as I did. But when I heard that my husband 
 had represented me as a madwoman to you, I felt that I 
 should go mad indeed if I did not instantly send for you and 
 speak as I have done. No, I regret nothing ! Judge me not ! 
 As I live, I am the most miserable woman in the world ! ' 
 
 She flung up her hands and burst into a passion of tears. 
 There was something very piteous in the spectacle of her wild 
 grief. I knelt by her side and took her hand, and endeavoured 
 to soothe her; but many minutes passed before her tears 
 ceased, and then she leaned back on her couch with her hand- 
 kerchief pressed to her face sobbing convulsively. 
 
 Her words, her grief, the injury done to her arm, had 
 completely won me over to her side, had obliterated all 
 memory of the disagreeable impression she had left on me the 
 day before, and had opened my eyes to the character of the 
 man she had married. And now that my sympathy was with 
 her, I found all those actions which I had been prepared to
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 97 
 
 assume as illustrations of a disordered mind, perfectly con- 
 sistent, womanly and spirited. This man and his mother 
 should not drive her from the home her father had given her ; 
 and hence her jealous, passionate determination to be obeyed 
 as the mistress. I could feel surprised no longer by her 
 opening her heart to me ere I had been an hour in her house, 
 now that she had shown me what mad and bitter impulses 
 her husband's treatment might set working in her breast. 
 
 She let fall her handkerchief presently, and sat up ; where- 
 upon I rose from her side and stood near the door. 
 
 1 Thank you for your patience and attention,' she said, in 
 her rich, low, tremulous voice. ' I will promise to shock you 
 no more with my troubles. I only beg you to remember how 
 events, which were out of the power of either of us to control, 
 have forced you into the ungrateful position of confidante.' 
 
 ' Not ungrateful, Mrs. Ransome.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; you are no young, talkative girl, thirsting to find 
 out home-secrets that you may be wiser than your neighbours. 
 I suppose the servants constantly speak of these quarrels ? ' 
 
 ' You must expect that,' I replied. 
 
 ' My husband is wholly to blame ; were I on my deathbed 
 I should say that. He takes a vile pleasure in insulting me 
 for the sole purpose of exciting my temper, and then he finds 
 an excuse for his own mad passion, ana you may hear him 
 laughing in his rage, as though the quarrels he creates between 
 us were his sole enjoyment. Why, Miss Avory, all this is 
 nothing but a madman's paltry scheme of revenge. My father 
 was cold to him, and never scrupled to let him know how 
 averse he was from our engagement. The mother never for- 
 got that. She has taught him to recall it as a bitter insult — 
 and tbe coward avenges himself on me ! ' 
 
 ' You should not allow the mother to enter the house.' 
 
 ' I cannot prevent her. They are two to one.' 
 
 1 But you have friends who would take the responsibility 
 of advising your husband upon themselves.' 
 
 ' Not one ! ' she answered, with a little stamp of her foot. 
 1 The one dear friend I had, Dr. Redcliff, died ; I have no 
 others. One by one the people who were visitors here when 
 my father and I lived together have stopped calling. I may 
 have some secret sympathisers, but there is not one I would 
 deign to tell my troubles to, for there is not one who would 
 not shrink from interfering — and interference can do no good. 
 Miserable and helpless as I am ! ' she exclaimed, her eyes 
 
 H
 
 98 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 kindling, ' I will still fight my own battles. These horrible 
 days must end ! — only what pride I have remaining will not 
 endure that he should misrepresent me. You know the truth 
 now. Oh, I have been keeping you standing. Pray forgive 
 me. I need not detain you longer. Thank you again for your 
 patience.' 
 
 She forced a smile, and lay back on the sofa. I opened 
 the door and quitted the room, with spirits as much depressed 
 as if I had endured some painful personal trouble. 
 
 VI 
 
 So far, I have closely related the particulars of my first 
 day's residence at Gardenhurst. Much of my story lies packed 
 in that first day and in the morning which followed it, and 
 there was scarcely an incident that did not bear directly upon 
 the singular issue towards which we were blindly pressing. 
 
 But I can now for awhile afford to be less minute ; and the 
 brief review of a few days will fitly serve as an introduction to 
 the most extraordinary portion of this story. 
 
 After I had left Mrs. Kansome I devoted much thought to 
 what she had told me ; and, with no doubt in my mind as to 
 her perfect sanity, furnished forth the history of her married 
 life in this form : That the grounds on which Colonel Kil- 
 main had based his dislike to the marriage were his suspi- 
 cion of the soundness of Mr. Kansome's reason ; that his 
 daughter, blinded by love, had adhered obstinately to her 
 resolution to marry him ; that for some months his insanity 
 lay hidden or quiet, and then took a positive character ; and 
 that now, after a year and a half or longer, of daily, subtle 
 growth, his madness had ended in exciting her bitterest hate. 
 I speculated upon the nature of the madness whose actions 
 were too sane to qualify the abhorrence they excited by pity 
 for the affliction that produced them. There should, I thought, 
 be deep malice and great cunning mixed up in the insanity 
 that could induce no other emotion in the sane mind than 
 scorn and rage. For instance, any wildness, any want of 
 logic in Mr. Ransome's insults, would blunt their barbs by 
 representing them as expressions of an irresponsible mind. 
 Misery, not hate, would follow these outbursts. Mad he un- 
 doubtedly was ; but, I assumed, with such a leaning to reason 
 that the consistency of his language would render it as 
 detestable to her as if his brain were as healthy as her own.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 99 
 
 I saw very little of him. He was out nearly all day, and 
 then the house was quiet. Three days after my arrival I was 
 in the grounds when I met him, at the very bottom where the 
 trees were, and where I had been sauntering for ten minutes 
 past. He came out from among the trees, with his eyes bent 
 down, humming a tune. Could I have hidden, I should have 
 done so. I will plainly own that I was afraid of him. He 
 stared doubtfully at me, and then his eyes sank, and then he 
 stared again. It struck me that my gaze embarrassed him, 
 but I attached no significance to the fancy ; nor did I look 
 at him sufficiently long at a time to satisfy myself on this 
 point. 
 
 ' Well,' he exclaimed, standing still, ' has my wife insulted 
 you yet ? '_ 
 
 ' No, sir,' I answered. 
 
 ' Ha ! ' he said, holding up his finger, and looking cun- 
 ningly, but not at me, ' you remember what I told you and 
 are humouring her, eh ? ' 
 
 I could not say yes, and I was too frightened to say no, so 
 I forced a smile, which I hoped he would interpret according 
 to his wishes. 
 
 ' Pass on ! ' he exclaimed, frowning and motioning me 
 towards the trees. ' You are one of those ladies whom the 
 dumb devils are fond of.' 
 
 He stepped out of my way and stood with his hands hang- 
 ing down. I pressed forward with a beating heart, not 
 knowing how mad he really might be, and considering that 
 the least show of obstinacy would be the most foolhardy 
 exhibition I could at that moment indulge in. When I was 
 well among the trees I peeped over my shoulder, and saw him 
 standing where I had left him. When he caught me looking, 
 he turned quickly on his heel and hurried away. This action, 
 of which I afterwards understood the import, merely seemed 
 to me a part of his general extraordinary behaviour. 
 
 Again, on the following day I met him in the hall, as he 
 was leaving the house. His manner was very different. He 
 smiled, asked me if I did not admire the surrounding country, 
 and after one or two civilly-expressed remarks, bowed with 
 the utmost affability and walked away. Such conduct, based 
 on good sense, would have modified, if not obliterated, all my 
 theories about his insanity (until perhaps the next outbreak) 
 if I had not heard and seen enough of his treatment of his 
 wife to persuade me that the man was not in his right mind. 
 
 h2
 
 ioo IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Only the night before another quarrel had taken place in the 
 bedroom under mine, not, indeed, so fierce as the one I have 
 recorded, but bad enough to have shocked me had it been the 
 first in my experience. For a long two hours afterwards I 
 had lain awake, striving to conjecture the reasons of these 
 insensate scenes. I conceived that his mother's approaching 
 visit might be at the bottom of the quarrels that had taken 
 place since I had been in the house ; but so far as it was pos- 
 sible for me to judge, there was positively no reason to be 
 assigned to the constant wrangles that had raged between 
 them ever since a few months after their marriage but wicked- 
 ness, a mere mad perversity on his part — a vicious mind un- 
 hallowed by one softening memory, finding insane pleasure 
 in goading his wife into a moral condition little superior to 
 his own. 
 
 Whether in accordance with her promise to shock me no 
 more with accounts of her misery, or whether because of the 
 hint I had given her that she made a great mistake in com- 
 municating her troubles to strangers, and above all to persons 
 beneath her in position, Mrs. Kansome became very much 
 more reserved after that interview I had had with her in her 
 bedroom. She did not ask me if I had overheard her second 
 quarrel with her husband. She did not mention his name. 
 Once only she referred to his mother's approaching visit, when 
 she told me that old Mrs. Kansome would occupy the spare 
 bedroom between her husband's and her own. She looked, 
 indeed, when she spoke, as though she had more in her mind 
 to add, but she seemed to recollect, and quickly changed the 
 subject, drumming sharply with her fingers on the table, as 
 though the effort of repression cost her something. 
 
 I thought the change a good one, and flattered myself with 
 having contributed to it ; but there was a bitter hardness in 
 her reserve that made me doubt the wisdom of the motives 
 which had prompted it. I do not mean to say that one 
 reason of her silence was not her conclusion that, having set 
 me right as regarded her relations with her husband, any fur- 
 ther explanations or bewailments might weaken the impres- 
 sion she had produced. But all the same, this sudden change 
 in her was curious — this abrupt departure from a profound 
 self-abandonment to grief to a reserve that was frigid. I was 
 sorry for her own sake that she had been so candid with me. 
 I considered that I now beheld her in her natural character, 
 and that her pride, which she professed was dead, was secretly
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY ioi 
 
 bleeding over my knowledge of her secrets, and particularly 
 over the manner in which I had become acquainted with 
 them. 
 
 Mr. Eansome's mother was expected to arrive on the 
 Monday. 
 
 On the Sunday evening Mrs. Ransome had gone to church 
 alone. During her absence Mr. Ransome, who was smoking 
 on the lawn, seeing me pass the open dining-room windows., 
 called to me and said — ■ 
 
 ' My mother arrives to-morrow. Did you know ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' What room is she to have ? ' 
 
 I told him. 
 
 ' You will see that it is made comfortable for her.' 
 
 ' Certainly, sir.' 
 
 ' And be careful to let nothing that my wife says interfere 
 with your duty to make my mother feel herself perfectly at 
 home in this house.' 
 
 He said this sternly, in one of those odd gusts of passion 
 which it seemed a law of his moral being should disturb him 
 when he was speaking on matters that could furnish no excuse 
 for temper. I answered yes, and left him, thinking that in 
 that very tone I had found the key to the quarrels between 
 him and his wife. I might endure such a manner now and 
 again ; but how would the quick, haughty spirit of his wife 
 brook it ? Her answer was bound to be pitched in the same 
 note, and then would come the dissonance, the uproar, the 
 fury. 
 
 He had left the lawn before Mrs. Ransome returned from 
 church, but whether he was in the house or striding across 
 the country I could not tell. His actions had no reference to 
 the ordinary standard of behaviour. 
 
 I opened the door to Mrs. Ransome, being on the stair- 
 case when she rang. She was pale with the heat and tired, 
 but looked a beautiful, commanding woman, her bonnet in 
 exquisite taste, her dress a blue silk. I thought her mind 
 would take notice of some pathetic irony involved in this visit 
 to church and this return to a home of bad passions and 
 aching trouble. 
 
 She entered the dining-room and called my name lan- 
 guidly as I was going. I went to her. 
 
 1 To-morrow, Miss Avory, my husband's mother arrives. 
 It is not my intention to live with her while she remains in
 
 102 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 my house. But do not suppose that I am to bo driven from 
 my home by her. I want to consult you. Please sit down. 
 Now, tell me how I am to manage.' 
 
 She sank into an arm-chair, slowly fanning herself. There 
 was a hard, obstinate look on her face despite her languor, and 
 she kept her eyes fixed on me. 
 
 ' I do not exactly see how you can avoid living with Mrs. 
 Eansome if she occupies this house with you,' I answered. 
 
 ' Very easily. Mrs. Eansome can use the library, as we 
 used to call the next room, and take her meals there with her 
 son. We never need meet. She comes to see my husband — 
 not me ; and she shan't see me.' 
 
 ' But do you consider the embarrassment ? ' 
 
 ' I consider myself, no one else,' she exclaimed, plying the 
 fan quickly. ' I have made up my mind not to meet that 
 woman, and there's an end to it. I shall retain this room for 
 my own use. Meanwhile you will see that the servants just 
 attend to her — no more. For yourself, Miss Avory, you will 
 take no notice of her, and if she attempts to order you — tell 
 me. I want an excuse to turn her out of the house.' 
 
 Had I traced the least lurking softness in the expression 
 of her face, I should not have scrupled to represent to her the 
 deplorable unwisdom of the course she meant to adopt ; but 
 I was as effectually silenced by her obstinate, haughty, 
 resolute eyes, by her hard, tightly compressed lips, by her 
 slight but suggestive frown, as if her most passionate com- 
 mand had been addressed to me. 
 
 ' I hope you thoroughly understand my wishes ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, madam.' 
 
 ' You know enough to require no further explanation. 
 Indeed, I should pay no compliment to your common sense by 
 supposing that you desired me to explain. I am mistress 
 here, and mean to assert my position. That is all. If Mr. 
 Eansome is displeased, he can tell his mother to go ; if his 
 displeasure is very great, he can go with her. Happen what 
 will, my resolution is taken. I will not sit at the same table 
 with that woman, nor countenance her gross intrusion upon 
 my home by the smallest act of civility.' 
 
 ' You know best, madam.' 
 
 ' Yes, I do know best. She shall not have the chance she 
 had last April of exciting more bitterness even than we natu- 
 rally feel between Mr. Eansome and me ; -of championing 
 him against me though he was never so cruelly in tbe wrong,
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 103 
 
 of maddening me by her atrocious innuendoes , her direct 
 charges, her criminal falsehoods, and then walking to Copsford 
 and telling everybody she knew — even my tradespeople — that 
 I was an evil-hearted woman, that I was not a lady, tbat my 
 wicked conduct was breaking my husband's heart, and such 
 infamous talk as that. Would you meet such a woman were 
 you in my place ? ' 
 
 ' I certainly should not. But I should require certain 
 proofs of her guilt before I condescended to resent her false- 
 hoods.' 
 
 1 1 have had proofs. She abused me to my last house- 
 keeper. She talked to the servants about the suffering her 
 poor Saville endured through my heartless treatment. She 
 will talk to you if you will let her.' 
 
 ' She will not talk long.' 
 
 ' You will take care to strictly carry out my instructions ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 These were her orders ; and now it was evidently to be 
 war to the knife between this unhappy couple. I do not 
 think that she had any clear anticipation of the consequences 
 of her action. It seemed to me that she wanted to push 
 matters to a crisis, taking no thought of what form that 
 crisis might assume, resolute only to bring about a change of 
 which her husband would be burdened with the whole re- 
 sponsibility. 
 
 Mr. Eansome remained away from the house all that 
 evening and returned at ten o'clock. Ten minutes after he 
 had arrived Mrs. Eansome's bedroom bell rang. She was 
 evidently acting wisely for once. When I looked down from 
 my window half an hour later her light was out. Perhaps 
 she was reserving her forces for the morrow. Be this as it 
 may, I thought that she had it in her power to pass as tran- 
 quil a time every evening, and for the matter of that, every 
 day too, if she would but hold her tongue and leave him to do 
 all the talking. 
 
 Next morning I obeyed her orders about getting the 
 library ready, with more alarm than, perhaps, I should at that 
 time have been willing to confess. Every moment I expected 
 Mr. Eansome to drop upon me and ask me what I was about. 
 There was no joke even in the idea of a rencounter with such 
 a man. Of course I should obey Mrs. Eansome, let him 
 countermand her orders as he pleased ; but suppose he told 
 me to leave the house ? I should have to go. He was master,
 
 104 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 view him as I would, and with his disregarded dismissal 
 hanging over my head, my situation would be too intolerable 
 to make it worth my while to keep. 
 
 These thoughts greatly flurried me as I superintended the 
 cleaning of the library. The room was a small one, and faced 
 the avenue ; the trees threw their shadows upon its one 
 window and obscured the light. Dark, and commanding no 
 better prospect than the compactly-grouped trunks of the 
 trees, the apartment was sufficiently dreary, and I could not 
 wonder that it was never used. There were some old oil- 
 paintings against the walls which, in the imperfect light, 
 were scarcely decipherable, appearing, indeed, no better than 
 streaks of yellow and red upon a black ground. There were 
 no books, and why the room was called ' the library ' I could 
 not conjecture, unless it had been used long ago as a library 
 and kept the name. 
 
 Mrs. Kansome's folly in forcing her mother-in-law into 
 this room took deeper meaning from contemplation of the dark- 
 some chamber. I was very glad when the job of getting it 
 ready was finished. I breathed freely when I closed the door, 
 and had scarcely reached my own room when I heard Mr. 
 Ransome's footsteps in the hall. 
 
 I had no idea at what hour the old lady was expected to 
 arrive, but was not kept very long in suspense ; for while Mr. 
 Eansome was still at breakfast, Mrs. Ransome summoned me 
 to her bedroom. I crept in a manner that would have con- 
 victed me of a most sneaking gait, passed the dining-room 
 where Mr. Ransome was breakfasting, being, in view of the 
 storm which bis mother would bring along with her, honestly 
 afraid to meet him. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome was seated before the toilet glass, and Mary 
 was brushing her hair — rich, beautiful hair it was, and it fell 
 over the girl's arm like fine black silk with a lustrous blue 
 sheen upon it. I had never seen her look more beautiful. 
 Her noble white neck showed like marble through her muslin 
 dressing jacket, and her small superbly-shaped head was fully 
 disclosed by her hair being down. The curtains had pink 
 linings, and the light, therefore, exactly suited her complexion, 
 the pallor of which, in the clear sunshine, would have appeared 
 almost ghastly from contrast with her brilliant black eyes and 
 hair. 
 
 She saw me in the glass, and addressed me without turn- 
 ing her head.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 105 
 
 ' Ob, Miss Avory, I forgot to tell you last night that Mrs. 
 Eansome is supposed to arrive here between half-past twelve 
 and one. Be on the look-out for her, please. I mean, be 
 ready to receive her when the door-bell rings ; then call Susan 
 and tell her to take Mrs. Eansome to her bedroom —you under- 
 stand ? ' 
 
 She was fond of putting that question. It seemed as if 
 her passionate resolution and anxiety to carry that resolution 
 out made it difficult for her to suppose that her wishes were 
 exactly intelligible to those she addressed. 
 
 ' Quite,' I replied ; ' and should she ask for you ? ' 
 
 ' Tell her that I am very well — not dead yet, nor even 
 dying,' she responded, with a loud satirical laugh, at which 
 Mary tittered and glanced at me. 
 
 ' You would not wish me to make that reply, madam,' I 
 said, taking her seriously. 
 
 ' Oh, dear, no ! preserve your p's and q's, Miss Avory, and 
 tell her with all the ironical courtesy you can summon, that 
 the young mistress is not visible.' 
 
 ' I shall obey your instructions literally,' I said, meaning 
 to imply the hope that she would not render my duties more 
 ridiculous than her temper made positively necessary. 
 
 ' I expect you to do so,' she replied sharply, turning her 
 face towards me and wrenching her hair out of the girl's 
 hand by the movement. Then softening her voice instantly 
 and smiling, she added, ' Kemember ! ' 
 
 I knew she referred to my promise to recognise no other 
 authority but hers, and answered — 
 
 • I do remember, madam, and you may trust me. I am 
 anxious about my instructions simply because I mean to carry 
 them out to the letter.' 
 
 1 Well, those instructions are as you have heard. When 
 she leaves her bedroom she will be shown into the library. 
 If she asks to be taken to the dining-room, tell her that I am 
 there, and that the library is for her use while she chooses to 
 honour us with her presence. As to the drawing-room, the 
 door is locked. There is the key.' 
 
 She drew it from her skirt pocket and held it up, watching 
 my face to see how I would receive her manoeuvre. I merely 
 inclined my head. She knew her business better than I did, 
 and no possible result but irritation could have been produced 
 by any attempt to reason with her whilst that obstinate, de- 
 fiant expression lighted up her eyes, and that faint, bitter
 
 io6 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 smile made her mouth hard with obdurate meaning. But 
 foolish as her plans were, she made them, in my opinion, 
 more foolish yet by speaking of them before the housemaid. 
 Had she seen how the girl took her words in, the grin of ex- 
 pectation that widened her mouth, her anxious glances at me 
 lest I should interfere with the thunderous programme her 
 mistress had prepared, and so spoil much delightful sport, Mrs. 
 Eansome might have been satisfied with directing me in the 
 briefest terms, and allowing me, for the rest, to use my judg- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Is the library ready ? * 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 'You quite understand that Mrs. Eansome and her son 
 take their meals together in that room ? Let Maddox wait 
 upon them. He is more Mr. Kansome's servant than mine. 
 Mary will attend upon me.' 
 
 ' Then two separate trays are to be prepared for every meal 
 while Mrs. Eansome remains here ? ' 
 
 ' Of course. Mr. Eansome has choice of either room. It 
 will matter little to me whether he chooses to live with his 
 mother or his wife. But no earthly power shall induce me to 
 occupy the same room with that woman, to sit at the same 
 table with her. This house is mine ; I therefore select the 
 rooms which please me. And should Mrs. Eansome dare to 
 complain, tell her that I am willing to pay the rent of a lodg- 
 ing for her at Copsford, where she may have her own way 
 and be as much mistress as she chooses. That will do, Miss 
 Avory.' 
 
 Mr. Eansome lingered in the grounds until eleven o'clock, 
 and then left them, no doubt for Copsford to meet his mother. 
 As the time approached when I should have to receive the old 
 lady, I grew absurdly nervous. Indeed, I considered it unfair 
 to myself that I should submit to execute orders so entirely 
 repugnant to my own feelings, and was only restrained by 
 selfish considerations from going to Mrs. Eansome and de- 
 claring that I was unequal to the duties she had imposed 
 on me. 
 
 Mary had evidently been chattering to the other servants, 
 for they were on the alert every time I passed the kitchen ; 
 though whenever they saw me, they pretended to have an im- 
 mense deal of work to do which utterly engrossed them from 
 all paltry consideration of the business that was none of 
 theirs.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 107 
 
 When it was half-past twelve, I went into the library and 
 stationed myself at the window, whence I commanded a sight 
 of the avenue and could observe the carriage approach. The 
 matter is of no importance, but I ought to have men- 
 tioned in my description of the house that it had no stables. 
 The Ransomes did not keep a carriage, but Mr. Ransome, I 
 believe, jobbed a phaeton at Copsford, which would be brought 
 to Gardenhurst from time to time. 
 
 It was a quarter to one when I heard the sound of wheels 
 coming along the avenue. Soon afterwards the bell rang. 
 Maddox went to the door, and I followed him and stood on 
 one side as he threw it open. 
 
 An old rumbling ' cottage upon wheels,' as Sydney Smith 
 used to call the flies of that period, had drawn up, and Mr. 
 Ransome was helping a very little woman to get out of it. So 
 small and fantastic an object I never before saw, and I 
 wondered that Mr. Ransome did not catch her under the 
 arm and swing her into the hall as he would a child. She 
 alighted with great deliberation, and catching sight of Maddox, 
 called to him in a shrill voice to take her trunk. Mr. Ran- 
 some paid the coachman his fare and came up the steps, 
 followed by his mother, at whom I could scarcely look without 
 laughing. That such a fragment of humanity should give 
 Mrs. Ransome trouble seemed inconceivable. As reasonably 
 might Gulliver have been vexed by being flouted by a Lili- 
 putian maid of honour. Her bonnet was large and the feather 
 in it larger ; but there was no extravagance in the rest of her 
 costume. One thought of her as a doll, and hardly troubled 
 to speculate on the material and style of her costume ; but 
 one might see that she was exquisitely neat. The little bow, 
 the little collar, the little shawl, the little gloves, the little 
 cuffs, and the very little sandals — she wore her dress short, 
 after a then fast-expiring fashion — were all faultless in their 
 adjustment, fit, and aspect. Her eyes were blue and dim, but 
 she did not use glasses ; they had a wide, staring expression 
 in them, and like her son's, they travelled nimbly and fell 
 upon you abruptly, and appeared to take in minute details by 
 resting on them. Her nose Avas long and rather handsome, 
 I thought ; but the bones of the face were hard against the 
 skin, and a sad want of fleshiness, coupled with a disagreeable 
 whiteness of complexion, made her appearance cadaverous. 
 
 ' Where's my wife, Miss Avory ? ' were the first words 
 Mr. Ransome asked me.
 
 10S IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 I could not remember that Mrs. Kansome had given me 
 any instructions as to the answer I was to make to that 
 question, so I answered, ' I don't know, sir,' and turning to 
 the little old lady, said, ' Will you let me take you to your 
 bedroom, madam ? ' 
 
 ' If you please,' she replied, with hopeful alacrity, and 
 added, ' You are the housekeeper, aren't you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said. 
 
 1 Lead the way. I'll follow.' 
 
 Mr. Ransome called Maddox to him and addressed him in 
 a low voice, whilst I pushed through the ante- room that 
 divided the two halls and ascended the stairs, with the old 
 lady labouring like a short-legged child behind me. I forgot 
 until I had reached her bedroom that it was part of my pro- 
 gramme I should call Susan to attend her upstairs. But I 
 was too flurried to remember such minor matters. However, 
 it gave me an excuse to leave her at once after throwing open 
 her bedroom door, and I was half-way down the stairs before 
 she had time to ask me a question. 
 
 Mr. Ransome was in the hall, holding the handle of the 
 drawing-room door. 
 
 ' Miss Avory, come here, please ! ' he called out. 
 
 ' "Will you let me send Susan upstairs first, sir ? There is 
 nobody with Mrs. Ransome.' 
 
 ' Do you mean my mother ? ' he exclaimed, twisting the 
 handle of the door angrily and shaking it. 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' Why is there nobody with her, then ? ' he shouted, 
 stamping his foot. ' Go and send one of the girls instantly, 
 and come back to me.' 
 
 I called to Susan, gave her the requisite directions, and 
 returned to Mr. Ransome. Now that I confronted him, I 
 found my fears gone. 
 
 ' Where is Mrs. Ransome — my wife ? ' he asked, frowning 
 savagely and speaking in a fierce voice, suppressed almost to 
 a whisper, but avoiding my eye. 
 
 I gave the same answer I had before made — 
 
 ' I don't know, sir.' 
 
 ' You do know.' 
 
 ' If I did, I should tell you,' I replied, folding my hands 
 and looking down out of pure disdain. 
 
 ' Why is this door locked ? ' 
 
 ' I did not lock it.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 109 
 
 1 Who did then ? ' And without waiting for my answer, 
 he added, ' Go and get me the key.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Kansome has the key.' 
 
 1 Ask her for it.' 
 
 I was about to go upstairs, meaning not to reappear until 
 I had considered whether I had not better pack up my box 
 and leave the house ; but he cried out — 
 
 ' There ! there ! in the dining-room. See if she's there.' 
 
 I crossed the hall and turned the handle of the door, but 
 found it locked. Much surprised, I pushed with my knee, 
 thinking that the door had stuck with the paint. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome's voice within exclaimed — ' Who is 
 there ? ' 
 
 ' I, madam — Miss Avory.' 
 
 ' I wish to be alone, Miss Avory.' 
 
 Mr. Ransonie came to the door and struek it with his fist. 
 
 ' I want the key of the drawing-room ! ' he called out. She 
 made him no answer. 
 
 He struck the door again and his face grew livid. He had 
 no need to strike it a third time, for it flew open and Mrs. 
 Ransome stood on the threshold. Her eyes were in a blaze ; 
 her face was white with passion ; and there for some moments 
 they remained, confronting each other. 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' she said to him. 
 
 ' You have locked the drawing-room door.' 
 
 ' I have.' 
 
 ' What for ? to prevent my mother from entering it ? ' 
 
 « Yes.' 
 
 ' Give me the key.' 
 
 ' I will not.' 
 
 1 Give me the key, you devil ! ' he repeated through his 
 teeth. 
 
 The words were nothing beside the manner in which he 
 spoke them. Had she shot him dead as he stood there, I 
 could have forgiven her. They had a very different effect 
 upon her from what I should have expected. Either her 
 passion was shocked out of her or she mastered it, for she 
 said, coldly and delibei'ately — 
 
 ' The library is prepared for Mrs. Ransome's reception. 
 That and her bedroom she may use while she is in my house. 
 The other rooms I keep for myself and my servants. Miss 
 Avory has received my instructions and will' see that they are 
 carried out.'
 
 no IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Saying which, she shut the door in his face and locked it. 
 
 What would he do now ? 
 
 Having no doubt that he was insane — and I never saw his 
 madness more clearly than in the expression that had entered 
 his face as he struck the door with his fist — I should have 
 believed anybody who had whispered that there was no action 
 too violent for him to have committed that moment. But my 
 fear was to be disappointed. He stood gloomily staring at mo 
 for many moments, though little by little his frown relaxed, 
 the passion went out of his face, and a smile, so absolutely 
 indescribable that I feel myself involved in a direct contra- 
 diction by calling it a smile, crept about his mouth and set it 
 like a piece of carving. 
 
 He held up his finger, and bending his head forward, ex- 
 claimed in a mysterious whisper — 
 
 ' Do you question her madness now ? ' 
 
 As he said this, he looked over my head and went forward. 
 I turned and saw his little mother coming quite noiselessly 
 down the staircase. He met her, took her hand, placed it 
 under his arm, and led her without a word into the library, 
 the door of which he closed silently. 
 
 VII 
 
 The servants had heard the dispute in the hall, and were 
 clustered at the foot of the staircase eagerly waiting for more 
 quarrels. They dispersed when they saw me, and, what was 
 better, had sense enough to judge by my manner that they 
 had better ask me no questions nor annoy me by tbeir gossip. 
 
 Two luncheon-trays were to be got ready, as I had told the 
 cook : one for the library and one for the dining-room. It 
 was impossible to tell what new explosion would follow the 
 discovery of this arrangement. Would Mr. Kansome submit 
 to having his mother kept to two rooms in a house full of 
 rooms ? It was idle for his wife to talk of herself as sole 
 mistress, &c, of Gardenhurst. Mr. Kansome was her husband, 
 and head, and could act as he cbose, and she must have 
 known this ; and therefore I thought her audacity foolhardy 
 in adopting an attitude which not only repelled sympathy, but 
 which, if Mr. Bansome only chose to act with common resolu- 
 tion, was bound to involve her in a humiliating defeat. Did 
 he really think her mad ? Strange, at all events, that that 
 should be the first remark he made to me when I was ex-
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY in 
 
 pecting a very different outburst, and that lie should have 
 said it with a smooth face as if pity were at the bottom of the 
 remark. 
 
 Maddox and Mary took each of them a tray, and some 
 jokes passed between them as they went upstairs. I knew I 
 should be summoned in a moment or two by the occupants of 
 one room or the other, and stood at my door waiting for the 
 return of the servants. Maddox came first. Of course that 
 dangerous chatterbox Mary was with her mistress, inventing 
 lies rather than not have something to gossin about. 
 
 'Master wants yer,' said the footman shortly, without 
 looking at me, and walking straight into the kitchen. 
 
 I crept up the staircase very timorously, knocked, and 
 entered the library. The sky had grown overcast within the 
 hour, and what with the absence of sunshine and the gloom 
 of the heavy trees upon the window, the atmosphere of the 
 room was no better than a kind of twilight, in which one had 
 to remain some moments before one's eyes could clearly 
 define objects by it. 
 
 Little Mrs. Kansome, perched before the tray, was already 
 at work upon the roast chicken. Her son stood behind her, 
 his hands buried in his pockets and his chin lowered upon his 
 breast. 
 
 'If it were not for my mother,' he exclaimed, almost 
 before I was fairly in the room, ' I would have the dining- 
 room door broken open and force your mistress to explain the 
 meaning of this,' pointing to the tray. ' You must explain, 
 as you are acting under her orders. No hesitation, Miss 
 
 Avory. By G , you'll find me dangerous if you trifle 
 
 with me ! ' 
 
 'I will tell you what I know, sir,' I replied, in nowise 
 daunted by the mixture of bad taste and idle bravado in his 
 speech. 'But first of all you must tell me what you want to 
 hear before I can answer you.' 
 
 Little Mrs. Kansome ate hungrily, without once looking 
 at me. 
 
 4 What orders have you received from my wife ? ' 
 
 I told him exactly. 
 
 His face grew blacker and blacker as I proceeded, and his 
 hands twitched violently in his trousers pockets. He 
 wrenched them out, and exclaimed to his mother — 
 
 ' What will you do ? You hear how she means to treat 
 you.'
 
 H2 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 The old lady put her knife and fork down, and pushing 
 her chair from the table, said — 
 
 ' It is for you to choose. If I leave, I complete her triumph. 
 Saville, she wants disciplining. If she were a man, I should 
 say she wants flogging.' 
 
 The blood rushed into my cheeks as I heard her. 
 
 ' Madam,' I exclaimed, ' pray consider of whom you are 
 speaking.' 
 
 ' How dare you interrupt me ? ' she cried shrilly. ' Saville, 
 who is this impertinent woman ? ' 
 
 ' Whoever I am,' I replied, ' I do not acknowledge you for 
 a mistress. And I tell you, madam, that I cannot stand by 
 and listen without indignation to the language you apply to 
 your son's wife.' 
 
 She looked dumfounded, and, turning to Mr. Eansome, 
 cried — 
 
 ' Order her out of the room ! You will not allow your 
 servants to insult me ? ' 
 
 I had caught Mr. Eansome watching me furtively, and 
 with a veritably frightened expression. I looked him full in 
 the face, expecting his command, and meditating a reply ; for 
 all my fear had left me, and I felt nothing but utter scorn 
 and dislike for them both. But his gaze wandered ; he was 
 silent. 
 
 ' Mr. Ransome,' I exclaimed, ' I am in no dread of your 
 mother's temper, nor of your dismissal of me. I am prepared 
 to leave your house at any instant. But whilst I am in it, I 
 will not suffer any unmerited and senseless insults to be 
 heaped upon your wife's head. She is a deeply-wronged 
 woman — your mother knows it. She has been driven by 
 your conduct into a desperate action ; but it is Mrs. Eansome's 
 duty to palliate, not to aggravate it — to reconcile you, not to 
 deepen the bitterness that already exists.' 
 
 ' Saville ! will you listen to her ? will you submit to this ? ' 
 shrieked the old lady in a horrible fury. 
 
 ' Hold your tongue, mother ! ' he exclaimed, savagely. 
 He looked at me, but still I kept my gaze angrily upon him ; 
 and he gr Q /w restless, uneasy, shrinking in his manner and 
 attitudes. 
 
 I noticed this now decidedly. The full importance of it 
 rushed upon me. I became, even as the thought seized me, 
 sensible of my power over him ; but whether obtained by the 
 pure force of will which I had unconsciously in my temper
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 113 
 
 thrown into my language, and which gave steadiness and 
 decision to my gaze, or whether by the mere possession of a 
 pair of eyes which had never struck anybody before as in the 
 smallest degree uncommon, either for their beauty or their 
 ugliness, I could not tell. I only knew that he could not 
 look at me, whilst the longer I looked at him the more scared 
 grew the expression in his face. 
 
 His mother found out the secret in an instant. She 
 glanced from one to the other of us, left her chair, and, 
 running to the door, flung it open, and ordered me to leave 
 the room. 
 
 I did not even look at her. 
 
 ' Saville ! ' she half- screamed, ' are you master here or 
 not?' 
 
 ' Who denies it — do you ? ' he answered fiercely, ad- 
 dressing me. 
 
 1 No, sir ; but I deny the right of that lady to order me 
 out of the room ; I deny her right to expect the smallest 
 obedience from me ; and I further declare that she is acting 
 a cruel and unwomanly part in seeking to exasperate you 
 against your wife, and in siding with a man like yourself 
 against a weak, defenceless, ill-used lady. Be assured, sir,' I 
 continued, determined to ' have at him ' now that I had the 
 chance, and taking care not to remove my eyes from his, 
 ' that society, sooner or later, avenges such injuries as have 
 been done Mrs. Eansome, your wife. A wife, for her own 
 and her husband's sake, may hide the secret of her misery ' — 
 I spoke these words with all the force I could put into them — 
 ' but others have eyes and ears to see and hear, and tongues 
 to report ; and when I leave this house, I shall consider it a 
 duty I owe to my mistress and myself to relate to the -proper 
 persons the exact nature of the terrible life you have led Mrs. 
 Eansome, of which I have seen one shocking illustration in 
 the marks of your fingers upon her arm.' 
 
 ' Ah, but how did that happen ? She had maddened me, 
 and I grasped her arm while answering her — it was an acci- 
 dent,' he exclaimed, while his face grew as pale as his mother's,, 
 and the coward's false, forced, vanishing smile twisted his lips, 
 and made his mirthless eyes look wild and haggard. 
 
 ' She would break his heart if she could ! ' the mother 
 cried. ' Talk of her sufferings ! Has she not threatened you, 
 Saville ? Has she not wished that you would drop dead at 
 her feet ? But everybody in Copsford knows her ! I took good 
 
 1
 
 114 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 care that her character should not he misunderstood. The 
 wilful, venomous hussy ! ' 
 
 I glanced at the eager, passionate, crazy-looking little face, 
 and hated the woman there and then, hated her for her false- 
 hoods, her vulgar abuse of her daughter-in-law, her low, 
 miserable malice. This was a touch of nature that made my 
 young mistress and me akin. Her determination not to meet 
 this spiteful little creature had all my sympathy now. 
 
 Mr. Eansome was staring at me fiercely ; but the moment 
 I looked at him his eyes fell, and he muttered to himself. 
 
 ' Sir,' I exclaimed, ' you have heard the cruel words your 
 mother has made use of towards your wife. Can you suffer a 
 stranger like myself to go forth from this room and say to 
 those I meet that Mrs. Eansome's character was grossly in- 
 sulted in the presence of her husband, and that he did not 
 utter one word in her defence ? ' 
 
 ' Don't look at me ! ' he cried, passionately. ' Look at my 
 mother. You are speaking of her — address her ! ' 
 
 'I am addressing you, sir.' 
 
 He went to his mother and whispered. The action was 
 made extraordinary by the terrified glance he threw at me 
 over his shoulder. She bent her blue eyes, full of malignity, 
 upon me, and said, suppressing as well as she could the shrill- 
 ness in her voice— 
 
 ' My son and I wish to be left alone. You are now an in- 
 truder, and every moment you stop makes your intrusion the 
 more unpardonable.' 
 
 This decided me. In the face of this view of my presence 
 I could no longer stop in the room. I went out, closing the 
 door after me, and paused a moment or two outside, consider- 
 ing whether I should go to Mrs. Eansome or to my room. 
 The voices within rose high. I heard him say, ' She is a 
 devil ! how she looks at me ! ' And the mother answered, 
 ' She cannot harm you. She is your wife's friend, and is in 
 league with her to turn me out of the house and humble you.' 
 I would not suffer myself to hear more, but walked to the 
 dining-room. 
 
 Mrs. Eansome opened the door herself to my knock, and 
 exclaimed — 
 
 ' Oh, is it you, Miss Avory ? Come in.' 
 
 Her luncheon was upon the table, but she had not touched 
 it. There was some wine-and-water on a chair near the sofa, 
 and some toilet vinegar. The room was oppressively hot.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 115 
 
 ' Let me opeu one of the windows,' I said, and suited the 
 action to the word. 
 
 She merely said, ' I was afraid they would come in by the 
 lawn. My head aches cruelly. Have you seen his mother ? ' 
 
 ' I have just this moment left them both in the next room. 
 Did not you hear us talking ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' I had hoped to do you a service, but Mrs. Eansome was 
 too cunning, and left me no excuse to remain with them.' 
 
 • What service ? ' 
 
 ' Let me first tell you that I have made a discovery. I do 
 not positively declare that I am right in my conclusions — but 
 I believe I am. Mr. Eansome is afraid of me.' 
 
 She sank back on the sofa with a faint incredulous smile, 
 which I deserved for putting my theory into such conceited 
 language. 
 
 ' Pray forgive my manner of expressing myself,' I went 
 on ; ' I do not want you to misunderstand me. I never ob- 
 served the same behaviour in him before to-day. I haven't 
 the faintest notion where my power lies ; but I am as certain 
 as that I am standing here that I have been suddenly gifted 
 with some kind of controlling force which, were I resolute in 
 my exercise of it, would make him tractable to my wishes.' 
 
 She looked at me inquisitively, and said — ■ 
 
 ' I understand what you mean. The nurses or matrons in 
 asylums are supposed to enjoy your power, is that it? I 
 believe you ; but I should not have suspected your influence 
 by looking at you. You once suspected my sanity,' she ex- 
 claimed, with a smile ; ' see if I can outstare you.' 
 
 ' I don't like the idea of possessing this power. It suggests 
 a disagreeable species of affinity.' 
 
 ' I would to God I could take it from you ! ' she said. 
 1 But do you not see that his insanity must be gaining strength 
 by bringing him within the reach of such power as you can 
 exert ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I see that, madam. But is it not for the best ? 
 Your life is unendurable. The resolution you need to end it 
 will be forced upon you by the madness which will compel you 
 to separate from him.' 
 
 • Oh ! I never think of him. It is my father I dread — his 
 horror of scandal — his misery when he reflects upon the end- 
 ing of the marriage I was so obstinate upon ! — But what 
 was the service you hoped to do me ? ' 
 
 i2
 
 US IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' That I could induce Mr. Kansome to persuade his mother 
 to leave the house.' 
 
 She shook her head, and exclaimed — 
 
 ' You don't know what a perverse, vile woman she is. 
 They influence each other, and she will persuade him to keep 
 her here until she is tired of stopping. But I sivear I will 
 not meet her — she shall only use the two rooms I have given 
 her.' 
 
 ' Frankly, madam, I have seen enough of her to make me 
 hate her as cordially as you do. But will you tell me why she 
 is so bitter against you ? why she takes pleasure in exciting 
 ill-feeling between you and Mr. Kansome ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot explain — I do not understand it. It has been 
 partly the work of time, with her own mad, wicked nature to 
 furnish her with motives. It began by her taking her son's 
 part against me, then we had words, and so it crept on. Her 
 hatred of me is so intense that I really believe, were it not for 
 the consequences, she would incite her son to kill me ! ' 
 
 ' God forbid ! ' I exclaimed, with a shudder ; ' though if I 
 thought that, and were in your place, I would have her turned 
 out of the house neck and crop, and obtain such help as 
 would effectually prevent Mr. Kansome from introducing her 
 
 again. 
 
 A o 
 
 She made no answer, but walked to the window and stood 
 there, breathing the air, and pressing her hands to her temples. 
 I never felt sorrier for her than I did at that moment. There 
 was something painfully sad in the thought of her great 
 beauty wasting and decaying in loneliness and misery, in her 
 young, ardent nature desolated by evil passions, not one of 
 which, I dared say, but her husband was responsible for. 
 
 I was about to entreat her to take some food, feeling per- 
 suaded that she had eaten nothing that day, when she turned 
 sharply round, and cried in a bitter voice — 
 
 ' I wish my husband were dead ! ' She instantly added, 
 1 The grief, the pain, the utter hopelessness he has forced into 
 the two brief years of our marriage no heart but mine can 
 conceive. What I have had to endure — the insult, the neg- 
 lect, the fierce temper, yes, and the blows— only God has 
 witnessed. Oh, there have been words of his, actions of his, I 
 never can forgive him for ! There is not under heaven a 
 woman more wronged than I have been. He had my first 
 love— for a long while I strove with my own temper and bore 
 with his gathering, reckless, crazy taunts, until my patience
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY n? 
 
 gave way. What is the use of saying he is a madman ? He 
 was not mad when I married him ; he has never been so mad 
 as not to know how most cruelly to wound me. And have 
 not the mad their sane moments — when moods of tenderness 
 visit them ? Why did he marry me ? He has told me over 
 and over again that he never loved me. He saw that my 
 father disliked him, and he determined to make me his wife 
 for that reason only. He declares that my humiliation is the 
 only pleasure he knows. He praised his mother, he thanked 
 her, before me, for going to Copsford and telling the people 
 there every falsehood her wicked heart could imagine. " Your 
 distinguished father should be told of this," he said. "He 
 once informed me that no member of the Kilmain family for 
 generations had ever excited one word of gossip in this dis- 
 trict. He's a liar ! Phoebe has excited gossip. All Copsford 
 is talking of her, and saying what a wretch she is to lead her 
 husband the life of a dog." Those were his words. When 
 he mentioned my father's name I could have stabbed him. 
 Villain ! Coward ! Why does not God take his wicked 
 life?' 
 
 Her passion was terrible. But the hot blood mounting to 
 her head racked her unendurably. She groaned and sobbed, 
 with dry, feverish eyes, and cast herself upon the sofa, clutch- 
 ing her temples as though she would rend them. 
 
 I knelt by her side and endeavoured to soothe the pain by 
 pressing my handkerchief, damp with the vinegar, to her 
 forehead, heartily regretting my intrusion on her, since it had 
 brought about no better issue than this explosion of passion. 
 I did not attempt to speak to her ; but when, after bathing 
 her head for some minutes, I believed tbe pain in some 
 measure relieved, I left the room, receiving a faint 'thank 
 you ' from her as I opened the door. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Determining not to be made ill by this excitement, and 
 my head (in emulation of Mrs. Kansome's) beginning to ache, 
 I tied a handkerchief under my chin and sallied forth into the 
 grounds to breathe some fresh air and recover my com- 
 posure, which had been greatly shaken by Mrs. Kansome's 
 outburst. 
 
 There was a pleasant breeze blowing from the distant 
 hills over the great open space where the grounds were un-
 
 n8 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 protected. I walked towards the kitchen-gardens, where I 
 should be screened from the house, and paced a long walk 
 where a forest of peas hid me as effectually as the trees down 
 at the bottom could have done. 
 
 The under-gardener was at work here weeding some beds. 
 I stopped and had a talk with him. I mention this trifling 
 circumstance because Colonel Kilmain has communicated the 
 sequel of this story to me, and for reasons the reader will 
 ascertain in due course, I am wishful to recall the first occasion 
 I had of speaking to this man. He comes back to me as a 
 square-built individual, with a brown homely face, which 
 struck me as honest enough. I took no particular notice of 
 his appearance. He was very respectful in his manner, 
 answered my questions with alacrity, complained, but with 
 moderation, of the hardness of the times, of the dearness of 
 food, and said that he was keeping company with the upper- 
 gardener's daughter, but hadn't the heart to marry her yet, 
 as it was as much as he could do to support himself on what 
 he earned. 
 
 ' That shows good sense,' said I. ' If all working-folks 
 thought as you do, there would be a deal less poverty and 
 trouble among them.' 
 
 The air had freshened me up, and I returned to the house, 
 but with a real feeling of reluctance and a sincere regret that 
 the inner life of the old building was not more in keeping with 
 the repose and serenity of its exterior, and with the lovely and 
 delightful scenery that lay around it. The breeze sported 
 with the trees of the avenue, and all on that side of the house 
 the sunshine flickered and the moving shadows seemed to fan 
 the building. 
 
 I was no sooner in the hall than the story of the place was 
 renewed for me by the sounds of voices in the dining-room. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ransome were quarrelling furiously ; but they 
 were alone, for as I entered the house I had just caught a 
 glimpse of the little old lady's head vanishing with great 
 velocity round the turn in the hall where the library door 
 was. I had no doubt she had been listening. 
 
 I made up my mind to seem deaf and interrupt the quarrel 
 by walking into the room as though I had no idea that any- 
 body but Mrs. Ransome was there. 
 
 I turned the handle of the door, making sure they would 
 suppose I had knocked and that they had not heard me, and 
 walked in. The moment I showed myself there was silence.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 119 
 
 Mrs. Eansome sat on the sofa, one hand to her head, her face 
 scarlet, and her eyes shining with passion. Mr. Eansome 
 stood hy the table, leaning upon it with both hands, his body 
 inclined towards her. His face was very pale, but there was 
 a weird merriment in it, an expression of malicious enjoy- 
 ment of what he was about, which my hand is powerless to 
 describe. 
 
 I stood at the door, feigning embarrassment, but not offer- 
 ing to retire. They both looked at me, and Mr. Eansome 
 stood erect and drew away from the table. I Avatehed him 
 steadily and saw that his eyes fell, that the indescribable ex- 
 pression I have mentioned went out of his face, that his lips 
 moved as though he whispered to himself. 
 
 Mrs. Eansome started up and exclaimed, pointing to her 
 husband — 
 
 ' His mother shall not come into this room ! Tell him 
 that ! Tell him to leave me ! My head is driving me crazy. 
 Tell him he is killing me ! ' 
 
 • You hear Mrs. Eansome, sir ? ' I said, turning upon him. 
 
 ' She lies ! I am not killing her. I insist upon her re- 
 ceiving my mother in this room — I am master here, and my 
 wife shall obey me ! ' he answered, scowling at me with a 
 look of mingled hatred and fear in his strange faltering 
 eyes. 
 
 1 You are not master here ! ' she shrieked. ' The house is 
 mine.' 
 
 My ramble in the grounds had given me nerve. If ever a 
 lingering doubt of his insanity had disturbed my conjectures, 
 that doubt had now ceased. I could no longer look at him 
 and be ignorant that I was confronting a madman ; though 
 how mad he was my total inexperience of this horrible afflic- 
 tion could not decide. Dealing with aberration of this kind, 
 I felt I need preserve in myself no consistency of behaviour. 
 Could I influence him? If I was to try, I must drop the 
 housekeeper and assume the manner and tone of an equal. 
 
 As these thoughts flashed through my mind, I fixed my 
 eyes full upon him and said— 
 
 'Mrs. Eansome speaks the truth. You are killing her. 
 You must not stop here.' 
 
 'How dare you ' he began, and ceased. I had 
 
 approached him by a step, never remitting my strong, deter- 
 mined stare. I had forced all my will into my eyes. I was 
 resolved to subdue him.
 
 120 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 He raised his hand to wave me off ; his glance travelled 
 swiftly from the ground to my eyes — there and back again, 
 there and hack again, over and over. I saw him struggling 
 to prevent his rage from evaporating into terror, the signs of 
 which appeared in his face and made him a piteous creature. 
 
 Now, by Mrs. Ransome's silence I knew she was watching 
 us.. But I could not look at her. I was fighting the man 
 with my eyes, and every instinct warned me not to intermit 
 my resolute gaze for a moment. My own feelings, as I marked 
 my power over him, I can scarcely describe ; but I clearly 
 recall a thrill of triumph and an access of new determination 
 with each phase of his gradual subsidence into shrinking, 
 struggling silence and dismay. 
 
 Watching him always, I stepped sideways to the door, 
 threw it open and said— 
 
 ' Mr. Ransome, will you come with me ? I wish to speak 
 to you.' 
 
 He made no answer, but neither did he move. A sudden 
 fright that I had utterly misjudged myself seized me. The 
 fear turned me pale, but this was, happily, the only symptom. 
 I kept my eyes fixed on him and stood waiting for him to act. 
 
 1 Phoebe,' he exclaimed, in a passionate whisper, actually 
 slinking round the room to where bis wife was, ' tell her to go. 
 She makes me ill with her -eyes ! ' He wiped his forehead 
 with his handkerchief, and his glance fled swiftly from my 
 face to the floor, again and again. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome walked to the other side of the room. I 
 stepped up to him and said — 
 
 ' The presence of your mother in this house makes Mrs. 
 Ransome miserable. I take it upon myself to urge you to 
 advise her to leave.' 
 
 ' Do you know whom you are addressing ? ' he burst out, 
 looking on the ground. 
 
 'Well,' I answered. 'Better than your mother knows 
 you. Meet my eyes. If you want to learn your secret, you 
 will find it there.' 
 
 He tried to look at me. I remarked the effort ; but a 
 weight of lead seemed to keep his gaze bent downwards. 
 
 ' You know my secret, do you ? ' he muttered. ' Now that 
 you have it, what do you mean to do ? ' 
 
 ' Much, for your wife's sake,' I replied. ' Shall I speak to 
 you before her ? ' 
 
 4 No ! ' he said, hurriedly, looking around him with a
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 121 
 
 perfectly white face. ' Where shall I go ? . . . We must be 
 alone ! I understand you now.' 
 
 ' Will you give me the key of the drawing-room ? ' I said 
 to Mrs. Ransome. 
 
 She drew it from her pocket and handed it to me. She 
 then went to a part of the room behind her husband and 
 made a gesture, signifying that I should not trust myself 
 with him. I smiled to let her know that I was as free from 
 fear at that moment as ever I was in my life, hastened across 
 the hall, leaving the dining-room door wide open, and turn- 
 ing the lock of the drawing-room door, motioned to Mr. 
 Ransome to come. He followed quickly, gliding along the 
 floor with stealthy, noiseless tread. 
 
 The moment he had entered, I shut the door and slipped 
 the latch, determined that his mother should not interrupt 
 me. Had I given myself time to reflect, I believe I should 
 have been frightened by my own temerity. But I was excited, 
 eager, resolute on having my way. I never thought of danger, 
 and my very fearlessness immeasurably strengthened the 
 power I found that I had over him. 
 
 The window blinds were down. I drew them up and 
 flooded the room with the brilliant afternoon light. He stood 
 near the table ; I approached him quite close and said — 
 
 ' Mr. Ransome, you know I have your secret. But you 
 may repose the fullest confidence in my silence providing you 
 will allow me to dictate actions which will prove as much to 
 your advantage as to your wife's.' 
 
 ' She has called me a madman,' he said in a whisper, 
 mysteriously raising his finger ; ' but she does not believe it, 
 or she would not be so free with the word. Why do you keep 
 your eyes on me ? Great God ! do you not know they put fire 
 into my blood ? ' 
 
 ' For your wife's sake, Mr. Ransome, you must request 
 your mother to leave this house. But I also advise you to do 
 so for your own sake. Listen to this ! Your mother makes 
 your position a dangerous one. Her presence sets the servants 
 talking. Terrible quarrels may happen, the rumours of which 
 will get abroad and invite inquiry by making people eager to 
 learn the cause. If your secret is found out, you know as 
 well as I do what will happen.' 
 
 'Oh!' he shrieked; 'don't speak it! it is my horror ! 
 
 ' Think of your wife's forbearance,' I continued ; ' one 
 word from her- '
 
 122 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Hush ! ' he -whispered. ' Why did you draw the hlinds 
 up ? Light is treacherous. When I think of my secret I like 
 to be in darkness.' 
 
 ' It is your secret,' I said, taking no notice of the irritable 
 glances he flung at the windows, ' that drives you away from 
 your home ; that forces you to take lonely walks ; that compels 
 your tongue to say harsh and cruel things to your wife. Is 
 it so ? ' 
 
 ' Hush ! my wife does not know. She flings her words 
 out wildly and hits the truth by accident, never guessing that 
 she has hit it.' 
 
 He chuckled, and said something to himself under his 
 breath. 
 
 ' I have power,' I continued, ' over your secret, and can 
 save you from the penalty it will bring if you will suffer me to 
 advise you. Your mother loves you — but her love is dangerous. 
 One incautious word from her will lay you open to the ser- 
 vants.' 
 
 ' You are right ! ' he exclaimed, speaking rapidly. ' I was 
 afraid of her when I was engaged to Mrs. Eansome. The 
 Colonel had keen ears, and I felt that he suspected my secret, 
 and I kept mother cautious by watching and interrupting 
 her.' 
 
 ' You must fear her as you feared her then. You are in 
 greater danger now than ever you were. You have turned 
 your wife's love into hatred, and one provoking word from 
 your mother may cause her to write to her father and beg 
 him to save her from you. You can guess what he would do.' 
 
 He shrank away from me twisting his hands. The mad- 
 house, poor miserable wretch, was his terror. That one 
 threat, in the present phase at least of his madness, was a 
 weapon by which it might appear he was to be controlled to 
 any purpose. But only I could use it. He was conscious 
 that I knew his secret, but he believed it was nobody else's, 
 for just the very reason the cunning of insanity would suggest 
 — he had been called mad to his face. 
 
 ' You may trust me,' I said, ' if you will let me trust you. 
 I urge you to remove your mother from this house.' 
 
 ' At once ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' How ? There is no coach to Guildford.' 
 
 ' Let her sleep to-night at Copsford. She can take the 
 coach in the morning.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 123 
 
 He "walked about the room with feverish restlessness. He 
 once looked at me sideways with a scowl that should have 
 thrown my nerves into disorder, but my triumph had been so 
 easy that I was not to be frightened now. 
 
 ' Every suggestion I make,' I continued, preserving the 
 same inflexible voice and look I had assumed throughout, ' will 
 be for your good, and I will offer no suggestion that is im- 
 practicable.' 
 
 ' Tell me again what I am to do,' he answered, stopping 
 and holding his head in a listening attitude. 
 
 I replied that he must at once request his mother to leave 
 the house. ' If she refuses ' 
 
 He interrupted me w T ith a furious exclamation, and I was 
 glad of the interruption, for though I perceived the necessity, 
 I also felt the inhumanity, of putting the threat that terrified 
 him into words. 
 
 I said no more, but went to the door and threw it open, 
 giving him one last look as I went out, and entered the 
 dining-room. 
 
 Though there were no spectators of this interview, yet 
 from what Mrs. Ransome had seen of my influence over this 
 unhappy man, she will bear witness to the truth of the above 
 scene, while the sequel will also serve to vindicate my accu- 
 racy. I would emphasise my veracity in this particular 
 record, because of the extreme air of improbability it carries 
 with it. I cannot pretend to explain the power I had over 
 him further than the narrative defines it. Nor, in reviewing 
 the scene, can I account for the security I felt in that power, 
 and the strong persuasion I had that, by taking my cue from 
 his tone, and drawing upon my imagination so as to accom- 
 modate my reasoning to his moods, I must eventually subdue 
 him to my wishes. Throughout I was actuated only by the 
 strong desire to serve Mrs. Ransome ; and I daresay not a, 
 little of the self-control I exercised on that occasion was' 
 owing to the great sympathy I felt for her misery. 
 
 She was lying with her forehead pressed against the sofa 
 bolster. I shut the door and exclaimed — - 
 
 ' Mrs. Ransome will leave us this afternoon.' 
 
 She started up and said, ' How ? has she consented to go ? ' 
 
 I answered her by relating the conversation I have just 
 detailed. She looked at me with amazement, and cried, 
 ' Why should he think you only have guessed his secret ? 
 For eighteen months I have known that I am the wife of a
 
 124 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 madman. Over and over again in my passion I have called 
 him mad.' 
 
 ' He does not believe you mean what you say. But who 
 shall follow the logic of the insane ? I cannot conceive what 
 there is in me to frighten him. I should have thought such 
 eyes as yours would have controlled him as mine never could 
 do. But putting these considerations aside for the present, I 
 should like to address you seriously on the subject of your 
 husband. He is not responsible for his actions. Your per- 
 sonal safety is really dependent on your taking precautions at 
 once to guard against his violence. His insanity has most 
 unquestionably gained ground since I have been in the house. 
 Consider his behaviour just now.' 
 
 1 But what would you have me do, Miss Avory ? ' 
 
 ' You should write to your father, and take his opinion.' 
 
 ' Oh, I hate the idea of writing to my father about him,' 
 she exclaimed, bitterly. • I have had excuses for doing so 
 long and long ago, but have always turned fror 1 the thought 
 with dislike and dread. There is not more danger now than 
 there was eighteen months ago.' 
 
 ' But can you continue leading this life ? ' 
 
 • Do not ask me— do not force me to think ! I have been 
 supported by a dreamy hope of some chance occurring — of 
 some event happening, to put an end to it all without my 
 father's interference, without even his full knowledge of the 
 unendurable mistake I made in opposing his wishes.' 
 
 ' What change can you expect ? Nothing but his death 
 can free you, unless you place him where his actions will be 
 restrained, which I think you ought to do both for his sake 
 and your own.' 
 
 She did not answer, and I was struck by her silence; 
 because, though in a moment of passion she had, not long 
 before, cried out that she wished him dead, the expression of 
 that wish implied by her silence, now that her temper was 
 cool, made it sinister. 
 
 ' It is hard to wish him dead,' I ventured to say. ' His 
 madness must fill him with suffering, we may be sure of that. 
 I told him that his secret, as we phrased it, drove him into 
 his lonely walks, and forced his tongue to offer insult to you. 
 What frightful fancies must sometimes visit him ! His horror 
 of a madhouse is shocking. Think, madam, the thought, the 
 dread of it subjects him to a weak woman like me ! ' 
 
 She interrupted me by exclaiming — •
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 125 
 
 * He is a coward and a devil ! I hate him — and what I 
 have said before I say again — I wish he were dead ! Don't 
 seek to justify him to me ! Mad as he is, he can calculate 
 upon the effect his language has on me ! All his time is occu- 
 pied in thinking how he can most grossly insult me. He may 
 be a poor afflicted madman to you, but he is a coward and a 
 devil to me ! ' 
 
 ' That makes it all the more necessary,' I replied, ' that 
 you should separate from him.' 
 
 ' Oh, it is easy to say it ! ' she answered, with great excite- 
 ment in her manner. ' But the first step is the effort, and 
 you don't know what reasons there are to keep me chained to 
 this life.' 
 
 ' One I know to be Colonel Kilmain's abhorrence of scan- 
 dal.' 
 
 ' That is one ; but you commence the list in the middle. 
 Begin it with my pride.' 
 
 I had always known that to be the reason ; but I would 
 not tell her. Had she not said that she had no pride ? 
 
 ' I can appreciate the full force of that objection,' I said. 
 
 ' Exclude every shadow of sentiment from the catalogue 
 and make it a compilation of hard, selfish motives — with one 
 exception : I wish to spare my father. Yes ! and that too 
 springs from selfishness, for there again my pride is at work. 
 I detest the thought of his learning how great was my miser- 
 able folly in marrying Mr. Ransome.' 
 
 ' But ask yourself, madam, if your motive for leaving 
 matters as they are is weighty enough to overbalance the 
 many reasons you have for separating from him.' 
 
 ' Let him separate from me,' she said, bitterly. And 
 seeing me about to continue, she exclaimed, ' Listen at the 
 door for a moment, Miss Avory. I want to know what they 
 are doing.' 
 
 I opened the door quietly, but heard no sound. I walked 
 some paces down the hall and peeped around the corner ; the 
 library was empty. 
 
 ' They are not in the library,' I said, returning to Mrs. 
 Ransome. ' I will go and find out what they are doing.' 
 
 So I advanced to the top of the kitchen staircase and 
 called to Mary. 
 
 '■ Where is Mr. Ransome ? ' I asked, softly. 
 
 I I don't know, miss. Maddox, do you know where Mr 
 Ransome is ? '
 
 126 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 'No, I don't,' answered the man's surly voice. ' Ain't he 
 upstairs with his mamma ? ' 
 
 I was determined to know what he and the old lady meant 
 to do, and went upstairs ; but was scarcely on the first land- 
 ing when I heard their voices in the bedroom. I fancied they 
 were quarrelling, but I could not be sure of this merely on 
 the evidence of the lady's shrill voice. I went into the 
 younger Mrs. Eansome's bedroom to wait, and had hardly 
 pushed the door to, so as to leave it just ajar, when they both 
 came out. 
 
 ' If you can't walk the distance,' I heard him say, ' I'll 
 send Maddox for a fly.' 
 
 1 I'll walk it,' she answered, fretfully. ' I'll not forget what 
 a coward they've made of you.' 
 
 ' Hush ! hold your tongue ! ' he cried, in a fierce whisper. 
 • It's your own fault. You brought the woman upon me by 
 abusing Pho3be. Here, take my arm.' 
 
 They were going downstairs and their voices died out. I 
 waited five minutes and then descended to the hall, where 
 met Mary. 
 
 ' Only think, miss,' she exclaimed, grinning broadly ; ' old 
 Mrs. Ransome has gone away ! ' 
 
 ' How do you know ? ' 
 
 ' Why, I heard master call to Maddox and tell him to send 
 one of the gardeners with Mrs. Ransome's luggage to the 
 Copsford Arms ; and then they went out by the avenue door.' 
 
 I popped my head into the dining-room and exclaimed — 
 
 1 Your little visitor has not made a long stay this time, 
 madam. She has just gone away.' 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' answered Mrs. Ransome. ' I have proved 
 myself mistress this time — they both wanted this lesson ! I 
 don't think she'll ever trouble Gardenhurst again.' 
 
 She came into the hall, and looking round her with bril- 
 liant eyes, exclaimed, ' Oh, what a hot skirmish it has been ! ' 
 I could hardly forbear smiling. Tbe victory was hers, indeed ; 
 but how had she won it ? 
 
 IX 
 
 When in the silence of my room I reflected on the part I 
 had played, I was amazed at it, and wondered what sort of 
 reception the story would get were 1 to make a boast of it. 
 
 I felt afraid to meet Mr. Ransome again. The dread was 
 owing to my belief that my influence over him had been but a
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 127 
 
 temporary power of which the particular mood of his mind at 
 that time had rendered him susceptible ; that a greater or 
 lesser degree of madness would break the spell, awaken him 
 to a perception of the humiliation he had suffered at my 
 hands, and impel him to deal with me with probably a good 
 deal more fury than he had ever exhibited towards his wife. 
 
 These conclusions, which were perfectly reasonable, were 
 also, as you may perceive, rather terrifying. My courage had 
 been taxed to the utmost, and I was quite sure that nothing 
 short of something highly tragical would enable me to pass 
 successfully through such an ordeal again. I had never met 
 a madman before in my life ; I do not think my mind had 
 ever dwelt upon the subject of madness as a fancy. Some 
 power, quite foreign to my nature, had buoyed me up during 
 my interview with Mr. Ransome ; and my own tact had 
 enabled me to exert the influence that his bearing had shown 
 me I possessed over him successfully. But that power had 
 deserted me now. I felt certain that, without it, my influence 
 would be worthless ; and the mere thought of having to deal 
 with him again was thoroughly alarming. 
 
 Of course the servants were ignorant of the true reason of 
 old Mrs. Ransome's sudden vacation of the house. I heard 
 them attributing it to the mistress's determined opposition, 
 and the cook applauded her courage. 
 
 Meanwhile I listened anxiously and nervously for the 
 sound of Mr. Ransome's footsteps in the hall. Suppose he 
 came home as sane, let us say, as he was that day when he 
 paid me his mysterious visit in order to announce his wife's 
 madness to me ? I had no influence over him then, or signs 
 of it would have appeared, and I should have remembered 
 them. Or suppose he returned home as insane as he was 
 that night when he left the marks of his cruel fingers on his 
 wife's arm ? 
 
 Six o'clock came and dinner was served, but only one was 
 there to eat it. When another hour had passed, my room 
 grew too dark to enable me to continue sewing. I went 
 upstairs very cautiously and carefully, listening lest Mr. 
 Ransome should have returned unheard by me, and hurried 
 through the hall, meaning to kill half an hour before the 
 twilight should give me an excuse for lighting my lamp, in 
 taking some exercise in the grounds. 
 
 The hall door stood open. I gained the lawn and walked 
 quickly towards the kitchen -gardens, the least frequented
 
 128 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 portion of the estate. How glorious was the summer evening ! 
 The heat of the sun was gone, though the sun shone brightly 
 away on my right, where, upon the level horizon — for the 
 hills filled the landscape to the left— many great clouds were 
 grouped, and promised a noble sunset. The sky was a soft 
 blue, and the rich green of the trees stood out exquisitely 
 against it, and produced a harmony of tints that was almost 
 saddening with excess of beauty. I chose the shelter of the 
 pea-beds, and breathed with a bounding pulse the pure sweet- 
 ness of the breeze which shook the homely vegetation around 
 me, and kept the numerous insects constantly on the wing. 
 The house in the distance looked the picture of an English 
 gentleman's home. There were brilliant stars kindled by the 
 setting sun in its windows ; the bright glare made the walls 
 white, and enriched with magical effects of shadow the pretty 
 pillared terrace, surmounted with flowers, the gleaming draw- 
 ing-room windows and the soft colours of their drapery. Mrs. 
 Eansome was right in not allowing her husband to drive her 
 from such a home. The question was, would separation from 
 him involve her leaving the house ? Could she compel her 
 husband to quit Gardenhurst ? I could not say. It seemed 
 to me that if she separated from her husband, then, in order 
 to save herself from being persecuted by him if he had a mind 
 to haunt her, she would have to quit the home she loved, and 
 either exile herself in some foreign country or become a kind 
 of fugitive in her own. She had certainly one remedy — she 
 could have him placed in an asylum. Such control might be 
 imperative hereafter, if it were not necessary and merciful 
 
 now. 
 
 Mr. Eansome had not returned when I reached the house. 
 There was nothing unusual in his prolonged absence, but I 
 wished he would come home, for I wanted to see what he 
 would do. 
 
 A little before eight o'clock I was astonished by hearing 
 the sound of the piano in the drawing-room— the first time 
 the instrument had been played since I had been in the 
 house. The performer's touch was firm; she played in 
 octaves, and filled the whole house with the music. The air, 
 whether a waltz or not, was played in waltz time, and so 
 cheerful, so gay, so melodious was it, that my feet began to 
 move in the most mysterious manner, and I think through 
 the magic of that tune I could have waltzed accurately without 
 ever having learned the dance.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 129 
 
 The servants came out of the kitchen to listen, and seemed 
 highly delighted. Mary, the better to hear, went upstairs, 
 and I was thinking of calling her down, when a new direction 
 was given to my thoughts by the alarming crash of a door 
 being shut, and by the sound of the music ceasing all at 
 once. 
 
 ' I'll wager her husband's come back and stopped her ! ' 
 the cook said. 
 
 ' Could she have seen him coming ? ' replied Susan. ' It 
 isn't two minutes ago since she began.' 
 
 The girl's remark put an idea into my head. Was Mrs. 
 Ransome swelling her triumph over her mother-in-law with 
 music, and timing the performance so that her husband 
 might just catch her at it ? If so, then she deserved what 
 might follow. She knew that his passions were not under his 
 control, and she had no right to anger him. Whatever her 
 motives might be, I considered that she showed bad taste in 
 playing the piano at that particular time, when she might 
 expect her husband's return at any moment ; and when the 
 sounds, so very unusual in that house, might be interpreted 
 by him as a kind of crowing over the victory I had won for 
 her. 
 
 I was so vexed with her that I shut my door to prevent 
 any sound from reaching me that might excite me into 
 running to them and interrupting the quarrel. However* 
 I was too nervous, and too apprehensive of the man's total 
 want of self-control, to keep myself long in suspense. I 
 opened the door and listened, but could hear nothing ; and 
 questioning whether Mr. Ransome had come home, and 
 whether the door had not been banged by a draught, I went 
 back to my chair, drew the lamp closer to me, and resumed 
 my needle. 
 
 But scarcely had I made a dozen stitches when footsteps 
 sounded on the stairs, and Mary thrust her head into my 
 room, her face quite white, and her eyes reflecting honest 
 terror. 
 
 ' Oh, miss ! * she exclaimed, in a loud whisper, • they're 
 quarrelling awfully upstairs. I hear mistress tell master she 
 would kill him, and he gave a loud laugh and said that he 
 always knew she was capable of murder, and he wished 
 she would kill him, for it would do his soul good, wherever it 
 were, to know that she was hanged.' 
 
 ' You have 110 right to listen,' I exclaimed angrily, but 
 
 K
 
 130 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 very frightened too. ' You'll get yourself into trouble some of 
 these days with that mean trick.' 
 
 ' I went to listen to the music, she answered ; ' how could 
 I tell that she'd stop playing ? I didn't know master was there. 
 He must have walked in through one of the windows, and, oh ! 
 there will be murder done ! I'm sure of it ! Mistress's passion 
 is something awful.' 
 
 I pushed past her, heedless of risks in my resolution to 
 stop this dangerous quarrel. I walked hastily to the drawing- 
 room door, afraid that my courage would abandon me if I 
 gave myself time for thought ; but I heard no sound as I 
 opened the door, and when I entered I found Mrs. Eansome 
 alone. 
 
 She was standing in the middle of the room, her hair 
 in disorder, her bosom rising and falling with her fierce 
 breathing ; and scarcely had she seen me when she shrieked 
 out — 
 
 1 Tell him to keep away from me or I shall kill him ! ' 
 
 1 For Heaven's sake control yourself, madam ! ' I exclaimed. 
 ' Where is Mr. Ransome ? ' 
 
 1 There— in the grounds ! he left me in time— I should 
 have killed him ! ' she panted, pointing furiously towards 
 the open window, at which I glanced without seeing Mr. 
 Ransome. 
 
 1 Pray do not use such expressions,' I said. « Why do 
 you put yourself in his way ? Why do you excite him ? ' 
 
 1 What do you mean by excite him ? ' she cried, turning 
 her brilliant eyes upon me. ' I was playing the piano and he 
 came in noiselessly and kicked the door to, and ordered me to 
 stop playing. Of course I refused. I told him to go away 
 and went on playing. And the wretch,' she said, through her 
 teeth, ' seized me by the shoulder and dragged me away— look 
 at the music-stool ! it fell down when he dragged me— and I 
 felt the coward's nails in my shoulder ! Brute ! madman ! ' 
 she shrieked ; ' I'll kill him for his treatment of me ! I'll 
 kill him ! * 
 
 She quivered from head to foot with rage. 
 
 Just then Mr. Ransome showed himself at one of the 
 windows under the verandah. He stared in with his strange 
 eyes and a white smile twisting his face into positive ugliness. 
 I made a step towards him, meaning to advise him to keep 
 away ; but when he saw me advancing, he wheeled around 
 and walked off quickly.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 131 
 
 She had not seen him, and after standing in silence awhile 
 struggling as though to recover her breath, she went to 
 the piano and closed it with a bang, and stood beside it with 
 her eyes fixed downwards. 
 
 ' Think,' she exclaimed, in a low, bitter whisper, ' of his 
 laying his hand upon me ! Think that there is no horrible 
 degradation to which I may not at any moment be subjected 
 by this barbarous man ! ' 
 
 I saw her clench and open her hands, and then she came 
 towards the door and made as though she would walk away 
 without further speech, but stopped suddenly. 
 
 Pained and harassed as I was, I could not help admiring 
 the wonderful dignity her vehement resentment, her lacerated 
 pride, communicated to her movements. The light in the room 
 had not permitted me clearly to see her face before ; but now 
 she was close to me I observed how peculiarly the character 
 of her beauty was adapted to the tragical emotions which then 
 possessed her. Her face was marble-coloured with wrath ; 
 her eyes glowed ; her black, narrow eyebrows were knitted 
 into a violent frown, which had the effect of contracting the 
 skin upon her forehead and bringing her hair appreciably 
 lower, and thus giving shadow and force to the gloomy 
 expression that darkened her countenance. I watched her 
 with much the sort of fear that I had believed Mr. Ransome 
 would excite in me, and could scarcely credit that the influence 
 I had exercised over her husband should be denied to her. 
 
 ' Are you not sick of these scenes ? ' she exclaimed. ' Do 
 they not disgust you ? Oh ! what words have I to express the 
 sense of utter degradation they fill me with ? ' 
 
 I would hazard no protests. She was not in the mood to 
 endure the least reproach — to tolerate the smallest word of 
 advice. I held my tongue, keeping my eyes averted. 
 
 ' Can you imagine,' she continued, ' what my feelings are 
 when I look back and think of the respect and affection which 
 were mine when I was Miss Kilmain ? When I compare 
 w 7 hat I was with what I am — in those days admired and 
 petted and followed, and now shunned and ill-treated, and 
 infamously, God ! hoio infamously humiliated ! It is my 
 own fault. I refused the love of a man who would have 
 honoured me as a lady, and gave my hand to a heartless 
 coward who, mad as he is, pretends to a greater madness that 
 he may the better insult me and humble me ! How shall 
 I end this ? I have brought the curse upon myself; am I not 
 
 k2
 
 132 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 privileged to rid myself of it ? But bow ? hoiv ? Is there no 
 refuge for such miserable women as I but the publicity that 
 adds shame to the sorrow it does not cure ? Must I take the 
 whole world into my confidence to free myself from this 
 monster ? Ob, there is no pity among men for women ! 
 The laws men make protect themselves, not us. Think now, 
 bow helpless I am. You talk to me of a madhouse. Imagine 
 yourself a stranger to me. You hear of my husband being in 
 a madhouse ; what are your conclusions ? Are they not 
 cruelly prejudicial to me ? I should have kept him at home, 
 obtained tender guardians for him, nursed him, watched over 
 him ! Oh, you know how the world cants ! how it gives 
 nothing — how it exacts everything. Let me tell the world I 
 hate this man : I am judged and condemned a monstrous 
 sinner for my candour. Shall I go into the highway and 
 pull my sleeve above my arm and exhibit the marks of his 
 fierce hand upon my flesh ? Shall I bare my shoulder and 
 point to the laceration of his nails there, and invite the 
 crowd to observe these things and bear witness for me when I 
 call him ruffian and coward ? The world loves such secrets. 
 It would not lose a syllable of them. Shall I entertain it with 
 a full sight of my heart, all the misery that lies there, all the 
 bitter memories, the dark hopelessness ? Others may do this. 
 I would rather die a hundred times over ! ' 
 
 She continued looking at me for a moment or two after 
 she had ceased speaking, with a frown that made her gaze 
 passionately earnest and scrutinising ; then, gathering up her 
 skirt, walked quickly across the hall into the dining-room and 
 closed the door upon herself. 
 
 x 
 
 That foolish girl, Mary, had been telling the others how 
 she had heard mistress threaten master's life, and how 
 master had threatened to kill mistress, and how she had 
 heard a terrible crash which she made sure was mistress 
 who had been knocked down (which must have been the 
 music-stool that had been upset in the unseemly scuffle at 
 the piano). They were jabbering away in mysterious voices 
 on these texts when I passed the kitchen, and I heard the 
 cook make use of the following bloodthirsty observation with 
 great emphasis : — ' That if ever mistress did kill the master, 
 she (the cook), for one, would stand up and say it served him
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 133 
 
 right, and call upon other wicious husbands to take warning 
 by his fate.' 
 
 Rather horrified by this very sanguinary view of the situa- 
 tion, and hoping to check the conversation, I put my head in 
 and asked where Mr. Ransome was. 
 
 ' In the library, ain't he ? ' answered Maddox, who sat 
 with his back to the door, and spoke without turning his 
 head. 
 
 ' Mary,' I exclaimed, holding up my finger, ' remember the 
 caution 1 gave you just now. Be careful ! ' 
 
 With which solemn admonition I withdrew, leaving it to 
 produce the best effect it might. 
 
 At half-past ten the servants had gone to bed, and the 
 house was quiet. Candle in hand, I took my regular rounds, 
 and in the library found signs, in a great quantity of cigar-ash, 
 of Mr. Ransome having spent the evening there. I bolted the 
 hall doors, extinguished the hall lamp, and went to my bed- 
 room. 
 
 The moon, which rose late now, was just creeping over 
 the hills, and the red, hot-looking planet seemed to increase 
 by the mere force of appropriate effect the sultriness of the 
 night. Breathless and still, the land lay black under the 
 dark heavens ; but all along the west the summer lightning 
 played, and threw out, for breathless moments at a time, the 
 fine, delicate outlines of clouds. 
 
 My bedroom was very hot, for the sunshine had been 
 upon it all the afternoon ; the candlelight awoke the flies, 
 which buzzed drowsily past my ear, and a great black moth 
 flew in through the window and disagreeably affected my 
 nerves by the harsh slapping noise it made as its wings 
 struck the ceiling or the wall. Once or twice a moan of 
 wind sounded in the chimney — a brief passage of air that 
 filled the black trees with a strange and solemn note, and 
 took a fanciful meaning from the ear by its abrupt cessation 
 and the breathless stillness that followed it. 
 
 I left the window wide open, but drew the curtains close, 
 extinguished the candle, and got into bed. The l.eat kept 
 me wakeful ; 1 tossed restlessly upon my pillow, practising 
 all the artless little fictions I had been taught as a child by 
 which to invite sleep : such as counting, reciting a scrap of 
 poetry over and over again, keeping my eyes fixed on a 
 portion of the room until all manner of lights swam out of 
 the darkness. I heard the bell of St. George's at Copsford
 
 134 
 
 IS HE THE MAN ? 
 
 strike the quarter before twelve. How exquisite, how fairy- 
 like was the dainty thrilling of that clear far chime upon the 
 silence ! I strained my ear to follow the tremulous echo until 
 it died — and then quite a different sound jarred an instant 
 upon the silence. 
 
 It was subdued and muffled. I should scarcely have 
 heard it but for the strained attention of my hearing at that 
 moment. It sounded like the turning of the handle of a 
 door. 
 
 I listened, not nervously — such a sound was easily 
 accounted for — but heard nothing more. Now, indeed, I 
 must get to sleep. I should feel the effects of this wakeful- 
 ness in the morning. I planted my head energetically on my 
 pillow — five, six minutes or more passed — I was still wide 
 awake, and distinctly heard the echo of a footstep in the 
 garden. The noise was such as would be made by the heel 
 of a boot crunching the gravel. 
 
 I sat up in my bed and listened, to make sure. The 
 sound was not repeated. Could I have been mistaken? 
 Was it the moth scraping the paper of the wall with its 
 wings? I felt nervous, but I knew not why when I asked 
 myself the question. On so calm a night the lightest sound 
 would be audible, and the footstep of a wayfarer on the high 
 road beyond the walls might strike the ear as though the 
 tread Ave re under the window. 
 
 Once again I settled my head on the pillow, and consoled 
 myself with reflecting that, happen what would, there would 
 be daylight at three, and the dawn must bring security. I 
 had fallen at last into the state of semi-unconsciousneES 
 which is the delicious preliminary to sound sleep, when I 
 was startled into complete wakefulness by a noise which 
 seemed to have come from the landing just outside my door. 
 My heart beat quickly ; I turned my head and listened. The 
 staircase creaked, and then the sense of hearing was occupied 
 by the vexatious throbbing of my heart. Who was outside ? 
 Who was moving at this hour ? I got out of bed, and, hot 
 as I had found the night, my feet were now as cold as 
 stones. I opened the door and looked out. The landing was 
 pitch dark. 
 
 ' Is there anybody there ? ' I called out. 
 
 No answer — no sound of any kind. My own voice fright- 
 ened me. I listened for some moments, then closed the door 
 and returned to bed.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 135 
 
 I was not again disturbed. I fell asleep, and when I 
 awoke it was time to get up. The morning was dark. A 
 strong wind swept through the open window and rounded 
 the curtains like sails. I drew them apart, closed the 
 window, and saw the sky lead-coloured, with heavy rain 
 slanting across the country, the grounds streaming with wet 
 and the trees swaying wildly to the strong wind. I dressed 
 myself and went downstairs. The servants were about, but 
 not seeing Maddox, I asked if he had left his room? Evi- 
 dently not. I told Susan to go upstairs and call him, and 
 went into the dining-room, where the cook was dusting the 
 furniture. The scene from the window was a desolate one — 
 the sweeping rain, the streaming shrubs, the flowers tossed 
 by the gale and scattering their petals, the gloomy sky with 
 under-clouds resembling smoke sweeping along it. 
 
 Susan entered and said, ' I've been knocking at Maddox's 
 door, miss, and can't make him answer.' 
 
 ' What causes him to sleep so heavily ? He has always 
 been punctual before,' I answered ; and I went upstairs, 
 making sure he would get up and answer directly he heard 
 my voice. 
 
 The bedroom door was closed. I knocked heartily, but 
 got no reply. I knocked again, and then, greatly wondering, 
 turned the handle and peeped in. The room was empty, and 
 the bed had not been slept in. I looked about me, surprised 
 out of common sense by his absence, for I remember stooping 
 and peering under the bed, and then I opened a closet full of 
 shelves and stared into that. 
 
 Since he was not in his room, where was he ? Since he 
 had not gone to bed, where had he slept ? I hastened below 
 and exclaimed to the cook — 
 
 ' Maddox did not use his room last night. His bed is 
 untouched.' 
 
 ' Not use his room ? ' she answered quickly. ' Why, I 
 see him go into it myself ; I said good-night to him as he 
 opened the door.' 
 
 ' His room is empty. Is he downstairs ? ' 
 
 ' He's not in the kitchen. I haven't been into your room. 
 But what should be do downstairs all night ? ' 
 
 ' What, indeed ? But I'll go and see nevertheless.' 
 
 Mary was in the drawing-room ; the other housemaid was 
 sweeping the staircase ; I would question them presently. I 
 found the door of my room ajar. If none of the servants
 
 136 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 had entered it, the circumstance was odd, because I was 
 always the last to leave that part of the house at night, and 
 made a point of closing all the doors before going to bed. 
 Maddox was not in the room, everything was precisely as I 
 had left it overnight : the lamp on the table, my work-basket 
 beside it, the book I had been reading, the chair drawn close. 
 I looked into the pantry ; I went further, I lighted a candle, 
 and boldly walked into the cellar. Not a trace of the man 
 was visible. I restored the candlestick to its place, and went 
 slowly upstairs, pondering over the noises I had heard in the 
 night. I called the two housemaids, and first I asked them 
 if they had been into my room since they left their beds ? 
 No. Were they sure ? Certain sure. Did Maddox go 
 upstairs with them when they went to bed last night ? Yes. 
 Susan lighted his candle for him at her own on the landing, 
 and she heard cook wish him good-night. 
 
 ' Did any of you hear footsteps outside your bedrooms last 
 night ? ' 
 
 ' Lor no, miss ! ' cried the cook, in great agitation. (She 
 had a room to herself.) 
 
 ' I didn't,' said Susan. ' Did you, miss ? ' 
 
 1 1 want to make sure that I did by inquiring if any of you 
 did,' I replied. 
 
 ' I won't declare that I didn't, though,' said Mary. ' Mind, 
 I don't say it was a footstep I heard, but it was a queer 
 noise.' 
 
 ' It was yourself snoring,' exclaimed Susan. ' I am sure 
 you couldn't have heard anything if I didn't, for you was 
 asleep before me.' 
 
 ■ Let us hear about this noise,' I said. 
 
 • Well, it might have been my fancy,' answered Mary, 
 who doubtless found her imagination defied and rendered 
 useless by the simple evidence of her bedroom companion. 
 ' If Susan didn't hear it, I suppose it tvas my fancy.' 
 
 ' It is very fortunate that Susan didn't hear it,' I exclaimed, 
 ' or you would probably have made a ghost of it. However, 
 Maddox may take care of himself. If this is a practical joke 
 of his, the want of his breakfast will bring him among us 
 soon enough. And if he has left the house, why, then a very 
 indifferent servant has discharged himself, and Mr. Ransome 
 will have to look out for another man.' 
 
 But these easy conclusions by no means represented my 
 own doubts, and the real surprise that the footman's disappear-
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STOR? 137 
 
 ance had given me. I could not forget the noises I had heard ; 
 and as tbey were unquestionably real, they only served to 
 make Maddox's disappearance the more unaccountable, by 
 establishing the theory that he had wandered about and 
 eventually left the house ; and then suggesting the question — 
 what was the object of his midnight quest and ultimate flight ? 
 
 However, at that early stage I had no right to assume 
 that he had left the house ; and, for the present, I contented 
 myself by supposing that, mysterious as his absence appeared, 
 a word would clear up the mystery, and submit it as an 
 intensely commonplace affair. I will explain what I mean by 
 an instance. A housemaid in a family, the housekeeper to 
 whom was known to me, was found missing from her bedroom 
 one morning, just as Maddox was. At midday came a letter 
 from her father, filled with humble apologies for his daughter's 
 behaviour, saying that she had left the house after the family 
 were in bed, to keep an appointment with her lover ; that on 
 her return, she found the house door had been blown to by the 
 wind ; and that, not knowing what to do, she had walked a dis- 
 tance of seven miles to where he (her father) lived, and knocked 
 them up at four o'clock in the morning, to the horror and dis- 
 may of the mother. Some such solution as this, I thought, 
 might attend the conundrum Maddox had bequeathed us. 
 
 I noticed, in going upstairs, that Mr. Ransome's bedroom 
 door was ajar, and I paused a moment, thinking to hear him 
 stirring, that I might tell him of his footman's disappearance. 
 But all was still, and I crept quietly away. 
 
 I couldn't help laughing at the mysterious airs the women 
 gave themselves. My reference to the sounds I had heard, 
 coupled with the unaccountable behaviour of the footman, had 
 frightened them ; and it was absurd to see them grouped 
 together in the broad daylight, muttering under their breaths, 
 their superstitious souls grasping at the opportunity to enter- 
 tain one another with dismal narratives, drawn, no doubt, from 
 books which you only meet with in the drawers of kitchen- 
 tables and dressers, but related by these simpletons as though 
 they were personal experiences. 
 
 Mary had the most to say, and though both the others 
 well knew that there was not the smallest reliance to be placed 
 upon her most solemn asseveration, yet they listened to her 
 with preposterous eagerness, and swallowed her miserable 
 small talk with as many ' lawks ! ' ' did you evers ! ' and 
 ' fancy nows ! ' as would fill a whole chapter of this story.
 
 I3 8 IS HE THE MAN 
 
 The table was laid for breakfast in the dining-room, and it 
 was now nine o'clock, but Mr. Eansome had not yet made his 
 appearance. This was unusual. He was seldom later than 
 eight, and to the best of my knowledge away out of the house 
 by the half hour. Thus his wife, by leaving her room at 
 nine, generally had the satisfaction of breakfasting alone. 
 
 Her bell rang, and Mary answered it, and I suppose did 
 not get her nose fairly past the door before she was telling 
 Mrs. Ransome all about Maddox's disappearance ; for in a few 
 moments she came hurrying to me to say that I was wanted 
 by mistress. 
 
 ' What is the meaning of the footman's not sleeping in his 
 bedroom, Miss Avory ? ' Mrs. Eansome asked me. 
 
 ' I haven't the slightest idea,' I replied. 
 
 ' Are you sure he isn't in his bedroom ? ' 
 
 ' Quite sure.' 
 
 ' Nor anywhere in the house ? ' 
 
 ' No signs of him at all.' 
 
 I This is very curious,' she said, seating herself. ' Have 
 you spoken to Mr. Eansome about it ? ' 
 
 ' He hasn't left his room yet,' I answered. 
 
 She glanced at the clock and said — 
 
 ' Mary, go and tell the cook to get my breakfast ready on 
 a tray and bring it to my room.' 
 
 Mary went out reluctantly. She longed to hear our 
 conversation. 
 
 ' You had better knock at Mr. Eansome's door and tell 
 him what has happened,' said Mrs. Eansome. ' The footman 
 may have robbed the house.' 
 
 ' I thought that myself ; but I have looked about me well, 
 and nothing seems to have been touched.' 
 
 ' Didn't you hear somebody walking on the landing outside 
 your room last night ? ' 
 
 I I asked Mary and the others if they had heard the sound 
 of a footstep, but they tell me they did not. I thought myself 
 that I heard the staircase creak, and the handle of a door 
 turned, and then again the crunch of a foot upon the gravel 
 in the grounds.' 
 
 ' You couldn't have been deceived in such sounds.' 
 ' Why no, madam. I am pretty sure they were real.' 
 ' It must have been Maddox whom you heard,' she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 1 No doubt. I am afraid that something is wrong, unless,
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 139 
 
 indeed, the man walks in his sleep. When I went downstairs 
 this morning I found the door of my room open. None of the ser- 
 vants had entered before me ; and I perfectly remember shutting 
 that door last night, as I do every night, before going to bed.' 
 
 ' Have you looked at the plate-safe ? ' 
 
 ' No. At least, I have not looked into it.' 
 
 ' You should,' she exclaimed. ' You had better go at once 
 and knock at Mr. Ransome's door.' 
 
 She was agitated and restless, and made an impetuous 
 gesture as though she would have me be quick. 
 
 The door of Mr. Ransome's bedroom was partially open, 
 as I had already noticed. I knocked, but got no answer. I 
 knocked louder, but got no reply to that either. Mr. Ransome 
 must be in a very sound sleep ; and I stood irresolute, doubtful 
 whether I should knock a third time or peep in. I did both : 
 I rapped lustily, then pushed the door gently and entered. 
 
 Both the blinds and the window-curtains were drawn ; 
 and quitting the bright light of the landing, I could scarcely 
 see for some moments in the gloom that filled the chamber. 
 But one thing was immediately apparent : Mr. Ransome was 
 not in his bed. More — his bed had not been slept in. 
 
 I ran to the windows, and pulled up the blinds. The 
 clouds had broken, the rain had ceased, and the sunshine was 
 streaming brilliantly upon the soaked grounds. I stood 
 astounded to find the bedroom empty ; astounded, becausa 
 I had not questioned that Mr. Ransome was in the room, 
 and because the exactly similar disappearance of Maddox im- 
 measurably heightened the surprise of this disappearance. I 
 hurried to Mrs. Ransome. 
 
 ' Well, has your knocking aroused liim at last ? ' she 
 inquired. 
 
 ' He is not in his room,' I answered. 
 
 She stared, and burst into a loud, strange laugh. 
 . ' Has he gone too ? ' 
 
 ' It seems so. Come and see for yourself, madam. You 
 will find his bed untouched.' 
 
 She advanced a few steps, stopped, and said, ' Are you 
 sure he is not in his bedroom ? I do not wish to meet him.' 
 
 1 Quite sure.' 
 
 She crossed the landing, and I followed her. 
 
 ' This is one of his mad freaks ! ' she exclaimed, looking 
 around her. ' He was here last night ; for he came upstairs 
 shortly after me, and I heard him shut his door.'
 
 i 4 o IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Has he ever left the house before at night ? ' 
 
 4 Never. But the past actions of such a man furnish no 
 criterion to judge his present actions by,' she answered, in a 
 hard tone. There was no surprise in her face. She gaz-ed 
 about her coolly and walked to the window and looked out. 
 ' The height is too great for him to have ventured without 
 breaking his leg or his neck,' she said, with a laugh. ' If he 
 has left the house, he has gone to work like a sane man by 
 opening the doors. I suppose he'll come back when it suits 
 him.' 
 
 She walked out of the room, and when on the landing, 
 said — 
 
 1 Never mind about Mr. Eansome, Miss Avory. I am 
 more concerned about Maddox. Go and thoroughly examine 
 your room and look elsewhere. I have always thought him 
 capable of robbing the house, and I should like to know if he 
 has done so.' 
 
 I was about to follow her, when my eye caught sight of 
 something glittering upon the floor, close against a chest of 
 drawers. I picked it up and found it a sovereign ; upon 
 which I called to Mrs. Eansome, ' See what I have found, 
 madam.' 
 
 She came back quickly, asking, ' What ? ' I gave her the 
 money, and, in doing so, caught sight of a splinter of wood 
 sticking out of one of the locks of the top drawer of the chest. 
 
 I pulled the handle and the drawer came out, and I saw that 
 the lock had been forced and broken. The drawer contained 
 a few cravats and some stud and pin cases, which were 
 empty. 
 
 ' This looks like a robbery,' I said. ' Do you see how the 
 lock has been wrenched ? ' 
 
 4 Is this Maddox's doing or Mr. Ransome's ? ' she answered. 
 
 I I would as soon believe it my husband's as the other's. 
 There may be some cunning in this to throw us off our 
 guard.' 
 
 I was rather bewildered by this view of the case, and 
 said — 
 
 ' What object could Mr. Eansome have in leading us to 
 suppose that he has been robbed ? ' 
 
 1 What object has any madman in practising the most 
 stealthy stratagems for the most imbecile ends ? ' she replied 
 sharply. 'He might wish to frighten me by leading us to 
 suppose that Maddox has robbed and murdered him, for any-
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 141 
 
 thing I can tell ; or the pair of them may be in some wretched 
 conspiracy to get my name about and give scandal-mongers 
 an excuse for inventing falsehoods about me.' 
 
 ' Did Mr. Ransome keep money in this drawer ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. I am perfectly ignorant of his habits.' 
 
 ' His dressing-case used to stand on the toilet-table ; I don't 
 see it there now,' I said, looking around me in search of it. 
 
 She went to the drawers and pulled them open one after 
 the other. Their contents were tossed, and in such a manner 
 that they might easily have furnished a proof of a thievish 
 hand having routed among them. In looking into the lower 
 drawer, Mrs. Ransome became absorbed in thought ; her 
 hands fell to her side, her eyes remained fixed, and she stood 
 motionless. Then she suddenly broke away, stared quickly 
 around, and said : 
 
 1 Thinking will not explain anything. This leaving the 
 house is an unaccountable act, and I'll not condescend to 
 bestow a thought upon it.' 
 
 Saying which, with a suggestion of extraordinary per- 
 versity in her tone, she passed into her bedroom. 
 
 I lingered a few minutes, looking about me for any hints 
 to help to a conclusion. One fact was obvious : Mr. Ransome 
 was gone. But had he been robbed ? The sovereign I had 
 found on the floor might have slipped out of his pocket ; his 
 own hand might have broken the lock of the drawer in a 
 passion. How could I tell that anything was missing? I 
 did not know what he had in his drawers and wardrobe. 
 The dressing-case was gone, indeed ; but he might have taken 
 it with him. As to the rumpled state of the wearing apparel 
 in the lower drawers, this might have been owing to his own 
 impatience. Had he been robbed ; and if so, by whom ? Mrs. 
 Ransome had heard him shut his bedroom door : a sufficiently 
 conclusive proof that he had entered his bedroom. At what 
 hour, then, had he quitted it ? If Maddox had robbed him, he 
 could not have robbed him whilst he was in his bedroom. 
 Neither would he have robbed him before he entered his bed- 
 room, for the obvious reason that Mr. Ransome would discover 
 the robbery on entering the room. It was even more unlikely 
 that Maddox would have committed the robbery after Mr. 
 Ransome had quitted the house ; because the sight of the 
 untouched bed would suggest that his master was still down- 
 stairs or had not yet retired to rest, and that he might come 
 to his room at any moment and find Maddox there.
 
 142 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Taking these theories for what they were worth, I felt 
 strongly disposed to concur in Mrs. Kansome's view — namely, 
 that the disappearance of both master and man was a con- 
 spiracy between them, designed for a purpose I could not 
 imagine, but designed, no doubt, to bring anxiety, grief, and 
 humiliation upon the wife. 
 
 The broken lock, the sovereign on the floor, the rumpled 
 drawers, the missing dressing-case, might all be so many 
 cunning details devised for the purpose of complicating the 
 mystery. There might be a special subtlety in the very unob- 
 trusiveness of the signs which had been created to establish a 
 theory of robbery. A great air of confusion and disorder in 
 the room might, by the very officiousness of the details, set 
 conjecture on the right track. 
 
 I went to the door and turned the handle to try if the 
 movement would produce the same sound I had heard over- 
 night. But this was a failure, for the handle made no noise 
 at all. I then descended the stairs and entered my room, 
 and had a good stare at the old-fashioned safe in which the 
 plate was locked. There were no external signs whatever to 
 denote that it had been touched. 
 
 I had brought the keys of the various closets, etc., with me 
 from my bedroom, whither I always carried them at night ; 
 they made a big bunch, and the stoutest and most intricately- 
 cut of them all belonged to the safe, which was of iron, and I 
 should think upwards of fifty years old. Hence the lock, as 
 you may conceive, was no very ingenious patent ; but it wa? 
 secure as any old lock can well be, with a stout plate of steel 
 over the bolt which the mouth of the key fitted ; whilst the 
 key was so contrived as to sink below each side of the plate 
 and to withstand any amount of pressure if it was not exactly 
 adjusted to the plate. 
 
 I inserted the key and opened the heavy iron door. The 
 safe was empty. 
 
 I was struck motionless, doubting the evidence of my own 
 senses. To appreciate the full significance of this discovery 
 you must know that amongst my other duties was the busi- 
 ness of locking the plate away every night. Every night 
 before going to bed Maddox brought me all the silver that 
 had been in use throughout the day in the plate-basket, and 
 remained in my room whilst I counted it, after which I put it 
 in the safe and locked it up. He had done this every night 
 since I had been in the house ; he had done this the night
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 143 
 
 before. The only portion of the silver that had been left out 
 were some spoons, which went up on the tray with the water 
 and glasses. But these spoons I had found in the dining- 
 room and library, and they were now in the kitchen. The 
 plate in use represented but a very small portion of the silver 
 contained in the safe. To find this safe empty, then, was a 
 discovery that perfectly overwhelmed me. 
 
 I ran upstairs. 
 
 ' All the plate is stolen ! ' I exclaimed ; ' the safe is 
 empty ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Eansome uttered an exclamation, while the brush 
 with which Mary was operating on her mistress's hair fell 
 from her hand and her mouth flew open. 
 
 ' All the plate gone ? ' cried Mrs. Eansome. 
 
 1 Yes,' I replied ; ' every bit of it ! ' 
 
 ' Then this accounts for Maddox's disappearance ? He 
 must have stolen your keys.' 
 
 ' No ; he couldn't have done that. The keys were in my 
 trunk, and I am positive nobody entered my room last night.' 
 
 She was silent, and then said, ' What's to be done ? ' 
 
 ' The police ought to be told,' said Mary. 
 
 1 Certainly,' I replied. ' Are there any police at Copsford ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' cried Mary. ' I know the inspector well. He's 
 a friend of father's. Shall I run for him, ma'am ? ' 
 
 _ ' Yes.' But she must first finish doing Mrs. Bansome's 
 hair. She achieved her task with extraordinary celerity, and 
 then hastened away. 
 
 The conversation between Mrs. Eansome and me was very 
 discursive and scarcely worth chronicling, being on my side, 
 at all events, chiefly ejaculatory. But one notion Mrs. Ean- 
 some had got into her brain — which my latest discovery 
 seemed rather to confirm than shake — and that was, that the 
 whole business from beginning to end was a conspiracy against 
 her, planned by her husband, and helped by Maddox. 
 
 ' I don't know what it means — what his object is,' she ex- 
 claimed, as we went downstairs ; ' but the mere fact of their 
 having left the house together is conclusive that this double 
 disappearance is a planned affair. Oh, Miss Avory ! my hus- 
 band is wicked and mad enough to do anything.' 
 
 ' I believe that myself,' I answered. ' But allowing the 
 largest licence to the actions of madness, I cannot see how 
 Maddox's stealing the plate can help any plot against your 
 peace of mind that Mr. Eansome may meditate.'
 
 144 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 1 Nor I ; but Mr. Ransorne can explain, I dare say, and 
 with his mysterious forefinger and brutal smile show us how 
 utterly mad he is by this his last scheme.' 
 
 * What shall we say to the inspector when he comes ? 
 Suppose he hits upon your idea, but without guessing the 
 motive of the act, that Mr. Ransome and his man have gone 
 off and taken the plate with them ; what will be the effect 
 upon the neighbours when they hear the mutilated story? 
 Will they not declare that Mr. Ransome has actually robbed 
 his own house ? ' 
 
 She laughed, and looked grave in a moment. 
 
 ' We should have thought of this before sending for the 
 inspector. I am sure I don't want such people here. They 
 seldom do any good, and his visit is certain to set people talk- 
 ing. It is Mary's doing. The girl is a perfect fool and runs 
 mad on the merest hint of excitement. We ought to have 
 deliberated a little before sending to Copsford.' She grew un- 
 easy and left her chair, and moved restlessly about the room. 
 We were in the dining-room, and I was talking to her whilst 
 she waited for her breakfast. 
 
 4 Perhaps,' she suddenly exclaimed, ' this is a part of Mr. 
 Ransome's plot. He judged that, on our discovering the rob- 
 dery, the police would be summoned.' 
 
 1 There is nothing humiliating in summoning the police in 
 order to point out a robbery,' I answered, seeing her pause. 
 
 ' But there is in the gossip that will follow. People are 
 so detestably knowing. They put two and two together and 
 make five. " If the footman had quitted the house alone, we 
 could understand," they will say ; " but why should Mr. Ran- 
 some run away on the same night, and no doubt at the same 
 hour ? " and not being able to find an answer, they will in- 
 vent one ; and who can tell what monstrous fictions may get 
 about ? ' 
 
 The entrance of Susan at this juncture interrupted the 
 conversation, and I left the room. While Mrs. Ransome 
 breakfasted I occupied the time by further explorations, and 
 by asking the servants questions. But neither my researches 
 nor my interrogations were of any use. The two servants 
 could throw no light on Mr. Ransome's disappearance. I asked 
 them if they had ever noticed Mr. Ransome and Maddox con- 
 versing together with any air of familiarity. Never. Had 
 it struck them that Mr. Ransome had treated his man with 
 more forbearance latterly ? No — quite the contrary. A day
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 145 
 
 or two ago Susan had heard Mr. Ransome storming at Maddox 
 in his bedroom. How had Susan heard this ? In passing the 
 bedroom. Was she sure that Mr. Ransome did not know that 
 she was passing? Not unless he could see through a 
 wall. 
 
 I was in the kitchen when Mary, after nearly two hours' 
 absence, returned with the inspector. The girl, who was 
 breathless but in high spirits, came running downstairs to 
 tell me I was wanted. I heard her cackling like a hen to the 
 cook as I made my way upstairs, and gathered, even in that 
 brief time, enough to lead me to suppose that the inspector 
 had been put by her in possession of a very great deal more 
 information than it was possible for any living being, in the 
 present state of knowledge, to communicate. 
 
 The inspector was a bald, big man, with strong whiskers, 
 a frogged coat, pantaloons tightly strapped down over his 
 boots, and small black eyes lodged in deep caverns and pro- 
 tected with a regular furze of eyebrow. He sat on the extreme 
 edge of a chair, opposite Mrs. Ransome, who looked nervous 
 and pale and worried. 
 
 The moment I entered the room the inspector told me to 
 sit down, as if that were an indispensable part of the 
 proceedings, without which there was no getting on at all. 
 He then opened a broadside of questions upon me, deeply 
 puzzling himself occasionally by the magnitude of his 
 knowingness. I was to describe Maddox. I was then to 
 relate my habits— when I locked the safe, where I put the 
 keys — w ith a great number of other questions all having 
 regard to Maddox only ; whereby I was led to believe that no 
 reference had been made to Mr. Ransome's disappearance, 
 until he suddenly turned to Mrs. Ransome and said — 
 
 ' Your husband has gone too, ma'am, hasn't he ? ' 
 
 ' He did not occupy his bedroom last night.' 
 
 ' How might that be now ? ' 
 
 ' I really do not know.' 
 
 ' It's not to be supposed that he was acquainted with this 
 here footman's intention to rob the house ? ' 
 
 ' It would not be a robbery if the plato were removed with 
 Mr. Ransome's sanction.' 
 
 ' Just so,' answered the inspector, looking enlightened ; 
 ' that's just what I am driving at. Anything suspected ? ' 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 • I ask, ma'am ' 
 
 L
 
 146 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' I desire the benefit of your suspicions,' said Mrs. Ran- 
 some restlessly. 
 
 ' Then, if you please, I'll search the house.' 
 ' Will you take the inspector upstairs, Miss Avory ? ' 
 The man followed me to Mr. Eansome's bedroom. I 
 showed him the broken lock, and told him how I had found a 
 sovereign on the floor, and how I missed Mr. Eansome's 
 dressing-case. Did I know what was in the dressing-case ? 
 Valuables, for instance ? Bank-notes, say ? No ; I was 
 quite ignorant of the contents of the box. He opened the 
 drawers ; he peered under the bed ; he shook the window-cur- 
 tains ; he looked out of the window ; he folded his arms and 
 gazed sternly around him. He was a very knowing inspector 
 indeed. He went to my bedroom, and I showed him my 
 trunk where I put the keys, and I explained to him that it 
 was impossible for Maddox or anybody else to have entered 
 my room when I was in bed, and pulled the trunk from under 
 the bed, and opened it, and taken out the keys, which were 
 certain to jingle, all without my hearing him. And he agreed 
 with me. After this he examined Maddox's room, where in 
 a drawer we found a piece of candle, a pipe, a box of lucifer- 
 matches, a portrait of a lady in bronze paper, and the book 
 concerning the adventures of Jerry Abershaw. The inspector 
 eyed the book gravely, but made no observation, and desired 
 me to take him to the plate-safe. So we journeyed downstairs, 
 where the safe stood open ; and he looked inside it and out- 
 side it, and examined the key and applied it to the lock, and 
 then scrutinised the lock — all with an air of profound wisdom, 
 as though he should say, ' Everything is clear to my mind, 
 young woman ; but that is my secret.' 
 
 However, his face wronged his judgment, for, so far from 
 everything being clear to his mind, he exclaimed, smiting his 
 knee, that he couldn't make head or tail of the business — 
 that it looked like a robbery, but that it mightn't be a robbery ; 
 that if Maddox worked alone, he was the thief ; but that if 
 Mr. Ransome cet him to work, he wasn't the thief ; that he 
 was puzzled when he thought of them both going off the same 
 night ; and that he would like to speak to the mistress, 
 please. 
 
 I took him to the dining-room, and there left him. He 
 went away after he had been alone with Mrs. Ransome for 
 about a quarter of an hour, and she came downstairs to my 
 room.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 147 
 
 Her discomposed manner was easily attributable to the 
 uncomfortable vocation of her recent visitor. 
 
 ' Close the door, Miss Avory,' she said ; ' I don't want the 
 servants to overhear us.' 
 
 I did as she bade me, and said — 
 
 ' What does the inspector think ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she exclaimed, pettishly, ' he is a very stupid man. 
 He asked me a great number of useless and unnecessary ques- 
 tions, and then had to request me to give him directions after 
 all. We ought never to have sent for him. He will now 
 return to Copsford and tell everybody that Mr. Eansome has 
 run away from his wife, and that the footman has run away 
 with the plate, and I shall be as much talked about as if I had 
 run away myself.' 
 
 ' But did not he express an opinion ? ' 
 
 ' No ; he said he was puzzled. That was substantially all 
 he said, though he wrapped up his meaning in such a variety 
 of arguments and questions that one would suppose he saw 
 the whole thing as clearly as I can see through that window.' 
 
 ' Does he mean to start his people in pursuit of Maddox ? ' 
 I asked, struck by the air of indifference with which she dis- 
 cussed the subject. 
 
 ' I'll tell you, as well as I can, what passed between us. 
 He asked me at what hour I supposed the robbery had been 
 committed. I told him it must have happened last night after 
 half -past ten, because you did not go to bed before that time. 
 He then put some irrelevant questions about you, which I cut 
 short, because they were silly. Then he wanted to know if 
 Mr. Ransome had ever before left his house at night without 
 communicating his intentions to do so to me. I answered 
 yes, and that he was in the habit of leaving his home some- 
 times for a day, sometimes for a week, without a word ; and as 
 he could do it in the day, so he could do it in the night. What 
 sort of character did Maddox bear ? I said I knew very little 
 of the man. He was his master's servant, and had been en- 
 gaged by him, and that he had been in our service six months. 
 After a number of questions of this kind, he said, "Do you 
 charge this man with having robbed y<ri ? " " The plate has 
 been taken," I answered, " and I suppose Maddox took it. But I 
 will tell you plainly that it is quite as likely as not that he was 
 an instrument in Mr. Ransome's hand." There I stopped, 
 not choosing to enter into further explanations. " My duty is 
 very simple," he said. " If you charge this footman with having
 
 i 4 8 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 robbed you, I will have him apprehended if he can be caught. 
 If you tell me that he has acted in concert with your husband, 
 then you give me to understand that Mr. Eansome is as guilty 
 as he, and that there are two parties to be followed. But that 
 can't be ; for if the footman acted on Mr. Ransome's instruc- 
 tions, he is no thief, because he is his master's servant, and is 
 bound to obey him ; and the plate is as much your husband's 
 as yours, and every man has a right to his own. That's law." 
 By this time I was thoroughly tired of the man, though I quite 
 appreciated his bewilderment in not being able to get a direct 
 charge from me. It was out of the question that I should go 
 into family matters with him, and explain that Mr. Ransome 
 was mad, and that all this might be a scheme of his to revenge 
 himself for my treatment of his mother ; and I firmly believe 
 this to be the case. So, in order to get rid of him, I told him 
 that I would consult my friends, and let him know my deter- 
 mination. But I don't mean to consult my friends, Miss 
 Avory. I shall leave matters as they are and wait.' 
 
 ♦ But suppose,' I suggested, ' that Maddox has really robbed 
 you ; suppose that Mr. Ransome knows nothing about the 
 robbery.' 
 
 ' I can't suppose anything of the kind. There are seven 
 nights in a week. Is it not too much of a coincidence that 
 they should both take it into their heads to leave on the same 
 night, perhaps at the same hour ? I tell you I can't conceive 
 Mr. Ransome's object. As a madman, his actions must be 
 unaccountable ; but that this double disappearance is some 
 insane conspiracy against me I am as certain as that I am 
 now looking at you.' 
 
 ' What do you propose to do, madam ? ' 
 « Nothing. What can I do ? Suppose my theory is right. 
 I start the police in quest of Maddox, and he is captured ; he 
 then confesses the conspiracy between himself and Mr. Ran- 
 some. Could I ever hold up my head again ? God knows, I 
 have been sufficiently degraded as it is. I rarely leave the 
 grounds for a walk— I have a horror of meeting people who 
 used to know me ; the scandal would be too crushing should 
 it be said that my husband could engage a menial like Maddox 
 to join him in a scheme against me.' 
 
 ' But when it is known that your husband is mad, would 
 not people be sorry for you, and visit what shame the thing 
 involves upon him ? ' 
 
 1 It would not save my name from being mouthed,' she cried
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 149 
 
 bitterly. ' Let Mr. Eansome go ; if my freedom had been 
 purchased by the loss of my whole fortune, I should not be 
 one jot less glad than I am now to feel that he is gone. I 
 have but one dread — that he will return. Pray God he will 
 not ! Pray God he will not ! ' she exclaimed, with startling 
 vehemence. 
 
 I was silent for some moments, and then said — 
 
 ' If you really believe that Mr. Eansome's and the foot- 
 man's disappearance is a conspiracy against yea, you are wise 
 in maintaining a dignified reserve. His action is an extra- 
 ordinary one — much too extraordinary to be reconciled to any 
 theory it is possible to form of his ultimate intentions.' 
 
 ' But never forget that he is mad,' she interrupted. 
 
 1 No, and that fact only can make your conjecture probable. 
 But still, assuming him to be as mad as we will, what pos- 
 sible reason can he have for getting Maddox to steal the plate, 
 or for carrying the plate off with him ? What can he do with 
 it?' 
 
 1 Bury it, perhaps. 
 
 1 Maddox must expect a large reward for running the risk 
 of being taken up for the robbery. To tell you the truth, 
 madam, I have always doubted that man's honesty from a 
 discovery I once made, but which I never chose to repeat, as 
 I had no wish to be thought a talebearer.' I then spoke of 
 the book I had found by his bedside. 
 
 ' Oh, people in his sphere read anything,' she said. ' They 
 delight in stories of murders and robberies. I should lay no 
 stress upon that.' 
 
 ' Well,' I exclaimed, somewhat disconcerted. ' But now 
 mes another question : How did he open the safe ? ' 
 
 ' That's one reason I have for believing Mr. Eansome to be 
 in the secret,' she answered. ' Before you came, he used to 
 keep the key of the safe— that was when we had no house- 
 keeper. There was nothing to prevent him then from having 
 another one made.' 
 
 ' But this notion implies that he has had the scheme in his 
 head for some time.' 
 
 ' I dare say he has.' 
 
 ' But he would be using the key constantly. How could 
 he leave it at a shop whilst it was being copied ? ' 
 
 ' He would take the impression of it in wax. Housebreakers 
 manage so, I have read, don't they ? ' 
 
 She suppressed a yawn and got up suddenly.
 
 150 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' We have talked more about this matter than it deserves, 
 Miss Avory , I shall do nothing — merely wait. I have plenty 
 of patience — when he is not with me ; more than he. At the 
 end of some weeks, if I find he still keeps away, I will write to 
 papa. He is the only friend I should dream of consulting — 
 the only friend whose opinion I would take. But I'll not 
 write yet. I am afraid my troubles are not over. They will 
 be over when I find he does not mean to come back.' 
 
 She walked out of the room abruptly, and I heard her call 
 to Mary to bring her hat from her bedroom as she was going 
 to walk in the grounds. 
 
 XI 
 
 There would have been no mystery in Mr. Eansome's dis- 
 appearance had he left the house alone. His habits were 
 capricious and unaccountable, well known to us all ; and his 
 empty bedroom would merely have suggested the question, 
 ' Where is he gone noio ? and how long does he mean to stop 
 away ? ' 
 
 The mystery was created by the simultaneous disappear- 
 ance of Maddox. The coincidence of their joint departure 
 furnished such strong presumptive evidence of collusion that 
 the detail of the robbery merely served to complicate the 
 enigma of the madman's motive without shaking the belief 
 that the two men had acted in concert. 
 
 There was indeed another view to be taken of the matter : 
 it might be supposed that Maddox bad robbed the house with- 
 out knowing that it was his master's intention to quit it on 
 the same night. But this seemed difficult to realise ; because 
 (speaking for myself) I could not imagine that two men occu- 
 pying the same house — the house itself by no means a large 
 one — could be stirring on their legs in the dead of night, and 
 in the profound stillness of such a night as that on which 
 these events had happened, without the one hearing the other ; 
 and as the necessity of secrecy (supposing them to have acted 
 independently of each other) was strong on them both, the 
 mere idea to either of the men of the other being about would 
 be enough to frighten them both back to their beds and force 
 them to defer their several schemes until another oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 The sounds that I had heard convinced me as much as 
 anything else that Mr. Eansome and Maddox had acted
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 151 
 
 together; because the noise resembling the turning of the 
 handle of a door had come from the landing where Mr. Ran- 
 some's bedroom was ; and this had been followed by the 
 creaking of the staircase outside my room — in other words, 
 the stairs belonging to the landing where Maddox's bedroom 
 was. They had followed each other with but a short interval ; 
 hence, then, I suppose that Mr. Ransome had first left his bed- 
 room, and had been shortly afterwards joined by Maddox. 
 
 But the fact of Maddox having run away was no reason 
 why Mr. Ransome shouldn't return. He might walk in at 
 any moment, and enjoy the disappointment of the hope he 
 had kindled in his wife. Meanwhile I wondered what would 
 be thought over at Copsford when the inspector whispered 
 about that Mrs. Ransome meant to take no action in the 
 matter of the robbery ? 
 
 The day passed, the evening came ; but not Mr. Ransome. 
 We were somewhat embarrassed for spoons and forks, and 
 Mrs. Ransome had to make what shift she could for her 
 luncheon and dinner with those which were used in the 
 kitchen. Mary said that she had never heard her laugh so 
 merrily as when she took up one of the two-pronged iron forks 
 which had been placed on the table. 
 
 ' It's my belief,' the girl said, ' that she looks on the loss 
 of her beautiful plate as cpiite a joke.' 
 
 I thought the joke that amused her lay in the loss of her 
 husband. 
 
 I had a short conversation with her before she went to 
 bed. Her mood rather puzzled me, for her vivacity was made 
 at times inconsistent by abrupt lapses into anxious gravity. 
 She excused herself once for bursting into a laugh when I 
 was talking gravely about Maddox and putting it to her, as I 
 had before done, whether it was not very probable that the 
 man had committed the robbery on his own account, by 
 saying that, somehow, she had a feeling that she would never 
 see her husband again. She had no reason to give for this 
 notion ; it might perhaps, she said, be owing to the secret and 
 curious way in which he had left her ; but, however it might 
 be, the feelin™ was strong in her. I am afraid I did not echo 
 her laughter ; not because I thought her fancy improbable, 
 but because I considered that her husband being mad, common 
 humanity demanded that we should take a sober view of his 
 situation, which might be that of a fugitive irresponsible for 
 his actions and likely to come to serious harm if suffered to
 
 152 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 wander at large without control. I did not express my 
 thoughts, hoping, indeed believing, that she shared them, but 
 that her pride and hate of him would not permit her to take 
 any part that might in the smallest degree be suggestive of 
 hypocrisy. 
 
 Before I went to bed that night I carefully examined the 
 fastenings of the doors. If Mr. Ransome should return whilst 
 we were in bed, I was determined that he should play no 
 tricks with my nervous system, but enter the house through 
 the proper channels. A pleasant thing to find him in bed 
 next morning with one of the lower windows burglariously 
 forced ! 
 
 But the night passed quietly. I remember going down- 
 stairs in the morning with much curiosity, scarcely knowing 
 what startling discovery I might make. But all was safe. 
 I was up before the other servants, and frightened the cook 
 nearly into hysterics : for she, not knowing I had left my 
 room, came into the kitchen where I was, and catching sight 
 of me, ran away with a shriek ; nor, until I had called her 
 several times, could I persuade her that I was not a burglar 
 whom she had just caught in the act of walking off with the 
 kitchen-table and the whole of the crockery. 
 
 At midday the postman brought a letter to the house 
 addressed to Saville Ransome, Esquire. The handwriting 
 was a woman's, big and scrawling. I took it to Mrs. Ran- 
 some, who said, ' It is from his mother.' 
 
 ' I wonder if she has returned to Guildford ? ' I observed. 
 
 1 At all events, she doesn't know he has left the house, or 
 she wouldn't address him here.' 
 
 And as she said this, she tore open the envelope and read 
 the contents. Her face grew dark, and she threw the letter 
 violently on the table when she had read it. 
 
 ' The hateful old creature ! ' she exclaimed. 
 
 She took up the letter and began to read it aloud — 
 
 1 " I reached home safely at two o'clock, and lose no time to 
 tell you of my arrival. I met Mrs. Emmerson on my way 
 from the coach, and she was quite surprised to see me ; and 
 no wonder, for I had told her I should be away for a fort- 
 night. I explained why I had left— that your wife was an 
 insulting, common woman, who locked up the rooms in your 
 house and put the keys in her pocket, and would not give me 
 even decent accommodation. ' Poor Saville ! ' she said. 
 1 What a terrible life he must have of it with such a creature ! '
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 153 
 
 • You may well say that,' I answered. ' She is a most in- 
 famous person, with a temper that would disgrace a fish- 
 woman, and proud like all parvenus.' " ' 
 
 ' Pray read no more, madam,' said I, regretting the angry 
 passion that flamed in her eyes and this perusal of a coarse, 
 uninteresting letter not addressed to her. ' She is a stupid 
 woman, and quite beneath your notice when she is from under 
 your roof.' 
 
 She crumpled the letter in her hand and flung it into the 
 grate. 
 
 ' That's how I would serve her,' she exclaimed. ' A par- 
 venu ! Oh, think of it ! ' 
 
 She walked about the room and suddenly crossed to the 
 drawing-room, where, a moment after, she began to play the 
 piano, bursting into a loud, noisy air, which she presently 
 changed into a melody wonderfully sweet and soft. If that 
 tune showed the variation in her mood, I thought, I might 
 safely speak to her on the subject I should have commenced 
 in the dining-room but for that letter. 
 
 ' Are you going to tell me that I should not play, Miss 
 Avory ? ' she exclaimed, as I approached her. 
 
 ' Oh, dear no, madam.' 
 
 ' The right thing to do, I suppose, under these afflicting 
 circumstances, would be to sit with my hands crossed, and, by 
 way of a coiffure, the nearest approach to widow's weeds my 
 milliner could invent. But then I must first consider what I 
 have to mourn. The loss of my plate ? That is a serious 
 matter. My dear husband's amiable flight? That should 
 make me wear bright colours and sing and play all day long.' 
 
 She had raised her hand to strike the piano again, when I 
 said — 
 
 1 1 was thinking, madam, I should like to call upon the 
 Campions. I have not seen them since my arrival here. 
 They were very kind to me when I first came to Copsford. 
 Shall I inconvenience you by leaving the house for an hour 
 or two ? ' 
 
 1 Not in the least. Never trouble to speak to me when 
 you wish to take exercise. I shall sometimes join you, I 
 hope, if he stops away. I used often to walk long distances 
 with papa ; but since I have been companionless I have kept 
 to the grounds. What shall you tell the Campions about 
 Mr. Eansome and his man ? ' 
 
 1 As little as I can. To speak the truth, my motive in
 
 154 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 calling on them is to find out what people are saying. I may 
 perhaps be able to check a few fictions. The Campions know 
 a great number of persons.' 
 
 ' That is a good idea. I should like to know what people 
 are saying. But do not trouble to contradict anything. 
 Bitterly as I hate the idea of my name supplying the neigh- 
 bourhood with a subject for tittle-tattle, I would rather that 
 the most absurd falsehoods be circulated than the truth.' 
 
 She nodded and recommenced her playing. I left the 
 room, and in a few moments was walking towards Rose 
 Farm. 
 
 I found Mrs. Campion at home. She was knitting in the 
 garden under the shade of an apple-tree, and gave, by her 
 snug, round, healthful presence, a finishing detail to the 
 whole picturesque scene. 
 
 She ran for a chair, and told me that her husband had 
 gone over to some village in his cart ; and then she asked me 
 how I was getting on, which brought our chat to the subject 
 of the Ransomes. 
 
 ' Is it really true,' said she, ' that Mr. Ransome has run 
 away from his home, and taken all the plate with him ? ' 
 
 ' Are people saying that ? ' 
 
 ' Oh,' she answered, trying to suppress a laugh, because 
 she would think the topic a grave one to me, ' all sorts of 
 things are said. I heard this morning that the footman had 
 murdered his master and hid his body, expressly that people 
 should think he had helped him to steal the plate and was 
 gone off with him ! Such nonsense, to be sure ! But living 
 in the country is not like living in London, Miss Avory. In 
 places like Copsford we are bound to know everything our 
 neighbour says and does. But it's a strange thing to happen, 
 all the same, supposing, of course, it's true.' 
 
 ' If what is true ? ' 
 
 ' Why, that Mr. Ransome and his man-servant have gone 
 off and taken the plate with them. Is it true ? ' 
 
 I I give you my word, dear Mrs. Campion, that I am as 
 ignorant of the truth as you are. All that I can tell you is 
 that Mr. Ransome and Maddox the footman left the house— I 
 don't say together, but pretty nearly at the same hour — and 
 that all the plate has been stolen out of the housekeeper's 
 room. Nothing more is known at Gardenhurst than this. 
 If you can tell me more, I shall be grateful.' 
 
 ' Bless you ! what should I know ? ' she exclaimed. ' It's
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 155 
 
 everybody's talk just now, and that's how I came to speak of 
 it. And how does the young mistress bear it all ? ' 
 
 ' Why, it is not a very pleasant thing to happen in a 
 house. Have you heard whether anybody like Mr. Kansome 
 or Maddox has been met ? ' 
 
 ' No, I have heard nothing. I doubt if they've been seen. 
 I should have heard else.' 
 
 ' Do you know if people have thought it worth while 
 to mention, among other things, that Mr. Eansome is a 
 madman ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, it's well known he was crazy-like. It's only a 
 madman would rob his own house, sure ! And what's 
 Mrs. Ransome going to do ? I suppose she has set the 
 constables after them ? ' 
 
 ' What ! after her own husband ? ' 
 
 ' Why not ? If my husband was mad and was to run 
 away with the footman and things belonging to the house, 
 wouldn't I send after him ? I'd have him caught for his 
 own sake ; and I'd have the footman put into prison for 
 helping his master to make such a fool of himself.' 
 
 ' Rather hard upon a wife to have to give her husband 
 into custody ! ' said I, laughing. 
 
 ' Oh, that's right enough. But if he's mad, my dear ? 
 He ought to have a keeper— as I was only Scaying to John 
 last night, when he was telling me of the fierce quarrels that 
 were always going on between Mr. and Mrs. Ransome ; 
 dreadful enough, he said, to make him wonder how you can 
 stand living in such a house. That's just the truth, my dear, 
 and you'll pardon me for saying so.' 
 
 1 How do you know they quarrel ? ' 
 
 • Oh, it was always known. They lost their friends by it 
 long before you came, as I was told by one of the servants 
 up at the Rayners', where the family were often talking of 
 Mr. Ransome, and saying as how they and people like them 
 couldn't visit a house where they were never safe from being 
 shocked by angry words between the master and mistress. 
 But you've seen enough, Miss Avory, I dare say, to prevent 
 you from wondering why they have no friends.' 
 
 ' I have seen enough to convince me that Mr. Ransome is 
 mad ; and if I were in Mrs. Ransome's place, I should have a 
 very poor opinion of the sincerity of the friends who could 
 visit my lunatic husband's sins and temper on my head.' 
 
 4 Oh, but you'll confess,' she exclaimed, smiling and stoop-
 
 156 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ing to pick up the ball of worsted that had rolled off her lap, 
 ' that Mrs. Bansome can be very aggravating when she 
 pleases.' 
 
 1 1 thought you liked her.' 
 
 1 So I do — at least, so I did when she was Miss Kilmain. 
 But I've seen very little of her since she was married. She 
 was a pleasant lady then, and I tell everybody who speaks of 
 her the same. But right is right ; and though I firmly believe 
 that her husband is altogether to blame for spoiling her 
 temper, yet that don't alter the truth that she picks quarrels 
 with him when he'd be quiet, and treats him and his mother 
 in a way that isn't right, considering that she knows he isn't 
 sane. And besides, a mother's a mother, and there's no 
 reason why a lunatic shouldn't have the feelings of a son.' 
 
 There was a prejudice implied in these remarks which, 
 remembering how kindly Mrs. Campion had before snoken of 
 Mrs. Bansome, somewhat disconcerted me. 
 
 1 How do you know all this ? ' I asked her. 
 
 ' I'll tell you. I drank tea last night at Mrs. Evans's, her 
 whose sister is along with you at Gardenhurst.' 
 
 1 You mean Mary ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Mary. When the girl was sent for the inspector 
 she met Mrs. Evans in the road, and told her what her errand 
 was, and all about Mr. Bansome 's disappearance and the 
 robbery and everything. And then she spoke of Mrs. Ban- 
 some locking up the rooms that her mother-in-law mightn't 
 go into them, and of the dreadful quarrels that took place 
 and were always taking place, and how Mrs. Bansome had 
 once, in her presence, declared she would kill him, and such 
 awful words. She said that she often felt sorry for her 
 mistress, but that there was no denying that she constantly 
 aggravated her husband ; and as Mrs. Evans afterwards said, 
 putting it to me, wasn't her locking up the rooms and forcing 
 her husband and mother to take their meals almost in dark- 
 ness enough to anger a saint ? I'm sure I should be sorry to 
 say an ill word against Mrs. Bansome ; but right is right, and 
 when I heard Mrs. Evans talking I had really nothing to say ; 
 for, wicked as Mr. Bansome may be, he deserves pity for 
 wanting his senses, and oughtn't to be made madder than he 
 is by having his mother treated as if she were no better than 
 a common servant.' 
 
 I suppressed the indignation which the thought of Mary's 
 dangerous gossip had excited in me, and answered —
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 157 
 
 ' You may take my honest word for it that, though all that 
 Mary has repeated is substantially correct, Mrs. Ransome has 
 been most inhumanly treated both by her husband and her 
 mother-in-law, and that there is not a single action she has 
 committed since I have been in her service which I am not 
 prepared to justify. Though you should learn ten times more 
 from Mary than what you have already heard, you would 
 still know but a very small portion of the truth. I have less 
 reason than Mary to sympathise with Mrs. Ransome, having 
 known her but a few weeks against the two years Mary 
 has been with her. You may therefore believe me when I 
 say that the gossip that represents her as having aggravated 
 or in any way offended or injured her husband is a direct 
 falsehood ; and that her treatment of her mother-in-law is 
 angelic in comparison with what that offensive, false-tongued 
 little woman deserves.' 
 
 ' Well, well, Miss Avory,' exclaimed Mrs. Campion, taking 
 my hand and pressing it, ' we'll not speak of them any more. 
 You know the truth better than I do, and I am sorry to have 
 said anything to have vexed you. I wonder if there are any 
 strawberries left. Come and see. I can give you a rare treat 
 of cream with any we can find. I wish John would come 
 home. You'll stay to tea ? ' 
 
 This I said I should not be able to do. However, I walked 
 with her to her strawberry beds, and there we found as much 
 fruit as would have lasted me a week. I was grateful to her 
 for having chesked a conversation which might only have 
 resulted in leaving upon us both an uncomfortable im- 
 pression. I stopped with her until four, talking of my duties at 
 Gardenhurst, and hearing her tell about her farm, and the 
 wages her husband paid, and the earnings he averaged, pacing 
 the while her garden, where the beds were edged with high 
 box, and filled with old-fashioned flowers, stocks, pansies, 
 sweet williams, with glorious shining roses intermixed in 
 abundance, and lilies baring their breasts of snow to the sky. 
 I brought the conversation again to the Ransomes, by begging 
 her not to heed the gossip she might hear, and to remember 
 my honest assurance that Mrs. Ransome had lived a miserable 
 life with her husband, and deserved the deepest compas- 
 sion. 
 
 1 Didn't I tell you,' said she, evading the point, ' that you 
 would hear of queer goings on in that house before you had 
 been there a month ? You haven't been there that time yet,
 
 i 5 S IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 and I don't suppose anything more singular could have hap- 
 pened in any family in England than the running away of the 
 master and the footman with the plate and such-like valu- 
 ables.' 
 
 ' That is the theory,' I said, ' hut it is not proved yet, and 
 until some kind of evidence turns up, I, for one, shall refuse to 
 have any opinion one way or the other upon the subject. I 
 suppose we are sure to hear something soon. Somebody who 
 knows one or the other of them is sure to meet them and 
 report. The world is very small, and we are always falling in 
 with acquaintances, go where we may.' 
 
 Saying this, I shook hands with her, received a warm 
 invitation to come again soon, and walked towards Garden- 
 hurst. 
 
 I had not reached the house ten minutes before Mrs. Ran- 
 some sent for me. She was in the drawing-room ; a portfolio 
 of music lay on the sofa beside her, and she was turning the 
 sheets over as I entered. 
 
 ' Did you find the Campions at home ? ' she asked. 
 
 1 Yes, madam.' 
 
 ' What a pretty place Rose Farm is ! I used to like 
 Mrs. Campion very much, and wonder that she doesn't come 
 to see me. Did she speak of me ? ' 
 
 Her manner was full of undisguised eagerness to hear 
 what I had to tell. 
 
 ' Yes, and had she lived in this house, I don't think she 
 could be more perfectly acquainted with the facts of every- 
 thing that has happened both before I came and since I have 
 been here.' 
 
 ' How is that ? ' she asked, flushing up. 
 
 ' The plain truth is this, madam : your servant Mary is a 
 gossip. She has a sister at Copsford to whom she has related 
 the whole story of Mr. Ransome's disappearance and the 
 robbery. The story, taking, no doubt, many exaggerations 
 from its transit through the sister, has become formidable 
 enough to prejudice so amiable a person as Mrs. Campion.' 
 
 'Ring the bell, Miss Avory,' she exclaimed, starting up 
 with a face full of anger. 
 
 ' One moment, madam. Do you mean to dismiss Mary or 
 reprimand her ? ' 
 
 ' Dismiss her, and at once. How dare she talk out of my 
 house ? Ring the bell, if you please.' 
 
 'Pray forgive me for offering an opinion. I would not
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 159 
 
 dismiss her. Have you ever cautioned her before against 
 this dangerous habit of hers '? ' 
 
 I Certainly not ; I would not trouble to caution her. I 
 have a horror of these gossiping creatures, and the servant 
 whom I find guilty of talking of my affairs out of my house 
 must leave me.' 
 
 I I have not one word to say in her defence. But I would 
 strongly recommend you, madam, not to dismiss her on these 
 grounds. She might grow malicious and invent falsehoods 
 out of revenge.' 
 
 ' "What falsehoods ? What have I to fear ? ' she cried, 
 staring at me. 
 
 ' You have to consider that Mr. Eansome's disappearance 
 may have a vicious purpose ; and I should take care not 
 to strengthen his hands by creating enemies of people like 
 Mary, who know enough of what has passed in this house to 
 be able to erect formidable fictions on the basis of certain 
 truth.' 
 
 ' I don't understand you,' she exclaimed, ' Mary knows 
 that my husband and I quarrel — that I hate him — that he is 
 a madman — that his treatment of me has been monstrous 
 ever since she has lived with me. Let her go and tell people 
 that. I am not afraid of the truth. But I will not suffer an 
 eavesdropper to remain in my service. How dare she go and 
 gossip about my affairs, knowing how I detest to have my 
 name discussed ! ' 
 
 ' She has the excuse of having spoken only to her sister.' 
 
 ' I don't care. She has no right to speak to her sister.' 
 
 ' Will you not try what a reprimand will do? If that fails, 
 then let me give her notice under the excuse that you do not 
 require three servants. I am convinced,' I exclaimed with 
 energy, ' that it is not your policy to let her know you have 
 dismissed her for talking. People will wonder what secrets 
 you have which you are ashamed of hearing repeated.' 
 
 This was a bold and unlucky remark. 
 
 ' People are more likely to wonder,' she cried, scornfully, 
 * that I could submit to have my home affairs talked of by a 
 senseless servant. Will you ring the bell, Miss Ayory ? ' 
 
 Her impetuous order was no longer to be disobeyed. I 
 had not yet received a more convincing proof of her sensitive- 
 ness to the opinions of others than her present anger. 
 
 Susan answered the bell. 
 
 ' Send Mary to me,' exclaimed Mrs. Ransome ; and when
 
 160 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 the girl had gone, she added : * Surely, Miss Avory, you do 
 not want me to be afraid of my own servants ? ' 
 
 ' If the motive of Mr. Kansome's disappearance were clear, 
 I should not dream of opposing your dismissal of Mary,' I 
 answered. ' But since his absence puzzles us, how must it 
 puzzle others who would readily swallow any inventions they 
 might hear ? For that reason I would deal with Mary 
 cautiously.' 
 
 ' But what can the girl invent ? ' she demanded im- 
 patiently. 
 
 ' She can set people talking.' 
 
 « Of what ? ' 
 
 'Of you.' 
 
 ' Yes, of me ! She can tell the truth or she can tell lies ; 
 and what then ? ' 
 
 ' But you do not wish to be talked about, madam.' 
 
 ' No ; and that is why ' 
 
 Mary knocked and entered. I was about to leave, but 
 Mrs. Kansome signed to me to stop. 
 
 ' When is your month up ? ' she inquired, frowning at the 
 girl. 
 
 ' On Wednesday week, ma'am,' answered the girl, looking 
 at her. 
 
 ' Miss Avory will pay you your wages up to that time, and 
 you can leave to-day.' 
 
 ' What have I done ? ' asked the girl, turning pale. 
 
 'You have talked of me among your friends — told the 
 secrets of this house, and gossipped to everybody who will listen 
 to you.' 
 
 ' I've not talked more than other people,' answered the girl 
 sulkily, and with a glance at me that said, ' I have to thank 
 you for this.' 
 
 ' Other people may say what they like,' cried Mrs. Ran- 
 some angrily. ' But you, who live in this house, who see and 
 hear things which other people know nothing about, act with 
 unwarrantable impertinence, and prove yourself totally unfit 
 for any place of trust in carrying your mean and dangerous 
 gossip into the streets. That will do ! ' she exclaimed, waving 
 her hand. ' You will leave my house at once.' 
 
 The girl walked to the door and, I thought, was going 
 straight out ; but she stopped and said — 
 
 ' Wherever I go I shall tell the truth.' 
 
 ' Mind you do ! ' responded Mrs. Ransome. ' And now 
 leave the room.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 161 
 
 She was about to say something more ; but Mrs. Ransome 
 sprang up, and she hurried out, slamming the door after her. 
 
 ' Now let her go and tell the others,' said Mrs. Ransome, 
 with her eyes gleaming. • She will save me the trouble of 
 cautioning them to mind their own business. Miss Avory, 
 please pay the girl what is owing to her, and see that she is 
 out of the house by six o'clock.' 
 
 I found Mary crying when I went downstairs, but she 
 wiped her eyes when she saw me, and turned away. 
 
 I I am sorry ' I began. 
 
 1 Don't speak to me ! ' she cried. ' You tale-bearer ! you've 
 done this for me.' 
 
 I bit my lip and answered, ' You have done it for yourself. 
 I cautioned you some time ago against opening your mouth 
 so wide about your master and mistress. You are properly 
 treated, and your manner now satisfies me that I have done 
 my duty in telling Mrs. Ransome the truth about you.' 
 
 I then handed her her wages and went to my room. In 
 less than half an hour she had left the house. 
 
 XII 
 
 Mary was not replaced. Two servants were quite enough 
 to do the housework. Indeed, I began to think that I was of 
 very little use to Mrs. Ransome, and said so when I asked her 
 if she wished for another girl to attend upon her. She 
 answered that I was mistaken ; she could not do without me ; 
 and was good enough to say that she regarded me more as a 
 companion than a housekeeper. Susan took Mary's post, 
 and pleased Mrs. Ransome more than the other had done. 
 This girl was an excellent servant, quiet, respectful, and 
 diligent. 
 
 On the fourth day following the disappearance of Mr. 
 Ransome, an old gentleman named Skerlock, a magistrate, 
 called at the house, and had an interview with Mrs. Ransome. 
 She afterwards told me the object of his visit. 
 
 He had heard of the robbery, of Mr. Ransome' s and the 
 footman's flight ; could he be of any service to Mrs. Ran- 
 some? He had the honour of a slight acquaintance with 
 the Colonel, and should feel proud to receive her commands. 
 The inspector had acquainted him with the result of his visit 
 to Gardenhurst, and now Mr. Skerlock would like to learn 
 whether Mrs. Ransome wished for some definite action to be 
 
 M
 
 162 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 taken in the matter ? There "was so much mystery involved 
 in the whole affair that he (Mr. Skerlock) respectfully sub- 
 mitted that it should not be suffered to rest without inquiry. 
 It gave him extreme pain to allude to the very delicate point 
 that, it seemed to him, formed a prominent feature of this 
 singular occurrence ; but he must be permitted to refer to the 
 report that from time to time had reached him of the un- 
 soundness of Mr. Eansome's intellect. Of course Mrs. Ran- 
 some might have special reasons for not choosing to pursue 
 the man Maddox with a charge of robbery ; but basing his 
 judgment on the reports that had obtained circulation, and 
 which accredited the robbery to an inexplicable caprice on the 
 part of Mr. Eansome, he (Mr. Skerlock) would deferentially 
 submit to Mrs. Ransome the need of having her husband 
 followed, since common humanity demanded that a man not 
 master of his reason should not be suffered to wander at large. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome thanked the old gentleman for his visit, 
 and assured him that her husband's absence gave her no un- 
 easiness. It had often been his humour to leave her without 
 notice ; and it was probable that these eccentricities had given 
 rise to the report of his madness. She was much obliged to 
 Mr. Skerlock for his sympathy and advice ; but some time 
 must elapse before she could consider herself justified in view- 
 ing her husband's disappearance in a grave light. With regard 
 to the apparent robbery of the plate and Maddox's flight, she 
 would reserve her opinion until her husband returned. 
 
 She described Mr. Skerlock leaving her in an amusingly 
 mystified state of mind. 
 
 ' Ought I to have told him,' she exclaimed, ' that my hus- 
 band is a madman, with the passions of a devil ? that I hate 
 him ? that my prayer morning and evening is that he may 
 never return — that we may never meet again ? That would 
 have shocked the amiable old man ; but it is true — it is 
 Heaven's truth ! I will not lift a finger to have him followed. 
 But I am bound to feel grateful to Mr. Skerlock for taking the 
 trouble to call," she added satirically. 
 
 As the days wore on other people called ; persons, I was 
 told, who had not set foot in Gardenhurst for a year. They 
 came to sympathise, to offer their services. One or two of 
 these visitors had been on intimate terms of friendship with 
 Mrs. Ransome before her marriage. Of course I could not tell 
 how she received these visitors or what their conversation 
 was; but I know she believed them more curious than friendly,
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 163 
 
 a view of them which would make her very hard and obstinate 
 and reticent on the subject that had attracted them. Had I 
 been in her place, I would have denied myself to these callers. 
 They had forfeited (as old acquaintance) all friendly claims 
 upon her, whether rightly or wrongly matters not ; and this 
 would have given her a good obvious motive for keeping her- 
 self out of sight. 
 
 I am not sure that the state of suspense in which she was 
 then living was not more secretly trying to her than the 
 misery and trouble which were presently to come. The worst 
 was known then ; but now the vexations and harassing doubts 
 as to her husband's object and whereabouts and return to her 
 must have galled and fretted her impatient spirit inexpressibly. 
 Bo, at least, I would think when talking with her sometimes. 
 She forced a cheerful manner upon herself ; was often at the 
 piano ; would laugh loudly over trifles ; but there was an arti- 
 ficiality about her good spirits I could not mistake. Her 
 resolution to enjoy her freedom drove her behaviour beyond 
 the limits of becoming mirth, and thus I felt the unsoundness 
 of her light-hearted manner. She was as a reveller who, con- 
 scious that the morrow must bring trouble, seeks to drown 
 thought in clamorous merriment. I have seen her enter the 
 drawing-room, laughing loudly over some trifling rejoinder 
 she has made me ; I have heard her strike the piano and dash 
 into a merry, boisterous tune ; but in a few minutes the jovial 
 air would be silenced, her fingers would wander absently over 
 the keys, the sounds would cease, and peeping in, I have seen 
 her leaning her cheek on her elbow, lost in thought, motion- 
 less as an image. 
 
 A week passed — ten days — a fortnight. I began to wonder 
 how this would end. A woman possessed of Mrs. Kansome's 
 youth and beauty and fortune must soon tire of migrating, 
 like the Primrose family, from the Red Room to the Brown. 
 She would want change ; she would want society ; and for 
 two years she had had neither. 
 
 But certainly she could do nothing until she had heard of 
 her husband and knew his intentions. By-and-by she would 
 get news of him, of course ; but of one thing I was confident, 
 she would never consent to live with him again. His desertion 
 had provoked as much gossip as ever a divorce could have 
 done ; and her professed objection to scandal she could no 
 logger advance as a reason for not putting an end to her 
 misery by separating from him. 
 
 m2
 
 164 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 About this time she received a letter from her father, who 
 was living at Boulogne, telling her that he had met Mr. 
 Hastings, one of the curates at Copsford, and had learnt from 
 him the story of the robbery and her husband's disappearance. 
 How was it she had not written to him of this ? Was it true ? 
 If so, then he could only suppose that Mr. Eansome's conduct 
 was one more illustration of his eccentricity, and that she did 
 not attach the significance to it which, to judge by Mr. Hast- 
 ings's account, it deserved. Let her answer him promptly, 
 and set his mind at rest. 
 
 She read me this letter in her bedroom, and said that in 
 reply she should tell him not to be uneasy ; that he was right 
 in supposing this to be another instance of her husband's 
 capricious character ; that he must not pay any heed to gossip, 
 and so forth ; Saville had left her a fortnight ago, she expected 
 him home every hour, and then she hoped the queer iinle 
 mystery of the stolen plate would be explained. 
 
 'This is enough to tell for the present, Miss Avory,' she 
 added. ' My husband may come home — this very day, for aught 
 I know. If I were to suggest to my father that the man had 
 probably left me for good, I should have him here at once ; 
 and what would happen if my father should be in the house 
 when my husband returned ? . . . No, papa must be kept in 
 ignorance for the present. God knows, it will be bitter enough 
 for ne to have to tell him the truth when the time comes ! ' 
 
 I could not appreciate this reasoning. Surely she was 
 carrying her obstinate pride a little too far in determining to 
 fight her mad partner to the bitter end ; in resolving to take 
 no counsel of those who would have befriended her in the 
 only effectual way that was possible — namely, by removing 
 her out of the reach of her husband, or by confining him in a 
 madhouse. But I did not possess the secret of Mrs. Ransome's 
 character. She had many points with which I had no 
 sympathy, and many which I could not comprehend. Cer- 
 tainly I never could reconcile her undissembled hatred of her 
 husband with her nervous and passionate dislike to having 
 the truth of her married life known to her friends. 
 
 The circumstance I am now about to relate, and which 
 was in an extraordinary degree to complicate the mystery 
 which was already sufficiently puzzling, happened one Tuesday 
 morning, not quite a month after Mr. Ransome had left the 
 house. 
 
 I was helping Susan in the bedrooms, when I was startled
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 165 
 
 by the violent ringing of the hall bell. My first thought was 
 — Mr. Kansome has returned ! 
 
 Susan ran downstairs to answer the summons. Five 
 minutes had scarcely elapsed when the girl returned in great 
 haste to tell me I was wanted by mistress, and who did I 
 think was downstairs ? — old Mrs. Ransome ! 
 
 There was nothing surprising in her visit but the imperti- 
 nence of it. It was natural that she should -wish to hear of 
 her son ; only, instead of calling, she should have written. 
 
 Where was the mistress ? In the drawing-room. To 
 that room I hastened. 
 
 Long before I reached it I heard the old lady's excited 
 cackle. I pushed open the door, and the younger Mrs. 
 Kansome cried out — 
 
 ' Miss Avory, I have refused to allow that woman to address 
 me without a witness. Be good enough to draw near, and 
 take particular notice of what she says.' 
 
 She was very pale, but quite collected. They both of them 
 stood, one on either side the table. The old lady was pale 
 too ; but never did I see such a venomous little face as she 
 turned upon me when I entered. She was pointing with her 
 parasol to her daughter-in-law. In some odd way her black 
 satin gown stood out as though it covered a barrel, and gave 
 her aspect a ludicrous character of small, swelling rage. 
 
 ' Where is my son ? ' she screamed, flashing upon Mrs. 
 Ransome, and keeping her parasol pointing. 'You know! 
 tell me now ! tell me now ! ' 
 
 ' I do not know,' answered Mrs. Ransome. 
 
 ' Do you mean to say,' the little old woman screamed out, 
 1 that he's been away a month and never once written to tell 
 you where he is ? Do you mean to tell me that you can't put 
 your finger on the e:sact spot where he is at this moment ? 
 Wretch that you are ! you have murdered him ! Look me in 
 the face and deny it ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Ransome turned as white as a sheet, and involuntarily 
 I made a movement towards her, thinking that she was about 
 to faint. Then my passion boiled up ; before Mrs. Ransome 
 could answer, I had turned upon the old woman. 
 
 ' How dare you make such a charge ? Are you so mad 
 with temper that you do not know the horrible words you are 
 uttering ? ' 
 
 ' No observations that you can make will in the smallest 
 degree signify to me,' she answered, looking at the wall over
 
 i66 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 my head. And then, lowering the key of her voice a full 
 octave, she exclaimed deliberately, ' I have come here to see 
 my son. He is not here, and I will find out where he is. His 
 wife knows, and I expect her to answer me.' 
 
 I crossed over to Mrs. Eansome, out of whom the life 
 seemed to have been shocked, and said in a whisper — 
 
 ' You had better retire and leave me to manage this lady. 
 She is as mad as her son, and her only purpose is to insult 
 you.' 
 
 ' Ah ! You are right in advising her to answer my ques- 
 tion ! ' cried the old lady, shaking her parasol at us. ' Have 
 you murdered him ? You are capable of it. I can prove you 
 capable of it ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Ransome's simplest and perhaps only course would 
 have been to walk out of the room. Anybody else would 
 have done so. But she never would cut short a quarrel by 
 this easiest of processes. She must answer ; she must have 
 the contemptible triumph of the last word. Nobody should 
 drive her out of her own room — which was as bad, to be sure, 
 as being driven out of her own house. Hence the violence of 
 the quarrels betweenher and her husband. Hence the useless 
 and crazy passage of words that now took place. 
 
 She leaned upon the table, her face like a carving in 
 marble, and her tone, manner, and sneer as hard too — all but 
 those wonderful eyes of hers, which shone with sparks of fire 
 in them. 
 
 ' 1 have told you,' she said, slowly forcing her words 
 through her pale lips, ' that I do not know where your son is. 
 But I pray that the coward and the madman may never come 
 back to me. I pray that he is dead, that I may be sure he 
 will never come back to me.' 
 
 ' You hear her ! ' exclaimed the old lady, turning to me 
 with her face brimful of malignant triumph. ' She says she 
 wishes him dead. She speaks as though she knew he was 
 dead. Bear witness to those words — I shall remember them ! ' 
 
 ' Do you know where he is ? ' I said, looking at her stead- 
 fastly. ' The malice in your language suggests that you can 
 answer your own question ? ' 
 
 1 As I believe in God,' she cried fiercely, ' I have not heard 
 of him nor seen him since that day he accompanied me to 
 Copsford. She can tell,' pointing to Mrs. Eansome, ' if you 
 are ignorant. Let her answer me. Did she not threaten my 
 son's life on the day of his disappearance ? In the drawing-
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 167 
 
 room that evening — in this very room— when he asked her to 
 stop the strumming that was making his head ache, did she 
 not turn upon him and cry out that she would have his life ? ' 
 I glanced at Mrs. Ransome, who was watching the pas- 
 sionate little woman intently, and paused a moment to give 
 her time to reply ; but as she did not immediately speak, I 
 said — 
 
 'Your knowledge of that quarrel proves that you must 
 have seen your son since that day. How otherwise should 
 you know of it ? ' 
 
 ' Let her answer ! Is she dumb ? Is she conscience- 
 stricken ? ' She brandished her parasol and repeated, ' Did 
 you not threaten to kill him ? Look me in the face and deny 
 it if you dare ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I would have killed him ! The coward buried his 
 nails in my shoulder ! His brutal hand is a pollution— he 
 made me as mad as himself, and I would have killed him ! ' 
 she replied, quite deliberately, but with the tremor of pent-up 
 passion in her voice. 
 
 c Ah ! ' raved the old lady, ' you dare not tell a lie now 
 Wicked as you are, you dare not add to your guilt by a lie 
 You are known to me — you shall be known to the world 
 soon ! Give me back my son,' she shrieked. 
 
 * Let this end, for God's sake ! ' I implored Mrs. Ransome. 
 1 If you will not order her to leave the house, give me leave to 
 do so.' 
 
 ' Look at her ! ' continued the old lady. ' Do you see 
 how white her face is ? Do you see how scared she is ? Oh, 
 you may cover your terror with sneers, but I can look through 
 such masks— I can see your guilt in your heart ! You have 
 a mother to deal with in me who has lost her son ; and I 
 say to you, miserable woman that you are, give him back to 
 me, or I shall hold you guilty of his death and prove you his 
 murderess by your own words.' 
 
 This reiterated charge affected me in a manner I can 
 scarcely describe. The woman looked crazy enough, in all 
 conscience, with her dim blue eyes, her bloodless face, her 
 excited gestures, her strange writhing smiles which came and 
 went ; but there was also a tremendous earnestness in her 
 manner— if one can possibly conceive anything tremendous in 
 so small a person— that lent an extraordinary significance to 
 her words, and without inclining me for an instant to view 
 her accusation gravely, qualified the intensely disagreeable
 
 1 68 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 impression of madness her demeanour was calculated to 
 produce. 
 
 I looked at Mrs. Ransome, and doubted if she quite under- 
 stood the nature of the astounding charge her mother-in-law 
 was screeching at her. 
 
 ' What reason have you,' I said, addressing the old lady, 
 ' for supposing that Mrs. Ransome has anything to do with 
 your son's disappearance ? ' 
 
 ■ Has she not threatened to take his life over and over 
 again ? Has she not threatened this ? ' she cried. ' Now he 
 is gone — and I ask her where he is — and she will not tell 
 me.' 
 
 ' She cannot. Nobody in this house knows where he is,' I 
 answered. 
 
 ' She knows ! ' 
 
 ' It is false ! ' said Mrs. Ransome. 
 
 ' You know his habits as well as we do,' I continued. 'He 
 has left the house before now, without giving notice.' 
 
 1 Not for a month at a time ! ' shrieked the old lady. 
 ' Sometimes he has left me for a week, but never without 
 writing and telling me where he was. But this time, though 
 he went to his bedroom — though he was heard to go to it and 
 close the door — when the morning came he was not found in 
 it ; he was gone ; and he has not returned — and a whole 
 month has passed and he is still missing. She knows why 
 this is ! she can answer me ! Give me back my son ! give me 
 back my son ! ' 
 
 She beat the air with her parasol, and almost howled out 
 her entreaty. 
 
 ' You have the particulars of his flight at your finger 
 ends,' I said. ' How do you know that he was found missing 
 in the morning ? ' 
 
 She made no answer to this, but ran to the bell and 
 pulled it violently ; and then, turning to Mrs. Ransome, cried 
 out — 
 
 ' You shall be confronted with your servants. I'll force 
 them to own that you are capable of killing my poor boy ! ' 
 
 ' Miss Avory,' said Mrs. Ransome, ' show this woman out 
 of the house.' 
 
 ' I shall confront you with your servants ! ' cried the little 
 old lady. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome went up to her. 
 
 ' Leave my house,' she said.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 169 
 
 ' This is your way,' I exclaimed, throwing open the door, 
 and motioning to Susan, who stood outside, to go away. 
 
 1 Coward ! ' screamed the old woman through her teeth. 
 ' You dare not let me examine your servants ! You dare not 
 stand by and hear them answer me ! Look at her ! ' she con- 
 tinued, pointing derisively at Mrs. Eansome ; ' see how white 
 she is ! Miserable creature ! Y r ou dare not meet your servants 
 before me ! ' 
 
 My first impression, when I saw Mrs. Eansome move, was 
 that she was about to strike her ; and I involuntarily threw 
 up my hands to petition her, by that dumb show, not to touch 
 the crazy little thing. But I misjudged her intention ; she 
 grasped the old lady's arm, and as you would swing an infant, 
 so did she swing her mother-in-law to the door — into the hall 
 — then to the hall door — then on to the steps. The door 
 banged, and she came back to me. 
 
 The whole thing was done before I could have counted 
 ten. The feat involved no particular strength, although 
 passion would have supplied enough ; for I don't suppose the 
 old lady weighed more than a girl of eight or nine ; but 
 never while I live shall I forget the scene. Compared with 
 her mother-in-law, Mrs. Eansome looked a giantess ; could I 
 have seen the faintest twinkle in her eyes, I should have 
 caught at it as an excuse to relieve myself of the laughter 
 which internally shook me. She walked into the room with 
 a firm tread and a patch of deep red on either cheek ; but she 
 staggered before she reached the table, and the colour went 
 out of her face and left it a deadly white. She put out her 
 hand to the table to steady herself, and said in a difficult 
 whisper — 
 
 1 Is this his reason for leaving the house ? Is — this the 
 conspiracy — to charge me ' 
 
 Her head fell forward, her hand dropped to her side ; I 
 ran and caught her, a dead weight, in my arms. She had 
 fainted. I had to lay her at full length on the floor, not 
 having the strength to carry her to the sofa. There was a 
 bottle of toilet-vinegar in the next room ; I fetched it, knelt 
 by her, and bathed her face. There was no mirth left in me 
 now. I was about to ring for assistance, but reflected that I 
 should be acting more judiciously in not bringing the servants 
 into the room. Even while I was endeavouring to restore the 
 poor lady, the thought that old Mrs. Eansome had got all her 
 information from Mary struck me as a revelation. For a
 
 170 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 quarter of an hour she remained unconscious and then re- 
 pained her senses. I led her to the sofa and ran for some 
 brandy, of which I obliged her to take a good sip. This 
 braced her up ; she recollected herself, and asked me if old 
 Mrs. Ransome had re-entered the house ? I said no, but to 
 make sure, went to the hall door and looked out; but of 
 course she was gone ; it was hardly to be supposed that she 
 would stand on the doorstep all that time ; though her aston- 
 ishing exit might have given her an excuse for wanting 
 leisure to adjust her faculties and her apparel. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome complaining that her head ached, I drew a 
 chair to the sofa and cooled her forehead with vinegar. 
 
 ' What do you think of that dreadful woman's visit ? ' she 
 asked faintly. ' Do you suspect that it is a part of the con- 
 spiracy I always believed was my husband's motive for leaving 
 the house ? ' 
 
 ' Do not let us discuss the subject yet,' I replied. • Take 
 time. Rest yourself awhile. When you are better, we will 
 talk of that crazy woman's visit.' 
 
 ' I must talk of it now. I am well enough. Her hideous 
 accusation seems a dream to me. Can she really think I have 
 murdered her son ? ' 
 
 ' Not unless she is raving mad. For heaven's sake do not 
 allow your mind to dwell upon such a preposterous idea. Let 
 us think of her only as regards the mischief she may design 
 you.' 
 
 4 Ah ! it comes back to me,' she said slowly. ' I see it 
 now. My senses left me when I was about to speak of it. 
 She is an instrument in her son's hands. She plays her part 
 cheerfully, for she hates me — she hates me unforgivingly— 
 she will never rest until she has revenged herself upon me for 
 my reception of her in this house. How awful ! Oh, God ! 
 to think of her going about with this charge in her lying 
 mouth. She knows where he is — she must know. He is 
 somewhere concealed, and she has waited a month, and now 
 she has begun her horrible work. Oh, think of it ! ' 
 
 1 But what can she do ? Who will believe her ?' I ex- 
 claimed, marking with grief and helpless indignation tbe 
 expression of misery and suffering on her face. ' Let her 
 devise some less ridiculous charge, and she might obtain 
 credit. But such an accusation as tins ! She will be laughed 
 at — she will be insulted for her monstrous malice. Have no 
 fear. I would to Heaven I could change places with you.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 171 
 
 You must oppose the completest insensibility to such absurd 
 fabrications.' 
 
 ' I cannot cope with her — I must write to my father — I 
 must have his help,' she muttered, closing her eyes, evidently 
 having paid no attention to what I had said. 
 
 ' Yes,' I cried eagerly, ' you must write to him to-day. 
 You should have done so before.' 
 
 1 1 will write at once ; no, not yet,' she replied, raising her 
 hand to her forehead. ' My head is too confused.' She put 
 her feet to the ground, but sank down with her back against 
 the sofa, whispering like one talking in a dream. ' Murder 
 him ! What can she mean ? Base and cruel pair — murder 
 him ! Did he leave me for this ? "What a shocking scheme ! ' 
 
 She stared around her with a startled light in her eyes, 
 and once again strove to gain her feet, but staggered and fell 
 back, whispering the incredible thought again and again — 
 ' Murder him ! Did he leave me for this ? Murder him ! ' 
 
 Presently she began to complain of her head ; I soaked 
 the handkerchief and laid it on her forehead ; then pulled 
 down the blinds, and saying that I must not permit myself to 
 converse with her any longer, I left the room. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Two hours had passed since old Mrs. Ransome was whirled 
 out of the house, when, sitting in my room, I was startled by 
 hearing one of the bells just outside in the passage ring 
 violently. I ran out and saw that it was the house-bell and 
 called to Susan to answer the door and deny Mrs. Ransome, 
 who, I believed, was asleep. The girl returned after a short 
 absence, and with a look of consternation exclaimed that old 
 Mrs. Ransome had returned with the inspector and a con- 
 stable ; that Mary was with them ; and that tbey were all 
 waiting in the outer room — she meant the room dividing the 
 two halls. 
 
 Hardly suspecting the import of this visit, I was, never- 
 theless, so greatly astonished by it that for some moments I 
 could do no more than stare at Susan. 
 
 ' Did they ask for me ? ' I exclaimed. 
 
 1 No — for mistress ; but I thought I'd come and tell you 
 they were here first.' 
 
 1 What on earth does that wretched little woman mean to
 
 172 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 do now ? ' I wondered to myself as I went upstairs. The 
 room being small, and the inspector and the constable being 
 very large, I beheld what 1 took, for the moment, to be a 
 crowd of persons ; but they soon resolved themselves into 
 four only. 
 
 The inspector was seated, drumming impatiently with his 
 fingers on the arm of his chair ; behind him stood the con- 
 stable, a large countryman, whose profoundly provincial 
 aspect no amount of buttons nor officialism of costume could 
 in the smallest degree modify. Mary, shawled and bonneted, 
 was at the outer door, and was excessively pale. Little Mrs. 
 Ransome was holding forth to the inspector, but held her 
 tongue when she saw me, and honoured me with a smile, the 
 exact counterpart of the indescribable expression I had seen 
 on her son's face that day when I had brought my influence 
 to bear upon him in the dining-room. 
 
 ' Where's the mistress, young lady ? ' inquired the in- 
 spector, leaving his chair. 
 
 ' She is at home. What have you to say to her ? I can 
 take your message.' 
 
 'You're very kind, mum, but on the whole I think I would 
 rather take it myself,' replied the inspector ; whereat the 
 constable laughed. 
 
 ' I will go and tell her you are here.' 
 
 ' You may do that, young lady ; but I hope you won't 
 keep me waitmg long. My time is rather important.' 
 
 ' I must tell her the object of your visit. What is it ? ' I 
 asked, looking at Mary (who averted her eyes), and then at 
 Mrs. Ransome, who seemed bursting to speak, but kept 
 herself under, it appeared, by holding on tightly to her 
 skirt. 
 
 • You may tell her,' answered the inspector, ' that I've 
 come to search the house.' 
 
 ' Search the house ? What for ? What do you expect to 
 find ? ' I cried. 
 
 1 Do you see that, Mr. Inspector ? ' called out the old lady. 
 * Do you see how frightened she is ? Mr. Constable, please 
 notice that ; and you, Mary.' 
 
 'Well,' rejoined the inspector, with a great air of con- 
 descension, ' there's no reason why you shouldn't be told ; 
 though mind, it's not my business to give you information. 
 That lady,' pointing with his thumb to Mrs. Ransome, ' says 
 that her son, Mr. Ransome '
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 173 
 
 1 Mr. Saville Ransome,' interrupted the old lady, gazing 
 intently at the inspector. 
 
 1 What's the difference ? ' exclaimed the inspector, con- 
 temptuously — ' that Mr. Saville Ransome has been missing for 
 a month ; and she's asked me to come and look over the 
 house and see what's to be seen.' 
 
 ' Do you see how frightened she is ? said the old lady, 
 trembling with eagerness. ' Mr. Inspector, please notice how 
 pale she is ; and you, Mr. Constable ; and you, Mary.' 
 
 ' Is it necessary that those two women should intrude 
 upon the mistress ? ' I asked, taking no notice of Mrs. 
 Ransome. 
 
 ' They came of their own accord. They said they was 
 coming this way. There's no law that I know of to prevent 
 'em coming any way they please,' answered the inspector. 
 
 ' You pretend that it is your duty to search this house. 
 Mrs. Ransome need not be disturbed. I can take you over 
 the house.' 
 
 ' Never you mind what my dooty is,' exclaimed the in- 
 spector, wagging a fat forefinger at me. ' You attend to your 
 own business, young woman, and do what I tell you, or you'll 
 get yourself into trouble.' 
 
 Saying which, he bestowed a frown upon me and walked 
 into the hall, followed by old Mrs. Ransome and the con- 
 stable ; but Mary lingered, whereat the old lady called sweetly, 
 ' Come along, my dear ; don't be afraid, Mr. Inspector will 
 prevent her from flying at you.' 
 
 I pushed past them, walked quickly into the drawing-room, 
 closed the door after me, and approached Mrs. Ransome, who 
 had not moved from the sofa since I had left her, and whose 
 eyes showed that she had been sleeping. I told her hurriedly 
 that the old lady had returned with the inspector and the girl 
 Mary ; that the man's object was to search the house ; that 
 they were outside, and were waiting to see her. I begged her 
 to be calm, to say as little as she could, and to let the man 
 have his way, since I was sure the old woman counted upon 
 opposition to strengthen the villainous suspicion it was mani- 
 festly her object to create. 
 
 She started up with an expression of mingled wonderment 
 
 and horror in her face, and springing off the sofa, cried out — 
 
 ' They dare not search my house ! They dare not force 
 
 themselves upon me ! Tell them to go ! my God ! how 
 
 can she treat me like this ? '
 
 174 IS HE THE MAN ? 
 
 But at this moment the door was pushed open, and the 
 inspector and the old lady walked in, leaving Mary and the 
 constable at the door. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome stared at the constable, who in a peculiar 
 manner brought home the sense of the insult her mother-in- 
 law designed, as though questioning the evidence of her 
 senses ; looked at her former servant quickly, then at the old 
 lady, and raised her hand as if to ward or motion them off, 
 with a gesture of singular dignity. 
 
 ' What is it you want ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' My son ! ' cried the old lady. ' Give him back to me ! 
 You turned me out of your house just now, but here I am 
 again ; and as often as you turn mo away so often will you 
 find me returning, until you tell me where my son is or what 
 you have done with him.' 
 
 'Mr. Inspector,' said Mrs. Ransome earnestly, 'I do not 
 know where this woman's son is. I swear that I am ignorant 
 of his reason for leaving this house ; whether he is hiding, 
 whether he will return, whether he is dead. This person has 
 a malicious motive for bringing you here. I entreat you to 
 consider the injury you will do me by beginning a search 
 which I assure you will result in nothing, and which is in- 
 stigated only that it may give that woman pleasure by de- 
 grading me.' 
 
 I rejoiced to hear her speak without temper and rationally, 
 and watched the inspector anxiously to observe the effect of 
 her words upon him. 
 
 The old lady interrupted him as he was about to speak. 
 
 ' You are not to believe her,' she shrieked. ' She will try 
 to disarm suspicion by soft words ; but do they not all do 
 that ? Do they not all say, we are not guilty ! we are not 
 guilty ! until the truth is examined into, and then they are 
 found guilty ? She would not let me confront her with the 
 other servants just now. She is afraid of the questions I can 
 ask them. But yonder is one who was in her service two 
 years and who will speak the truth. Mary,' she vociferated, 
 ' have you not heard this woman threaten to kill her 
 husband ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Mary boldly, looking around her, ' over 
 and over again.' 
 
 'Weren't you driven out of the house because she knew 
 you could tell stories about her that would help to bring the 
 truth to light ? '
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 175 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the girl. 
 
 1 Liar ! ' I exclaimed passionately. ' You will not dare 
 repeat that statement on oath ! ' 
 
 ' I can't have this noise,' said the inspector, raising his 
 hand. ' This lady,' he continued, addressing Mrs. Ransome, 
 and pointing to the little woman, whose nostrils were working 
 like the gills of a fish, ' came to my office this afternoon and 
 said she had reason to believe that her son had never left this 
 house in the way that had been given out ; that she believed 
 he had been murdered ; and called upon me to search this 
 building. My dooty is clear. I must act upon her informa- 
 tion. I am very sorry, for it's no pleasure to me to disturb 
 gentlefolks with inconvenient calls ; but the house must be 
 searched, and if you'll give instructions to that young woman 
 (meaning me) to follow me and my mate with the keys, and 
 lose no time, I shall feel obliged. The sooner this here 
 Unpleasant business is disposed of the better for all parties 
 concerned.' 
 
 A brief silence followed this speech ; the old lady looked 
 eagerly at her daughter-in-law, hoping, with all her malig- 
 nant little heart in her face, that she would offer opposition. 
 Mrs. Ransome glanced at me piteously — had I dared speak, I 
 should have counselled her to let the man have his way. 
 But I was afraid to open my mouth, lest some intemperate 
 word should damage her interests. 
 
 The colour had died out of her face long ago ; she was 
 now of a marble whiteness. 
 
 ' Dare you search this house without reason ? ' she asked 
 the inspector in a low voice. 
 
 ' Attend to her, Mr. Inspector ! she defies you ! ' cried the 
 old lady. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome's passion exploded like gunpowder on which 
 a spark falls. 
 
 ' Are you men,' she burst out, ' that you can suffer your- 
 selves to offer me this insult on the accusation of a wretch 
 like that ? See how she takes a cast-off servant of mine into 
 her confidence to further her barbarous end ! Must I endure 
 their presence in my house ? Is this my home, and am I 
 compelled to let those women remain in it and listen to their 
 atrocious falsehoods ? Leave me ! ' she shrieked, stamping 
 her foot. ' If I were a man, you would not dare take this 
 liberty ! ' 
 
 ' Is she not capable of murder ? Hear her ! Watch her ! '
 
 i;6 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 cried the old woman, sputtering her words through her lips 
 and chuckling in sheer enjoyment of her daughter-in-law's 
 rage ; and looking with her little body, her long nose, her 
 cadaverous face, her pointing finger, as much like a witch as 
 any portrait of that species of creatures I ever met with. 
 4 Give her a knife,' she screamed, • and she will stab any one 
 of us to the heart ! Search ! Search ! Mr. Inspector. Don't 
 be afraid of her ! Search high and low ! In some such a 
 fury as this she has killed my son ! Mark me ! I am his 
 mother, and can read his death in her face ! ' 
 
 Her transports, her gesticulations, were much more likely 
 to dismay the inspector than any passion Mrs. Ransome 
 could exhibit, 
 
 'You mustn't object to this search, ma'am,' he said to 
 Mrs. Ransome. • It'll do you no good. I can tell you that.' 
 
 I drew close to her and whispered, ' He is right. For 
 God's sake oppose him no further.' 
 
 • Has she a right to whisper ? ' bawled the old lady, point- 
 ing to me. ' What is she saying ? Ask her ! ' 
 
 'I am ready to accompany you,' I said, turning to the 
 inspector ; ' but first I must take leave, on Mrs. Ransome's 
 behalf, to request that these two women quit the house. 
 Your licence does not extend to insisting on their presence. 
 Their insults form no portion of your duty.' 
 
 I I don't want them,' answered the inspector. ' They 
 needn't stop for me. The old lady would come and bring the 
 other one along with her because, she said, the young woman 
 knew the house. But I can look about for myself, without 
 their being by to point out the road.' 
 
 ' You hear what the inspector says ? ' I exclaimed, going 
 to the door and holding it open. * Leave the house if you 
 please.' 
 
 'No, no! ' cried the o]d lady, stepping backwards into the 
 middle of the room. ' I see the trick. You'd like to blind 
 the inspector. I'll search as well as he.' 
 
 ' You can't stop if they don't want yer,' said the inspector 
 gruffly. ' And as they don't want yer, you must go.' 
 
 'Mary,' she shrieked, 'tell them what you know — tell 
 them again that you heard that woman threaten my son's 
 life ! Tell them that you were turned away because ' 
 
 ' Arc you going'?' exclaimed the inspector angrily. 'If 
 you think I've got time to listen to all this talk, you're very 
 much mistaken. I'll tell you what it is,' he continued grow-
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 177 
 
 ing more angry, ' if the mistress here likes to order the 
 constable to turn you out, she can, and he'll obey.' 
 
 ' Now then, mum,' said the constable. ' This way, please.' 
 
 He went out and threw open the hall door. Mary van- 
 ished ; the old lady began to expostulate, crying out that we 
 wanted to trick her ; that if she chose to remain, she could, 
 for she knew the law as well as anybody ; and made use of so 
 many crazy observations that I hoped the inspector's slow 
 intelligence would see what sort of a person he had to deal 
 with in her. All that he did, however, was to stretch forth 
 his hand, intending, probably, to conduct her to the door ; but 
 she skipped out of his reach, and crying to Mrs. Eansome 
 that her secret was known, and that shed never rest until 
 she had had her punished, hurried out of the house. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome had resumed her seat on the sofa and wa3 
 looking downwards with a stony face. I told the inspector 
 that I was ready ; but the absurdity of the whole proceeding 
 struck me as so very great that when we had gained the hall, I 
 asked him whether the house could not be a3 well searched 
 without me as with me. 
 
 ' It's only your acquaintance witb the keys that I want, 
 ma'arn,' he responded ; ' we don't wish to break no doors 
 open if we can help ; and I haven't time to be trying of a lot 
 of keys and always finding the right one out last.' 
 
 One might have thought his time of immense consequence, 
 to hear his repeated references to its value ; but I had reason 
 to believe that there was little to occupy him at Copsford but 
 his toothpick. 
 
 ' Where will you begin ? ' I inquired. 
 
 ' Atop first and come down regular.' 
 
 ' And what do you suppose you are going to find ? ' 
 
 ' What we shall, and never you mind,' he retorted, 
 mingling sarcasm and reproof in a breath very impressively. 
 
 I took them upstairs, mourning as I went over the grind- 
 ing of the carpets under their thick boots. There was no use 
 in offering further protest against this invasion. Undoubtedly, 
 the consistency of such an intrusion on the strength of any 
 heavy accusation it might please a malicious or fanciful 
 person to prefer with the celebrated boast that every English- 
 man's home is his castle, and Britons never will be slaves, 
 was very remarkable. 
 
 I corked up my indignation, and looked on whilst the 
 inspector and the constable peeped and pulled and opened 
 
 N
 
 178 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 and kicked and shook. They went into every room ; they 
 opened every closet and cupboard ; they ransacked Mrs. 
 Ransome's wardrobe ; they probed into holes, they squinted 
 up chimneys. What on earth were they looking for ? I 
 submissively asked the question. 
 
 1 We're looking,' responded the inspector, ' for some sign 
 as will help us to learn that the little old lady's suspicion is 
 right. That's what we're looking for. And don't you ever 
 try to stop officers in the execution of their dooty, or you'll 
 find the law one too many for you, as a good many others 
 have done.' 
 
 ' But what signs do you expect to find ? ' 
 
 1 I'll tell you when I come to 'em.' 
 
 •Do you really think, because Mr. Ransome is missing 
 from this house, that he has been murdered in it ? ' 
 
 ' I'd advise you not to say too much, ma'am. It's my 
 dooty to caution yer. You never know what goes in evi- 
 dence.' 
 
 Such is the effect of buttons upon the unaccustomed mind, 
 coupled with stolid faces, creaking boots, and the spirit of the 
 law as demonstrated by supercilious self-possession and the 
 right to handle, shake, upset, hold up, and throw down things 
 which even a thief might regard as in some measure sacred, 
 that I found myself growing nervous, wondering whether 
 anything suggestive would be brought to light, and even 
 attaching weight to the very suspicious manner in which the 
 inspector and the constable went about their work, as though 
 there really must be some reason, some especial reason not to 
 be fathomed by the unofficial understanding, to justify their 
 elaborate inquiries. Sometimes, when they opened a stair- 
 closet, I found myself stretching forward, imagining that I 
 should see the dead body of Mr. Ranso^ie staring at us from 
 the twilight of the recess. The two men particularly scruti- 
 nised Mr. Ransome's bed, and the hangings, and the carpet 
 around it, and the furniture near it — for spots of blood, I 
 think. 
 
 In a word, they literally acted upon the suspicion that had 
 been put into their heads by Mrs. Ransome. Her son was 
 missing ; his wife was capable of murdering him or of pro- 
 curing his murder ; they must search the house ; and so they 
 did, I will do them the justice to say that. They searched 
 every nook and cranny in it, omitting only the drawing-room, 
 where Mrs. Ransome was, and passing lightly over the
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 179 
 
 dining-room, as though the deed could hardly have been 
 committed there, but redoubling their vigilance in my room 
 and throughout the basement. 
 
 The inspector came back to my room after he had searched 
 the scullery and pantry, and said he would like to have a talk 
 with the servants. Would I please send them in, one at a 
 time. I suppose he had a right to order this ; but I could not 
 help wondering how far he would have to go before he should 
 overstep the limits of his legitimate duties. The cook pro- 
 tested against being called upon to answer any questions, on 
 the grounds that she hadn't been engaged for it ; but on my 
 representing to her that the sooner the interview was over the 
 sooner the men would be out of the house, she consented to 
 be shut in with the inspector, whom she regarded as a very 
 high legal functionary, a kind of country Lord Chancellor, 
 who had it in his power to sentence and hang her out of hand 
 if his temper were so disposed. 
 
 I don't think he 'got very much information from either of 
 the servants, for his face looked gloomy and his eyes extraordi- 
 narily knowing when he begged me to step that way and tell 
 him what / knew. 
 
 ' All that I know,' I replied, ' you heard when Mrs. 
 Ransome sent for you about the robbery of the plate.' 
 
 ' I don't mind that,' he said, with stupid pomposity. ' A 
 month ago isn't to-day.' 
 
 ' I shall tell you nothing more,' I exclaimed, bridling with 
 difficulty my rising temper. ' You know your privileges better 
 than I do ; but it seems to me that you have gone far enough 
 already. You are not a magistrate. You have no right to 
 examine me. You came here to search the house ; you have 
 made the [search, and what now should prevent you from 
 returning to Copsford ? ' 
 
 ' Take care,' he cried, holding up his forefinger. ' I've 
 cautioned you before against trying to teach me my duty. 
 You'd better tell me what you know. Nothing but aggrawa- 
 tion can come of obstinacy.' 
 
 1 What do you want to know ? ' 
 
 ' They say you heerd a noise that night Mr. Ransome is 
 supposed to have left the house ? ' 
 
 ' I did hear a noise.' 
 
 ' What sort of noise ? ' 
 
 I told him. 
 
 ' Now about the turning of the handle of the door. Which 
 
 N2
 
 iSo IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 handle was it do you think as was turned ? — the husband's or 
 the wife's door ? ' 
 
 ' You advised me just now,' I answered, ' to be careful of 
 my words, lest they should go in evidence. I don't know what 
 you mean by evidence ; but I will take your advice to me to 
 be careful. I am certain you have no right to ask me these 
 questions, and in that persuasion I decline to give you any 
 more answers.' 
 
 He turned to the constable and said — 
 
 ' You hear that ? That's what is called contoomacy. If 
 a warrant is granted, I shall remember this young woman 
 when the magistrate asks my opinion. Come along, William.' 
 
 They tramped heavily upstairs, heavily through the hall, 
 heavily out of the house. When they were gone, I went to 
 the drawing-room and found Mrs. Eansome walking up and 
 down, with her head in a listening attitude and her face 
 haggard with the effect of tears. 
 
 • Oh, Miss Avory ! ' she burst out, running up to me, ' do 
 you see his conspiracy now ? Did I not tell you, on the very 
 morning we discovered he had gone, that he had left the 
 house to revenge himself upon me ? Could any one but a 
 demon hit upon such an awful plan to ruin me ? His mother 
 is playing the game for him ! What shocking wickedness ! 
 Will God permit it to be successful? Will people really 
 believe that he has been murdered ? ' 
 
 She uttered the word with a gasp. I took her by the 
 hand and led her to a chair. 
 
 ' The inspector has left,' I said, 'after ransacking the 
 house. I do not suppose he would have dared to do this were 
 he not empowered by his position to do so. But atrocious as 
 his conduct is, I do not regret it. It is sure to create indigna- 
 tion when it is known, and any prejudice against you which that 
 wicked old woman has excited will be forgotten in sympathy.' 
 
 ' But what could she have said to justify the man in such an 
 extreme proceeding ? ' she cried. ' Does she actually charge 
 me with the murder of her son ? ' 
 
 'I fear she does. I can scarcely conceive that the 
 inspector would act in this manner on a small accusation. 
 But is it not monstrous that such a man as that should be 
 privileged to use his own judgment on the first malicious 
 fabrication that is reported to him ? He examined the servants, 
 and tried to examine me ; but I would not answer his ques- 
 tions. He cannot have authority for acting as he has done.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 181 
 
 ' If he can believe her,' she moaned, burying her face in 
 her hands, • will not others ? They have long tried to degrade 
 me — they have done it at last ! My house has been searched 
 — it will go forth to the world that my house has been searched, 
 and that I am accused of murdering my husband ! My God ! 
 what a scheme to enter his head ! How can I prove my 
 innocence ? He may keep away from me for years and years, 
 and remain hidden, and then die and no one of all the world 
 who believes in my guilt hear of his death ! How can I clear 
 myself ? What am I to do ? I shall go mad ! ' 
 
 She sprang from her chair, with her hands clenched, her 
 head thrown back, her eyes with a wild, hunted expression in 
 them. Her action, her attitude, her look, was madness itself. 
 
 1 You must be calm,' I implored. ' Remember the 
 character of the persons you have to deal with. They must 
 be matched with their own cunning or they will triumph. I 
 cannot advise you yet — I must have time to think. But it is 
 imperative that you should write to your father and urge him 
 to come to you without a moment's delay.' 
 
 ' I have done so,' she answered. ' There is the letter.' 
 
 She pointed in a bewildered manner to the table. 
 
 ' I will post it at once,' I continued. ' They have reckoned 
 on your defencelessness. Long ago I saw that you could not 
 cope single-handed with Mr. Eansome. There is no limit to 
 his wicked ingenuity, and one had need to be as wicked, and 
 as mad too, as he is to match him.' 
 
 4 Will they not believe me when I tell them that this is a 
 conspiracy between the mother and son ? ' she exclaimed, 
 wildly, eagerly staring at me. ' Will they think for a moment 
 that I am capable of taking his life? ' 
 
 ' No,' I answered decidedly ; ' do not dream of such a 
 thing. That woman has done her worst in getting your 
 house searched. But she has overreached herself. The 
 very magnitude of her accusation will defeat its purpose.' 
 
 ' But the inspector believes it, or he imagines me capable 
 of conniving at Mr. Ransome's death, or would he dare search 
 my house ? ' she cried. 
 
 ' His belief will not be the belief of others. He is a pompous, 
 foolish man, and would act, I dare say, on any information 
 that should be given him. No doubt he is empowered to 
 enter a house and search it if he thinks proper ; but in this 
 case he may have exceeded his duty. Your father will find 
 that out, and will know the remedy against such insolence.'
 
 i82 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' That woman has done all she can,' cried the poor lady, 
 weeping bitterly. ' She has cast a horrible suspicion upon 
 me, and her son will take care that I shall not clear myself 
 from it.' 
 
 She hid her face in her hands and sobbed piteously. It 
 was imperative, however, that the letter to her father should 
 be posted at once ; for the post-bags were made up twice a day 
 at Copsford, and in those primitive times, or at all events in 
 that primitive town, it was necessary to post a letter some 
 time before the departure of the cart to insure its despatch. 
 
 'Does this letter,' I asked, 'urge your father to come at 
 once ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she sobbed. 
 
 Without another word I hurried out of the room.
 
 i83 
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 
 
 (Continued.) 
 
 I take the liberty of interrupting Miss Avory's .story, in order 
 to relate myself this portion of the narrative, the particulars 
 of which I am better acquainted with than she. 
 
 After quitting Gardenhurst, I had fixed upon Boulogne 
 as a place of residence. My chief object in leaving England 
 was to place the sea between Phoebe and myself, that I might 
 have a reasonable excuse for seldom visiting her. My own 
 common-sense persuaded me that my opposition to her 
 marriage would hardly endear me to her husband. I felt that 
 I should always be an unwelcome visitor to him ; and having 
 no opinion of his temper or generosity, I was determined that 
 no intrusions of mine, at least, should give him an excuse for 
 quarrelling with his wife. 
 
 I heard from her frequently during the first eighteen 
 months of her married life. There was never a syllable in 
 any of her letters to lead me to suppose that she was unhappy. 
 But I took notice that, after a little, she entirely omitted her 
 husband's name from her correspondence. I regarded her 
 silence on this point as ominous, but it was negative : it 
 might be owing to other causes than quarrels or unhappiness ; 
 she might conceive that I took no interest in him and his 
 doings, and certainly there was a forced tone in such refer- 
 ences as I made to him which could not mislead her in this 
 respect. 
 
 At last I received a letter, in which she begged me to 
 spend a few weeks at Gardenhurst. I should have been glad 
 to excuse myself, for I had strong misgivings that my pre- 
 sence might create dissension, and as I had no reason to 
 suppose that she was unhappy, I was for letting well alone. 
 
 My longing to see her, however, triumphed over my hesi- 
 tation, and within a week from the date of her invitation I 
 was at Gardenhurst.
 
 1 84 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 I will not dwell upon this part of my story further than to say 
 that I was not in the house a day before I discovered that she 
 was unhappy. I questioned her, but her answers were evasive. 
 She confessed that her husband's caprices troubled her, but 
 more than this she would not admit. She was looking well, 
 and, in my opinion, had gained in beauty since her marriage. 
 But her old pride and obstinacy were still with her, and were 
 now sharply-cut features of her character. These, I saw 
 easily enough, were the secret of her reticence. She had 
 learned her mistake in opposing my judgment, but would not 
 confess her discovery ; nay, rather than endure the mortifica- 
 tion of such an admission, she would have me believe she was 
 happy. On the whole, I considered her wise to make the best 
 of what was unalterable. The disclosure of her sorrow would 
 only have grieved me, without putting it into my power to 
 help her. 
 
 I have observed that, in Miss Avory's narrative, it was 
 implied or stated to her that Mr. Ransome had made me very 
 unwelcome. This was an exaggeration that must be attri- 
 buted to the heat or prejudice of the accusing person. I 
 cannot pretend that Mr. Ransome received me cordially ; but 
 he met and treated me throughout my stay in the house with 
 as much politeness as I had reason to expect, and with more 
 than I had hoped to receive. Sometimes I thought he was 
 afraid of me. His behaviour when with his wife and me in a 
 room would corroborate the suspicion of fear which was sug- 
 gested by his resolute shunning of me if we met in the 
 grounds. I saw very little of him ; but I witnessed nothing 
 in his manner or conversation to cause me to imagine that, if 
 he ever had been insane, which I had once solemnly believed, 
 his insanity had gained ground since I last met him. 
 
 Two or three days passed without any quarrels taking 
 place ; and then a quarrel that shocked me exceedingly oc- 
 curred at the luncheon-table. There was more of sarcasm 
 and sneering contempt than of rage in Mr. Ransome's lan- 
 guage ; but my daughter's behaviour was pure passion. She 
 had provoked him in this instance by some unfortunate 
 reference to his mother. Though her words were very in- 
 temperate, I could not have divined that the hate they ex- 
 pressed towards him was positively her only sentiment. 
 Anger made her bitter, and she might not have meant what 
 she said. I told her I could not submit to witness such 
 scenes, and threatened, if they were repeated, to leave the
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 1S5 
 
 house. I blamed her for provoking him ; but by this time 
 her passion was expended ; she looked at me attentively, but 
 offered no defence for her conduct. 
 
 My threat of quitting the house, however, did no good. A 
 day or two afterwards they quarrelled in my presence again ; 
 and again I considered Phoebe to blame ; for, though a good- 
 tempered man, perhaps, would not have noticed the remark 
 that had fired Mr. Ransome, yet there had been something 
 singularly aggressive in her manner, in the look she gave him, 
 in her short, hard laugh, in the quick shrug and insolent 
 turn of the head. 
 
 She had kept me so entirely in ignorance of her life with 
 her husband that it argued no want of perception on my part 
 not to conceive that in these quarrels she was retaliating his 
 cruel insults and even barbarous behaviour to her when they 
 were alone. To me he maintained his doubtful attitude of 
 frightened courtesy, and in my presence never behaved to his 
 wife offensively nor said one word, up to the time of quarrel- 
 ling, which would have justified me in offering a protest. 
 Even when their quarrels were at the highest, his manner 
 was smooth, his language unimpassioned compared to hers ; 
 but he would turn very pale, the sinister gleam I remembered 
 shone in his eyes, and his retorts and charges would not be 
 the more reassuring because they were spoken deliberately 
 and even with difficulty. 
 
 I tried to draw Phoebe into a confession, but she was on her 
 guard. She was not unhappy — no ! Saville was capricious 
 and angered her ; but she dared say most of their quarrels 
 were owing to her own temper. She did not like little Mrs. 
 Ransome — she admitted that ; and said that many of the 
 quarrels between her and her husband were owing to that 
 woman's interference. How did she interfere ? I asked. Oh, 
 when she came to the house she ordered the servants as 
 though she were their mistress. 
 
 ' I am mistress here, am I not, papa ? ' she exclaimed, 
 with the old obstinate look in her face. ' You gave me this 
 house, and the money I spend here is my own. Whilst I live 
 no one shall dispute my right to regard myself as mistress.' 
 
 I endeavoured to point out that she could be mistress 
 without insisting too strongly on her rights ; that there was 
 something ungracious in her emphatic assumption of privi- 
 leges, seeing that her husband and his mother well knew that 
 the property was hers ; that the best-natured man in the
 
 1 86 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 world might object to play second-fiddle in his home, and 
 that, indeed, her fortune was as much her husband s as 
 hers ; and that the settlement of it upon her did not make it 
 the less his, but only prohibited him from touching the 
 capital. 
 
 She did not press the argument, and soon contrived to 
 change the subject. 
 
 I noticed several bad signs during this visit, all concurring 
 to make me uneasy ; though I never could get her to be frank 
 with me. They occupied separate bedrooms ; they had no 
 visitors to the house ; Phoebe was constantly out, and some- 
 times remained away all day. Had I chosen, I might have 
 obtained enough information from the servants to satisfy me 
 that my daughter was leading an unhappy life ; but not even 
 my child's interests could force me to stoop to so mean and 
 unfair a device. What she refused to tell me herself I would 
 not hear from a menial's lips. My visit lasted scarcely a 
 fortnight ; and when, offended at last by quarrels which were 
 conducted on my daughter's side with a heat which I con- 
 sidered inexcusable, I quitted the house, I was as ignorant of 
 the truth to which one word from her would have opened my 
 eyes, as I was at the moment of entering it. 
 
 Six months or thereabouts had elapsed since I returned to 
 Boulogne, when I happened to meet Mr. Hastings, who had 
 been appointed curate at Copsford a short time before my 
 daughter's marriage. He remembered me and crossed the 
 street, glad to meet with a familiar face in a strange town. 
 We walked together, and he told me about the robbery at 
 Gardenhurst, and the strange disappearance of Mr. Eansome. 
 I was amazed by this piece of news ; for I had heard but a 
 few days before from Phoebe, and she had not mentioned the 
 circumstance. Mr. Hastings was equally amazed by my 
 ignorance. He told me that this was the one topic now at 
 Copsford ; that all sorts of surmises were current ; that some 
 were for having that Mr. Eansome had been murdered by his 
 footman, and others that the footman had been murdered by 
 Mr. Eansome. He further added (very courteously) that 
 regret was felt by Mrs. Eansome's well-wishers that she had 
 not taken steps to discover the truth, since her indifference 
 both as to the robbery and her husband's disappearance had 
 been much commented on and given rise to many idle rumours 
 and prejudices. He said that, had he been less a stranger to 
 my daughter, he would have called upon her and advised her
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 187 
 
 to place the matter in the hands of the police, which, how- 
 ever profitless the step might be so far as regarded the 
 solution of the mystery, would silence gossip and rescue her 
 from the charge of heartlessness. 
 
 I hastened home and wrote to Phoebe, mentioning the 
 news I had received from Mr. Hastings, and asking her to 
 explain her silence. I had to wait some days for her answer. 
 When at last I received her letter, it was to the effect that I 
 must not allow myself to be made uneasy by any reports that 
 reached me ; that this disappearance of Mr. Ransome was 
 only another illustration of his capricious character, and that 
 it was quite likely he would have returned before I received 
 her letter. The robbery, she said, was the real mystery ; for 
 she could not guess whether the footman had actually stolen 
 the plate on his own account or whether he had acted on the 
 instructions of Mr. Ransome. When her husband came 
 home he would clear up this difficulty, and she would hazard 
 no conjecture until he had returned. 
 
 I had to be satisfied with this answer, which was no 
 explanation. It was plain that she must think her husband 
 very mad if she could suppose he would order his man to rob 
 his house. To my common-sense it seemed that she was 
 bound to assume that the footman had stolen the plate ; and 
 I could not understand why she hesitated to start the police 
 after him. There was a reserve in the tone of her letter 
 which made me fancy that the so-called mystery was no 
 mystery to her. It seemed very idle to pretend that her hus- 
 band could connive at this robbery. I knew very well what 
 plate they had, and if it were all gone, then the loss would 
 amount to not less than seven or eight hundred pounds. 
 
 However, I forbore troubling my mind with conjectures, 
 living in daily expectation of receiving a letter that should 
 explain the whole affair. Meanwhile, I frequently met Mr. 
 Hastings, and from him gathered, by very slow degrees, the esti- 
 mation in which my daughter and her husband were held at 
 Copsford. I was greatly concerned to find that their habit of 
 quarrelling was well known ; that in consequence of Mr. Ran- 
 some's eccentric and often insolent reception of his wife's 
 friends, few, if any, persons visited the house ; and that it 
 was generally understood he was insane, though various 
 degrees of insanity were ascribed to him. 
 
 All this was extremely mortifying for me to hear. I have 
 before written that, owing to the loss of my wife, I had with-
 
 188 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 drawn from society, and preserved the acquaintance of but 
 few people ; but I believed I had left a name that wa8 
 thoroughly respected throughout the neighbourhood, and I 
 cannot describe the distress and annoyance with whieh I 
 heard that my daughter and Mr. Kansome were incessantly 
 creating gossip, and that this last vagary of Mr. Kansome had 
 brought upon his wife as much scandal, had excited as many 
 rumours, and generated as much prejudice, as if she had very 
 seriously committed herself. 
 
 Three weeks passed before I again heard from Phoebe ; 
 and then one afternoon, on returning to my lodgings, I found 
 the following letter from her : — 
 
 ' Dearest Papa, — For God's sake come to me at once. I 
 am the victim of a horrible plot, and am helpless whilst you 
 are from me. I cannot write more now. An unendurable 
 insult has been offered me. On receipt of this letter leave 
 Boulogne.' 
 
 The handwriting was an agitated scrawl, and the wild 
 appearance of the letter was completed by the rough way 
 in which it had been folded and crammed into the enve- 
 lope. You may conceive I was greatly agitated. The 
 hasty, unsatisfactory words offered scope to all kinds of con- 
 jectures. My ruling impression was that she had violently 
 quarrelled with her husband. I imagined that he had returned 
 home, assigned some discreditable motive for his disappear- 
 ance, and that she had been driven into a passion by this 
 confession, and dashed off this letter to me when her temper 
 was at its height. 
 
 I had to wait until the morrow to cross the Channel. The 
 packet started at nine, and after being blown about for nearly 
 six hours, we made Dover. I posted to Canterbury, where I 
 caught the coach to London ; slept at Southwark that night ; 
 early next morning booked myself for Copsford ; and reached 
 that town at four o'clock in the afternoon, three days after the 
 receipt of my daughter's letter. 
 
 I engaged a bedroom at one of the chief inns at Copsford, 
 where I left my portmanteau, and, hiring a fly, was driven 
 over to Gardenhurst. The familiar scenery through which I 
 passed, amid which I had spent so many years of my life, 
 recalled many associations mournful and happy. I remembered 
 how I had climbed yonder hill ; how, as a boy, I had fished 
 in the silver trout-stream in that dark-green valley down 
 there ; how often I had traversed this road I was now
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 189 
 
 journeying along, with my wife by my side ; how in later 
 days Phoebe had been my one dear companion. I thought of 
 her folly in marrying a man of whom she had known so little, 
 but in whom I had witnessed characteristics which furnished me 
 with but poor promise of my girl's happiness with him. As 
 I approached the house, my agitation increased. My ignorance 
 of the nature of my daughter's need of me rendered my imagi- 
 nation painfully active, and I felt as if I should not have the 
 courage to meet her. 
 
 I alighted at the gate and walked along the avenue. My 
 hand trembled as I raised it to the knocker. I was mastered 
 by I know not what indefinable dread, and waited with miser- 
 able anxiety for my summons to be answered. The gloom of 
 the evening had gathered under the avenue ; but away down 
 on my left the grounds were shining in the light of the sink- 
 ing sun, and the rooks were noisy in the soft dark clouds of 
 trees at the bottom. 
 
 The door was opened by a plainly-dressed, but neat, kindly- 
 faced woman, who might have been twenty or forty, for she 
 had an odd look of youth and middle-age in her face. Her 
 hair was brown and brushed smoothly over her forehead ; her 
 eyes were grey, clear, and singularly honest and penetrating ; 
 her complexion pale. She started on seeing me, and before I 
 oould speak, exclaimed — 
 
 ' You are Colonel Kilmain, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Is my daughter at home ? ' 
 
 I Yes, sir ; she will be very glad to see you,' she said. 
 4 She is in the drawing-room. Have you no luggage ? ' 
 
 I I have left my portmanteau at Copsford. Mr. Eansome 
 has not returned ? ' 
 
 1 No, sir.' 
 
 ' Does Mrs. Eansome expect me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; but she was afraid you would not arrive before 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 She closed the hall door and I walked to the drawing- 
 room, first knocking and then throwing open the door. 
 Phoebe was seated at the table in a most listless attitude, 
 mechanically turning the leaves of a book, with her eyes 
 directed at the window. She looked around, saw me, sprang 
 from the chair, and in a moment was sobbing upon my breast. 
 
 ' My darling,' I exclaimed, kissing her and leading her 
 tenderly to the sofa, ' you see I have lost no time in coming 
 to you. You have caused me great anxiety, for your letter
 
 190 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 was very hurried and short, and has terribly exercised my 
 imagination. What is the plot, Phoebe ? What has your 
 husband been doing ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, papa, I cannot tell you yet,' she answered, holding 
 my hands with a clinging attitude, and pressing against me 
 in a way strangely suggestive of the need of shelter and 
 protection. 'You are tired — you must rest yourself awhile. 
 You are not prepared to hear the story yet. I will ring for 
 some tea — that will refresh you.' 
 
 ' No, my child, I want nothing,' I said. ' Tell me every- 
 thing at once. I have been in suspense long enough — begin 
 now, Phoebe.' 
 
 She breathed quickly, and a look of wild fear came into 
 her eyes. Her face was very thin, the hollows under her 
 eyes dark, and there was an expression of passionate distress 
 and weariness, and lines of care that made her older-looking 
 by ten years. 
 
 I repeated again eagerly my wish to hear the truth at 
 once. Her hands trembled in mine and I felt them turn 
 cold and clammy. Then she began her recital. She told 
 me how, on a certain morning, above a month ago, her 
 husband and the footman, Maddox, were found missing ; 
 how the housekeeper, Miss Avory, had found the plate-safe 
 empty ; how the inspector had been summoned, and how, 
 after he was come, she regretted having sent for him when 
 she considered that the disappearance of the two men might 
 be a scheme of her husband's, and that it was impossible 
 for her to explain her suspicions to the inspector without 
 entering into family secrets which her pride abhorred the 
 thought of making public ; how she suffered the matter to 
 rest in the full persuasion that Maddox had acted in concert 
 with Mr. Ransome, and that the latter would return any 
 day, when, if Maddox was really guilty of stealing the 
 plate, the police could be started in pursuit of him ; how, 
 but a few days ago, Mrs. Ransome had entered the house 
 and denounced her as her husband's murderess ; how, shortly 
 after she had been turned out, she came back with the 
 inspector, a constable, and a dismissed servant who declared 
 that she had frequently heard her late mistress threaten to 
 kill Mr. Ransome ; how the inspector and the constable had 
 searched the house, implying by the act that they deemed 
 her capable of the crime imputed to her ; and how, at that 
 very time of speaking, she was actually lying under the
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 191 
 
 suspicion of having murdered her husband with her own 
 hands or of having connived at his death by the hands of 
 another. 
 
 Such was her story to me. 
 
 I listened to it without a word, too astounded to utter 
 even an exclamation. 
 
 When she had made an end I looked at her. As I live, 
 I believed at that moment that she was mad ; that her whole 
 story, consistently related as it had been, was a hideous 
 delusion. 
 
 'Do you mean to tell me, Phoebe,' I exclaimed, 'that 
 the inspector searched this house on the information of 
 Mr. Ransome's mother, for the purpose of finding proof of 
 your guilt ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, papa. Miss Avory will bear witness. Let her join 
 us. She has been my only friend ! ' 
 
 ' Stay ! ' I cried, restraining her. ' Answer me first some 
 questions, and then we will call her. What kind of life have 
 you led with this man who has deserted you ? ' 
 
 ' As I believe in God,' she answered, wringing her 
 hands, ' the most miserable life that ever woman led in 
 this world.' 
 
 * And you never told me ! ' 
 
 1 He has driven me mad,' she continued, rocking herself 
 to and fro, ' with wild and dreadful insults. He has struck 
 me with his fist. He has buried his fingers in the flesh of 
 my arm, and left marks there which have lasted for days ! 
 He has cursed and spat upon me ! Ruffian ! coward that ha 
 is ! he has tried to drive me mad — and he has done it, I 
 think ! for this last act of his has forced a weight like burning 
 iron into my head, and I have scarcely closed my eyes in 
 sleep for six days.' 
 
 ' My God ! ' I cried, grasping her arm in the passion that 
 mastered me. ' Why did you not tell me this before ? Why 
 have you allowed his madness to play itself into this last 
 atrocious act ? ' 
 
 She made no answer, and continued rocking herself to 
 and fro, moaning as though her heart would break. 
 
 ' Was it your obstinate pride that kept you silent ? ' 1 
 continued. ' Am I so great an enemy to you that you will 
 never take me into your councils until it is too late ? Would 
 real pride suffer itself to be trampled upon and crushed 
 whilst it had a voice to lift up to summon the help which a
 
 192 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 single syllable would have obtained? And now what has 
 come of it all ? The deadliest suspicion is upon us ! Your 
 husband's villainy has made this house accurst ! Though all 
 be made clear as the daylight, yet the suspicion will always 
 haunt us, the foul memory will never depart ! The ruffian 
 has done his work 1 Why have I been spared to witness this 
 awful disgrace ? ' 
 
 I paced the room in a frenzy. My pride had received a 
 terrible wound, and the torment of it drove me wild. I 
 grasped the whole situation as though I had been an actor 
 in it from the beginning. Now I understood the significance 
 of those whispers to which Mr. Hastings had referred. My 
 daughter was terrified by my passion, and stared at me with 
 wide-open eyes. 
 
 ' Why did you not tell me that your husband was a 
 villain ? Why did you not tell me ? long ago I would have 
 taken you from him ! ' I cried ; and I repeated these excla- 
 mations again and again, feeling the blood in my head, and 
 clutching at my collar, which seemed to strangle me, until, 
 breathless and exhausted, I sank into a chair. 
 
 I felt her hand upon my shoulder— I motioned her away. 
 
 1 Not yet,' I muttered. ' Give me time ! this is an awful 
 blow. I should not have believed I could bear it and live.' 
 
 Then I looked at her. There was something heartrending 
 in the misery and pain expressed in her face. 
 
 ' Oh, Phcebe ! ' I cried, extending my arms, ' this is hard 
 — hard upon us both ! ' 
 
 She fell at my feet. 
 
 I pressed my lips to her forehead and raised her. 
 
 * God knows you have suffered enough. How can I hear 
 you tell me of your husband's behaviour and remain calm ? 
 Was he ill-treating you six months ago ? If so, he hid his 
 villainy well, for how often did I tell you that you were the 
 transgressor in the quarrels between you ! How little did I 
 guess the provocation he gave you in secret ! You have said 
 that Miss Avory has been a friend to you. Eing the bell and 
 let her join us. She will be cooler than you, and tell me 
 clearly all that I must know without delay.' 
 
 1 Papa, you are tired — you have travelled a long distance 
 — rest yourself awhile.' 
 
 I had assumed a calm for her sake, but my agitation was 
 so great that it needed the utmost effort of my will to enable 
 me to speak quietly. I rang the bell myself, and paced the
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 193 
 
 room whilst I endeavoured to realise our position and make 
 myself master of the details of Mr. Kansome's plot against 
 his wife — for a plot, on the assurance of Phoebe, I considered 
 it. She watched me wistfully, but without the fear that had 
 hitherto made her face almost pitiful to see. 
 
 Miss Avory probably guessed that the summons was for 
 her, for she answered it herself. There was something so 
 quiet and steady in her manner and appearance that the 
 mere sight of her seemed to soothe my agitation. Though 
 her features were irregular, yet there was so much intellect 
 and delicacy and firmness expressed in her pale face that 
 one would never dream of noticing that she was not pretty. 
 She was as much a lady as any one I ever met, with her 
 self-possessed manner, her calm gaze, her gentle, but not 
 timid, air. At any other time I might have wondered to 
 find her occupying the lowly position of housekeeper, but I 
 had other things to think of. 
 
 I begged her to be seated. She closed the door and took 
 a chair facing one of the windows, perhaps that I might see 
 her face and know that she spoke the truth in her answers. 
 
 'I have just heard from my daughter,' I said, ' the story 
 of the wrong her husband and his mother have done her. 
 Do you think with her that this is a conspiracy on Mr. 
 Ransome's part, and that his mother is helping him to carry 
 it out ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot make up my mind to take that view, sir,' she 
 answered. ' I have no doubt that Mr. Ransome's insairity 
 is great enough to account for everything ; but there is one 
 feature in this affair so purposeless as respects any issue 
 Mr. Ransome may contemplate, that, until I can find a reason 
 for it, I cannot persuade myself to regard Mr. Ransome's dis- 
 appearance as a conspiracy. I refer to the robbery of the 
 plate. He could have no object in taking the plate himself or 
 in getting the footman to take it.' 
 
 ' But Miss Avory will not consider that Mr. Ransome is 
 mad,' exclaimed Phoebe petulantly. 
 
 ' Miss Avory does, my dear,' I answered ; ' I think her 
 views very sound. The same thought occurred to me when 
 I read your letter. The fact of your husband and the 
 footman leaving the house on the same night proves only a 
 coincidence. Had there been no robbery committed, one 
 might assume that they had gone off together ; but the 
 missing plate convicts one of them of theft. Your husband 
 
 o
 
 i 9 4 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 could have no motive in taking it ; lie would not burden 
 himself with it ; he could find no use for it. Hence Maddox 
 must have stolen it ; and the robbery, in my opinion, proves 
 the two men to have acted independently of each other.' 
 
 ' I must tell you, sir,' said Miss Avory, ' that I was 
 talking to some people of the name of Campion a day or two 
 ago, and they assured me, from what they had heard, that 
 Mrs. Eansome is perfectly sincere in her belief that her son 
 has been murdered. Monstrous as her theory is, since it in- 
 volves an abominable charge against the members of this house- 
 hold, yet it is well to know that she is conscientious in professing 
 it, because it proves that she is not in league with her son.' 
 
 ' But how do you know she speaks the truth ? ' cried 
 Phoebe. 'Did she not make Mary tell an infamous lie by 
 suggesting that she had been discharged because she knew 
 too much ? I will never believe,' she exclaimed passion- 
 ately, ' that she and her son are not in a conspiracy against 
 me. She brought the inspector to my house that she might 
 degrade me and create a suspicion against me in people's 
 minds ; and is the word of a wretch who could act like this 
 to be taken ? She wants to revenge herself ; and there is no 
 lie she would not tell to disgrace and ruin me.' 
 
 ' What have you done to make her revengeful ? ' I asked. 
 
 1 When she visited us, she would act as if she were mistress 
 here, take my authority out of my hands, and set the servants 
 against me, besides aggravating the bitterness that already 
 existed between my husband and me. I determined to show 
 her and everybody else that I was mistress, that this was my 
 house, and that no orders but mine should be obeyed. At her 
 last visit I gave her the use of two rooms, and refused to let 
 her occupy the others. This is her reason for hating me.' 
 
 ' You did not tell me this before,' I exclaimed. 
 
 1 Well, papa, it is true ; and on the same day of her arrival 
 she left us, and that night her son disappeared. Do I not 
 prove the conspiracy by showing you why it should exist ? ' 
 
 ' Did she leave you voluntarily ? ' 
 
 ' No. Miss Avory frightened Mr. Eansome by threatening 
 him with a madhouse. She found that she had power over 
 him, and used her influence to oblige him to take his mother 
 away. This was a defeat she could not forgive. Oh ! ' she 
 cried impetuously, ' it is blinding one's eyes to the truth to 
 pretend that all this isn't a conspiracy. I see through it 
 plainly enough.'
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 195 
 
 1 Are you sure he was frightened of you, Miss Avory ? ' I 
 said ; ' or do you think his fear was feigned and a stratagem 
 of his madness ? He might have wished his mother to go, 
 and pretend that he was afraid of you as an excuse to remove 
 her.' 
 
 ' No, sir ; he was afraid of me ; I am sure of that. He 
 ruled his mother, and would not require any excuse to request 
 her to leave.' 
 
 ' You actually threatened him with a madhouse ? ' 
 
 1 Not actually ; he confessed his horror of the thought, and 
 I worked upon his fear by implication in order to get him to 
 remove his mother.' 
 
 I recalled his manner to me six months before ; how he 
 had shunned me, how he had avoided my gaze. I had often 
 felt that he was afraid of me. A strange idea seized me. 
 
 ' Do you think, Miss Avory, he ran away because he was 
 frightened of you, and dreaded that your threats of a madhouse 
 might really be carried out ? ' 
 
 She was silent, and bent her eyes down thoughtfully. 
 
 1 Consider,' I went on ; ' he would understand that you 
 knew of his behaviour to my daughter ; he might believe that, 
 having guessed he was mad, you would acquaint me with 
 your discovery of his madness and of the ill-usage my daughter 
 was subjected to ; and not doubting how I should act, he ran 
 away — a madman's fear acting upon him.' 
 
 ' That might be his reason,' she replied, drawing a long 
 breath. 
 
 'Fie knew,' I exclaimed, with excitement, 'as certainly 
 as that he lived that, had I guessed he was the mad- 
 man I have found him out to be, I would have saved my 
 daughter from his brutality by using the only remedy I am 
 permitted against him. He is fit only for a madhouse, and 
 there I would have had him lodged. Phcebe, can this have 
 been his reason for leaving you ? ' 
 
 ' No ! his reason is to disgrace me. He has done so, 
 through his mother ! ' 
 
 Her answer recalled me from my speculations to the sense 
 of our present position. 
 
 ' What is thought of Mrs. Eansome's charge against my 
 daughter, Miss Avory ? Is it credited ? ' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' I must tell you the truth, sir,' she answered. ' There is 
 much gossip about it, and until the old lady's accusation is 
 disproved, people will continue wondering and talking.' 
 
 2
 
 196 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Disproved ? ' I cried. ' What shape does the accusation 
 take ? Does she actually charge my daughter with murdering 
 Mr. Eansome ? ' 
 
 ' She declares it is her full persuasion that her son is dead ; 
 that your daughter knows he is dead, and can tell, if she 
 chooses, how he came hy his death.' 
 
 ' She called me murderess to my face, papa,' Phoebe 
 shrieked, starting up and holding her clasped hands out be- 
 fore her. 
 
 1 But,' I burst out, 'how can she found a charge of this 
 kind on the mere disappearance of her son, knowing that it 
 was his habit to leave her without hinting his intention ? 
 Are they all crazy at Copsford that they listen to this woman's 
 stuff?' 
 
 ' She made the inspector search the house expressly that 
 people should suspect me,' moaned Phoebe. 
 
 ' A serious mistake was made in the first instance,' said 
 Miss Avory, ' by Mrs. Eansome omitting to give instructions 
 to the inspector to follow Maddox. People are dwelling upon 
 that. They think something is hidden behind this indifference 
 to the robbery.' 
 
 ' Yes,' I answered ; ' I see how this indifference might be 
 misconstrued. Why, Phoebe, did you not treat the matter as 
 a robbery? Of course people wonder that you should not take 
 a single step to recover your property.' 
 
 ' How could I explain the truth to the inspector ? ' said 
 Phoebe, beginning to sob ; ' I believed then, as I believe now, 
 that the removal of the plate was a part of the conspiracy — 
 perhaps to account for Maddox's disappearance — to throw us 
 off our guard — as the apparent robbery of Mr. Kansome's 
 room was designed to do ; and I would not play into the 
 coward's hands by exposing my secrets to strangers. I thought 
 he would come back ; every day I expected him. Then I 
 should have found out the truth about Maddox.' 
 
 ' Where is Mrs. Ransome living ? Do you know, Miss Avory ? ' 
 I asked. 
 
 ' She has a lodging in Dane Street, I believe. I heard last 
 night that she was ill. The news came by a friend of the cook, 
 who also added another startling piece of gossip.' 
 
 ' What was that ? ' I exclaimed, seeing her look earnestly 
 towards Phoebe. 
 
 She hesitated some moments, and then answered — 
 
 ' The day after the inspector searched the house, Mrs.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 197. 
 
 Ransom© applied for a warrant against your daughter ; but 
 her application was refused.' 
 
 • A warrant to bring my child before the bench on the 
 charge of murder ? ' I cried. 
 
 ' Yes, sir. I beg your pardon, madam,' Miss Avory said 
 addressing my daughter, ' for not having told you this before. 
 I thought it best to wait until Colonel Kilmain had arrived. 
 She applied in person, and on its being refused, fell into a 
 passion and called on all present to take notice that the law 
 refused to help her to bring her son's murderess to justice. 
 A few such scenes, sir, would do good, by convincing people 
 that she was mad.' 
 
 ' But is she not known to be mad ? ' I exclaimed, almost 
 paralysed by the hideous and overwhelming pertinacity the 
 old woman had exhibited. 
 
 ' I am afraid not — at least by the majority,' she replied. 
 ' Some sympathy is felt for her. She is a poor, heartbroken 
 mother, they say, mourning the loss of her son ; the law ought 
 to help her to find him. She is now ill, seriously ill, it is 
 rumoured ; and whether her illness is feigned or not, the report 
 is sure to increase the sympathy she has excited.' 
 
 I felt myself for the moment utterly helpless in the face 
 of the astounding situation in which my daughter was placed. 
 It was now half-past seven ; the evening was fast drawing in, 
 and the room was so gloomy that I could barely see the faces 
 of my companions. For seven or eight hours no food had 
 passed my lips : I felt faint but had no appetite. I asked 
 Miss Avory to get me some brandy-and-water, and she hurried 
 away, and after a short absence brought, in addition to what 
 I had requested, some sandwiches and biscuits. While she 
 was gone not a word had passed between my daughter and me. 
 She was terrified, I think, by the misery she had brought upon 
 me : and I was too agitated by conflicting passions to utter a 
 syllable. I forced myself to eat and drink, and then, jumping 
 up, announced my intention to go at once to Mrs. Ransome. 
 
 I I must see her,' I exclaimed, ' though she be dying ; I 
 must extort the truth from her, and force her to own that, 
 either this is a conspiracy to ruin you, or that she actually 
 believes her scoundrel son has been murdered in this house.' 
 
 I heard Phoebe addressing me in beseeching language, but 
 I paid no heed to her ; with a feeling as of a fever raging in 
 my blood, I hurried into the hall, seized my hat, and in a few 
 moments was walking impetuously towards Copsford.
 
 i 9 8 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 II 
 
 The evening was fine, the sun had set, and in the east the 
 sky was heavy with stars. The cool air fanned my heated face 
 as I walked, but I saw no more of the rich and glorious land- 
 scape that lay around me, with its wreathed hills and black 
 valleys, than had I been in a cell. 
 
 The blow that had been dealt me was a stunning one. 
 The significance of the position my daughter had placed both 
 of us in by her fatal choice of a madman for a husband grew 
 deep and appalling now that I was alone, and could give my 
 whole mind to it. From any charge, however insignificant, 
 so that it gave provocation to gossip, my pride would have 
 
 recoiled with horror; but this ! 
 
 In half-an-hour's time I had reached Copsford. I entered 
 the High Street with a dread of being recognised, and, poorly 
 lighted as the thoroughfare was, shrank as I advanced close 
 against the shops, and passed forward hastily, keeping my face 
 bent downwards. The little town was as familiar to me as 
 my hand. I reached Dane Street, and, looking about me a 
 moment, entered a chemist's shop, and asked the man behind 
 the counter if he knew where Mrs. Eansome lived. 
 
 'Why, Colonel Kilmain,* he exclaimed, with a smile, ' you 
 ought to know where Gardenhurst is, sir.' 
 
 " ' I don't mean my daughter,' I answered, foolishly dismayed 
 by finding myself known; 'there is another Mrs. Eansome 
 who lodges somewhere in this street.' 
 
 ' Oh, to be sure, sir. I beg pardon. I was thinking of 
 Mrs. Eansome of Gardenhurst. The other Mrs. Eansome — 
 she's your daughter's mother-in-law, I believe, sir— lives at 
 Number Three, a private house, at the bottom of this side. 
 They say she won't live, sir. I've been supplying her with a 
 <!• al of medicine for the last few days, one way and another. 
 That's a bad job about her son. Oh, I beg your pardon,' he 
 exclaimed, colouring to the roots of his hair. 
 
 ' What about her son ? ' 
 
 1 Oh — really — I forgot who I was talking to, sir. Number 
 Three, sir — last house but one on this side.' 
 
 ' It is reported that her son is murdered, isn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Why, yes, so they say, sir. I am quite vexed with myself 
 for forgetting.' 
 
 ' Murdered by whom ? '
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 199 
 
 ' I'd rather not talk of it, sir,' he answered, with a great 
 air of confusion. ' It's not a pleasant subject,' he added ap- 
 pealingly. 
 
 ' But you can answer my question.' 
 
 ' If I vmst say it,' he exclaimed, forcing his words out with 
 reluctance, ' they report that he was murdered up at his own 
 house.' 
 
 ' And are you fool enough to believe this report ? ' 
 
 ' I ? Lord bless you, sir ! I've got other things to think 
 of.' 
 
 I wheeled round and walked out of the shop. Better for 
 me, perhaps, had I always acted so. 
 
 I reached the house to which the chemist had directed me 
 and knocked. It was an old but clean house, with black gleam- 
 ing windows on a level with the wall, and a door decorated 
 with a brass knocker and handle. I stepped backwards, after 
 I had knocked, and looked up. A light shone upon the second- 
 floor windows, and the shadow of a figure walking in the room 
 moved upon the blinds. In a short time the door was opened, 
 and a thin, ghostly-looking man in a sleeved waistcoat stood 
 forth, leaving a candle burning on a table in the passage. 
 
 ' Does Mrs. Bansome live here ? ' I inquired. 
 
 The man looked attentively at me for some moments, and 
 then answered in a voice resembling a raven's — 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Where does she live ? I was informed that she was in 
 lodgings at Number Three.' 
 
 ' So she were,' croaked the man, ' and this is Number Three. 
 But she don't live nowheres now. She's dead.' 
 
 He wagged his head slowly from side to side, struck his 
 nose with his finger, and fell back a step, repeating, ' 'Cos she's 
 dead.' 
 
 ' Dead ! ' I exclaimed. ' When did she die ? ' 
 
 1 As the clock was a striking twelve,' he answered. ' My 
 wife's attending of the corpse now. You can't see it.' 
 
 The strange suspicion that this might be a trick of the old 
 lady's, though God knows for what end, was put into my head 
 by the man's words. Unfortunately, I could not see his face 
 clearly, for the candle behind him flickered in my eyes, and 
 the street which he confronted was quite dark. 
 
 ' Can you tell me the name of the doctor who attended 
 her ? ' I said. 
 
 ' Mr. EastwehY
 
 2oo IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 * Thank you.' 
 
 I knew Mr. Eastwell by sight, and where he lived. I 
 turned away, and the ghostly-looking man shut the door. I 
 crossed the street, and looked at the windows where the light 
 was. The shadow moved restlessly upon the blinds. Was 
 she really dead ? If so, her death must have been sudden. 
 How came it that the news had not been brought to Garden- 
 hurst ? Those who attended her would be sure to know 
 that Phoebe was her daughter-in-law, and they would naturally 
 look to her for instructions with respect to the disposal of the 
 body. 
 
 This reflection increased my suspicion. I walked hurriedly 
 into the High Street, where Mr. Eastwell lived, trying to 
 imagine in what manner the supposed death of the old lady 
 would strengthen the plot of which Phoebe declared herself 
 the victim. On my arrival at the surgeon's house the door 
 was opened by a page, who took me for a patient and led 
 me to a small, close-smelling room, with a table on one side 
 covered with glass bottles and the walls hung with anatomical 
 drawings. 
 
 Mr. Eastwell, probably sharing the impression of his page, 
 kept me waiting some time. 
 
 He was a fat young man, in spectacles. He brought into 
 the room with him a strong smell of tobacco, and catching 
 sight of me, suffered the stereotyped gravity to melt out of his 
 face, whilst he exclaimed — 
 
 ' I have the honour of seeing Colonel Kilmain ? ' 
 
 I told him he had ; whereupon he seated himself, clasped 
 his hands over his knee and posed himself in a listening 
 attitude. 
 
 ' I have called to know if it is true that Mrs. Eansome is 
 dead,' said I. 
 
 ' Quite true. She died this morning.' 
 
 ' So I was informed by the man whom I suppose the house 
 belongs to. Surely her death is very sudden ? ' 
 
 ' No,' he answered. ' She lived a night longer than I 
 thought she would. I was with her last evening and gave her 
 up then.' 
 
 ' Am I right in supposing,' I said, satisfied by his manner 
 and answers that she was dead, ' that she did not wish any 
 communication to be made to her daughter-in-law, Mrs. 
 Ransome of Gardenhurst ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, the lady is your daughter, of course. It did not
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 2CI 
 
 occur to me before. To be sure — she was Miss Kilmain ! I 
 understand the motive of your inquiries now. Your conjec- 
 ture is quite right : Mrs. Ransome emphatically prohibited 
 any notice of her illness or death being given to your daughter. 
 She has left very complete instructions about her funeral and 
 so forth. She puts her body into the hands of Mr. and Mrs. 
 "Wadgett, her landlord and his wife, with orders to place it in 
 a coffin and despatch it to Guildford. Mr. Wadgett will 
 accompany the corpse and consign it to the custody of some 
 intimate friend of the deceased.' 
 
 ' Who is that intimate friend, I wonder — her son ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir,' he exclaimed, looking at me sternly through his 
 spectacles ; ' that intimate friend is not her son. And, sir, 
 you'll pardon the liberty I take in venturing to feel surprised 
 that, knowing the very grave suspicions which afflicted Mrs. 
 Ransome, and which I have no hesitation in saying, aided 
 by her maternal attachment and grief, hastened her death, 
 you should venture to suppose that that intimate friend s hould 
 be her son.' 
 
 ' I arrived at Copsford this afternoon,' I exclaimed, ' and 
 heard for the first time of the accusation which your patient 
 in her madness thought fit to level at my child. I so strongly 
 suspected that woman's honesty that I would not be satisfied 
 with her landlord's assurance of her death, but came to you 
 to have the news confirmed, believing her capable of any 
 extravagant deceit. That is the object of this visit ; not to 
 discuss a subject so utterly preposterous as Mrs. Ransome's 
 delusion.' 
 
 ' I know nothing more than what she has told me. I 
 decline to pass an opinion one way or the other.' 
 
 ' I have not asked you for an opinion,' I answered warmly. 
 ' Had that woman lived, I would have forced her to confess 
 herself either mad or utterly wicked. My charity disposes me 
 to think her mad. Human wickedness of the worst description 
 would stop short, I think, of charging an innocent lady with 
 the crime of murder ! One question you can answer me : Is 
 it your belief that Mrs. Ransome was mad ? ' 
 
 ' I will not say,' he replied deliberately, ' that her grief at 
 the supposed death of her son had not unsettled her mind ; 
 but I would not call her mad. Far from it. Her reasoning 
 was as sane as anybody's I ever listened to.' 
 
 ' Is it possible,' I cried, ' that you can reconcile her sanity 
 with the charge she brings against her daughter-in-law ? '
 
 202 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' I would really — I would really, sir,' he answered, waving 
 his hand and smiling, ' prefer not to enter upon this subject. 
 It is no affair of mine. I have given you my opinion of Mrs. 
 Kansome's sanity. I may be wrong — we are all apt to 
 mistake. The unfortunate lady may have been a raving 
 madwoman. I can only say that she struck me as a healthy- 
 minded person who talked with incoherence only when she 
 cried out, in her grief, for her son to be restored to her.' 
 
 I got up, bowed to him, and left the room. He accom- 
 panied me to the door, remarking upon the freshness of the 
 night, and suggested that, since I was just returned from 
 abroad, 1 must feel the difference between the climates. I 
 barely answered him, and hurried into the street. 
 
 His testimony to Mrs. Ransome's sanity indescribably vexed 
 and agitated me. Was he sincere in declaring that he believed 
 her sane ? 
 
 I stood awhile in the street, considering what I should do. 
 It was past eight o'clock ; the night had fallen, but the pave- 
 ments Were brilliant enough with shop-lights, though here 
 and there some of the shops were being closed. I had an 
 extraordinary reluctance to return to Gardenhurst without 
 having taken some decided step ; without having prepared 
 some measure that would enable me to go to work resolutely 
 on the morrow. A man turned to look at me after he had 
 passed, and I shrank some paces away out of the light of the 
 shop before which I had unconsciously halted whilst I debated 
 my next action. My unfortunate sensitiveness made me suffer 
 as much as though I myself had done some great wrong. 
 
 I was about to advance, with a half-resolution in my mind 
 to call there and then upon a solicitor and submit my daughter's 
 position to him, when a little elderly man, passing at that 
 moment, stopped, looked at me attentively, and exclaimed — 
 
 ' Why, Colonel Kilmain ! is it possible that you have come 
 to live among us once more ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Skerlock ! ' I said ; ' I hope you are well, sir ? It is 
 some time since I had the pleasure of meeting you.' 
 
 ' Oddly enough,' he replied, ' you were in my mind not an 
 hour ago. And yesterday I asked my wife if she had heard 
 whether you had arrived at Gardenhurst.' 
 
 ' I reached here this afternoon, having hurried from 
 Boulogne in consequence of a pressing letter from my daughter. 
 You do not require to be told of the extraordinary business 
 that has brought me here.'
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 203 
 
 4 No, indeed,' he exclaimed ; ' and I want to have a 
 chat with you on that very subject. Which way are you 
 walking ? ' 
 
 I answered that I was anxious to have some conversation 
 with him, and proposed that we should turn into the White 
 Hart, the inn where I had hired a bedroom, and which was 
 but a few steps up the street. He asked me to go to his 
 house, but I declined, and we repaired to the inn, where we 
 found the coffee-room empty. I called for some wine, and 
 drew my chair close to Mr. Skerlock. He was a spare man, 
 of a dry and dusty aspect, a great consumer of snuff ; his face 
 was full of amiability and kindness. He put his hat upon the 
 table, and pulling out his snuff-box, opened the conversation 
 by trusting that I would not misconstrue his meaning if he 
 should be frank with me ; he felt that he should be thought 
 guilty of presumption in offering either his sympathy or his 
 advice to a gentleman with whom he had not the honour of 
 an intimate acquaintance — and so forth. 
 
 I I can assure you,' I replied, ' that I was never more in 
 need of sympathy and advice than I am at this moment. 
 When you met me, sir, I had been standing for full ten 
 minutes pondering on how I should act.' 
 
 I Understand me at once, Colonel,' he exclaimed ; ' I 
 utterly scout the monstrous supposition which your daughter's 
 mother-in-law has been trying to establish — I suppose you 
 know the old lady is dead ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I have just heard so.' 
 
 I I may tell you plainly,' he continued, ' that her death 
 does not and will not promote your daughter's cause. It has 
 already excited sympathy, and we shall find that persons who 
 were before incredulous of her assertions will now doubtfully 
 shake their heads. As chairman, I have incurred some abuse 
 for refusing Mrs. Eansome's application for a warrant.' 
 
 1 As chairman ? ' I exclaimed, not understanding. 
 
 1 Have you forgotten that I am a magistrate ? ' 
 
 'I remember. I beg your pardon. I have only visited 
 Copsford once during the last two years, and then my stay 
 was a short one.' 
 
 ' I have provoked much criticism,' he said, taking a pinch 
 of snuff, ' for not acceding to the old lady's wishes. But we 
 live in a very small world here. There are a good many 
 poor ; and they are clamorous on the inequalities of justice, 
 saying that, if Mrs. Eansome had been a rich woman and
 
 204 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 your daughter a pauper, the warrant would have heen granted. 
 Was ever such nonsense talked ? As if a warrant could be 
 granted on such evidence as the old lady offered ! ' 
 
 He rapped his snuff-box excitedly, and then smiled and 
 nodded. 
 
 ' But do you really believe that Mrs. Ransome was sincere 
 in supposing that her son had been murdered ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' I am afraid that cannot be doubted.' 
 
 ' Did she not strike you as being mad ? ' 
 
 He sipped his wine, dropped his head on one side, and 
 answered mysteriously — 
 
 ' Mad as a March hare. But no one will believe me. There 
 was the excitement of lunacy in her eye, sir, when she was 
 refused her application ; and then she began to argue with 
 amazing vehemence — though, mind you, not without logic — 
 and eventually had to be ordered out of the room.' 
 
 ' But you know her son is mad ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; that is known.' 
 
 ' You also know that her son was in the habit of absenting 
 himself for weeks at a time from his mother, without apprising 
 her of his departure or return ? ' 
 
 • Yes, she admitted that.' 
 
 ' Then in God's name ! ' I cried, ' what can she mean by 
 charging my daughter with having killed her husband ? ' 
 
 ' Now we come to the point, Colonel,' he answered, holding 
 up his fingers and telling them off as he spoke. ' You must 
 first of all know that her evidence was to this effect : — That 
 your daughter (as she w r as prepared to prove) had been re- 
 peatedly heard to threaten Mr. Ransome's life ; that she used 
 him like a dog and never neglected an opportunity to insult 
 and degrade him before his servants ; that, though it was true 
 he was in the habit of leaving the house without communi- 
 cating his intention of doing so, yet never before had he 
 quitted it in the dead of night, u.nd never before, in her expe- 
 rience, had he been longer away than a fortnight at the very 
 outside without writing to say where he was ; that she had 
 herself seen enough of Mrs. Ransome to persuade her that she 
 was capable, in her passion, of committing murder ; that her 
 conviction was, either that Mrs. Ransome in a fury had killed 
 her husband, or procured some assassin to do the work for 
 her ; that the latter conjecture was rendered highly probable 
 by the mysterious disappearance of the footman on the night 
 of Mr. Ransome's disappearance, by the abstraction of the
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 205 
 
 plate, which would serve to mislead suspicion and fix it upon 
 the obvious commission of a comparatively small crime by 
 which Mr. Eansome, in seeming to be concerned in it, would 
 be shown to be alive ; and by Mrs. Eansome, from that hour 
 to this, never having taken any steps for the recovery of the 
 plate, for the apprehension of the thief, or for the pursuit of 
 her husband.' 
 
 The old gentleman had checked off his fingers, and now 
 plunged them into his snuff-box, his eyes on my face. 
 
 ' All these arguments can be met and silenced,' I answered. 
 ' But I am sure that you have disposed of them in your own 
 mind, and I have no right to inflict a long and superfluous 
 explanation upon you. The one point I have to consider is — 
 how am I to clear my daughter's character of the suspicion 
 Mrs. Eansome's accusation has left upon her ? ' 
 
 ' The great mistake your daughter made, Colonel,' he 
 answered, ' was in neglecting to instruct the inspector to follow 
 up the robbery of the plate. It is her total silence, her with- 
 holding from all action, that has given foundation to reports 
 and started the curious and vicious theories people are promul- 
 gating. I took the liberty of calling on her and representing 
 the necessity of having the matter inquired into ; not because 
 I anticipated the sinister result that has attended her inaction, 
 but because I considered it mercifully necessary that her hus- 
 band, being an irresponsible person, should not be suffered to 
 wander at large.' 
 
 ' She tells me she believed he would return to her any day,' 
 I replied. ' She also believed that the robbery of the plate 
 was a part of his scheme to bring shame and sorrow upon 
 her ; and wild as the theory appears, yet nothing is impossible 
 to madness. She refused to instruct the inspector because her 
 pride abhorred the thought of taking any step which might 
 ultimately lead to her confession of the miserable life she led 
 with Mr. Eansome. Knowing her character as I do, how proud 
 and self-willed she is, I believe in her explanation firmly ; and 
 I believe it to be all the more true because of the very incon- 
 sistency, perversity, and singularity of motives it forces her to 
 avow.' 
 
 ' And I believe her too, sir,' exclaimed the old gentleman 
 earnestly. ' Let any man look at her, speak to her, and imagine 
 her guilty if he can, of any crime — let alone this ! ' 
 I seized his hand and shook it warmly. 
 ' Thank you,' I said, ' for the courage your words put into
 
 206 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 me. I would ask you now if I have no remedy against the 
 inspector for his unwarrantable intrusion on my daughter? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid not ; he can only be charged with excess of 
 zeal, and the law looks softly upon such transgressions. But 
 will you allow me to recommend the course I consider the only 
 advisable one for you to follow ? ' 
 
 ' If you please.' 
 
 • Your first step should be to call on the inspector, for- 
 mally charge the footman with the robbery of the plate, 
 and explain that your daughter's ignorance of such matters 
 was her reason for not directing him to pursue the man 
 before.' 
 
 I at once saw the policy of this, 
 
 ' That suggestion shall be carried out to-morrow morning,' 
 I exclaimed. 
 
 Mr. Skerlock looked pleased. 
 
 ' The next thing,' he continued, ' is to find your son-in- 
 law, dead or alive.' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly.' 
 
 ' That you must endeavour to accomplish by advertisements, 
 offers of reward, and by putting the matter into the hands of 
 men accustomed to this sort of work. My friend Mr. Cle- 
 ments has had to employ a man of this kind. If you will 
 call on him, he will give you the man's address and you can 
 write to him.' 
 
 I thanked him for his practical advice. 
 
 ' Some,' he continued, ' would recommend you not to act 
 in the matter ; to treat it with silent contempt, and so forth. 
 But contempt (and you could not feel it) would be mistaken 
 for indifference, and would therefore be rash. Your daughter's 
 name is dear to you. It would be very dear to me if I owned 
 her for a daughter. Though your inquiries should prove fruit- 
 less, yet when people hear that you are inquiring, they will 
 find evidence of innocence in it ; and they will have no further 
 cause to complain of your daughter's inhumanity in suffering 
 a crazy husband to wander at the mercy of the world. Man- 
 kind are very full of cant,' he exclaimed, with a twinkling eye ; 
 ' we must recognise, we must bow to it, if we want to seem 
 either what we are or what we are not.' 
 
 This said, I looked at the time and debated within myself 
 whether to return to Gardenhurst or send a messenger there 
 to tell my daughter I should sleep at Copsford., I finally re- 
 solved to bear Phoebe company, having mucb to hear from her
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 207 
 
 and Miss Avory. However, I did not want to lose my friendly 
 companion in a hurry. It was still early ; he showed no impa- 
 tience to be gone, but drank his wine with relish, and seemed 
 to have made himself very happy by cheering me up. 
 
 It was a source of great comfort to me to know that he 
 utterly discredited the old woman's accusation, for I could 
 converse with him on the subject on the thorough under- 
 standing that the whole thing was either a conspiracy between 
 the mother and son or an extraordinary and incredible misap- 
 prehension on her part of the facts. The great interest he took 
 in the matter, and the hearty sympathy he expressed, deter- 
 mined me on being perfectly unreserved with him. I told him 
 the story of the marriage, my objection to it, my grave doubts 
 as to Mr. Kansome's sanity, my daughter's obstinacy, which 
 forced me to yield to her. I pointed out that there might be 
 good reasons for old Mrs. Eansome's antipathy to my daughter 
 and myself in the aversion I had shown to the engagement, 
 which she had no doubt regarded as an insult, since I had 
 never the courage to tell her that my objection was based on 
 my doubt of her son's sanity ; so that, from my avoidance 
 of the truth, she might have drawn conclusions highly 
 obnoxious to her pride, which was that of a woman who had 
 a very high opinion of her station in life. I explained to him 
 that, on Phoebe's testimony, many of the quarrels that had 
 arisen between her and her husband were owing to the mother 
 who had been intrusive, insolent, and meddlesome. In short, I 
 recounted all the facts I could remember to justify my suspicion 
 of the old woman's having acted from a malicious motive. 
 He agreed with me that the evidence was strongly in favour 
 of such a supposition, and he did not doubt that a great deal 
 of malice had been at the root of her persistent accusation ; 
 but he would have to assume an incomprehensible degree of 
 wickedness if he denied her sincerity in believing that her son 
 had met with his death by violence. She had never swerved 
 from that view from the moment she had communicated with 
 the inspector. Unless she was sincere, could we believe she 
 would have had the courage to take upon herself the enormous 
 responsibility of such a charge ? She never professed to have 
 received intimations of his death by supernatural means : such 
 as by his ghost having appeared to her, or by a dream, or by 
 a mysterious voice, or by any other nonsense by which an old 
 woman, and a crazy old woman, might endeavour to fortify 
 her statements. She founded her arguments on the most
 
 2c3 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 prosaic premises, as a counsel would ; on the circumstantial 
 evidence of her daughter-in-law's fits of passion, her repeated 
 threats to kill her husband, her inaction in the matter of the 
 robbery, and the double disappearance— all which, there being 
 nobody to confute her, had filled the public mind with foolish 
 fancies and preposterous prejudices. 
 
 As I listened to Mr. Skerlock, one idea impressed itself 
 upon me — that the old gentleman's familiarity with Mrs. 
 Kansome's arguments, and his knowledge of the state of 
 public feeling, proved that the subject was a notorious one. 
 This conviction emphasised the need of immediate action. 
 
 Our long and friendly conference was terminated by his 
 repeating his advice to me to start the inspector without delay 
 after the footman, and to employ every means in my power to 
 discover Mr. Ransome's whereabouts. 
 
 ' If,' he said, ' the footman can be found and the robbery 
 proved against him, the theory which has obtained that he 
 was an instrument in your daughter's hands will be exploded, 
 and such a discovery is certain to bring about a revulsion of 
 prejudice. Flatter the inspector by placing the matter in his 
 hands ; he is a talker, and will unconsciously serve your ends 
 by telling everybody his commission. But do not let "the 
 matter rest with him. The man who is to search for your 
 son-in-law may as well search for the footman also. The 
 police are sharp enough ; but there is no sharpness equal to 
 that of the man whom you pay highly for his discoveries.' 
 
 We bade each other good-night.
 
 2og 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 
 
 {Continued.) 
 
 It was hard upon ten o'clock before the Colonel returned 
 from Copsford. I did not expect him, for he had told me 
 that he had engaged a bedroom at the inn, and I thought he 
 would sleep there. 
 
 He drove up in a fly, his portmanteau was handed out, and 
 calling to me (for I had been attracted to the hall by the 
 ringing of the bell, never hearing the summons now without 
 conceiving that Mr. Ransome had returned), he asked me to 
 be so good as to prepare a bedroom for him, and then join him 
 and his daughter, as he wished to speak to me. 
 
 He was very pale, with a tired and yet an agitated expres- 
 sion in his face. I felt very sorry for him, as much so as 
 ever I felt for his daughter. 
 
 I got ready the bedroom that old Mrs. Ransome was to 
 have slept in, and having lingered long enough to give him 
 time to relate the result of his visit to Copsford to his 
 daughter, descended and entered the dining-room where they 
 were. 
 
 He was addressing her earnestly, but broke off when he 
 saw me, and instantly Mrs. Ransome exclaimed — 
 
 ' She is dead, Miss Avory ! She died this morning.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' I answered, knowing perfectly well whom 
 she meant. 
 
 The Colonel rose, and, with an air of great courtesy, 
 placed a chair for me near to where they were sitting. 
 
 ' I doubted the news at first,' he said, resuming his seat ; 
 ' but it is unquestionably true, for it was confirmed by the 
 doctor who attended her, and by Mr. Skerlock, a gentleman,' 
 he added warmly, ' who, by his sympathy and advice, has 
 placed me under an obligation to him I shall never forget 
 while I live.' 
 
 P
 
 210 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' I would to heaven, ' cried Mrs. Ransomc, ' that that 
 miserable, wicked old woman had died two years ago. I 
 should have been saved all this misery.' 
 
 Her father rebuked her vehemence with a glance, and 
 addressing me, said — - 
 
 ' I desire to thank you, Miss Avory, for the sympathy 
 and kindness you have shown my daughter since you have 
 been in this house. It consoles me to think that she should 
 have found so sincere a friend in you in the absence 
 of myself, whom she has thought fit to keep in ignorance 
 of the very wretched life she has been leading since her 
 marriage.' 
 
 I made some suitable reply, and then he related to me the 
 story of his visit to Copsford. I listened to him attentively, 
 and was much struck by the strong common-sense the sugges- 
 tions Mr. Skerlock had offered him illustrated. 
 
 ' We cannot improve upon that advice, I think, Miss 
 Avory,' he remarked. 
 
 ' No, sir.' 
 
 1 It will cost me some prevarication,' he said, looking at 
 me anxiously. ' I shall have to tell the inspector that my 
 daughter objected to the idea of having her name brought 
 forward, and that that and her ignorance were the reason of 
 her omitting to tell him to follow Maddox. But I must be 
 guilty of some deceit to deal successfully with this over- 
 whelming suspicion. Could we learn where Mr. Eansome is, 
 then the strict and whole truth would be our only policy ; but 
 whilst he remains in hiding, we can prove nothing ; we can 
 only illustrate our innocence by our actions, and we must be 
 very cautious to do nothing that can strengthen the prejudice 
 and doubt which already exist.' 
 
 ' I should consider any precaution justifiable under such 
 circumstances,' I exclaimed. 
 
 He turned to his daughter. 
 
 ' Phoebe, it is your violent temper that is the cause of all 
 this. You have been heard to threaten your husband's life. 
 How could you say such a thing ? ' 
 
 ' There were times when I could have killed him,' she 
 answered, turning pale. 
 
 ' But that is an awful threat,' he said, ' and it has been 
 wrested to an awful purpose. Even Mr. Skerlock, whose 
 heartiest sympathy is with us, declares that the old lady was 
 sincere in believing that her son met with his death through
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 211 
 
 you ; and it was on those reckless words of yours that she 
 most insisted.' 
 
 ' I would have killed him ! I would have killed him ! ' she 
 muttered. ' I once showed Miss Avory the marks of his 
 fingers on my arm. Before she had even entered the house, 
 he had struck me across the face with his hand. Ruffian ! I 
 would have killed him, and his mother knew it.' 
 
 He looked at her intently, and then, in a voice so strange 
 that I cannot attempt to describe it, he exclaimed — 
 
 1 Phoebe, do you know what has become of him ? ' 
 
 She started, looked up. the blood rushed into her face ; 
 she answered shrilly and wildly — 
 
 ' No — no ! Why do you ask me ? My God ! do you mis- 
 trust me ? ' 
 
 He pressed his handkerchief to his face, and his hand 
 trembled violently. 
 
 ' You should not speak as you do,' he said in a hoarse 
 whisper. ' You terrify me. Thank God others have not 
 questioned you.' 
 
 He still looked at her fixedly, and there was silence 
 between them. Suddenly she shrieked out — 
 
 ' Were I on my death-bed, I would still say there wer? 
 times when I could have killed him. Did I know that he was 
 dead now, I would fall on my knees and thank God. I hate 
 him as never woman hated a man ! But,' her voice sank and 
 she dropped her head, ' I do not know where he is.' 
 
 He continued looking at her for some moments, and then 
 waved his hand. 
 
 ' Miss Avory, to-morrow I commence business. There is 
 much to be done. I suppose I shall have to go to London to 
 see the man whom Mr. Skerlock's friend is to recommend to 
 me. On my return I shall reside here. Phcebe, have you a 
 likeness of your husband ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered. 
 
 Her face was very white, and there was a shocked expres- 
 sion in it. Indeed, I myself had turned pale in remarking 
 the manner in which the Colonel had asked her if she knew 
 where her husband was. Could I doubt old Mrs. Ransome's 
 sincerity when I saw how he had yielded to the quick prompt- 
 ing of suspicion ? Could I wonder that the town bad taken 
 up the tale to the prejudice of Mrs. Ransome when her own 
 father could doubt her, though but for a moment ? 
 
 ' Let me have it,' he said, speaking in a softened voice. 
 
 j2
 
 212 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 She left the room. He followed her with his eyes to the door, 
 watching with the admiration of a stranger, in which was 
 mixed the deep anxiety he felt, her graceful movements and 
 the peculiar sweeping action of her gait, so strangely sug- 
 gestive of her pride and resolution and the haughtiness under 
 which even I, who knew how much was to be forgiven her, often 
 winced. 
 
 The moment the door was closed he turned to me swiftly 
 and said — 
 
 ' Miss Avory, do you think she knows more of this mystery 
 then she chooses to tell ? ' 
 
 1 No more than I do, sir,' I answered, staggered by the 
 significance of the question. 
 
 ' She says now — now to my face, that she could have 
 killed him ! ' he continued, in a loud whisper. ' What made 
 the old lady so persistent ? . . . Look at her ! her temper 
 may have been brutalised by her husband's ruffianly treat- 
 ment. I saw a dangerous fire in her eyes when she spoke of 
 him. What would not such hate as hers prompt ? ' 
 
 He left his chair and paced the room, and then exclaimed — 
 
 ' My God ! what madness am I talking ! No, no ! I am 
 extravagant ! The horrible anxiety I have undergone since 
 I first heard the story from her has upset my mind. Poor 
 girl ! she should have told me before ; I would have taken her 
 from him. Poor girl ! ' he repeated, and smiled at me 
 wanly. 
 
 • You must not allow the faintest doubt of her innocence 
 to possess you, sir,' I exclaimed. ' Believe me ! I watched 
 her. I have been by her side throughout this dreadful affair ; 
 as I believe in my own innocence, I believe in hers. She has 
 no more conception whether her husband is living or dead 
 than I have. I cannot say more, sir.' 
 
 He stepped up to me, grasped my hand, and walked to the 
 window, where he stood with his back to the room. I was 
 glad to have said what I did and to have said it at once. 
 Suspicion is as contagious as fever ; and had I given myself 
 time to think, I might have faltered in my answer. 
 
 She came back with a large plain gold locket, which she 
 gave to her father. He looked at the portrait inside it atten- 
 tively, and asked her if she knew what her husband's age was 
 when the likeness was taken. She thought about twenty-five. 
 The mother had sent it to her shortly after her marriage. 
 She had never worn it. She only remembered having it by
 
 N THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 213 
 
 "being asked for a portrait of the man. It was fortunate 
 that she had not come across it before — she would have 
 destroyed it. 
 
 He paid no attention to this outbreak, but, handing me the 
 locket, asked me if I thought the portrait was sufficiently like 
 to enable a stranger in search of Mr. Eansome to identify him. 
 I drewdose to the lamp, and, after a short inspection, answered 
 that it might help out an accurate and minute description of 
 him ; but that he appeared in the likeness at least ten years 
 younger-looking, and that he was represented with his hair 
 parted, which very much altered him. 
 
 1 Have you not a more recent portrait of him ? ' he asked 
 his daughter. 
 
 ' No,' she answered. 
 
 1 Then this must do ! As Miss Avory says, it will help to 
 illustrate a description. His was an uncommon kind of face/ 
 he said, addressing me. ' Eyes such as his are not often seen 
 in Europeans.' 
 
 ' He might disguise himself,' I replied. 
 
 ' Yes, I have thought of that.' 
 
 ' But suppose he has left the country,' exclaimed Mrs. 
 Eansome. 
 
 ' If I can obtain proof that he has done so, I shall want 
 nothing better. If I can only get evidence to show that he 
 was seen alive on the day following his disappearance from 
 this house, I shall be satisfied. Let us look at our position ; 
 suspicion has been excited that this man has met with foul 
 play ; it has been brought to bear straight upon you by the 
 mother in causing this house to be searched and in applying 
 for a summons against you. We have to choose between two 
 alternatives : we can sell or let Gardenhurst and quit the 
 neighbourhood ; or we can strive the uttermost in our power 
 to prove the suspicion a monstrous and false one. If we quit 
 the neighbourhood, we shall appear to justify the woman's 
 accusation.' 
 
 • I should not consent to go,' exclaimed Mrs. Eansome 
 passionately. ' They shall not drive me away.' 
 
 ' Certainly we must not leave until we have done everything 
 that can be done to prove that Mr. Eansome left this house of 
 his own accord. Any day he may return ; any day Maddox 
 may be captured. But I have made up my mind,' he added 
 vehemently, ' the moment this wretched mystery is cleared up, 
 to separate you from your husband and sell Gardenhurst.
 
 214 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Let the issue be what it may, our name is dishonoured, the 
 darkest shame that ever fell upon a family has fallen upon us. 
 This very evening I entered Copsford as a felon might, 
 dreading the eyes of those I met, slinking past shops, and 
 cowering in the gloom ; and by one man — Eastwell — was met 
 with an insulting commiseration such as I might bestow 
 upon a wounded dog. I will have no argument,' he cried 
 passionately, seeing that she was about to speak ; ' you have 
 called me to you and I will protect you. But there must be no 
 opposition to my wishes. My will must be your law — my 
 weakness with you has borne its fruits in this. Nevermore 
 shall I be influenced by considerations of what you may call 
 your happiness ; you have qualities in you which render 
 you unfit to act for yourself, and I have registered a vow 
 to suffer no other judgment than my own to direct me in 
 the future.' 
 
 She raised her gleaming eyes to his face, let them drop 
 suddenly, but made no answer. She was cowed by his im- 
 petuosity, and sat with her hands tightly clasped upon her 
 knee, quite still. 
 
 I considered that my presence was no longer necessary, 
 and rose to bid them good- night. The Colonel opened the 
 door for me, and I was touched by the courteous smile he 
 gave me, which only served to light up the deep grief and 
 anxiety that had already made his face as haggard as his 
 daughter's. 
 
 After I had been hi my room twenty minutes I heard them 
 come into the hall and bid each other good-night. I sent the 
 servants to bed and locked up the basement as usual and went 
 upstairs, but was surprised to find the hall door open, and the 
 Colonel standing on the threshold, smoking. 
 
 He looked round leisurely, saw me, and threw his cigar 
 away. 
 
 I I see you are locking up, Miss Avory. Shall I close and 
 bolt this door for you ? ' He did so as he asked the question. 
 ' I am going to bed in a moment. I am very tired. It is 
 strange to me to stand under this familiar roof again— but 
 what pleasures, what years of my life, would 1 not gladly for- 
 feit to change the circumstances under which I find myself in 
 this house ! ' 
 
 _ 'We must hope that this trouble will soon pass, sir,' I 
 said. ' I live in constant expectation of seeing Mr. Eansome 
 return.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 215 
 
 ' I wish he would ! I wish he would ! ' he exclaimed. 
 You noticed the unjust suspicion that seized me in the 
 dining-room ? I did my poor girl a grievous wrong in that 
 brief moment. But why will she not curb her temper ? Why 
 will she, in the face of the horrible doubts that hang over 
 this house, recklessly persist in declaring that she could have 
 killed her husband, and in wishing him dead ? But he is a 
 great villain I ' he added, clenching his hand. ' My daughter 
 has been treating me to a passage or two out of her married 
 life. Wonderful that she should have held out so long— that 
 she should have kept these miserable secrets so entirely 
 hidden from me ! ' 
 
 He approached the hall table, took a candle, and lighted it 
 at mine. 
 
 ' There cannot be a doubt,' he said, ' that she is utterly 
 ignorant, not only of his whereabouts, but of his motive for 
 leaving her — unless the misery that has followed his disap- 
 pearance was his motive, which I will not believe.' 
 
 He looked at me so inquiringly that I easily saw, despite 
 his assurance to the contrary, that he could not rid his mind 
 of a lurking suspicion of his daughter. 
 
 ' Unquestionably she is ignorant,' I answered earnestly. 
 ' Yes, unquestionably,' he repeated. ' The robbery of the 
 plate is a genuine piece of thievery on the part of the foot- 
 man—of that I am persuaded — Mr. Ransome knows nothing 
 about it. The execution of their respective plans fell upon 
 the same night ; but that they acted without knowledge of 
 each other's intention I am as convinced as that I am now 
 addressing you. More than this— I utterly disagree with my 
 daughter in viewing her husband's disappearance and the 
 subsequent accusation of his mother as a conspiracy between 
 them. The woman was crazy ; she hated my daughter, and 
 believed her capable of murdering her son— a madwoman's 
 hallucination, which is not to be reasoned upon. Enough 
 that it existed ; that she argued from her barbarous premiss 
 with enough logic to render people credulous ; that she has 
 cast upon my daughter a suspicion that, in the absence of the 
 ruffian who is the cause of all this unhappiness, it may tax 
 the subtlest mind in the world to disprove. The motive of 
 his absence I cannot conjecture. I only hope he is not dead. 
 If he has committed suicide, for instance, or gone abroad 
 under an assumed name, my daughter's look-out will be a 
 desperate one. One year from this date I shall dedicate to
 
 2i6 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 the unravelling of this mystery. If by the end of that time 
 nothing has happened to explain the puzzle, I shall sell this 
 property and take my daughter abroad.' 
 
 He seemed to find relief in speaking thus freely ; but he 
 suddenly perceived that he was keeping me from my bed, and, 
 with an apology for his thoughtlessness, he again wished me 
 good-night, and went upstairs. 
 
 He came downstairs very shortly after me next morning, 
 and went into the grounds while his breakfast was preparing. 
 From the dining-room window I saw him conversing with the 
 under-gardener, Poole, and then I observed him eye that 
 portion of the house where Mr. Ransome's bedroom was 
 critically. He then walked with the man to the bottom of 
 the grounds, where I lost sight of him. 
 
 The morning was a bright one, autumnal in colouring and 
 perfume. I went out to collect some of the fruit which the 
 wind shook from the heavily-laden pear and apple trees in 
 the kitchen gardens, to set the best of them on the breakfast- 
 table ; and as I returned with my apron full, I saw the Colonel 
 approaching the house. 
 
 He found his breakfast ready, and seated himself to it ; 
 and when I entered the room, bearing some of the fruit I had 
 collected, he said — 
 
 ' It has occurred to me, Miss Avory, that our shrewd 
 inspector only half did his business when he ransacked this 
 house. Why did he not search the grounds ? I have told 
 Poole to look among the trees at the bottom yonder. In 
 matters of this kind it sometimes happens that the apparently 
 wildest surmise is the true one. Suppose Mr. Ransome 
 should have taken it into his head to go and hang himself on 
 one of the trees over tbere, or shoot himself among them.' 
 
 4 That is a dreadful fancy ! ' I exclaimed, with an in- 
 voluntary shudder. 
 
 ' So it is, and a foolish one too, I dare say. However, 
 Poole has promised to search the grounds. He seems to take 
 a great interest in this affair. His theory is that Maddox, in 
 stealing the plate, encountered his master and killed him. 
 By the way, I forgot to ask you — when you came downstairs 
 that morning and found Mr. Ransome gone, did you find any 
 window or door open ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir ; and in my surprise at the time, I never thought 
 of asking the question. But on my making the inquiry a few 
 days afterwards, Mary (the girl who was dismissed) told me
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 217 
 
 that she had found one of the drawing-room windows leading 
 on to the terrace open, but had forgotten to mention it.' 
 
 ' I wonder if that girl knows anything that will throw a 
 light on this mystery ? Do you think she does ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir ; nor would I ask her ; for rather than not seem 
 to know, she will tell a falsehood and mislead us.' 
 
 ' She was the woman who swore to hearing my daughter 
 threaten her husband's life ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 1 Did she tell the truth in that ? 
 
 ' I fear she did. I myself have heard Mrs. Ransome use 
 the same threat.' 
 
 1 Reckless, foolish girl ! ' he exclaimed. ' How our idlest 
 words come home like curses to us! That's the foundation 
 on which the ugly structure of suspicion is erected. When 
 will she learn to moderate her miserable temper ? ' 
 
 He looked at his watch, then hurriedly applied himself to 
 his breakfast, and I left the room. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards he went out. From a bedroom 
 window I saw him trudging towards the avenue, with his 
 head bowed and his hands clasped behind him. He looked a 
 thorough gentleman. Some might have found fault with him 
 for a certain want of life in his manner ; but speaking for 
 myself, I am always best pleased with a grave deportment in 
 a man who has reached to middle age. The Colonel was tall 
 and slender, with grey whiskers and moustache, an aquiline 
 nose, and a full, mild, dark eye. His voice was very pleasing, 
 with even a note of sweetness in it. As I watched him dis- 
 appear among the trees of the avenue, I heartily wished that 
 good luck would attend his efforts. 
 
 Shortly after he was gone, Mrs. Ransome came down- 
 stairs and asked me if her father had left the house. 
 
 ' I wish he had asked me to go with him,' she exclaimed, 
 on my answering her. ' I should like to face that impudent 
 inspector and demand how he dared enter my house. With 
 papa at my side, I should have the courage to do anything. 
 Indeed I have a great mind to go out riding for several days 
 a week for the next month. I would gallop right through 
 Copsford, and let the people see how much truth there is in 
 the old wretch's accusation by my utter indifference.' 
 
 ' If I were you, madam, I would do nothing without first 
 consulting Colonel Kilmain.' 
 
 ' But am 1 to make a convent of this house and die here
 
 2i8 15 HE THE MAN ? 
 
 like a poisoned rat in a hole, because a vile and wicked old 
 creature chooses to hold the most monstrous and ridiculous 
 opinions respecting her son's disappearance ? ' 
 
 I made no answer, being quite satisfied that all this talk 
 was mere bravado. She looked at me steadily, and after a 
 pause of some moments, said — 
 
 'Did you notice the strange way in which my father, last 
 night, asked me if I knew more about my husband's disap- 
 pearance than I cbose to tell ? ' 
 
 ' I heard him ask you a question of that kind.' 
 
 She was silent again ; and then burst out passionately, 
 whilst her face grew pale — 
 
 ' How can I wonder that strangers suspect me to be guilty 
 of all that the old woman charged me with, when my father 
 doubts me ? ' 
 
 ' You must not think that he doubts you,' I answered 
 gently. ' He was prompted to ask the question by the words 
 you made use of.' 
 
 ' What words ? * 
 
 'You said you could have killed your husband.' 
 
 'It is God's own truth ! ' she cried. ' Over and over again 
 I could have killed him ! and so much do I hate him — think- 
 ing of him now — though he may be dead for anything I know 
 — that, had I killed him, I never should have felt one jot of 
 remorse or horror in recalling the deed.' 
 
 I threw a hasty glance around, and exclaimed — 
 
 ' Pray, madam, be cautious. Think what construction 
 would be placed upon your words should they be overheard.' 
 
 I looked at her shrinkingly, and even with a feeling of 
 dread. The intensity she threw into her utterance made her 
 declaration almost as startling as if she had confessed to 
 having killed her husband. 
 
 She tossed back her head with a smile filled with ob- 
 stinacy and scorn. The light was on her, and I noticed the 
 violet hue under her eyes, the thinness of her throat, the 
 paleness of her lips. Indeed, a great change had come over 
 her since the day on which the inspector had been brought 
 to the house by the old lady ; a change subtle and physical, 
 exhibited by the wasting, not only of her face, but of her 
 whole figure, and by a hard, subacid expression which appre- 
 ciably modified the character of her beauty. With her head 
 thrown back, and that strange, scornful smile about her lips, 
 she stared at me with obstinate intentness ; and when neither
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 219 
 
 understanding nor relishing her protracted gaze, I was about 
 to turn away, she said — 
 
 ' You too suspect me ! ' 
 
 1 You wrong me by thinking so,' I answered quickly ; 
 ' nor is there warrant for your belief in anything I have said 
 or done.' 
 
 She drew a deep breath, and exclaimed — 
 
 ' You seemed afraid of me. Why should you be scared by 
 the truth ? Is it not true that I hate my husband '? When 
 I showed you my arm — you remember ? - you thought my 
 hate justified. If I were to tell you how he has made me 
 suffer, not with his hands— though God knows he has not 
 spared them— but with his tongue, before I had half gone 
 through the catalogue of his brutalities you would be telling 
 me that you too could have killed him had you been in my 
 place. But have no fear,' she added, changing her voice and 
 resuming her scornful smile, ' if he has been murdered, his 
 death is owing to no contrivance of mine.' 
 
 ' My only reason in urging you not to speak of yourself as 
 having been sometimes tempted to kill him is that no further 
 excuse may be furnished to people to preserve the abominable 
 suspicion which I fear is current. The Colonel has a very 
 difficult matter to deal with, and looks to you for help. I, 
 who know you, and know how you have suffered, put a very 
 liberal construction on your references to the past. Your 
 assurance is nothing but a mere form of words. You could 
 have killed him ! — that is, the provocation he gave you was so 
 unendurable that, when you recur to it, you feel that he 
 goaded you to passions which might have tempted you to any 
 act of violence. I can sympathise with the memory — but 
 other people are not so generous. They will take your words 
 literally, and establish them as a premiss from which to de- 
 duce the crime that the mad old woman charged you with.' 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders and turned away, humming a 
 tune. The movement was a chilling one. I left the room, 
 resolute, however, not to judge her harshly, knowing how 
 bitter had been her past sufferings, and how heavy was the 
 trial she was now undergoing.
 
 220 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 II 
 
 The Colonel returned at one o'clock. I happened to be in 
 Mrs. Kansome's bedroom, which was over the dining-roorn, 
 and heard him call to the under-gardener, who was at work 
 on the lawn — 
 
 ' My man, go round to the kitchen and tell them to give 
 you my portmanteau, and carry it at once to the White 
 Hart.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' answered the man ; and he added, ' I've searched 
 as you told me, and haven't found nothing.' 
 
 ' Oh, well, I did not expect you would. Give the port- 
 manteau to the people in the bar, and tell them I have booked 
 for the coach at half-past two. Also request them to send a 
 fly to be here at two precisely.' 
 
 These orders announced his speedy departure, and I ran 
 downstairs with the intention of hastening forward the lunch, 
 but met him as I crossed the hall. 
 
 ' Where is my daughter ? ' he asked me. 
 
 I looked into the drawing-room, and, seeing one of the 
 windows open, went to it and caught sight of her walking a 
 little way beyond the terrace. Her head was uncovered, and 
 her abundant hair gleamed with a violet sheen in the sun. 
 She was lost in thought, and neither heard nor saw me until I 
 was addressing her at her elbow. She instantly followed me 
 to the drawing-room, where her father waited. 
 
 ' My dear,' he exclaimed, in a voice of mild reproof, ' I 
 thought you would have been on the look-out for me.' 
 
 ' I did not know when I was to expect you, papa.' 
 
 ' I have passed a busy morning,' he began ; but I inter- 
 rupted him by asking if he meant to lunch at home, that 
 I might give orders to the cook. 
 
 ' Susan knows all about that,' he answered. ' Do not 
 leave the room, Miss Avory. I have nothing particular to 
 tell — and if I had you would have every right to hear it. I 
 went straight to the inspector's office on leaving here, and 
 had a long interview with him.' 
 
 ' I hope you spoke your mind to him, papa,' exclaimed 
 Mrs. Ransome, firing up at the mention of the man. ' I 
 should like to have been with you. I want an opportunity to 
 tell him what I think of his conduct.' 
 
 ' You must put aside all resentment,' he answered. 
 * Your cause will not be helped by passion. I caution you
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 221 
 
 that our situation is more critical than you suppose it. I 
 forced myself — God knows how reluctantly, and with what 
 pain — to speak to several persons this morning, and though 
 it was impossible for me to extort their real opinions from 
 them, I found, unmistakably, that the prejudice is strong 
 against you. I cannot explain my discovery by using their 
 words, but I felt it in tbeir superficial sympathy, in their 
 evasive answers, in their recurrence to Mrs. Ransome's death, 
 which, it is now going about, is owing to her heart being 
 broken by the loss of her son.' 
 
 She stamped her foot, crying, ' What an impudent fiction ! ' 
 
 ' You speak of the inspector's insolence,' be continued. 
 ' The man met me with great respect ; regretted the necessity 
 that had obliged him to enter the house, and pointed out that, 
 had he not acted on the strong evidence of Mrs. Ransome 
 and the girl Mary, his enemies would have reported him as 
 unfit for his duties, as wanting zeal and energy, as being 
 intimidated by rich people, though never scrupling to enter a 
 poor man's house (which he had occasion to do, he told me, 
 only a fortnight ago). It was not my policy to be angry with 
 him. It is not my policy to be angry with anybody just now. 
 The dead woman has raised up a number of cacklers against 
 us, especially among the poorer classes. I bave to conciliate 
 these people, not insult them. Is it not so, Miss Avory ? ' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly, sir.' 
 
 ' Why should they be conciliated ? ' cried Mrs. Eansome. 
 ' They must be wretches who can believe what that vile old 
 thing said of me ; and if I only knew how to punish them for 
 daring to suspect me, I would.' 
 
 He held his hand up, as if to silence her. 
 
 ' You must not interrupt me,' he exclaimed. ' My time is 
 very short here, and if we get upon these senseless arguments, 
 I shall not be able to explain my intentions to you.' 
 
 He looked at his watch, and continued— 
 
 ' I first of all went to the inspector, and was with him 
 for an hour at least. I told him all about Mr. Ransome and 
 bis madness, and how, among his other habits, was that of 
 leaving the house mysteriously ; that he had often left his 
 mother's house in this manner, and that she very well knew it 
 to be one of his eccentricities. I carried out Mr. Skerlock's 
 suggestions faithfully, by pointing out that it was owing partly 
 to your ignorance of such matters, and partly to your dislike to 
 having your name mixed up in a police affair, that you had
 
 222 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 not instructed him to follow Maddox on a charge of robbery. 
 I said that you had no idea where your husband was, and that 
 you daily expected his return. I then declared there could be 
 no doubt that tbe footman had stolen the plate, and I begged 
 him to lose no time to make every possible inquiry for the 
 man, since continuance of the terrible suspicion that had fallen 
 on you might altogether depend upon his apprehension.' 
 
 He watched his daughter attentively as he spoke. 
 
 ' What did the inspector say, sir ? ' I ventured to ask. 
 
 ' That he would do his best,' he answered ; ' but that I 
 mustn't hope for much, seeing the long time the man had had 
 to make off in.' He paused, and added bitterly, ' Miss Avory, 
 that fellow is the most suspicious of the lot.' 
 
 ' But that will not prevent him from obeying your 
 instructions ? ' 
 
 ' I do not say,' he exclaimed, shaking his head, ' that what 
 I have done has been for the best. In speaking to him, I 
 more than once doubted the wisdom of my visit. Bespectful 
 as he was, he yet contrived to suggest that he regarded my 
 instructions as an effort to blind him , and if he thinks that, 
 then, by heaven ! he must conclude that I believe my daughter 
 guilty, and am trying to save her from detection.' 
 
 Mrs. Eansome exclaimed, ' That man would oblige himself 
 to believe me guilty, merely that he might justify himself for 
 his daring outrage.' 
 
 1 That is highly probable, sir,' I said. ' I do not think it 
 necessary to allow one's self to be troubled by his conclusions. 
 He is a muddle-headed man, with a slow mind, that would 
 require a long time to rid itself of an impression.' 
 
 ' But/ replied the Colonel,' there are many wiseacres in 
 the town who are satisfied to form their judgments by his. 
 It is lucky, perhaps, that I did assume him suspicious in my 
 conversation, otherwise I might have been led into explana- 
 tions from which, his conclusions being foregone, he might 
 have picked many details to strengthen his own views with. 
 I must be chary of explanations. The mere truth, in the 
 absence of Mr. Eansome and Maddox, cannot improve our 
 case, and portions of it are likely to injure us, if those points 
 upon which suspicion is based are kept back.' 
 
 ' What points ? ' asked Mrs. Eansome. 
 
 ' Your wretched quarrels,' he answered, flushing up ; 
 ' and above all, your reckless, passionate, evil threats.' 
 
 She hung her head. He took a turn about the room, and
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 223 
 
 pulled out bis watch for the third time, but was so deep in 
 thought that he kept his eyes fixed upon it for some moments 
 without seeming to know what he was doing. 
 He looked up suddenly and said — 
 
 ' Phoebe, I leave at half -past two. I have the address of 
 the man I want from Mr. Clements.' He drew forth his 
 pocket-book, but replaced it without opening it. ' I may be 
 away for a day or two — I cannot say how long. I shall pro- 
 bably employ others as well as this person. Of course I shall 
 return to Gardenhurst and continue living here. But take 
 one caution : unless you can trust your temper, keep yourself 
 hidden. This is a frightful time for me — a horrible term of 
 suspense remains beyond ; you must help me hand and heart. 
 You will ruin us both, utterly prejudice your case, and defeat 
 all my efforts, if you suffer your dangerous temper to obtain a 
 mastery over you in your conversations with strangers. We,' 
 he exclaimed, pointing to me, ' know the truth, but we are 
 alone ; it is in your power to help me by your silence, or 
 to crush us both by repeating to whomsoever will listen to 
 you those dreadful threats you have used in your passion to 
 your husband, which, even as you utter them, you seem 
 capable of carrying out.' 
 
 He walked to the door and she made a movement as 
 though she would run after him ; but she drew back proudly, 
 and when he was out of the room, followed leisurely. 
 
 There was, beyond all question, great wisdom in his advice 
 to her to keep herself hidden. Her manner, even to her father, 
 was aggressive ; she had no control over her temper ; and as 
 no subject made her more violently passionate than her 
 husband, so it was really imperative that she should not 
 discuss him and his disappearance with strangers, since it was 
 ten to one that her angry warmth prompted her to some obser- 
 vation to furnish fresh scope for gossip and comment. It was 
 indeed scarcely conceivable to me, who thought I knew the 
 truth perfectly, that people were to be found who gave credit 
 to old Mrs. Ransome's horrible accusation. But this was 
 actually the case, and I remember fearing, as I watched the 
 Colonel drive off, that if his endeavours did not result in some 
 practical discovery, public opinion might become strong 
 enough to force the law into a decided attitude, and subject 
 Mrs. Ransome to the merciless ignominy of a judicial investi- 
 gation. 
 
 Unfortunately I had no friends at Copsford, with the
 
 224 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 exception of the Campions, who, owing to the manner in 
 which I had defended Mrs. Ransome on the occasion of my 
 visit to Rose Farm, were very reserved in the expression of 
 their views. The tradesmen whom we dealt with of course 
 knew me, and were not likely to risk the loss of our custom by 
 declaring their opinions. However, by putting the small 
 evidence I myself collected from signs and shakes of the head 
 and doubting questions with the evidence that I extracted 
 from the gossip brought to Gardenhurst by the cook and the 
 housemaid, I was pretty sure that the Colonel had not over- 
 estimated the gravity of the general feeling. The public 
 dearly loves a mystery ; and when, as in this case, it is a very 
 personal one, it will commonly show itself partial to the 
 solutions which are most prejudicial to the characters of those 
 who are associated with the mystery. 
 
 Here was a woman of whom exaggerated accounts had 
 been diffused of the fierceness of her temper. On a certain 
 night her husband, with whom she was incessantly quarrel- 
 ling, and of whom her detestation was no secret, mysteriously 
 disappears. On the same night the footman likewise mys- 
 teriously disappears, and with him or them goes plate to the 
 value of eight or nine hundred pounds. The inference drawn 
 by the public, pending the arrival of the old lady upon the 
 scene, is, either that the footman has murdered the master, or 
 that the master, who is notoriously of unsound mind, has for 
 some utterly unconjecturable reason, helped the footman to 
 rob the house. Both suppositions are equally probable. But, 
 meanwhile, no steps are taken by Mrs. Ransome to recover 
 the plate, neither is a single inquiry made for the missing 
 husband. Her silence adds piquancy to the mystery, and fills 
 the public mind with wonderment. Suddenly old Mrs. Ran- 
 some comes forward, and so convinces the chief constable at 
 Copsford that murder has been done that the house at 
 Gardenhurst is searched. No discovery is made; but the old 
 lady is not the less persuaded that her son has been murdered ; 
 and on the testimony of the girl Mary, who swears to having 
 heard Mrs. Ransome threaten to kill her husband, she applies 
 for a warrant against her daughter-in-law, which is refused. 
 Whereupon she dies, and is commiserated as a broken-hearted 
 mother. 
 
 Speaking for myself, I do honestly say that had I been a 
 perfect stranger to the Ransomes and heard the above story, 
 not as I have abbreviated it, but with all the garnishings
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 22$ 
 
 which gossip and exaggeration had furnished, I should have 
 entertained serious doubts whether, after all, the old lady- 
 might not have had very good reason for concluding that her 
 son had been murdered either by or through the wife ; nor 
 can I imagine that any consideration of the man's insanity, 
 of the footman's simultaneous disappearance, of the robbery 
 of the plate, of Mr. Kansome's previous erratic habits, would 
 have shaken the suspicions with which I would have viewed 
 Mrs. Kansome's inactivity. 
 
 It is well to keep the circumstances of the mystery steadily 
 in view in order to appreciate the very critical position in 
 which Mrs. Ransome was placed. 
 
 in 
 
 Colonel Kilmain remained in London three days. At the 
 end of that time he returned to Garuenhurst ; but of what he 
 had done I obtained no information further than that he had 
 engaged the services of the man who had been recommended 
 to him, and that this man had expressed his wish that the 
 matter might be left solely in his hands. His reasons for 
 desiring to act alone had satisfied the Colonel, and they were 
 no doubt good. I gathered that this man rated his services 
 at a very high sum ; and that, in addition to the money that 
 was to be paid for his work, he was to receive a handsome 
 reward from the Colonel if he made any discovery that would 
 exculpate Mrs. Ransome from all participation in the mystery 
 of the double disappearance. 
 
 Life at Gardenhurst, from this point, became a dull and 
 monotonous routine. I scarcely knew how the days passed ; 
 they were entirely eventless, and slipped imperceptibly awaj 
 I speak as they affected me. As to the Colonel, I know that 
 he lived in a state of constant expectation ; that the house-bell 
 never rang but that he was on the alert, looking over the 
 banisters of the landing, or thrusting his head out of the 
 dining-room door and listening eagerly ; that he rarely left the 
 house longer than an hour at a time, either walking in the 
 grounds or taking short excursions in the country in a direc- 
 tion away from Copsford, and always re-entering with a face 
 of grave expectation, and inquiring of whomsoever he met if 
 any one had called while he was out. 
 
 That he did not occupy himself with any pursuit such, I 
 might suppose, as had beguiled the time for him when he 
 
 Q
 
 226 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 formerly lived at Gardenhurst, I am sure. I have sometimes 
 seen him endeavouring to fasten his attention on a book, close 
 it abruptly, and either sink into thought or start up and rest- 
 lessly pace the room. 
 
 He was singularly courteous to me— courteous, indeed, to 
 all with whom he came in contact — but he rarely addressed 
 me without bringing the conversation round to the one subject 
 that absorbed his mind ; and repeatedly asked me if I knew 
 what they were still saying at Copsford about his daughter. 
 But I never knew, for the reason I have given. Nor, indeed, 
 was it requisite that I should, so far as his curiosity was con- 
 cerned ; for either through some hired agency, or by his own 
 quick powers of observation, he appeared as thoroughly posted 
 in current Copsford gossip as if he were visiting at houses all 
 day long. 
 
 Meanwhile the emphatic advice which he had given to his 
 daughter to hold her peace and control her temper had been 
 acted on by her with a result which rendered her another 
 woman. Her father's conduct, his profound anxiety, his 
 feverish restlessness, and the physical change in him that had 
 been wrought by his troubles, had impressed upon her the 
 gravity of her situation as no words could have done. Then, 
 again, her pride had been roused and wounded by his re- 
 proaches and angry injunctions, and she was plainly deter- 
 mined to give him no further reason to reprimand her for the 
 passionate expression of her feelings. She became silent, 
 cold, impassive. Her beauty had a wasted air ; but one might 
 easily see by her eyes that the spirit in her was controlled, not 
 quenched ; that there was a fever in her heart, though her 
 tongue was still ; that memory, bitter at all times, was the more 
 poignant now that it was prohibited the relief of expression. 
 
 Her manner to me was kind, but without the cordiality 
 that used to make it grateful. She had no longer any confi- 
 dences to impart. The load of responsibility had been taken 
 from her by her father ; her silence disdained sympathy. 
 She was indeed a changed woman, but— with the stinging 
 sense of shame in her, with bitter remorse to haunt her, with 
 her haughty dissembled love for her father hourly fretted by 
 the sight of his restless anxiety — more miserable than ever 
 she had been whilst she lived with her husband. 
 
 One morning, about three weeks after the Colonel's return 
 from London, Susan came into my room with her eyes red 
 with tears. I asked her what was the matter.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 227 
 
 { Why, miss,' she said, pulling a letter from her pocket, 
 'I received this just now from father, and he says I mustn't 
 stop here, but go home at once.' 
 
 ' How is that ? ' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' He says,' she answered, quite sobbing as she spoke, ' that 
 the stories which are told of this house make it not proper for 
 me to remain here. He says he don't want to put his opinion 
 in writing, for he knows his place, and other people's business 
 is no affair of his ; but a neighbour declares that, if he had a 
 daughter, he wouldn't let her be servant in a house which has 
 got a bad name, and he's quite of that opinion, and I must 
 come home at once.' 
 
 1 We shall be very sorry to lose you,' I said, thinking it 
 best to make no further comment, but not a little startled by 
 this very strong illustration of the tenacity and malignancy 
 of the gossip that was afloat. 
 
 ' It goes very much against me,' she cried, ' to leave like 
 this. I don't believe a word of the wicked stories that are 
 told. Mrs. Eansome has always treated me well, and it's a 
 pleasure to serve under you ; and I know mistress will think 
 me ungrateful and bad-hearted for going away. Yet I daren't 
 disobey father.' 
 
 ' I am sure Mrs. Kansome would not wish you to do so,' I 
 answered. 
 
 ' But what excuse am I to make for going ? I mustn't 
 give her the true reason ; and unless I tell a falsehood, which 
 I don't want to do, she'll think me heartless.' 
 
 ' If you like,' I said, ' I will explain the matter to Mrs. 
 Kansome.' 
 
 The truth was an ugly one to tell ; but it sesmcd to me 
 proper that it should be told, both for the girl's sake and for 
 the Colonel's, who, by this instance, would obtain a new view 
 of the extent and mischief of the current reports. 
 
 She thanked me, and begged me to add that she would 
 never have left of her own accord. I asked if the letter 
 contained anything she did not wish me to see. No. She 
 handed it to me, and I found its contents exactly as she had 
 represented them, tolerably well- worded, and very emphatic. 
 
 I told her I would return it when I had seen Mrs. Ean- 
 some, and went upstairs. 
 
 The Colonel and his daughter were together in the dining- 
 room. They had just finished breakfast, and were still at the 
 
 table when I entered. 
 
 q2
 
 223 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' I hardly know, sir,' I began, ' how to discharge my 
 errand ; but I am sure my duty is not to conceal anything 
 from you.' 
 
 He looked at me inquiringly. Mrs. Ransome clasped her 
 hands firmly on the table. I drew out the letter ; the Colonel 
 read it, looked at the address on the envelope, and understood 
 the whole thing at once. 
 
 His face was a shade paler, and his voice slightly trembled, 
 as he said — 
 
 ' Who is the girl's father ? ' 
 
 1 He keeps a little shop,' I answered, ' at the top of High 
 Street, I believe, sir.' 
 
 Mrs. Eansome looked at the letter, but did not ask to 
 read it. 
 
 • Susan,' I continued, ' came to me in tears, and told me 
 of her father's wish. She has no desire to go, but she does 
 not like to disobey her father, and so I offered to explain the 
 matter to you and Mrs. Ransome. I thought it best that you 
 should know the truth ; moreover, it is but justice to an ex- 
 cellent girl that the real cause of her leaving should be 
 explained.' 
 
 'Phoebe, this concerns your maid — read it,' he said. 
 
 She ran her eyes over the letter ; I saw them sparkle. 
 She looked at me, seemed about to speak, bit her lip, and 
 flung the letter down. 
 
 The Colonel left his chair and paced about the room. 
 
 ' Does he carry any weight with him, this little tradesman ? ' 
 he exclaimed, pointing to the letter. 
 
 ' I should imagine not. I never saw his shop, and I don't 
 know what he sells. But I gather, from what Susan has told 
 me, that he is in what is called a small way.' 
 
 ' He is not mixed up with any religious sect here, I mean ? 
 He doesn't preach and preside over meetings, and that sort of 
 thing ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know, sir.' 
 
 He read the letter again, frowned, thrust it into the en- 
 velope, and handed it to me. 
 
 ' How little it needs to prejudice men's minds ! ' he ex- 
 claimed. ' All the memories that cluster about this house 
 cannot save it from a petty tradesman's suspicions. The 
 home of a family who for generations have borne the character 
 of, and been honoured as, harmless, upright people, innocent 
 in their pleasures, generous in charity, manly and honest in
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 229 
 
 their dealings with their fellow-men, has ceased to be a fit 
 place for a servant, forsooth, to live in ! ' 
 
 ' Since she is to go, let her go at once,' said Mrs. Kan- 
 some. ' She ought not to be allowed to stop five minutes in 
 the house.' 
 
 ' She is not to blame, madam. The poor creature is cry- 
 ing at the thoughts of leaving you,' I replied. 
 
 ' Did you not hear Miss Avory say that before, Phoebe ? ' 
 cried the Colonel. ' Tbe girl sheds tears to leave you, and 
 you would thrust her from the house for her attachment.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa, a letter like that makes me hate the whole 
 world,' she rejoined, pushing her chair away from the table. 
 And then she sprang up and hurried out of the room. 
 
 ' She is to be pitied,' said the Colonel, looking at me 
 deprecatingly. ' That letter is a cruel stab.' 
 
 ' The girl will go home and tell the truth,' I answered. 
 1 A few emissaries like her to give the lie direct to the reck- 
 less cbattering that is going on would do good.' 
 
 ' I suppose time will right us,' he exclaimed. ' But this 
 ordeal grows so trying that I sometimes doubt if I shall be 
 able to go through it. I would leave Gardenhurst to-morrow 
 and sell the estate, and wash my hands of this unjust, 
 scandalising neighbourhood, did I not fear that our departure 
 would be interpreted as a tacit confession of my daughter's 
 guilt. How can people suffer themselves to be prejudiced by 
 reports which have not a grain of evidence to substantiate 
 them ? And yet I know that the prejudice is great. Mr. 
 Skerlock keeps mo an courant of public opinion, and though 
 he tries his best to soften the news he gives me, he has to 
 own that every lay which increases the rime of Mr. Eansome's 
 absence deepens the curiosity and darkens the suspicions with 
 which people regale each other.' 
 
 ' One would almost think, sir, that you must have enemies 
 at Copsford. Otherwise, how comes this affair, which is really 
 nobody's business bat yours and Mrs. Eansome's, to take so 
 prominent a place in people's thoughts and conversation ? 
 In London the subject would be forgotten in a day, unless the 
 newsmongers kept it alive. I would give it a month at the 
 very outside to live in a lazy place like Copsford ; but I could 
 not imagine it would occupy people's attention longer, unless 
 there were enemies who made it their occupation to keep it 
 perpetually on the tapis.' 
 
 ' We have enemies, and I know wbo they are, too — a
 
 230 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 family with whom Mrs. Ransome was on friendly terms before 
 her marriage. There are three girls, or rather women, highly 
 religious, regular attendants at church, who, I know for a fact, 
 are incessantly talking about Mr. Eansome's disappearance, 
 and_ compassionating the death of the broken-hearted mother. 
 A single taper will light many lamps. A single tongue is 
 enough to re-illumine a subject as fast as it dies out. These 
 people are the Sneerwell, Backbite, and Crabwell of Copsford. 
 Look at this.' 
 
 He went to the sideboard, opened a drawer, and took out 
 a newspaper, and handed it to me, with his finger pointing to 
 a particular place in it. The passage was a letter addressed 
 to the editor of the ' Copsford Intelligencer,' and was signed 
 1 Justitia.' I forget how it ran, but it was to the effect that : 
 In May, 18 — , a man named Jacobson, living with his nephew, 
 was reported missing. Search was made, and the nephew 
 was as active in the search as the police, offering, indeed, a 
 reward of five pounds (a large sum for a poor man) to any- 
 body who should discover his uncle. The search came to 
 nothing, and the matter passed out of the public mind, until 
 it was revived by a whisper, originating anywhere, that the 
 nephew had murdered his uncle. The poor man's house was 
 broken open, but nothing criminating found. Nevertheless, a 
 warrant was issued, and he was brought before the magis- 
 trates, but discharged for want of evidence. Three years 
 after the nephew received a letter from Jacobson, dated from 
 Australia, accounting for his mysterious departure, and remit- 
 ting a bank bill. By paralleling this case, ' Justitia ' went on 
 to say, with a recent local affair of great notoriety, it was 
 manifest there were two laws— one for the rich, and one for 
 the poor. Had the individual who figured in the recent local 
 affair been a poor woman, was it to be doubted that she would 
 have been haled before the magistrates and examined on the 
 striking circumstantial evidence which, if rumour was to be 
 credited, was to be produced ? In saying this, the writer 
 wished it to be understood that he was not actuated by 
 malice. The individual to whom he referred was personally 
 unknown to him, and, as proof that he was unbiassed, he 
 heartily wished her a speedy deliverance from the very curious 
 dilemma in which she was involved. 
 
 'I am surprised that a newspaper should insert such a 
 letter as that,' I exclaimed, restoring the sheet to the drawer 
 from which the Colonel had taken it. 'It is utterly un-
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 231 
 
 called for. It offers no suggestion. It is of no conceivable 
 use.' 
 
 ' Except to keep the public prejudice alive,' he answered ; 
 ' and that is what the writer intends.' 
 
 ' Do you know who the author is, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Yes : the youngest of the three women I have spoken of, 
 who used to be friends of my daughter and pretend to be so 
 still ; for she tells me they called here after Mr. Eansome 
 was missing to offer their sympathy and so forth. I heard 
 the name of the writer from a man who is under a trifling 
 obligation to me, and who is odd enough to like me for having 
 obliged him. He had it from the editor of the paper, who is 
 his crony — one Wilkinson — whom I think I could reach 
 through the law of libel ; but what good would that do ? ' 
 
 ' It is the letter of a despicable coward, sir.' 
 
 ' I do not value it for itself at that,' he cried, snapping his 
 fingers. ' Worse than has already been said nobody can say.' 
 
 But his manner persuaded me that he did mind it ; he 
 was deeply wounded by it and bitterly distressed. 
 
 ' All this gossip, all these stabbings in the dark, merely 
 keep alive my anxiety to receive news from Johnson— I mean 
 the fellow who is looking for Mr. Eansome. He has been 
 three weeks at work now, and has not written a line. But 
 this was understood. He said he would write either to 
 announce a discovery or to tell me that the adventure was a 
 hopeless one. You may judge with what misgivings I await 
 the postman's visits. But I have a hope— a hope I cannot 
 extinguish — that Mr. Eansome will return. Would to God 
 he would come soon, and end this horrible suspense ! Y'ou 
 notice a change in Mrs. Eansome, do you not ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' She is reserved— at last ! She has learnt to hold her 
 tongue. You will do me a service, Miss Avory, by avoiding, 
 as much as you possibly can, all reference to the subject of 
 her husband and the prejudice against her among the people. 
 A discussion may undo the victory she is gaining over her 
 temper, and make her dangerous to her own cause again.' 
 
 I promised to be on my guard, though there was little 
 need to say so ; for, as I have already said, her manner had 
 greatly changed towards me, and the few conversations we 
 held together were very prosaic, and almost entirely referred 
 to the affairs of the house. 
 
 I returned to my room, and there found Susan, The
 
 232 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 atmosphere was haunted by a faint, familiar perfume, which 
 made me say — 
 
 ' Has Mrs. Ran some been here ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, miss ; I have been waiting to tell you. She gave 
 me this.' 
 
 She pulled a ten-pound note from her pocket. 
 
 ' She's too good,' the poor girl whimpered. ' She makes 
 me feel a wretch for leaving her in her trouble. But father's 
 so stern that, if I didn't leave on my own accord, he'd come 
 and fetch me. But, thank God, I've told her that father's 
 reason for taking me away was sinful and false, and I'll tell 
 him so. Mrs. Ransome is a wronged woman ; and if I had to 
 go to prison for declaring her innocence, I'd go gladly.' 
 
 I told her that her father would probably let her return 
 when she had pointed out the injustice of his suspicions and 
 explained, as she well could, the cruel treatment her mistress 
 had received from Mr. Ransome, and the mean, aggressive, 
 malignant character of the old lady. I added that she could 
 serve Mrs. Ransome by disproving the reports she might hear ; 
 and I then bade her go to the Colonel and wish him good-bye. 
 believing that it would cheer the poor old gentleman to learn 
 what a firm adherent his daughter had in a girl who was in- 
 finitely better qualified than the shrewdest outsider to judge 
 the truth of the rumours that were circulated. 
 
 So terminated this little incident. It became my business 
 to find another housemaid ; and I went to Copsford that day 
 and left word of our want at several shops ; not without a 
 misgiving, however, that if the prejudice against Mrs. Ransome 
 were as strong as I might suppose it by the removal of Susan, 
 we might have some difficulty in getting another servant. 
 However, my fear proved groundless ; for next day three girls 
 called, one of whom I selected, chiefly on account of her be- 
 longing to the factory town that lay beyond the hills, and out 
 of the small-talk that was agitating the Copsford mind. 
 
 IV 
 
 The autumn passed, and the early month of winter came — 
 November, laden with grey clouds and chill winds which 
 stripped the trees of their few remaining leaves. 
 
 During all this time no change had occurred in the house. 
 A shadow was upon the two principal occupants of it which 
 kept them silent and gloomy and melancholy.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 233 
 
 Of the two, the Colonel seemed the greater sufferer. His 
 anxiety was feverish at times. He had grown so thin that he 
 resembled a sick man. He slept but little, for often I would 
 hear him pacing his room at night ; and he was usually down 
 of a morning long before the servants had left their beds. 
 More than four months had elapsed since Mr. Eansome had 
 been found missing, and not the smallest clue had been ob- 
 tained as yet of his whereabouts. "Was he dead? The Colonel 
 once asked me this question, and watched me with wild 
 anxiety ; as if my answer could prove anything. If he were 
 dead, and proofs of his death could not be procured, Mrs. 
 Ransome's name was virtually banned for life. Her father 
 might remove her ; he might exile himself with her ; but the 
 mystery would live always ; suspicion would become conviction ; 
 and her name would be associated in people's minds with the 
 commission of murder. 
 
 The Colonel owned now that he would cheerfully throw 
 his grounds and house open to the strictest search that could 
 be instituted. He longed for any proof, negative or positive. 
 The mystery possessed him so entirely that it generated dan- 
 gerous delusions. The horrible suspicion that his daughter 
 might be guilty again returned to him. I never knew what 
 conversations he had with her ; but by putting together the 
 circumstance of her keeping her room a whole day, and his 
 asking me in the morning, shortly after his daughter had left 
 the dining-room, many strange questions about her, I came 
 to the conclusion that the dreadful misgiving which, by his 
 demeanour, had plainly agitated him for a week past had 
 finally mastered him, and that he had put her through an 
 examination which could leave her in no doubt as to his 
 thoughts. 
 
 For myself, the practical conjectures which I might have 
 hazarded, had I been an eye-witness instead of an actor in 
 these strange events, were disturbed and baffled and forced 
 into over-reaching subtleties by the influences that surrounded 
 me. I tried to strip the facts of all the adventitious garnish- 
 ings they had been furnished with by gossip, by old Mrs.- 
 Ransome's accusations, and, in a special degree, by the dis- 
 appearance of Maddox, which had complicated the mystery at 
 the very threshold of it. But I could not satisfy myself. Be- 
 wildering considerations were perpetually recurring. Where 
 were these two men ? How was it that no trace of either of 
 them was to be obtained ? The inspector we had heard, had
 
 234 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 done his best — that is to say, he had done nothing at all but 
 advertised more capable men of the ' want,' and they had been 
 seeking Maddox for three months. Other difficulties which 
 encumbered the mystery lay in our inability to assign a motive 
 for Mr. Kansome's prolonged absence ; for the attitude his 
 mother had adopted, which was genuine as regarded her belief 
 in her son having been murdered, as more than one witness 
 who sympathised with the Colonel and his daughter testified ; 
 and the impossibility of proving that Maddox and his master 
 did not act in concert on that night of their disappearance. 
 The public had evidently hoped to cut the knot by accepting 
 old Mrs. Eansome's statement. But that still left the enigma 
 of the footman's disappearance untouched. 
 
 I confess the whole matter was a great puzzle to me. 
 When I had got hold of a thought that seemed extremely 
 likely, it was met by another thought which proved it in the 
 last degree impossible. And though I might try and bare the 
 facts, extrinsic considerations were perpetually colouring them 
 and draping them afresh. 
 
 But one morning towards the end of November came very 
 exciting news. 
 
 I had risen rather later than usual, owing to a cold I had 
 taken on the previous day, and it was nearly half-past eight 
 before I left my room. On my way down stairs I had heard 
 the Colonel and his daughter talking rapidly and excitedly, 
 and was quite at a loss to conceive what could have taken him 
 to Mrs. Eansome's bedroom at that early hour. 
 
 The morning was a miserable one. Not a gleam of sun- 
 shine, and a high piercing wind that splashed the rain, mingled 
 with sleet and hail, against the windows. The grounds, 
 through the glass blurred with wet, looked miserably forlorn ; 
 the trees bare, black, and unbending to the gale that swept 
 through them with a noise as of thunder. 
 
 I shivered, and hastened to the comfortable fire in my room, 
 and sat brooding over it, sipping a cup of tea, depressed as a 
 cold always depresses one. 
 
 In this way twenty minutes passed, and then the house- 
 maid knocked at my door and said I was wanted. I had been 
 very often wanted since I had been in that house, and very 
 frequently on eventful occasions. I went upstairs, expecting 
 I know not what news. Father and daughter were together, 
 the Colonel in a great state of excitement — his eyes shining, 
 his face red, walking hastily about the room. Mrs. Eansome
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 235 
 
 was far more collected; quite white, hard in the face as a 
 stone. She played with the food on her plate with a fork ; 
 the Colonel's breakfast was untouched ; the coffee smoked in 
 the cup, some ham was on a plate — he had helped himself 
 and forgotten to eat. 
 
 He passed me hastily, shut the door, and retaining his 
 hold of the handle, exclaimed — 
 
 ' Mr. Ransome is alive ; he has been discovered.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' I answered, imitating his tone, and speak- 
 ing in a loud whisper. 
 
 ' I have Johnson's letter in my pocket. He has been all 
 this time hunting for him. He has found him at last ! God 
 be thanked ! ' 
 
 ' This is welcome news, sir.' 
 
 ' Doubly welcome, because I had given up all hope. There's 
 a clever dog, this Johnson! ' he exclaimed, chuckling and rub- 
 bing his hands together. ' What patience ! what shrewdness ! 
 what slow, unerring sagacity he has displayed ! Oh, Phoebe ! 
 he has saved you ! What will the miscreants who have talked 
 about you say now? We will have him here— we will 
 make a show of Mr. Saville Ransome ! We will oblige the 
 scoundrel to show his face, and prove your innocence ! and 
 then ' 
 
 Mrs. Ransome lifted her stony face, scarcely the less beauti- 
 ful for being passionless, and said — 
 
 ' Then what ? ' 
 
 He looked at her and then at me, and answered — 
 
 ' That is an after consideration. We shall have to find out 
 how mad he is, and act upon our discovery. Could I have my 
 way, I would flog him every day for a week, and then kick him 
 into the wide world again. He is a vagabond by nature — I 
 would keep him one ! ' 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, ' I have told you once, I repeat now, 
 and Miss Avory shall bear me witness, no earthly power shall 
 ever induce me to live for an hour under the same roof with 
 him, to look at him, to utter one word to him. He is no 
 longer my husband. I renounce him before you both ; and 
 may God punish me if by any compulsion, or through any 
 impulse, I swerve for an instant from my resolution.' 
 
 The flush in her cheeks faded quickly out, she pushed her 
 plate from her, clasped her hands, and looked fixedly down- 
 wards. 
 
 1 1 would rather see you dead at my feet,' he replied, ' than
 
 236 IS HE THE MAN ? 
 
 have you own him as your husband. Have no fear ; your 
 separation dates from the day of his disappearance ; and never, 
 whilst I live, should I suffer you to be reunited. But you will 
 see him, and pronounce him to be the villain who has heaped 
 this horrible scandal upon you. That declaration will be your 
 acquittal. Then we will leave this place, accurst to me by 
 that man, for ever. Do you follow me ? Make no foolish 
 vows — suffer no temper to possess you. Your opposition may 
 ruin us on the very threshold of our escape from this terrible 
 dilemma. Miss Avory, you are of my opinion ? Mrs. Kan- 
 some must not act for herself. She must do as I wish. Is it 
 not so ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure Mrs. Eansome will not oppose you, sir,' I an- 
 swered. 
 
 He drew a letter from his pocket, and, without opening it, 
 said — 
 
 'Johnson writes that Mr. Ransome is in lodgings just out 
 of Oxford Street, London. He knows he is the man he wants 
 by the portrait he has of him, by the written description he 
 had from me, by the fact of his having been in that lodging 
 four months. This is good evidence ; but more follows. The 
 landlady of the house has been pumped, and her information 
 is to this effect : that her lodger came from the country ; that 
 his habits are eccentric — for instance, he keeps within doors 
 all day, and steals forth mysteriously at night ; that he has 
 given strict orders to be denied to any caller. He has obvi- 
 ously no pursuit ; the landlady is utterly ignorant of the place 
 he comes from, of his former occupation (if he had any), and 
 of his right name — for she has strong reasons for suspecting 
 the name that he goes under, namely, Cleveland, to be false.' 
 
 ' If he is not Mr. Eansome, he ought to be ! ' I exclaimed. 
 ' The description fits him well.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he cried triumphantly ; ' and bear in mind that 
 these are only characteristics which Johnson describes. His 
 face, he says, is that of the man whose portrait he has. By 
 this time to-morrow I shall know certainly. I am to see him 
 to-night.' 
 
 He looked at the clock and then hastily seated himself and 
 fell to his breakfast, forcing himself to eat and drink. 
 
 ' Do you mean that he should return with you, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly,' he answered. ' He must come to this house. 
 He must be seen and addressed by several persons — then let 
 him go ! my end will have been served.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 237 
 
 ' But if he should refuse to accompany you ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Ransorne looked up at this question. 
 
 ' I shall find a means of compelling him,' answered the 
 Colonel. But all the same, he gazed doubtfully at me, for this 
 consideration evidently had not occurred to him before. 
 
 ' Johnson would advise you on this matter, sir, and show 
 you how it is to be managed,' I said. 
 
 ' I see two ways of dealing with him. He could be appre- 
 hended as a madman at once, or I could threaten him with 
 the madhouse in case of his refusal to accompany me. To 
 judge by your own experience, Miss Avory, and by mine too, 
 for the matter of that, he is to be easily influenced by that 
 threat.' 
 
 ' Why must he be brought here ? ' demanded Mrs. Ransorne. 
 
 1 To prove his mother a liar ! ' answered the Colonel, pas- 
 sionately. ' How shall he bear witness to your innocence if 
 he is not seen by those who believe in your guilt ? ' 
 
 ' But if he is proved to be living, no matter by whom, will 
 not that suffice ? ' she asked. 
 
 1 It is far better,' I put in, ' that he should be recognised 
 by those who profess to know that he is dead. Out of 
 Copsford, people are ignorant of this affair ; and it would be a 
 mistake to spread the story of it by bringing in outsiders to 
 give their evidence who, perhaps, would not convince the 
 people here after all, since it might be reported that these 
 witnesses were paid by you to give false evidence.' 
 
 ' Quite so,' exclaimed the Colonel. ' And remember that 
 our actions need have no reference to any one but the liars 
 and scandalmongers of Copsford. You have not to prove your 
 innocence to the law or to the world, but to a handful of 
 despicable gossips who are to be convinced only by their eyes.' 
 He added emphatically, ' I wish you would see things in their 
 proper light, Phoebe.' 
 
 ' I bate him so,' she muttered, ' that I abhor the thoughts 
 of having to confront him.' 
 
 The Colonel left the table. 
 
 ' Miss Avory, will you kindly fetch my travelling bag ? ' 
 
 1 Shall I send for a fly, sir ? ' 
 
 ' No, I will walk. I must post to L and catch the up 
 
 coach which reaches London at six.' 
 
 I went to get his bag, and when I returned he was stand- 
 ing in the hall, and Mrs. Ransorne was speaking to him from 
 the dining-room door. She kissed her hand and withdrew.
 
 238 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 He took the bag from me and opened the hall door. There 
 was a drizzling rain, and the high wind made it penetrating. 
 I again begged permission to send for a fly, but he said he 
 could not wait ; his overcoat was a thick one and would 
 protect him. He lingered a moment, and added — 
 
 ' There is a great change in my daughter's character. I 
 thought this news would have put her in high spirits. But 
 do you notice how cold and impassive she is ? One might 
 think that the discovery of this man involved anybody's 
 reputation but hers.' 
 
 ' She has disciplined herself according to your wishes, sir. 
 Depend upon it, she is not the less sensible of this great good 
 fortune because she bears it with composure. 1 
 
 ' Perhaps so,' he answered hurriedly. ' Good-bye, Miss 
 Avory.' 
 
 He turned up his coat collar and went into the rain. I 
 was glad to shut the door, for the wind chilled me to the 
 bones, and was perhaps responsible for the quite unnecessary 
 depression that hung about me. Hearty, iron winter, with its 
 vast stretches of snow, and the glorious sunlight scintillating 
 on the ice-coated trees, I love ; but this dreary November, 
 this month of sopping rains and earthy smells and cold, un- 
 wholesome damps, is a depression and a curse. 
 
 The dining-room door was open, and I saw Mrs. Eansome 
 bending over the fire, which roared in flames up the chimney. 
 She saw me as I passed, and called to me. 
 
 ' Papa will have a cheerless journey,' she exclaimed. 
 'What do you think of the letter he received? Do you 
 believe the man has found Mr. Kansome ? ' 
 
 ' The description tallies, does it not ? ' 
 
 ' I do not greatly value that part about his having been in 
 the lodgings four months, and his stealing out at night, and his 
 name being assumed,' she said, chafing her hands quite close 
 to the flames. ' I rest my hope on the face answering to the 
 portrait and description. But even there I have doubts. If 
 Mr. Ransome feared pursuit — I assume this as a theory, I 
 don't say he does ; he is a madman who defies conjecture — he 
 would disguise himself. In that case, the detective, or what- 
 ever he is, would not know him by the description.' 
 
 ' He could not change his face.' 
 
 1 He could shave off his moustache and let his whiskers 
 grow ; and then no stranger would be able to identify him 
 with the portrait I gave papa.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 239 
 
 ' But it is evident,' I said, ' that he hasn't disguised him- 
 self. Besides, we must have confidence in the experience of 
 the man Colonel Kilmain has employed. He would hardly 
 write before he was convinced that the man was Mr. Bansome.' 
 
 She was silent. The bright flames flashed in her eyes, and 
 so coloured her face as to make her complexion brilliant. 
 The attitude she was in finely exhibited the great beauties of 
 her figure. Her rings glittered upon her fingers, and her 
 thick hair looked like ebony in contrast with the ruby glare of 
 the fire. 
 
 ' Do you not think,' I asked, ' that the man of whom the 
 detective writes is your husband ? ' 
 
 ' Do not speak of Mr. Bansome as my husband, Miss 
 Avory,' she answered quickly. ' You heard what I said just 
 now before papa. He is less to me than the smallest fragment 
 of those ashes there. I abhor the sound of his name. Not 
 the least curse that this wretch has visited on me is my being 
 obliged by the force of circumstances to think and speak of 
 him constantly. When you name him, call him what you 
 please — anything but my husband.' 
 
 She spoke with great emphasis, but without passion. The 
 experience she was living through was so far beneficial to her 
 that it had taught her to subdue her temper. Time was 
 when the remonstrance she had just spoken would have been 
 delivered with flashing eyes and a face of anger. 
 
 She continued in a moment or two — 
 
 ' You asked me if I think this man whom papa has gone 
 to see is Mr. Bansome. I answer, no.' 
 
 I looked at her with surprise. 
 
 ' I told papa my opinion when he read me the letter. The 
 impression is instinctive — what else ? ' She glanced at me. 
 ' And of course he was angry, because his heart is in this dis- 
 covery — our reputation, our honour, and my future involved 
 in it ; and he believes the man is found. I do not. I believe 
 the man is dead.' 
 
 She ceased, looking intently at the fire. Finding me 
 silent, she fixed her eyes on me with a curious smile, and 
 said — 
 
 ' Why don't you ask me why I think he is dead ? Are you 
 ever troubled by the same suspicion of me that haunts papa ? — 
 a suspicion that turned me into stone when I first understood 
 it, but to which 1 have accustomed myself ; because I reason 
 that, if one can doubt me, why not all — my own father, and
 
 240 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 you, who, were you a relative, could not know me more inti, 
 rnately than you do ? ' 
 
 The scornful smile again played over her mouth. 
 
 ' Mrs. Eansome,' I said, ' why do you put such a question 
 to me ? I have told your father that I believe in your inno- 
 cence as I believe in my own. I should be mad indeed if I 
 doubted you.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' she asked, very quietly. ' Take the trouble to 
 recall what you know. Then assume my guilt, and see if you 
 cannot establish it. Shall I help you ? ' 
 
 I made no reply. 
 
 ' On the night of Mr. Ransome's disappearance,' she con- 
 tinued, ' you heard certain noises, did you not ? — the turning 
 of the handle of a door, the sound of a footstep on the land- 
 ing ; is it not so ? I told you that I myself had heard Mr. 
 Eansome enter his bedroom. Let us call the hour eleven. 
 He was found missing, let us say, at eight o'clock next morn- 
 ing — not before. From eleven till eight is nine hours. In 
 that long time a greater bungler than one who was impelled 
 by a hate no words can express would have finished the task 
 completely, disturbed the room to suggest a robbery, and 
 obliterated every sign that might lead to the discovery of 
 murder.' 
 
 I stared at her with astonishment. 
 
 ' You have thought of all this — confess, Miss Avory ! ' she 
 exclaimed, with a laugh. ' And I'll tell you something more 
 that has troubled you — where I could have hidden the body. 
 Oh ! ' she cried, clenching her small hand ; ' but for this 
 pastime of thinking how I could have killed him, I should go 
 mad over the horrible monotony of our one speculation — 
 where is he ? ' 
 
 ' Pray remember your father's injunction,' I said, while 
 she laughed again at my startled face ; ' consider the conse- 
 quences if you should be overheard.' 
 
 ' What would you have me talk about ? May I not vary 
 the theme for my diversion ? You are a very cautious body, 
 I know — quite Scotch in your slow approaches to a thought. 
 Suppose the suspicion that has occurred to my father should 
 have occurred to you ? ' 
 
 ' It never has.' 
 
 ' May I not be alloAved to sport with it ? ' 
 
 ' But the sport is full of danger,' I replied, scarcely know- 
 ing whether her trouble had not unhinged her mincL
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 341 
 
 1 Well, then,' she replied, preserving her ironical tone and 
 Sarcastic smile, ' let us go back to Avhat we were saying. I 
 wanted to know why you did not ask me my reason for sup- 
 posing Mr. Eansome dead ? ' 
 
 ' Since you wish it, I will ask you now.' 
 
 1 How I could frighten you if I pleased ! If I were an 
 actress now, to scowl and mutter and wave my hand and cry, 
 "No matter ! " and exhibit other alarming suspicions of guilt 
 after the stereotyped fashion ! But 1 must descend to prose ; 
 so forgive me for disappointing the uncomfortable fancies I 
 have raised by saying that I think Mr. Kan some dead merely 
 because he stops so long away.' 
 
 She threw her head back and laughed hysterically. The 
 note in her laughter made me understand her mental condition. 
 It was now plain that the excitement with which the letter 
 her father had received had filled her had been rendered 
 dangerous by suppression ; and the internal irritation to which 
 its concealment had subjected her nerves was now beginning 
 to tell. My surprise left me ; but not to appear to change 
 the subject too abruptly, I said — 
 
 ' We must hope that he is not dead.' 
 
 ' We must hope that he is. Why should such a man live ? 
 she exclaimed with gathering excitement. 
 
 'For yours and Colonel Kilmain's sake,' I replied, 'it is 
 essentially necessary that he should be discovered.' 
 
 ' Ay, and then let him die,' she cried out, with a loud peal 
 of laughter. 
 
 A moment after she was in hysterics. I had locked the 
 door, and was holding her down upon the sofa in less time 
 than I could have counted twenty. I would not call for 
 assistance lest, in her attack, she should repeat some of the 
 wild things she had been saying. It was well I took the pre- 
 caution. For a time she was positively delirious, seemed to 
 think her husband present, and tore at the sleeve of her dress, 
 and held up her arm, and bade him look at his finger-marks, 
 and then shrieked out that she would have his life. Her 
 struggles were so great that she threw me down, but I was up 
 again in a moment, sitting on her, and pinning her to the sofa 
 with all my strength. Extraordinary fancies possessed her. 
 At one moment she cried out that there was a hearse at the 
 door, and then exhorted me to order the coffin out of the room. 
 Did I not see it ? Look, there it was on the table ! After- 
 wards a skeleton menaced her from the window. She writhed, 
 
 s
 
 242 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 and screamed, and shuddered, beating the air with her tossing 
 arms, and changing her screams into wild peals of laughter, 
 which subsided after awhile into sobs, and then the fit gradu- 
 ally passed away. 
 
 Meanwhile, somebody outside had been hammering at the 
 door with a persistency perfectly maddening. But not until 
 Mrs. Ransome was exhausted did I choose to pay attention to 
 the sound, and, suddenly looking out, I found the cook and 
 the housemaid, ghastly pale, and evidently labouring under 
 some horrible impression. 
 
 ' For God's sake, what is it, miss ? ' they cried. 
 
 I answered that Mrs. Ransome had been attacked with 
 hysterics, and bade the housemaid get me some water and a 
 glass. They saw into the room, and therefore knew that I 
 spoke the truth. Off they ran, and one brought a glass and 
 another a jug, which I took, and shut the door in their faces. 
 
 Hysterics are not very alarming in our sex. The fit passed 
 from Mrs. Ransome with her sobs, leaving her a little shaken, 
 but not paler than she was before. I hung about her for a 
 time, forcing what cheerful subjects I could think of upon her 
 mind, stirring the fire so as to keep it merrily roaring, and 
 doing my utmost to save her from a relapse. 
 
 She did not recur to what she had said before the fit took 
 her. To speak the truth, I don't believe she knew what she 
 had said. When she looked out of the window and saw the 
 drizzling rain and gleaming grounds, she spoke of her father's 
 journey ; but there was no nearer reference than that in her 
 conversation to the subject that had made her ill. 
 
 It was very fortunate for my peace of mind that she had 
 fallen into hysterics. Had she remained cool, I must certainly 
 have taken her remarks seriously ; and it is not at all im- 
 probable but that the suspicions which she pretended to think 
 I possessed would have been excited in me. Even as it 
 was, her ironical, hysterical badinage had put thoughts into 
 my head which would never have entered without any help. 
 For instance, w T hen I would recall her father's suspicion of 
 her, I speculated on the evidence there might be against her 
 to justify his misgivings, and never found any. But, thanks 
 to her own mocking suggestions, I could understand now 
 that it was possible to imagine her guilty without grossly 
 violating probability. What were her own words ? That 
 tbere were nine hours, from the time of Mr. Ransome's enter- 
 ing his bedroom to the time when it was discovered that he
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 243 
 
 had not occupied his bed, in which to put an end to his life 
 and remove all traces of the deed. I had never thought of 
 that before. I was sorry to have to think of it now. The 
 coquetting with such a theory was a ghastly amusement. I 
 could only be thankful, both for her own and her father's 
 sake, that she had made me only the butt of her tragical 
 humours. 
 
 I might hope now that the mystery which had puzzled 
 everybody for the last five months was about to be solved, 
 and all the trouble and suspicion it had brought melt into 
 thin air. 
 
 It was not to be supposed that the man employed by 
 Colonel Kilmain, after promising to write only in the event of 
 utter failure or complete success, would, after four months of 
 patient inquiry, during which he would in all probability have 
 met with _ several men sufficiently like Mr. Eansome to put 
 him on his guard against being duped by a passable resem- 
 blance, commit himself to such a deliberate assurance as 
 would take the Colonel post-haste to London, without good 
 and sufficient reason. 
 
 We at Gardenhurst had nothing to do but await the issue 
 of the adventure. That the man living in lodgings out of 
 Oxford Street, London, was Mr. Eansome was one thing ; that 
 Colonel Kilmain could induce Mr. Eansome to accompany him 
 to Gardenhurst was another thing. In this last arrangement 
 I anticipated a very serious hitch would take place ; and how 
 the Colonel would manage I could not guess. 
 
 So that day passed, and the nest, and a third, and the 
 Colonel neither wrote nor returned. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Eansome had resumed her reserve. She 
 was, to all appearance, as lifeless, cold, and indifferent as if 
 her father's quest were of less concern to her than to me. I 
 could not comprehend this disposition, which was not to be 
 accounted for by assigning it to the belief of her husband's 
 death which she had expressed. Unless she positively knew 
 that he was dead — and of course I was perfectly sure she did 
 not — she ought, in all reason, to have found some cause of ex- 
 citement, of anxiety, of curiosity, of hope, in the issue which 
 any near day was to expose. She appeared to me to be 
 governed by a sense of unendurable wrong, which turned her 
 into stone, dried up all the sources of passion and feeling, and
 
 =44 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 left her a mere image, barely directed by mechanical instincts. 
 If this were the true cause of her dead and icy behaviour, it 
 was, beyond all question, in a large measure owing to the sus- 
 picion her father had entertained against her. The prejudice 
 and the hostile accusations of strangers and acquaintances 
 had heated her to passion and scorn ; but her father's doubt 
 would break her down, transmute her nature into rock, and 
 fill her with that sense of utter loneliness which forces all 
 feeling, passion, and emotion inwards, and makes the soul 
 heedless of her own interests, and of all the influences and 
 movements which surround her. 
 
 The fourth day since the Colonel's departure came and 
 w T ent. Had the detective mistaken the man he had summoned 
 the Colonel to see ? Surely Mrs. Ransome would receive a 
 letter next morning. I confess I awaited news with profound 
 eagerness and curiosity. But the fifth morning came and 
 brought no letter. 
 
 That was a wintry day, I remember : bleak and dry, with 
 spaces of snow stretched among the hills and a steel-coloured 
 sky. The fires burned fiercely, and in the passages of the 
 house one's breath rose like steam. The birds made black 
 knots among the bare branches ; and sounds from the town — 
 the ringing of bells, the cries of men, the rattling of wheels — 
 came thin and clear through the air up to the heights where 
 Gardenhurst stood. 
 
 The morning passed. I saw Mrs. Ransome, but she made 
 no comment on her father's silence ; and ardent as my own 
 curiosity was, I had not the courage to thrust my conjectures 
 upon her frigid reserve. 
 
 At three o'clock in the afternoon I was in my bedroom, 
 when I heard the sounds of carriage-wheels rolling over the 
 iron ground of the avenue. I threw open the door and went 
 out on to the landing and iistened. The hall bell pealed and 
 I hurried downstairs. My idea was that the Colonel had 
 returned with Mr. Ransome, and my curiosity was so superior 
 to all other considerations that I would not have missed being 
 in the hall to receive the runaway, to see whether he was 
 changed, to hear what he would say, for a purse full of 
 money. This may seem improper ; but I am quite willing to 
 admit that in a large number of points I was not a jot better 
 than I should be. 
 
 I was in the- hall as soon as the housemaid, and I stood by 
 her side as she opened the door. In came the Colonel,
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 245 
 
 wrapped in his overcoat, his throat muffled up and his hat 
 drawn down to his ears. A closed fly stood at the door, and 
 the horse smoked like newly-kindled leaves. 
 
 ' Where is Mrs. Kansome ? ' the Colonel exclaimed, paus- 
 ing a moment before passing through the anteroom. Yet he 
 was too impatient even to wait for an answer, for he ran 
 through the room, and the door blew to behind him with a bang. 
 
 I stared into the fly, but it was empty. The driver, 
 enveloped in a number of capes, pulled out a pipe and a 
 tinder-box and began to smoke. 
 
 ' Are you to wait ? ' I asked him. 
 
 He replied that that was his orders. 
 
 I closed the door and followed the housemaid downstairs. 
 
 A whole half -hour passed, during which no sound save the 
 movements of the servants in the kitchen broke the silence 
 that reigned in the house. Whatever the conversation was 
 about upstairs, it was manifestly carried on in very low voices. 
 I sat over the fire, listening and wondering what had brought 
 the Colonel home in such a violent hurry, and what he had 
 been doing during the last five days, and whether, by keeping 
 the carriage waiting, he meant to return to London. 
 
 At the expiration of the half-hour I heard the Colonel 
 calling my name from the top of the stairs, and, hastening 
 from my room, I found him standing in the hall, muffled up 
 just as he had emerged from the fly. 
 
 He beckoned me into the library and shut the door. He 
 did not remove his hat, nor did he pull his muffler below his 
 mouth ; the consequence of which was his voice was smothered 
 and I had to listen intently to catch what he said. 
 
 ' Mr. Eansome is found. We have him at last. You will 
 be glad to hear this.' 
 
 ' Sincerely glad, sir,' I answered, impressed by the eager, 
 frightened expression in his eyes, and by the singular paleness 
 of his face ; which signs I attributed to the excitement under 
 which he was labouring. 
 
 ' I must return at once, for I have to be in London to- 
 night,' he continued, hurrying out his words. ' I would not 
 bring him to Copsford before apprising my daughter of the 
 discovery and telling her my plans. He declares he will not 
 live with her. But he has consented to come to this ho: kg 
 for an hour in order to meet such gentlemen as I may cho< 
 to invite and let them see that he is living. His stipulation 
 is that on the termination of this interview he is at liberty to
 
 246 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 withdraw ; and he has exacted a promise from me neither to 
 follow nor in any way to molest him.' 
 
 ' That is all that you require, sir ! ' I exclaimed, to the 
 full as excited by the news as he was. 
 
 ' That's all. I have threatened him with the madhouse 
 should he refuse to accede to my wishes. I told him that my 
 daughter is suspected of having murdered him, and that he 
 alone can clear her of the horrible suspicion.' 
 
 ' But are you not afraid that he will make off whilst you 
 are here ? ' 
 
 ' No ; he is watched. I know my man, and do not trust 
 his promises. I must make haste; I hope to return to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 He waved his hand, hurried out of the library, and before 
 I could reach the hall door the carriage had driven away. 
 
 His haste was extremely agitating and flurrying ; and 
 though, perhaps, it could not exaggerate the importance of 
 the news he brought, it wonderfully helped to impress its 
 consequence and value upon my mind. 
 
 I went to the dining-room, partly because I wanted to hear 
 what Mrs. Eansome had to say, and partly because I believed 
 she would expect me to come to her. I knocked, opened the 
 door, looked in, and found the room empty. The drawing- 
 room was also empty. I tried her bedroom, and there dis- 
 covered her, with the door locked. She called out that she 
 was lying down, and wished to be alone. So I returned 
 downstairs. 
 
 There was nothing more reasonable than that she should 
 be too much upset for a time by the news her father had 
 brought her to be able to converse. The arrangement agreed 
 on between her husband and the Colonel, though manifestly 
 the most suitable and politic one that could have been entered 
 upon, was not the less extraordinary, and the bare considera- 
 tion of it would be very trying to her. If I had gathered the 
 Colonel's meaning aright, Mr. Ransome was to meet several 
 gentlemen from Copsford, and having satisfied them that his 
 wife was an innocent woman, quit her for ever. This was 
 very well, and as it should be, and what, no doubt, she wanted ; 
 but to a woman possessed of her pride the antidote was 
 almost as bad as the bane. The meeting of persons at her 
 house would be the publishing of her misery ; it would be 
 known that her husband refused to live with her, and ugly 
 constructions would in consequence be placed on her temper
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 247 
 
 and character. So that she would only escape one prejudice 
 to become the victim of another. 
 
 As these considerations occurred to me, I wondered 
 whether the Colonel's wisest policy, after all, would not have 
 been long ago to remove his daughter from Copsford, and 
 leave the truth to be unfolded by time. There could be no 
 doubt that Mrs. Kansome's presence in the neighbourhood 
 had perpetuated the story, and supplied an incessant provoca- 
 tion to gossip. But then the Colonel's view was that his 
 daughter's departure would corroborate suspicion. Again, the 
 idea of his daughter being followed by suspicion was unen- 
 durable to him ; and so sensitive a man would never have 
 ceased to reproach himself for allowing gossip to frighten 
 him and his daughter away before he had made every effort 
 to vindicate her from the infamous charge which old Mrs. 
 Ransome, dying, had bequeathed to the people of Copsford. 
 
 I had not had time, during our brief exchange of words in 
 the library, to ask the Colonel if Mr. Ransome had spoken of 
 Maddox. In all probability, as I had over and over again 
 surmised, the man had acted without the knowledge of his 
 master, and had, by accident, hit on the night on which Mr. 
 Ransome had decamped to commit the robbery. 
 
 The Colonel had no doubt spoken of this to his daughter ; 
 and I waited with lively feelings of curiosity for an opportunity 
 to converse with her. 
 
 My impatience was not long taxed. Scarcely an hour had 
 passed since the Colonel had left the house, when I heard a 
 footstep on the kitchen stair, and Mrs. Ransome came into 
 my room. 
 
 She rarely visited this part of the house now, and I might 
 be sure, by her coming, that her purpose was to talk to me 
 about Mr. Ransome. 
 
 She closed the door with a little shiver, and complained of 
 the cold, hugging a shawl over her shoulders about her, and 
 taking a seat close to the fire. I looked at her face attentively, 
 attracted by an expression that rendered her beauty almost 
 unfamiliar. I could no more describe it in words than paint 
 it in colours. A bitter hardness, that set the mouth as firm 
 as stone, was its abiding characteristic. But neither resolu- 
 tion nor severity was all that it suggested ; fear was there, 
 suppressed and beaten down, indeed, but leaving traces of its 
 presence in every glance, in every movement of the linea- 
 ments : and there was a submissiveness about her, too,
 
 248 IS HE THE MAN ? 
 
 which had been heretofore utterly foreign to her haughty 
 bearing. 
 
 She spoke of the cold, and was then silent, with her eyes 
 on the fire. After an interval, she asked if it were I who had 
 knocked at her door an hour ago ? I answered, yes. She 
 was again silent, and her silence puzzled me. If she did not 
 wish to speak about her husband, why had she sought me ? 
 But it was difficult to understand why she should not wish to 
 speak of him. Here was a mystery, that had engrossed her 
 for many months, solved at last. In a few hours the suspicion 
 that had weighed like a nightmare upon her would be removed. 
 Should not such a removal fill her with exultation, and so 
 chai'ge her heart with thoughts and hopes that she would be 
 wild to utter them ? 
 
 Her silence was so unaccountable and oppressive that I 
 broke it at last by floundering headlong into the matter which 
 occupied my mind. 
 
 ' This is a happy termination of all your troubles, madam. 
 I am as truly glad to hear that Mr. Ransome is found as if 
 my own character were involved in the discovery.' 
 
 She looked up, and said quickly — 
 
 ' Oh, you know, then, that the man papa went to see is 
 Mr. Ransome ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Colonel Kilmain hurriedly gave me the news before 
 he left.' 
 
 ' What did he tell you ? ' 
 
 ' That he had found Mr. Ransome, and compelled him by 
 threats to come and testify to his being alive, by meeting 
 certain gentlemen whom your father will invite here for the 
 purpose.' 
 
 ' Was that all ? ' 
 
 ' There was no time to say more.' 
 
 She clasped her hands over her knees, and stared fixedly 
 into the fire. 
 
 ' Is Mr. Ransome aware of his mother's death ? ' 1 asked. 
 
 ' Oh yes ; papa told him, of course,' she answered, without 
 looking at me. 
 
 ' He was fond of his mother. I should think the news 
 would be a great blow to him.' 
 
 ' He would rather have heard of my death, no doubt.' 
 
 ' Was anything said about Maddox, do you know, 
 madam ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Ransome knows nothing about the footman,' she
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 249 
 
 replied, following up my question so rapidly that she almost 
 took the words out of my mouth. 
 
 1 Then my theory was right, after all ! ' I exclaimed. 
 * Maddox stole the plate on his own account. I always be- 
 lieved him guilty on the evidence of the book I found in his 
 bedroom.' 
 
 ' Not always. You once agreed with me that he might 
 have acted under Mr. Eansome's instructions.' 
 
 ' Why, yes, madam ; at the beginning I did. But that 
 was a long time ago ; and in those early days of the mystery 
 we were all too puzzled to be able to think at all.' 
 
 ' You must understand,' she said, 'that we have only Mr. 
 Ransome's word that Maddox was not concerned with him. 
 Mr. Ransome is as great a liar as his mother, and I should 
 refuse to take his assurance.' 
 
 She said this warmly, but quickly controlled herself, and 
 looked at me with a smile that accorded ill with the acrimony 
 of her words. 
 
 ' Has Mr. Eansome explained his object for running away ? ' 
 I inquired, sensible of and struck by the bitterness of her 
 manner, which was inconsistent with the subject we were 
 discussing, and which was the more apparent for the coating 
 of feeling and interest which she tried to hide it under. 
 
 ' He is mad ! ' she exclaimed, with a shrug. ' You must 
 find your explanation in that.' 
 
 ' Mad, indeed ! ' I responded. ' Imagine his stopping four 
 months in an out of the way London lodging ! What answer 
 has he to the charge of striving to ruin you by pretending that 
 he was murdered ? ' 
 
 ' Miserable coward ! ' she cried, clenching both hands spas- 
 modically : ' he has no answer. He is a devil, who does evil 
 for evil's sake.' 
 
 ' I suppose Colonel Kilmain had great difficulty in obtain- 
 ing an interview with him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, very great, no doubt. But, Miss Avory,' she ex- 
 claimed, turning smartly upon me, ' you must remember that 
 my father was in a great hurry, and had no time to relate the 
 whole story to me. You ask me a great number of questions, 
 to many of which I can only imagine answers.' 
 
 I coloured up as I said — 
 
 ' I must apologise for ray curiosity. The subject has 
 occupied our attention for so long a time, that I cannot pre- 
 vent myself from taking a great interest in it,'
 
 250 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she exclaimed, forcing a smile, but looking never- 
 theless towards the door, as though nothing but a sense of 
 duty kept her in the room. * I fully appreciate your sympathy, 
 and gladly tell you all I know. Mr. Ransome, I believe, is to 
 return with papa to-morrow, and will stay at Copsford, I fancy 
 — but of this I am not sure — for a few hours : long enough to 
 enable him to be present at the meeting which is to take place 
 in this house. He then leaves me, and we shall see each 
 other no more. But now I am telling you what you know.' 
 
 I remained silent, not wishing to challenge another re- 
 proof. 
 
 ' I would part with ten years of my life,' she continued, 
 ' for Mr. Ransome to give proofs of his being alive by any 
 other means than that of meeting people in this house. Of 
 all the humiliating positions that man has put me in since I 
 first met him, this will be the worst. For, do you know that 
 papa will insist upon his stating his reasons for leaving me ; 
 and what will be said when he declares he will not live with 
 me ? when he may utter falsehood after falsehood to win the 
 sympathy that cowards are never able to get on without ? ' 
 
 ' It is indeed a very hard alternative,' I answered ; ' but 
 I see no better alternative. Your father wishes to prove the 
 scandalmongers liars ; and he is wise in making the proofs 
 thorough — in obtaining men whose testimony will be indis- 
 putable to see and speak to this man whom the people think 
 has been murdered.' 
 
 She made no answer to this ; and presently left her chair 
 and took a turn or two about the room. She twitched at her 
 shawl, and exclaimed — 
 
 ' I am chilled to the bones. There is no fire in my bed- 
 room, and the window-glass is varnished with frost.' 
 
 1 Let me get you a cup of tea, madam.' 
 
 ' No, thank you.' 
 
 She looked at me steadily, then averted her eyes, and 
 said— 
 
 ' Mr. Ransome, I believe, does not admit that his leaving 
 me was part of a plot which his mother was to carry out. 
 But there is no doubt that this was his motive.' 
 
 ' You have always thought so,' I answered. 
 
 'Yes; and papa agrees with me now, and so have you 
 agreed with me sometimes.' 
 
 * At all events, the theory explains the extraordinary accu- 
 sation that old Mrs. Ransome made against you.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 251 
 
 ' You may be sure I am right. And how is such villainy 
 to be met but with deceit ? I mean,' she added hurriedly, 
 looking at me in a vague way, ' when you have a madman to 
 deal with you are privileged to use the best stratagem that 
 occurs to you to render him harmless.' 
 
 ' Unquestionably,' I answered, thinking that she referred 
 to the mode in which her father had trapped Mr. Eansome 
 and obliged him to meet witnesses at Gardenhurst. 
 
 Her manner changed ; she laid her hand on the door; and 
 said, with a smile — 
 
 ' There is nothing more to be said on the subject at present. 
 We must wait.' 
 
 ' Yes, madam. Please God in a day or two your troubles 
 will be ended, and then I hope Colonel Kilmain will take you 
 away for a change of scene. Your health has been under- 
 mined by your anxiety.' 
 
 ' We shall see,' she answered ; smiled again, and went 
 out. But before she closed the door I heard her sigh 
 heavily. 
 
 VI 
 
 The Colonel did not return next day. The day following 
 was Thursday. At noon I walked to Copsford to make some 
 purchases, and on my way home met Mrs. Campion. I at 
 once told her that Mr. Eansome was found, and was expected 
 to arrive at Gardenhurst with the Colonel every hour ; at 
 which she looked thunderstruck, and exclaimed, again and 
 again, ' Well, I never ! ' 
 
 ' So you see,' I remarked, ' that you have all been cruelly 
 wronging Mrs. Eansome.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed. And I feel as if I would rather have bitten 
 my tongue off than said an ill-natured word of her. But I 
 never believed what was reported. No, I give you my word I 
 didn't, Miss Avory. What I really expected was, that she 
 had drove her husband, by her temper, into running away 
 and committing suicide, or something of that sort. As to 
 murdering him,' she tossed her hands and shook her head. 
 
 1 The gossips will have something else to talk about now,' 
 said I. 
 
 ' Well,' she cried, ' you have given me a start ! Mr. 
 Eansome found after all this time ! What in the name of 
 goodness has the man been doing with himself ? ' 
 
 ' Keeping company with cats,' I answered, laughing.
 
 252 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Living in London lodgings, lying close all day, and creeping 
 forth like a rat at night. If the busybodies here had only 
 taken the trouble to remember that this miserable individual 
 mad, avast deal of mischief would have been saved, and 
 nie trouble that has half broken Mrs. Eansome's heart 
 averted.' 
 
 ' Oh dear ! ' she cried, ' I am as much to blame as any- 
 body ; for though I never believed half the things that were 
 said, I've consented to them by listening without contradict- 
 ing. How angry Mrs. Parsons will be ! All along she's 
 been saying that Mrs. Eansome killed her husband, and that 
 the law isn't equal. There'll be some jokes at her expense, I 
 warrant. There are others too as confident as confident i' 
 the truth of the story, who won't relish being proved false.' 
 
 ' I quite believe you. We are all so kind and charitable 
 that there's not a man or a woman among us but will take 
 Mrs. Ransome's innocence as a heavy personal disappoint- 
 ment. I must be getting home. Good-bye, Mrs. Campion. 
 Remember me to your husband.' 
 
 The air was nipping, and I walked quickly. The bleak 
 hills made the landscape desolate. On the summits of many 
 of them the snow lay thick and the trees resembled black 
 skeletons upon the white ground. The road was resonant, 
 the hedges looked hard as bayonets, and the wind froze the 
 ploughed lumps of soil in the fields into rocks. When I was 
 close to Gardenhurst a fly, drawn by a single horse, came 
 down the hill and drew up opposite the gateway. From it 
 issued the Colonel, who gave some instructions to the driver. 
 The fly then drove off, going up the hill. 
 
 I advanced quickly, and the Colonel, hearing footsteps 
 behind him, halted. 
 
 ' Oh, is it you, Miss Avory ? ' he exclaimed. ' I saw you 
 just now, but did not recognise you. I have come from 
 Peterham. Mr. Ransome is there. We left by the night- 
 coach from London and arrived this morning at ten. Does 
 my daughter expect me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. She thought you would return yesterday.' 
 
 « I could not, for reasons I will explain to her. Mr. Ran- 
 some refused to go to Copsford. He is stubborn— wretchedly 
 stubborn— as all mad people are. And I dare not be too 
 exacting lest he should defy me by turning tail again.' 
 
 He was going to knock, but I asked him to step round to 
 the garden entrance where the door might be opened from
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 253 
 
 without. He laughed, and said that he must be losing his 
 memory not to think of this, and walked down the side path 
 hastily. He was muffled up to the throat, just as I had 
 before seen him ; his manner was jerky and feverish ; he 
 showed no signs of weariness in his movements, though I 
 should have thought, considering the repeated journeys he 
 had taken, that he would by this time be utterly fagged out. 
 
 His daughter saw him from the dining-room window, and 
 came out to meet him. They entered the room together, and 
 I went upstairs to remove my bonnet. When, after ten 
 minutes or thereabouts, I descended, the dining-room door 
 stood open, and the Colonel, hearing my footsteps, called to 
 me. I went in and found them seated before the fire. The 
 Colonel had unmuffled himself, and was warming his hands, 
 red with the cold, by holding them close to the blaze. He 
 requested me to shut the door, and pulled a chair close to the 
 fire, making way himself, and begging me to draw near. 
 However, my self-respect would not permit me to encroach in 
 this manner ; so, feigning not to hear, I took a seat at a proper 
 distance and prepared myself to attend to what he should 
 say. 
 
 ' We desire to have no secrets from you, Miss Avory,' he 
 began, assuming a smile which curiously recalled the ex- 
 pression Mrs. Eansome's face had worn two days before when 
 she came to my room after her father had left the house. 
 ' You have been in some degree an actor in this strange affair 
 throughout, and deserve our united thanks for the resolute 
 manner in which you have championed our interests. It is 
 only just that I should acquaint you, not only with my actions, 
 but with my intentions.' 
 
 ' I can assure you, sir,' I replied, ' that I feel an interest 
 very superior to mere curiosity in this affair, and will only be 
 too glad to do anything I can to bring Mrs. Eansome's troubles 
 to a speedy termination.' 
 
 She turned her head and thanked me with a smile. 
 
 ' I have put down,' he said, first chafing his hands and 
 then drawing forth a pocket-book, ' the names of four gentle- 
 men whom I mean to invite here this evening to meet Mr. 
 Ransome. When I have lunched I shall write the letters 
 myself, and must ask you to do me the favour to deliver them 
 at their respective addresses. More than this : you will greatly 
 oblige me by personally seeing these gentlemen, and learning 
 from their own lips whether they can attend or not. The iiy
 
 254 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 that brought rue here will return at two o'clock, and by four 
 your round of visits will have been completed.' 
 
 ' Your letters, I suppose, sir, will explain your wishes ; and 
 ray simple business is to hear whether it is convenient to them 
 to keep the appointment you make.' 
 
 ' That is all. If one or two of them only can come, I must 
 invite others. I consider, in the interests of my daughter, 
 who has been cruelly prejudiced by the false statements of 
 Mr. Eansome's mother, that we cannot do with less than with 
 four credible witnesses — men of position in the town, whose 
 word is unimpeachable.' 
 
 He turned the leaves of the pocket-book, and read aloud : — 
 
 ' Mr. Skerlock, Dane Villa, High Street ; Mr. Ledbury, 
 Homersham House, Queen's Koad ; Sir Anthony Lauder, The 
 Vale ; the Eeverend Henry Hastings, 9 Albion Square. The 
 first three are magistrates ; the fourth, being a clergyman, 
 will make, of course, a highly respectable witness.' 
 
 ' Should any of these gentlemen be out when I call, am I 
 to wait ? ' 
 
 'You must use your judgment, Miss Avory. I would 
 rather have these gentlemen than any others I know. But 
 you must not wait too long; the appointment is for eight 
 o'clock to-night. I must know certainly by five if these gentle- 
 men can attend.' 
 
 1 They may think the notice rather short, sir,' I suggested. 
 
 ' I cannot help that. I have a madman to deal with, and 
 must conform to him. He refuses to show himself at Cops- 
 ford for fear of being hooted. He stipulates to come to and 
 leave this house under cover of night ; to remain here only 
 for such a length of time as shall enable the witnesses to see 
 and address him, and then to leave, having already imposed a 
 binding obligation on me not to follow, or have him followed, 
 nor take any measures to ascertain where he goes after he 
 quits Gardenhurst.' 
 
 He glanced hurriedly at his daughter as he spoke. She 
 did not remove her eyes from the fire. He added, with a 
 strange, nervous smile playing over his face, not only ex- 
 aggerating his haggard looks, but expressing the most pro- 
 found uneasiness — ■ 
 
 ' It is not necessary to explain to you his motive for insist- 
 ing on these conditions.' 
 
 ' Miss Avory herself once threatened him with the mad- 
 house,' said Mrs. Eansome, without looking around.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 255 
 
 ' It is fortunate that he is to be influenced by that threat,' 
 I exclaimed, ' or he might decline to show himself.' 
 
 ' Oh, he would decline,' cried the Colonel quickly. ' He 
 held out for some days ; but I terrified him at last.' 
 
 ' Did you say he is at Peterham, sir ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Yes ; he is not known there.' 
 
 ' Have you left him in charge of anybody ? ' 
 
 He answered me with a faint but a genuine smile, which 
 made me look at him curiously. 
 
 ' Suppose he should take it into his head to run away, 
 sir?' 
 
 ' Whilst I am here, you mean ? He'll not do that. He 
 knows I would have him hunted down. He has been seen by 
 too many persons to escape me.' 
 
 He now pulled out a slip of paper scrawled over in pencil ; 
 he adjusted his glasses ; and whilst I watched him I thought 
 over that odd smile of his, and wondered what there had been 
 in my question to amuse him. 
 
 ' This is the draught of the letter, Phoebe, I mean to send 
 by Miss Avory,' he said. 
 
 I rose. 
 
 ' Pray keep your seat,' he exclaimed, looking at me over 
 his glasses. ' I scratched these headings as I came from 
 Peterham. I think they will do.' 
 
 He read : ' Dear Sir, — A dreadful suspicion, the nature of 
 which I need not enter upon, having my daughter for its 
 object, has been, and still is, current among the inhabitants 
 of Copsford. In order to disprove the false accusations pre- 
 ferred against my child by the late Mrs. Eansome, I have had 
 diligent inquiries made for Mr. Eansome, and have been so 
 fortunate as to find him. My own assurance of this fact 
 might not satisfy the scruples of those who have made it their 
 business to give currency to the atrocious report to which I 
 have referred ; nor, under the circumstances, should I con- 
 sider my own word sufficiently emphatic to substantially 
 vindicate my daughter. I have, therefore, to beg that you 
 will do me the honour to attend at my house this evening, at 
 eight o'clock, in order to meet Mr. Eansome, and bear witness 
 in the interests both of humanity and justice to the ground- 
 lessness of the scandal that has deeply affected my daughter's 
 mind, and injured her health. Believe me, &c.' 
 
 The reading of this letter was made so much to resemble 
 a pieca of acting by the absent way in which Mrs. Eansome
 
 256 IS HE THE MAN ? 
 
 listened to it, that a suspicion, to which I could give no 
 words, entered my head. It took my thoughts away, and I 
 neglected to make any comment on the conclusion of the 
 letter. Looking up, I met the Colonel's eyes fked on my 
 face ; but in a second he turned to his daughter avd said — 
 
 1 Will that letter do, Phoebe ? ' 
 
 ' Very well, I think, papa.' 
 
 ' How does it strike you, Miss Avory ? ' he asked, with a 
 smile utterly unlike the brief glimpse of honest amusement I 
 had caught before. 
 
 ' It is an invitation they are pretty sure to accept, sir.' 
 
 ' Then it will answer the end it is written for.' 
 
 The housemaid came in to lay the cloth for lunch, and I 
 left the room, receiving from the Colonel a very politely 
 worded injunction to hold myself in readiness for the arrival 
 of the fly. 
 
 Dinner awaited me in my room, and I sat down to it at 
 once, and never seasoned a meal with deeper cogitation. I 
 was very much puzzled. There had been signs and looks, 
 and an over-shrouding air which gave to the conversation 
 that had just terminated a thoroughly perplexing unsatis- 
 factoriness. What made Mrs. Eansome so listless ? What 
 made the Colonel so nervous and forced in his manner ? I 
 had expected in both of them a very different reception from 
 this of the fortunate termination cf the inquiries for Mr. 
 Eansome. A genuine satisfaction, I should have thought, 
 was bound to prevail over the repugnance to the ordeal which 
 Mrs. Eansome had yet to pass through. The suspicion that 
 had long lain upon her was a heavy pressure, from the relief 
 of which the spirits would rise and inspire a glad behaviour. 
 
 Yet everything was so straightforward that my inquisitive 
 doubts could find nothing to lay hold of. That Mr. Eansome 
 was found was certain, if on no better evidence than the 
 letters I was shortly to deliver. I might have known what 
 to suspect had the discovery of the man been based on no 
 better proof than mere assertion. Everything was so pro- 
 bable as to defy misgiving. So trifling a matter as Mr. Ban- 
 some's objection to go to Copsford lest he should be hooted— 
 a fear perfectly consistent with his insanity, his cowardice, 
 and his sense of the wrong he had done his wife — was a 
 corroborative detail as cogent as strong evidence could be. 
 
 I finished my dinner, and went upstairs to dress myself. 
 When I descended, the fly was at the door, and the Colonel
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 257 
 
 waited for me in the anteroom, with the four letters in his 
 hands. 
 
 ' You will lose no time in delivering these letters, and 
 receiving answers, Miss Avory.' 
 
 ' I will be as quick as I possibly can, sir.' 
 
 ' Thank you. You had better take the houses in the 
 order in which I have placed the letters. They follow regu- 
 larly, and the flyman can make one road of them.' 
 
 ' Very well, sir.' 
 
 He opened the hall door and escorted me, bareheaded, to 
 the fly. He saved me the trouble of directing the driver by 
 giving him a list of the addresses, waved his hand, and off I 
 started, mechanically running my fingers over the letters, and 
 reading the names upon them. 
 
 The driver of the fly was a Peterham man, but he knew 
 his road thoroughly. I should here mention that Peterhatn 
 was a small town about four miles from Gardenhurst, on the 
 London road. 
 
 The first house we stopped at was The Vale, Sir Anthony 
 Lauder's residence : a big building situated in a valley sepa- 
 rated from Copsford by a hill. The house abutted on the 
 highway, and was screened by trees growing in a row behind 
 a wall liberally garnished with iron spikes. 
 
 I got out of the fly, rang the bell, and asked for Sir 
 Anthony. He was at home. I was shown into a large, bleak 
 room, with some smouldering coals in the grate, and an 
 austere and portentous parrot in an iron cage on a table. 
 The parrot and I stared at each other for ten minutes, and 
 then the bird called out in a loud voice, ' Here he comes ! ' — 
 which was perfectly true, for the door opened, and in came 
 Sir Anthony Lauder. He was a small, spare man, with a 
 richly-oiled brown wig, and a cast in the eye. He bowed, and 
 gesticulated with his hand, but seemed too cold to sit down. 
 I handed him the letter that bore his address ; whereupon he, 
 with very great elaboration of manner, drew forth and put on 
 a pair of gold-mounted spectacles, looking at me the while, 
 and attentively scanning my dress, evidently being under the 
 impression that I had called for money. 
 
 He read the letter through, and cried, ' God bless me ! ' but 
 perhaps imagining that there was a lack of magisterial dignity 
 in the exclamation, he looked grave, reflected, and then said — 
 
 ' You will please inform Colonel Kilmam that I shall have 
 much pleasure in acceding to his request.'
 
 258 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 That was all I had to hear ; and, making my bow, I 
 quitted the house and drove to Mr. Ledbury's residence. This 
 was close to The Vale. Mr. Ledbury was not at home, but 
 he was sure to return in three-quarters of an hour. So 
 leaving word that my business was very pressing, and that I 
 would return at half-past three, I drove to Mr. Skerlock's 
 house, which he was in the act of leaving when I arrived 
 there. I told him who I was, and gave him the letter. He 
 led me into a snug little study, where a fire roared up the 
 chimney, and where the furniture was so homely and pleasant 
 that it was as agreeable and satisfactory an illustration of the 
 old gentleman's character as his kindly face. The/walls were gay 
 with summer pictures, and the bookcases laden with volumes 
 which touched the air with the dry aroma of calf and morocco. 
 
 Mr. Skerlock read the letter twice — I suppose the Colonel 
 had made a less formal epistle of it to him — and then, folding 
 it up and putting it in his pocket, took a pinch of snuff, and 
 exclaimed — 
 
 ' I always said the man was a rascal. So he is found at 
 last ! And the poor Colonel wants some of us to verify the 
 villain, that his daughter may be cleared ? Of course I will 
 attend ; and I only wish he had asked me to present myself 
 with a horsewhip. I would give a trifle for the privilege of 
 flogging the rascal who has subjected a beautiful and innocent 
 woman to a monstrous and unnatural suspicion.' 
 
 I thanked him, and said that I knew the Colonel was very 
 grateful for the interest he had taken in his daughter 
 throughout this strange affair. I added, that had Mrs. Kan- 
 some only acted on his (Mr. Skerlock's) advice, she would 
 have spared herself much of the humiliating scandal that had 
 followed the accusations of her husband's mother. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered ; ' she should have let the law take 
 its course with regard to the robbery. She did herself an 
 injury in refusing to instruct the inspector. She knows now, 
 I suppose, that the footman did steal the plate ; and that 
 Mr. Ransome was ignorant of the robbery ? ' 
 
 ' I believe so,' I replied. ' But doubtless Colonel Kilmain 
 will tell you the whole story. I have other visits to make, 
 sir, and must not delay them.' 
 
 He led me to the fly by the hand— an old-fashioned piece 
 of courtesy, but a very graceful one — and, as the Colonel had 
 done, stood bareheaded in the cold, bowing to me as the 
 horse trotted off.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 259 
 
 I now went to Mr. Hastings's house, in Albion Square, 
 where I was kept waiting in the passage whilst the servant 
 took the letter upstairs. The reverend gentleman, a thin, 
 pale young man, came down presently, looking rather scared ; 
 and taking it for granted that I knew what the letter was 
 about, stammered that this was scarcely a matter in which 
 be cared to be mixed up ; that he was fervently rejoiced to 
 learn that the wanderer had been recovered ; but that be 
 almost wished the Colonel would depute some shrewder 
 person than himself to undertake this delicate duty of 
 verification. 
 
 ' It is the Colonel's wish,' I answered, ' to substantiate 
 the report of this discovery (which, of course, will go the 
 rounds) by the testimony of a clergyman. He will, I am sure, 
 be greatly disappointed if you decline to meet Mr. Eansome.' 
 
 He read the letter over again, and after humming and 
 hawing awhile, said — 
 
 ' The Colonel speaks of my bearing witness in the interests 
 both of humanity and justice. I must not close my eyes to 
 that view ; and you may therefore tell him that I will be at 
 his house at the appointed hour.' 
 
 Congratulating myself on this result, I re-entered the fly, 
 and was driven back to Mr. Ledbury's house, where I waited 
 twenty minutes before he came in. This gentleman was of 
 the stern order of mortals, highly important in his manner, a 
 very rigorous and unbending administrator of the laws of the 
 country (as the magistrate's clerk found them), much disliked 
 by everybody, and under the happy impression that he was 
 universally venerated and beloved. 
 
 He looked at me very attentively after he had read the 
 letter, and asked me w r ho I was. I told him. 
 
 'Are you acquainted,' he said, 'with the nature of this 
 communication ? ' 
 
 I replied that I was. 
 
 ' Oh ! and why am I wanted to identify a man who may 
 identify himself by paying a flyman and getting himself 
 driven through the town ? ' 
 
 I answered that I thought the letter he had in his hand 
 answered that question ; and added that three gentlemen ( I 
 mentioned their names) had consented to attend at Garden- 
 hurst. 
 
 ' Oh, Sir Anthony is to be there, is he ? ' exclaimed 
 Mr. Ledbury. ' And Mr. Skerlock ? Indeed ! Well, ma'am, 
 
 s2
 
 260 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 the town shall not say that I have failed in the duty I owe 
 it, as one of its magistrates. You may present my compli- 
 ments to Colonel Kilmain, and inform him that I shall call 
 at his house at eight o'clock this evening. Mr. Ledbury's 
 compliments, ma'am ; and you may add, if you like, that my 
 attendance at that hour will cause me great personal incon- 
 venience, but that, as a magistrate, I am always ready to 
 sacrifice all social and commercial considerations to my public 
 duties.' 
 
 I left the house, glad that my unpleasant mission was 
 over, and particularly glad to get away from this highly 
 important and intensely disagreeable public servant. All four 
 errands had proved successful ; and now that they were 
 accomplished, and I was journeying homewards, I began to 
 wonder whether, after all, the ' meeting of verification '—as 
 I was disposed to call it — which the Colonel had commis- 
 sioned me to bring about, was the wisest thing he could have 
 done. No doubt the evidence of these four men would 
 utterly put an end to the suspicion that hung over Mrs. Ran- 
 some ; but would it kill the prejudice ? Would it not be 
 thought a violent remedy ? Would not people say that the 
 Colonel should have considered his word enough ; that his 
 extreme efforts to vindicate his daughter, in the absence of 
 any better proofs of her guilt than mere popular gossip, were 
 derogatory to his dignity as a gentleman — and so forth ? 
 
 I had considered his policy sound at the first blush ; but 
 now, when I reflected that the missing man was found, I was 
 strongly disposed to believe that the Colonel's most dignified 
 course would have been (secure as he knew his daughter's 
 reputation now to be) to leave the scandalmongers to find out 
 their own falsehoods, and to commit to time the task of 
 bringing about the revulsion of feeling which invariably takes 
 an exaggerated form when the public themselves find out 
 their mistakes. He might then be sure of the sympathy he 
 now sought for his daughter. But to extort a confession of 
 error from people was not the way to go to work if he wished 
 to maintain the dignity of his child. 
 
 These reflections occupied me during my return to 
 Gardenhurst. The Colonel had evidently been waiting for 
 me ; for on the fly stopping, he himself opened the door, and 
 eagerly asked me what answers I brought. 
 
 ' All four will be here, sir, at the hour you named.' 
 
 ' Then you have done your work well, Miss Avory ; and *
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 261 
 
 am heartily obliged to you,' he said. ' Don't let me keep you 
 standing here. It is bitterly cold. Come into the dining- 
 room. My daughter is as anxious as I am to hear what these 
 gentlemen said.' 
 
 He led the way ; but Mrs. Ransome was not in the room. 
 He did not notice her absence ; and as though he had utterly 
 forgotten his remark about her anxiety, began to ply me with 
 questions. 
 
 First of all, what did Sir Anthony say ? And after I had 
 told him, then what did Mr. Ledbury say ? And afterwards he 
 must hear of the reception of his letter by Mr. Hastings. 
 And finally, what did Mr. Skerlock say ? 
 
 He listened with an air of keen anxiety to the account I 
 gave him of my four visits, interrupting me with numerous 
 suggestions : such as, Did Sir Anthony question me about 
 Maddox ? Did Mr. Ledbury appear at all doubting after read- 
 ing the letter ? Was I sure that bashfulness or nervousness 
 only was the reason for Mr. Hastings's disinclination to attend 
 the meeting, and not a dislike of Mrs. Ransome or a distrust 
 of his (the Colonel's) object? 
 
 By many of these questions he prs-supposed on my part a 
 very wonderful capacity for reading secret thoughts. I 
 answered him as well as I could ; but even after the story of 
 my visits had been told and told again, he was still holding 
 on, so to speak, to the skirts of it, begging me once more to 
 describe Sir Anthony's manner when he read the letter, and 
 to try to remember if Mr. Ledbury had said anything more 
 than what I had repeated, and looking eagerly at me as he 
 spoke, and almost oppressing me with his nervous and feverish 
 anxiety. 
 
 Presently he said— 
 
 ' This is a painful ordeal for my poor girl to go through. 
 I don't think I shall allow her to be present. She ought 
 never to see her husband again ; and least of all, under such 
 circumstances as these, when the man means to inform tho 
 witnesses that he refuses to live with his wife.' 
 
 ' I don't think Mrs. Ransome ought to be present, sir.' 
 
 ' So I say. But if I seem to hesitate, it is because I believe 
 that all considerations should be sacrificed to the end I have in 
 view — that of clearing her name. The question is, would her 
 presence give this meeting a more authentic character ? ' 
 
 ' I don't see how it could, sir. The gentlemen you have 
 invited will be able to satisfy themselves. Mrs. Ransome's
 
 262 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 being by and looking on will not make her husband more her 
 husband than he is.' 
 
 ' You think so ? Put yourself in the place of one of the 
 witnesses. Would you feel better satisfied if Mrs. Eansome 
 were in the room ? ' 
 
 ' I don't quite understand, sir,' I answered, remarking 
 that he hesitated to give full expression to his thoughts. 
 
 ' I ask you to imagine yourself a witness ; and I wish to 
 know what course I can adopt so as best to convince you that 
 the reports which have been circulated are utterly false.' 
 
 ' You produce the man who is reported to have been 
 murdered. What better proof of Mrs. Ransome's innocence 
 could I wish, sir ? ' 
 
 ' And Mrs. Ransome's presence in the room would not add 
 weight to your conclusions ? ' 
 
 ' Not in the least. My ears and eyes would not deceive me.' 
 
 He drew a deep breath, and exclaimed, ' That decides me. 
 I am glad to be able to spare my daughter this trial.' He 
 added, after a short silence, ' The meeting will take place in 
 the drawing-room. Some refreshments will be served to the 
 gentlemen when Mr. Ransome is gone. I wish for an excuse 
 to detain them in order to hear what they may have to say.' 
 
 VII 
 
 The afternoon passed. It was the season when the night 
 falls early. At five o'clock I was sewing in my room by 
 lamplight. Outside there "was a high wind and a bleak grey 
 sky ; for an hour the snow had fallen heavily ; but that was 
 past, and what glimp'se of the grounds I could catch showed 
 them lying white and spectral in the gloom. 
 
 The dinner went upstairs at the usual hour, but was soon 
 despatched, and some time before seven the dessert was re- 
 moved. The cook, who had received very indefinite intelli- 
 gence of what was going forward from the housemaid came 
 and asked me if it were true that Mr. Ransome was coming 
 to the house that night. I told her it was true. Was it 
 possible, she wanted to know, that Mrs. Ransome was going 
 to live with that wretch of a man again, after his deserting 
 her, and making people think that she had murdered him ? 
 I replied that he was coming merely to show himself to a few 
 persons, and that he was not likely to be in the house above 
 half an hour.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 263 
 
 1 Well to be sure ! ' she exclaimed. ' What a singular 
 idea ! After seeing his wife he means to go away again ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, for good.' 
 
 ' Oh dear ! ' she cried. ' I wish I was Mrs. Ran some, just 
 for five minutes ! Wouldn't I give him something as 'ud 
 make him remember me to his dying day ! ' 
 
 ' Why, would you scratch him ? ' I asked, laughing. 
 
 ' Ah, that I would ! ' she answered. ' I'd give him a dose 
 as would make him swear doctor's physic were nothing to it. 
 An idle, good-for-nothing lout ! to run away from his wife, 
 and to bring the woice of scandal upon her, and then to turn 
 up and coolly call to say he wasn't comfortable, and didn't 
 mean to live with her again ! I'd give it him if I was his 
 wife ! What time is he coming here ? ' 
 
 ' At eight.' 
 
 ' Do you think it 'ud gratify missis if I was to stand 
 behind the door and give him a push as he goes out ? ' she 
 asked, gazing at me earnestly. 
 
 1 That wouldn't do at all.' 
 
 ' You think not ? I'm the woman to do it, I tell yer, 
 miss. Let the word be spoke, and I'd knock his hat off.' 
 
 I assured her that her mistress stood in no need of such 
 demonstrative sympathy, and got rid of her by saying that I 
 was too nervous to talk ; which was true enough. 
 
 Indeed, it was drawing near the hour when the visitors 
 were to arrive ; and, to say nothing of the fact that this was 
 the culminating point of a mystery that had perplexed us for 
 months past, I had fears that some sort of disagreeable and 
 painful scene must take place before the meeting concluded. 
 
 It once entered my mind to wonder why the Colonel did 
 not ask me to join the other witnesses; but I reflected that 
 my testimony might not be held as impartial, and my pre- 
 sence therefore would be useless. All the same, I would have 
 given a good deal for the privilege of being in the room. In 
 any case, the scene was bound to be a curious one. Moreover, 
 I had a longing to hear what Mr. Ransome would say. One 
 thing was certain : those who were assembled would see that 
 he was mad. No one but a madman would, in his place, 
 enter the house. It became a question whether the Colonel 
 was acting humanely, now that he had caught Mr. Ransome, 
 in letting him go again. A man who could act as this mad- 
 man had acted stood, in sober earnest, in very great need of 
 control. But it was impossible for me to conceive the many
 
 264 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 reasons, outside the essential reason with which I was ac- 
 quainted, which the Colonel might have in choosing the 
 course he was adopting. 
 
 It was now ten minutes to eight. The night outside was 
 quite black. I went upstairs, and, seeing the drawing-room 
 door open, peeped in. The room was empty. A small lamp 
 stood on the table, and there was a shade over it, which threw 
 the upper part of the room and the circumference of the walls, 
 half-way down from the ceiling, into gloom. I wondered if 
 the meeting was to take place in that light. If so, such of 
 the spectators as were short-sighted would have a hard job to 
 see each others' faces. 
 
 No sound came from the room opposite ; but I heard the 
 creak of boots pacing the carpet restlessly. I noticed now, 
 what I had not noticed before, that the hall-lamp burned 
 dimly. Thinking this should be remedied, I drew a hall- 
 chair under it, and stood up to see if the wick had been 
 trimmed. The sound of the chair dragged along the floor 
 brought the Colonel out. 
 
 ' What are you doing, Miss Avory ? ' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' I am looking to this lamp, sir, which burns badly.' 
 
 ' It may want more oil,' he said, and stood watching me a 
 moment or two ; and then withdrew. But he put out his 
 head again, saying, ' Let Sarah answer the door when the bell 
 rings.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 I turned the wick up, and the lamp burned brightly ; 
 which done, I went downstairs. 
 
 It was three minutes to eight by my clock when the hall 
 bell rang. I called to Sarah, who hurried to the door. Won- 
 dering if this were Mr. Kansome, I listened at the foot of the 
 staircase, hoping to hear his voice. There was the tread of 
 footsteps, and I heard the Colonel say, strongly and loudly, 
 ' This way, if you please,' and they walked towards the 
 drawing-room. Sarah came downstairs and whispered, ' It's 
 Mr. Kansome.' 
 
 ' Are you sure ? ' I exclaimed, my heart beating in the 
 absurdest way. 
 
 ' Yes, miss ; he gave me his name ; but master came out 
 and took him to the drawing-room.' 
 
 ' Is he changed ? ' I asked ; but remembering that the girl 
 had never seen him, I said, ' How does he look ? ' 
 
 1 Why, he's very handsome ; and has a black moustache
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 265 
 
 and a high forehead like a poet. I don't know what colour 
 his eyes are ; they look black ; but the light in the hall is so 
 bad that I couldn't see him well.' 
 
 ' Why, I just turned the wick up,' I said. ' There's oil 
 enough to burn all night. Go and turn it up again. The 
 other gentlemen who are coming won't be able to find their 
 way.' 
 
 She was running off when the bell pealed again ; and 
 scarcely was the visitor admitted when the bell rang a third 
 time ; and by a few minutes after eight the four invited 
 gentlemen were assembled in the drawing-room. Every time 
 the housemaid came downstairs, the cook questioned her 
 eagerly ; and I will own to leaving my door open expressly 
 that I might hear what the girl said. By this means I learned 
 that Sir Anthony and Mr Ledbury had come together ; and 
 that the last to arrive was Mr. Hastings, who hung back 
 when the door was opened and looked as if he would have 
 liked to run away. 
 
 Upstairs all was quite silent. Mrs. Ransome had gone to 
 her bedroom, so the housemaid had told me, where a fire had 
 been lighted an hour or two before. I concluded that it was 
 hardly possible Mr. Ransome would remain any length of 
 time, and I was mastered by an irresistible curiosity to see 
 him— and not only him, but the whole formal scene. How 
 was this to be done ? I had no fear that the Colonel would 
 be displeased by my curiosity ; on the contrary, I was sure he 
 would think it extremely reasonable, and invite me himself to 
 see Mr. Ransome if it could be managed without my appear- 
 ing among the gentlemen. 
 
 A thought struck me. It was twenty chances to one if 
 the curtains to the windows which looked on to the terrace 
 were drawn. I might without being seen obtain a good view 
 of the interior of the room from behind one of the pillars ; 
 and scarcely had the idea presented itself when I was creeping 
 softly upstairs. 
 
 The safest mode of gaining the grounds was by the house 
 door facing the avenue. After the warmth of my room the 
 hall struck bitterly cold. It would never do to enter the raw 
 night air without being well protected ; so I stole upstairs for 
 my thick waterproof cloak, noticing, as I passed, the dimness 
 of the hall-lamp and wondering for what reason the flame 
 was kept so low. 
 
 Enveloped in my cloak, the well-lined hogd of which was
 
 266 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 over my head, I returned swiftly and on tiptoe to the hall, 
 reached the house door, and adjusting the latch to prevent it 
 from locking me out, plunged up to my ankles into the snow 
 which had been driven by the wind in heaps around the walls. 
 Overhead it was pitch dark ; but the reflection of the snow 
 served to guide my steps. The wind roared dismally among 
 the trees, and I was so much dismayed by the sound of it, 
 and the piercing cold and the intense gloom, that I was within 
 an ace of returning. But my ardent curiosity prevailed ; and 
 walking as swiftly as I might, sometimes stumbling against a 
 bush from which the wind had shaken the snow, and which 
 rose black and invisible in my path, and sometimes tripping 
 over the box, I passed around the house and reached the 
 terrace. 
 
 The curtains in the windows fronting the grounds were 
 drawn ; the damask that draped the dining-room windows 
 shone warm and red with the quivering rireplay behind ; but 
 the velvet curtains of the drawing-room effectually obscured 
 every ray of light. Just as I had anticipated, however, the 
 curtains of the window overloooking the terrace were not 
 drawn. There was a clear space of glass between each. I 
 drew behind one of the pillars and looked into the room. 
 
 The light shed by the lamp was feeble ; but some one 
 would seem to have just stirred tho fire ; for the flames 
 streamed brightly and produced the strangest effects of dark 
 shadows and red brilliance in the room and on those 
 assembled there. The four guests sat in a group on the 
 right-hand side of the table ; their faces were towards the fire 
 and the light of the lamp shone upon them. The Colonel 
 stood by the side of Sir Anthony Lauder, with his arms 
 folded on his breast, his head lowered, his brows contracted. 
 Exactly facing these men, his back to the fire, and his head 
 thrown defiantly backwards, stood Mr. Ransome. One hand 
 was thrust into his trousers pocket, the other negligently 
 played with his watch-chain. His attitude was perfectly 
 easy ; but owing to his head being in the gloom which the 
 shade over the lamp threw upon the upper portion of the room, 
 it was impossible for me to clearly discern his face. I looked 
 at him very attentively. So far as I could make out, the six 
 months had wrought no change in him. But there was 
 something, not only in his attitude, but in the resolute gaze 
 which he fixed on Mr. Skerlock, who was at that moment 
 addressing him, which impressed me in a very peculiar
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 267 
 
 manner. Owing to the distance at which I had posted 
 myself from the window I could not hear a word that was 
 spoken within ; there was nothing, then, to withdraw my 
 attention from the central figure. The longer I looked the 
 more confused and odd became the feelings which the sight of 
 him aroused in me. That I was actually beholding Mr. 
 Eansomo I never doubted ; all the signs by which I might 
 know him were there — the moustache growing low on the 
 upper lip ; the black eyes ; the high forehead ; the imparted 
 hair ; the long jawbones ; the slim figure. And yet, had the 
 conviction possessed me that this man was not Mr. Ransome, 
 I believe that my emotions would not have been other than 
 they were. His imperturbable air startled me. That, at least, 
 was a new characteristic. My memory brought him before 
 me as dubious, nervous, shrinking, with convulsive move- 
 ments of hands and feet, with sudden upliftings of the brows, 
 with quick, elusive glances. He had acquired a new kind of 
 courage certainly to enable him to support with an ease that 
 any man might have envied the steadfast and hostile regard 
 that was fixed upon him. 
 
 Mr. Skerlock was growing excited, and the murmur of his 
 voice reached me through the closed windows. Sir Anthony 
 nodded portentously, and from time to time Mr. Ledbury 
 whispered Mr. Hastings, who sat with his hands twisted over 
 his thin knee. 
 
 By this time I was nearly frozen ; moreover, I feared that 
 Mr. Ransome might leave the room at any moment, and so 
 cause the hall door to be shut, which would prevent me from 
 entering the house without ringing the bell — a notion I did 
 not relish, because, though I fully intended to tell Colonel 
 Kilmain that I had taken a peep through the window at 
 Mr. Ransome, I disliked the idea of the servant who admitted 
 me guessing that I had been spying. 
 
 I was about to turn away, when I was suddenly brought 
 to a dead stand by a movement at the end of the terrace, 
 where the alcove was. My eyes were now used to the dark- 
 ness, and turning them in the direction of the sound, I 
 perceived the outline of a man standing close against the 
 wall. 
 
 I was so horribly frightened that my exclamation of 
 ' Who's there ? ' was scarcely better than a gasp. 
 
 ' It's me, miss,' said a man's voice, which I did not re- 
 cognise ; and a figure stalked out, touching his cap. ' I'm
 
 268 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Poole, miss,' he continued. ' I'm up to no harm ; I only 
 wanted to see Mr. Kansome, as everybody said was murdered.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' I exclaimed ; and that was all. In another moment 
 I was gliding round the house, with my heart beating from 
 the recent shock, as though I had barely escaped some 
 dreadful danger. I pushed open the hall door, and closed it 
 softly, then hastily removing my cloak, I threw it over my 
 arm, and went downstairs. 
 
 I was just in time ; another minute and I must have met 
 Mr. Ransome at the door 2 for hardly was I in my room when 
 I heard Colonel Kilmain's voice, and the footsteps of two 
 persons passing to the door by which I had entered. Shortly 
 after this the Colonel returned. He walked quickly, and the 
 hum of voices, that had flowed into the hall, was abruptly 
 silenced as the Colonel closed the drawing-room door 
 after him. 
 
 The bell rang, and some refreshments, in the shape of 
 spirits, wine, cake, &c, were taken upstairs. The voices came 
 loud and eager through the door as the housemaid passed into 
 the room. I strained my ears to catch what was said, being 
 very curious to know if there was any disagreement among 
 them respecting the identity of Mr. Eansome; but not a 
 word was distinct. 
 
 I calculated that, altogether, Mr. Eansome had not remained 
 longer than fifteen minutes in the house. 
 
 By this time my pulse was beating quietly enough. The 
 fright that tho man Poole had given me was passed ; and 
 I regretted no v that I had been too cowardly to ask him 
 what he meant by lurking about the drawing-room windows 
 at eight o'clock at night, when he was supposed to leave off 
 work at dusk — that was, about four o'clock. However, the 
 rencontre was scarcely worth making a mystery of. A little 
 reflection found me quite willing to believe his statement, 
 that he was there merely to see Mr. Eansome. I had been 
 there for the same purpose, and what was true of me should 
 be true of him. 
 
 At nine o'clock either Mr. Ledbury's or Sir Anthony's 
 carriage drove up. As all four gentlemen were going the 
 same road, here was a good opportunity for such of them 
 as would have to walk the distance to get a ride home. They 
 all left the drawing-room at once ; and I heard the Colonel 
 thank them for their attendance. 
 
 ' Your appeal was in good taste, and highly reasonable,'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 269 
 
 a voice exclaimed. To which another replied, ' I fancy I 
 could tame his obstinacy were the leisure given me.' The 
 Colonel cried, ' Hush ! gentlemen ; the kitchen is under you ! ' 
 
 They were some time putting on their coats, and then 
 they all passed out of the hall to the door, where the carriage 
 had drawn up. 
 
 In a few moments the Colonel returned ; he hesitated 
 awhile in the hall, and then called my name softly. Had 
 my door been closed, I should not have heard him. I found 
 him standing near the drawing-room door. He was pressing 
 his handkerchief to his head, and though his face was deadly 
 pale, a triumphant smile hovered about his mouth. 
 
 • Will you go and tell Mrs. Eansome I am alone, Miss 
 Avory ? ' 
 
 I knocked at her bedroom door. She leaned with her 
 elbow upon the toilet-table. The room was lighted only by 
 the fire, which had burned into a red core, and threw out 
 a red glow. Her face was reflected in the looking-glass, and 
 both the reality and the counterfeit were like ghostly coun- 
 tenances staring at each other. I gave her the Colonel's 
 message, and she instantly started up, and came to the door. 
 I followed her downstairs, neither of us speaking a word ; 
 and I was making for the kitchen staircase, when the Colonel 
 called to me. 
 
 When I entered the drawing-room he shut the door, and 
 placed the lamp on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Eansome glanced 
 at me, and I caught her make a slight impatient gesture to 
 her father, evidently objecting to my presence. He took no 
 notice. I could not very well take a hint of this kind, or 
 I should have left the room. She went close to the fire with 
 a shiver, and seated herself on a low chair, with her eyes 
 on her father. 
 
 All this scarcely took a minute ; then the Colonel, leanin' 
 with his back against the mantelpiece, said — 
 
 ' Phoebe, the gentlemen are perfectly satisfied. Mr. Sker- 
 lock wished me to send for you that he might tell you, in 
 the name of those assembled, how deeply they deplored 
 the anxiety that has been caused you by your mother- 
 in-law's accusation. But I would not allow you to be called. 
 Mr. Ledbury applauded my reasons, and left it to me to ex- 
 press their sympathy.' 
 
 ' I should not have gone had I been called,' said Mrs. 
 Eansome.
 
 270 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' No, of course not ; because you are determined not to 
 meet your husband again, and you have a good reason for being 
 resolute,' he exclaimed, speaking at me, though ho addressed 
 his daughter. ' But that was not my motive. I considered 
 your dignity and your feelings.' 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 This silence struck me as very curious. It was thoroughly 
 to be expected that she would ply her father with questions, 
 and show herself excited in a high degree by the strange scene 
 that had just been concluded. Did my presence act as a 
 restraint ? I certainly could not understand why the Colonel 
 should want a stranger like me in the room. Much, surely, 
 he had to tell his daughter which he would not speak 
 before me. 
 
 ' Mr. Eansome behaved well, I must do him that justice,' 
 he said. ' He was cool and collected, with no hint of mad- 
 ness in one of his looks or remarks. When he was gone, Mr; 
 Hastings wondered how people could think him mad ; but Mr. 
 Skerlock answered that madmen were not always foaming at 
 the mouth ; the most dangerous among them are those who 
 hide their madness under a perfect disguise of sanity, because 
 then they always throw you off your guard.' 
 
 Mrs. Eansome still kept silence. He fixed his eyes on me 
 after he had spoken, which obliged me to answer : 
 
 ' That's no doubt true, sir.' 
 
 1 He stood here,' he went on, planting himself in the 
 middle of the hearthrug, ' and we were seated where you are, 
 Miss Avory. There was an embarrassing silence when we 
 were all assembled and I had closed the door. I broke it by 
 thanking the gentlemen for their attendance, and by explain- 
 ing my reasons for inviting them to this house. I then 
 pointed to Mr. Eansome, and said, " There stands the man, 
 gentlemen, who has been reported murdered, and whose death 
 has been attributed by false and malicious tongues to my 
 daughter. The evidence of your own eyes will now enable 
 you to convict the originator of this report, either as a wilful 
 and cruel liar, or as having been mad at the time of harbour- 
 ing the suspicion to which she gave tongue." Mr. Skerlock 
 at once said, " I did not require to see Mr. Eansome to know 
 that your daughter was an injured and guiltless lady. I 
 believe I shall convey the sentiments of my companions when 
 I express our deep concern that the voice of scandal should 
 have placed you and yours in this painful position." Upon
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 271 
 
 this Mr. Ransome said, " Colonel Kilmain has explained my 
 motive for coming here. My domestic affairs make no portion 
 of the business of this meeting. I must merely inform you 
 that I left my wife because I was not happy with her, and that 
 nothing but a wish that justice should be done her could have 
 induced me to enter this house again. I believe," he said, 
 addressing me, "that you have no further need of my presence." 
 I woidd have conducted him out of the house there and then ; 
 but Mr. Hastings took it into his head to offer him a short 
 lecture on his duty as a husband. And then Mr. Skerlock 
 asked permission to speak, and told him that if he had one 
 spark of honour left in his composition, he would not leave 
 Copsford until he had convincingly proved to the people that 
 they had committed an atrocious act of injustice in crediting 
 his mother's accusation against his wife. Sir Anthony 
 declared that it was one of the cruellest wrongs that had 
 ever come under his notice ; and Mr. Ledbury assured us, in a 
 loud, emphatic voice, that far smaller sins than his had been 
 visited with very heavy punishments. The moment they were 
 silent, Mr. Ransome bowed and walked out of the room.' 
 
 Though it was supposed that he was addressing his 
 daughter, the whole of this story was delivered point blank to 
 me. I listened with great attention, but could not rid myself 
 of a haunting sense that there was something strange and 
 startling hidden behind all this, and that, let the secret be 
 what it would, it was known to Mrs. Ransome. Her undis- 
 sembled indifference was thoroughly bewildering. She asked 
 no questions ; she never raised her eyes ; she hardly appeared 
 to pay attention to what her father said. Nor was his manner 
 a whit more satisfactory. His story had flowed glibly, indeed ; 
 but there was something forced and unreal in his voice — 
 something constrained and difficult in his bearing— something 
 that irresistibly persuaded me that in what he was saying and 
 doing he was not true to himself. But no conceivable reason 
 why this should be entered my head. Every instinct in me 
 felt the mystery ; yet my judgment, in defiance of intuition, 
 obliged me to witness the whole affair as real, plain, and 
 straightforward. 
 
 I could see that his daughter's lifeless manner made him 
 uneasy, for he glanced at her repeatedly and impatiently ; but 
 she would not look up. 
 
 A perfect silence followed the conclusion of his narrative, 
 and he fell back in his former place against the mantelpiece.
 
 272 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Presently I said — 
 
 ' I saw Mr. Eansome, sir, and, considering the peculiar 
 position he was placed in, it struck me that his hearing (I did 
 not hear him speak) was very different from what I should 
 have expected it to be seven months ago.' 
 
 When I said this, Mrs. Eansome looked up sharply, and 
 stared at me. 
 
 ' Saw him ? ' exclaimed the Colonel, in a low voice. 
 ' Where ? You were not in this room.' 
 
 ' I saw him from that window,' I answered, pointing. 
 They both turned their heads quickly in the direction. ' I 
 was curious to see if he was at all changed.' 
 
 Mrs. Eansome watched me with a frown. 
 
 ' When was that ? How long were you there ? I did not 
 see you,' said the Colonel, speaking quickly, and with an air 
 of suppressed excitement. 
 
 ' I did not wish to be seen, sir. I stood behind one of the 
 pillars.' 
 
 It was impossible for me to assume that I had done wrong, 
 and so I offered no defence. They both looked at me intently, 
 but with different expressions. There was dark anger in 
 Mrs. Eansome's face ; in the Colonel's an alarm that made 
 his forced smile painful. 
 
 • What took you to the window, Miss Avory ? ' demanded 
 Mrs. Eansome imperiously. ' Your presence was not wanted, 
 or my father would have invited you to join the others.' 
 
 ' Miss Avory had a perfect right to look at Mr. Eansome 
 if she chose,' exclaimed the Colonel, rebuking his daughter 
 with a wave of the hand. 
 
 ' The interest I have taken in this affair throughout is 
 the only excuse I can offer,' I replied. ' Had I thought the 
 action would have incurred your displeasure, I would not have 
 committed it.' 
 
 ' Miss Avory, there is not the least need to apologise,' said 
 the Colonel. ' Of course you were right to look at the man. 
 Why did I bring him here but that he might be seen ? I 
 wish the servants had joined you. The greater the number 
 of witnesses the better.' 
 
 ' I was not alone, sir. There was another spectator.' 
 
 ' Who ? ' he demanded, the smile leaving his face in a 
 flash. 
 
 ' The under-gardener, Poole.' 
 
 ' Poole ! at such an hour I '
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPERS STORY 273 
 
 * He was hiding when I saw him. I was too frightened, 
 not knowing who he was in the dark, to stop and question 
 him.' 
 
 He walked to the window, opened it, and called ' Poole ! ' 
 He stared into the blackness, came back, seized the lamp, and 
 went into the terrace. The cold air rushing through the open 
 window drove Mrs. Ransome closer 'to the fire. She hugged 
 herself, and shuddered. 
 
 ' I don't suppose he is there now, sir,' I called out. 
 
 1 1 don't see him,' he answered, re-entering the room, and 
 closing the window. ' Of all creatures, what should Toole do 
 in the terrace at such an hour ? He leaves the grounds at 
 four, doesn't he ? ' 
 
 ' I believe so. I suppose he was attracted by the same 
 motive that drew me from my warm room into the snow — ■ 
 curiosity. Indeed he admitted as much.' 
 
 ' No doubt ! ' he exclaimed, with a loud, violent laugh. ' So 
 that makes six witnesses instead of four. Better if the 
 number were sixty. Phoebe, why do you look so sulky ? ' 
 
 ' I am not sulky, papa,' she answered, with a faint smile, 
 that quickly vanished when she turned her eyes down again. 
 
 ' You found Mr. Ransome changed, you say, Miss Avory ? ' 
 He dropped his head on one side to catch my answer. 
 
 ' There was a composure in his manner which seemed to 
 mo unlike what I can remember of him.' 
 
 '- You said, I think, that you did not catch his voice ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir.' 
 
 ' Then you can scarcely assume any change ; for how are 
 you to know that the manner and attitude he adopted were 
 not meant to correspond with his language ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think he spoke during the time I watched hiim' 
 
 ' Papa, you have said he was defiant,' exclaimed Mrs. 
 Ransome impatiently. 
 
 ' He was defiant. When he stated his intention of never 
 again returning to this house, he looked boldly at us, as if he 
 suspected his assertion would provoke indignation. You might 
 have seen him at that moment, Miss Avory.' 
 
 ' Very likely, sir.' 
 
 ' But still,' he continued, half turning away from me whilst 
 he chafed his hands before the fire, ' there is a change for the 
 better in the man's bearing. He is not the nervous, jerky, 
 furtive being he used to be. I noticed this in London. He 
 looks one steadily in the face, and speaks temperately. Per- 
 
 T
 
 274 IS HE THE M AN? 
 
 haps his madness is leaving him, or,' he added, looking at me 
 over his shoulder with a smile, ' the cunning of madness has 
 increased, and he adopts this collected manner that he may 
 defy me to prove him mad should I ever take it into my head 
 to lock him up in a lunatic asylum.' 
 
 ' I am very glad it is all over, sir,' I exclaimed, rising ; for 
 it was nearly ten o'clock, and I had several things to do before 
 going to bed. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, looking at me strangely, and passing 
 his hand over his forehead ; ' but it has been a bad business 
 — a wretched, miserable business from the beginning.' 
 
 ' For me, papa,' said Mrs. Ransorne. 
 
 ' And for me ! ' he cried, with a sudden passion ; ' and even 
 for her,' pointing to me, ' and every member of this household. 
 Has it not been thought that that wretched man has been 
 murdered here— in this very house ? All who live here have 
 had their share of the suspicion that has hung like a cloud 
 over the place, depend upon it. What would I not give to 
 find Maddox ? ' 
 
 ' Happily, sir,' I said, ' there is no mystery about him. 
 The discovery of Mr. Ransome reduces the footman to a mere 
 robber.' 
 
 He glanced at me, and then breathed quickly, like one who 
 hastily catches himself up in the act of speaking. Finding 
 that he remained silent, I moved towards the door, lingering 
 a moment or two in case either of them had more to say, and 
 then left the room. 
 
 So now, then, the mystery was ended ; and from this night 
 Mrs. Ransome was freed from the horrible suspicion that had 
 been fastened upon her more than half a year ago. 
 
 Bat teas the mystery ended ? There was that in me which 
 assured me it was only just begun ; and the strange fancy be- 
 came a haunting conviction, in spite of every reason I could 
 think of to prove it absurd. 
 
 I quitted the drawing-room possessed with a peculiar feeling 
 of disappointment ; this I could account for. I had certainly 
 expected to find both the Colonel and Mrs. Ransome— and 
 especially the latter — much more greatly excited than they 
 had shown themselves. When I considered the nature of the 
 accusation that had been disproved, the sense of security and 
 triumph that must inspire both father and daughter in know- 
 ing that the detestable and dishonourable lie which had been 
 started by old Mrs. Ransome was forced back in the throats of
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 275 
 
 those who had repeated and believed it, I was amazed to reflect 
 upon the forced, unsatisfactory, and uneasy air of the Colonel, 
 indicative of anything but gladness, and the incomprehensible 
 listlessness and reserve of his daughter. But a few days ago 
 both of them would have cheerfully surrendered ten years of 
 their lives to have been able to lay their hands upon Mr. 
 Eansome ; and now he was found, and now men of credit and 
 honour had beheld him, and would, of their own accord, spread 
 the news, and eagerly vindicate Mrs. Ransome's character ; 
 and yet they had both struck me as being as little satisfied 
 v/ith the sequel of this extraordinary affair as if the missing 
 man had never been discovered. 
 
 I was greatly puzzled. That there was something wrong 
 in all this, something hidden, something mysterious, I was as 
 sure as that I breathed Three foundations I had for this 
 notion : the behaviour of the Colonel ; the indifference of Mrs. 
 Eansome ; the anxiety the Colonel had exhibited in his manner 
 to me, in his having summoned me to the drawing-room, and 
 thus placing me on the same level with his daughter as an 
 interested party in the business. There was something more 
 than courtesy in this : there was design in it that had no 
 reference to politeness. 
 
 And there was even a fourth matter that somehow served 
 to complicate my private bewilderment : I mean the presence 
 of the under-gardener, Poole, in the terrace. I fancied I had 
 explained this satisfactorily when I assumed, on his own de- 
 claration, that he had been drawn there by curiosity. But 
 when I thought over it, I could not bring myself to believe 
 that mere curiosity only had tempted a man, after a day's 
 work, to leave his fireside, plunge into the snow, and hang 
 about the terrace, with the risk of being discharged should he 
 be caught. 
 
 Was he in any way concerned in Mr. Ransome's dis- 
 appearance or recovery ? This seemed as absurd as the 
 numberless other questions I was now incessantly putting to 
 myself. One thing, at all events, I can safely aver : that 
 when I went to bed that night my mind was in a greater 
 state of mystification than ever it had been throughout the 
 whole period of Mr. Ransome's disappearance, dating from 
 the moment when I had first discovered his absence, up to 
 this time of his being proved alive.
 
 276 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 VIII 
 
 I come now to what I always recall as the strangest 
 portion of the story I am relating ; but before I enter upon 
 it, I must first prepare the way by a brief account of the 
 events of the fortnight that preceded the incident I refer to. 
 
 I had very confidently expected, now that Mrs. Ransome's 
 life had been purified from the suspicion that darkened it, 
 that the Colonel would shut up his house and take his 
 daughter away ; and considering the nature of the troubles 
 they had escaped, I was pretty sure, when once they were 
 away, that they would never return. 
 
 But I very soon discovered that it was not the Colonel's 
 intention to leave Gardenhurst. Indeed, he indirectly implied 
 as much, but expressed no reason for abandoning the idea he 
 had on several occasions vehemently threatened to carry out. 
 I found, however, nothing particularly unreasonable in his re- 
 maining in his old home. In one sense he and his daughter 
 could scarcely have lived a more retired life had they banished 
 themselves to some Continental solitude. On selfish grounds 
 I was glad that they kept where they were : my duties were 
 light, my salary liberal, and in spite of the change that had 
 come over Mrs. Eansome since the time when her mother- 
 in-law had first excited suspicion against her, I was more 
 comfortable at Gardenhurst than ever I had been in any 
 former situation, and could scarcely doubt that any change 
 which befell me must be for the worse. 
 
 Among other things which did not strike me so forcibly 
 then as they did later on, when I was able to piece them into 
 a whole and gather their import fully, was an alteration in 
 the Colonel's manner to me, quite distinct enough to make 
 itself felt, though by no means so obtrusive as to occasion 
 speculation. There was less cordiality and more elaboration 
 in his politeness. The ease that had made his courtesy 
 especially grateful and in no sense embarrassing was missing ; 
 his behaviour was formal and anxious. If ever I had occa- 
 sion to wait upon him, he thanked me for my services as he 
 might an equal. When we met on the stairs or in the hall, 
 he made way for me studiedly, and had always a gravely 
 courteous remark to offer. There was even, at times, a 
 diffidence in his accost. But on the subject of Mr. Ransomo 
 he was silent. Often as we would speak together — of the
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 277 
 
 house, of his daughter's health, of the servants, of my duties, 
 of any such matters — not once during the interval this part 
 of the story is now occupying did the smallest reference to 
 his son-in-law escape him. 
 
 I coupled this strange silence with the various odd fancies 
 that possessed me, and made them by the union more be- 
 wildering yet. There was no reason that I could imagine 
 why he should cease to honour me with the confidence he 
 had never before withheld. It was beyond question that his 
 mind was very full of the subject. His daughter's relations 
 with her husband were as unsatisfactory as they could well 
 be. Mr. Ransome could return at any moment and insist 
 upon living in the house if it so pleased him. No law as 
 yet had sundered them. She was still as absolutely his wife 
 as ever she had been ; but their union was now hampered by 
 the most delicate and distressing conditions. The Colonel 
 was bound to feel her position keenly. The freedom with 
 which he had heretofore spoken to me on matters equally 
 confidential with this made it natural to suppose that he 
 would sometimes express his thoughts about her to me. 
 But the topic never formed any feature of our conversations. 
 And further, if the discovery of Mr. Ransome had promised 
 to restore peace of mind to the Colonel, the hope so raised 
 was disappointed ; for his care and anxiety were assuredly 
 greater now than ever they had been ; and his difficult 
 assumption of a placid exterior only served to exaggerate the 
 emotions it was designed to conceal. 
 
 Of Mrs. Ransome I saw but little. The housemaid 
 usually brought me her instructions ; and all her migrations 
 were from the bedroom to the dining-room. But the little 
 I did see showed me a woman cold, stony, and sullen — 
 lifeless in her abnormal inactivity, unsmiling, silent, in- 
 attentive even to the meaning of her own remarks. The 
 change was scarcely credible. The blood seemed to have 
 turned to ice in her veins ; the light was quenched in her 
 eyes ; her hands were so thin and white that thinner and 
 whiter they would not be when they were composed in her 
 coffin. Reading appeared her only occupation ; but if I 
 might judge by the little I beheld, I would declare that I 
 never found her with a book in her hand of which she could 
 have told me the name. 
 
 If the spirit of her mother-in-law had felt its revenge 
 balked by the discovery of Mr. Ransome, it might now hold
 
 278 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 itself satisfied. Here was but tbe pale, nerveless shadow of 
 a woman melancholy as death where had been a beautiful, 
 imperious creature, so graceful as to gladden the eye with 
 the lightest movement of her handsome shape, so spirited 
 and radiant, even with the burden of a brutal husband upon 
 her, as to create an atmosphere of light and music around 
 her by the movement of her eyes and by the sound of her 
 voice. 
 
 What effect the discovery of Mr. Eansome had had upon 
 the popular prejudice against the wife I never could learn 
 from the Colonel. The weather was very inclement, and in 
 that fortnight I don't think I went to Copsford more than 
 twice, and on neither occasion did I glean any particulars as 
 to what the people were saying of the Eansomes. However, 
 the cook knew a good number of persons in the town, and 
 the housemaid also had her friends ; and from one and the 
 other of them I picked up scraps of information which 
 showed me that the town was very talkative about her 
 innocence, and that Mr. Eansome was generally considered 
 a brute. 
 
 However, I did not take much interest in what the 
 neighbours thought, and hoped that the reason of the 
 Colonel's silence was contempt of public opinion now that 
 his daughter's name was cleansed. I could form some idea 
 of the general feeling by a letter that appeared in the local 
 paper which was published every Saturday ; this letter was 
 printed in the number issued on the same week in which the 
 meeting had been held at Gardenhurst. One of the trades- 
 men brought the paper to the house and lent it to the 
 cook. The letter was aimed at ' Justitia,' the writer of the 
 communication to which the Colonel had called my attention 
 some time before. It was scornful, but not particularly 
 witty. It spoke of the wrong that had been done to an 
 innocent lady ; it praised the father's manly efforts to 
 vindicate his child from the diabolical accusations of a 
 certain elderly and undoubtedly mad lady lately deceased ; 
 and it exhorted the people of Copsford to be a little more 
 cautious for the future in harbouring suspicions on the 
 testimony of insane persons, and wound up by congratu- 
 lating the magistrates on the judgment and spirit they had 
 shown in refusing to allow a guiltless lady to be arraigned 
 before them. The editor made this letter the text of a 
 leading article, in which he bullied the inspector for his
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 279 
 
 bovine zeal, and asked, with many notes of interrogation 
 and exclamation, ' what man can consider himself safe in a 
 country where such outrages are sanctioned by the law ? ' 
 
 These were straws that showed which way the wind was 
 blowing. No doubt the Colonel and his daughter read the 
 article and the letter, but they did not advert to them in my 
 presence. 
 
 And yet in this fortnight only two persons called at the 
 house — Mr. Hastings and Mr. Skerlock. Mr. Hastings merely 
 left his card ; Mr. Skerlock called twice, the first time with his 
 wife. 
 
 I knew little of what went on upstairs ; what the Colonel 
 did and talked about ; what Mrs. Eansome thought. I had 
 been quietly and courteously shut out from the sphere of those 
 interests in which I had taken part, and was now the complete 
 housekeeper, with nothing to attend to but my duties. But I 
 was not allowed to feel this as a slight. Indeed, this gentle 
 exclusion was reasonable and proper ; for now the trouble was 
 over, the memory was a bitter one ; and its disposal left them 
 no excuse to raise me again to the flattering level I had held 
 while the matter was mysterious, and the trouble of it heavy 
 and harassing. 
 
 Exactly a fortnight had elapsed since the meeting between 
 Mr. Ransome and the witnesses had been held. Winter had 
 set in with great severity. There was no snow, but the earth 
 had been frozen into black iron by the bitter north wind. A 
 leaden sky had prevailed for some days, giving an indescri- 
 bable aspect of forlornness to the naked trees and the dead, 
 leafless desolation of the country round. The birds moped 
 upon the skeleton branches, and the wind plained about the 
 house like the voice of a grieving spirit. The freezing air 
 penetrated to the bones ; but for days I had not quitted the 
 house. The want of exercise had caused me to toss wakefnlly 
 on my bed ; and, having an hour to spare, I enveloped myself 
 in my thick cloak and warm gloves, and went for a walk in 
 the grounds. 
 
 The hills stood livid and austere upon the land, and in the 
 valleys there was the gloom almost of twilight. Here and 
 there upon the rugged fields lay patches of snow — remnants 
 of the fall that many days before had blanched the country 
 for miles around. The grass crackled crisply under my feet, 
 as if each blade were an icicle.
 
 28o IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 I turned off to the right and walked towards the kitchen 
 gardens, intending to take the whole circuit of the grounds. 
 This was practicable, owing to the path which ran close along- 
 side the hedges, and which the gardeners kept pretty free of the 
 nettles and brambles and weeds that grew on the bankside. 
 
 I caught site of Poole, digging, some distance off. He 
 turned his head, cased in a hairy cap, to look at me ; then 
 planted his spade afresh and put his foot upon it. My 
 thoughts went back to that night when I had encountered 
 him in the terrace. I eyed him curiously ; for in some instinc- 
 tive manner, which I could not in the smallest degree under- 
 stand or account for, I associated him with the long disap- 
 pearance of Mr. Eansome. 
 
 I walked on briskly, going down the hill. How bleak and 
 bitter was the wind ! but my rapid pace circulated my blood, 
 and I enjoyed the exhilarating, wholesome warmth of quick 
 exercise. Some crows, looking larger than hens, frightened 
 by my footsteps, rose from behind the hedge, and startled me 
 with their abrupt and noisy soaring. 
 
 I reached the bottom of the grounds and pursued the path 
 that led directly to the trees. Their dark straight trunks, 
 close against each other, looked the ribs of many wrecked 
 ships ; high among their topmost boughs the rooks' nests 
 swung tattered and black. Under them the shadows lay dark 
 and heavy and repellent ; one strip of sunshine would have 
 made the scene exquisitely picturesque, for the fibrous outlines 
 were full of grace, and there would have been softness and 
 colour in the gloom had there been the broken illumination 
 of sunlight to contrast it with. But the lead-coloured sky 
 made the aspect of the trees ghastly, and the wind awoke 
 weird sounds among them. 
 
 I was turning to the left to take a cut across the grounds, 
 when I heard the sounds of footsteps trampling and crunching 
 the dead leaves, and a man came running out from among the 
 trees. He was the upper-gardener, named Walters, an elderly 
 man who had worked on the estate, so he had told me, all his 
 life. His face was now deadly pale, his eyes were wide open, 
 and he wore an expression of intense horror and fear. As he 
 ran, his head struck against a bough which tore his cap off; 
 he did not stop to recover it, but was hastening onwards, when 
 he caught sight of me ; on which he stopped, motioning with 
 one hand, and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, unable to 
 speak.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPERS STORY 281 
 
 Astounded by his extraordinary behaviour, I went up to 
 him and asked him what was the matter. He tried to speak, 
 but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and after gasp- 
 ing out some utterly inaudible sentences, he pointed to the 
 trees, and clasped his hands over his breast, breathing 
 heavily. 
 
 I strained my eyes in the direction he indicated, but could 
 see nothing to account for his terror. Not until I had re- 
 peated my question thrice, and given him time to collect him- 
 self, could he answer me; and then the first words he faltered 
 out were — 
 
 1 There's a dead man yonder ! I toorned up his face with 
 my spade. It was a sight to strike me blind ! ' 
 
 ' A dead man ? ' I exclaimed, involuntarily falling some 
 paces away. 
 
 ' Ay ! he lies there agin the hedge. I first unearthed his 
 hair, an' I pulled at it, not knowing what it wur, and the head 
 come oop out o' the soil wi' the jerk.' 
 
 In an ecstasy of disgust he rubbed his hands madly to- 
 gether, and then wrung the fingers that had touched the 
 corpse. 
 
 I thought he must be under a delusion ; and seeing the 
 other gardener in the distance, leaning on his spade and 
 watching us, I called and beckoned to him ; whereupon he 
 came running towards us. 
 
 1 Oh, Jim ! ' groaned the old man, pointing, ' there's a 
 dead man yonder ! My God, he's a sight to strike me daft ! 
 I was diggin' out a plot 0' grass to trim the corner o' the lawn 
 with, where it's wore down, meaning to fetch it from oonder 
 the trees where it wouldna' be missed, when I dug up a man's 
 hail', an' as I hope to go to Hiven, I didn't know what it wur, 
 and took an' pulled it, an' the face came out !— don't go near 
 it !— it's an awful sight! Christ forgive me ! had I known 
 what it was, I wouldna' ha' meddled wi' it for the king's 
 money ! ' 
 
 The under-gardener was as white as a sheet. He stam- 
 mered out something ; and then crying, ' I'll not go anear it ! 
 I can't bear the sight o' such things,' walked some paces 
 away, and stood staring at the spot the other man had in- 
 dicated. 
 
 The idea suddenly seized me that this dead man was Mr. 
 Eansome. God knows what put the thought into my head, 
 and made me grasp it as a conviction in the face of the con-
 
 282 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 elusive evidence I had received but a fortnight ago that Mr. 
 Kansome was living. 
 
 My mind disconnected the man I had seen from the man 
 who lay dead beneath the trees at once. 
 
 My eagerness to confirm my suspicion rose paramount to 
 all other considerations. I felt my heart turn sick at my own 
 audacity ; nevertheless I said to Walters — 
 
 ' Show me the place where the man lies.' 
 
 ' No, miss ! don't ask me. I can't look at it agin ! an' it's 
 no sight for you, or any man or woman.' 
 
 ' Are you afraid of a dead man ? ' I exclaimed. 
 
 He shuddered, but made no answer. 
 
 1 Will you accompany me ? ' I called to Poole. 
 
 He looked at me sullenly, and replied, ' What do you want 
 to see it for ? Don't you hear what Walters says, that it's no 
 fit sight for any one ? ' 
 
 ' Suppose it should bo Mr. Ransome ? ' I said, think- 
 ing aloud, and scarcely conscious of the import of the con- 
 jecture. 
 
 ' Ah, indeed ! ' exclaimed Poole, looking up and shaking 
 off his sullen manner. ' It may ba master ; and I'll tell you 
 if it is the moment I see him. I don't mind going with you, 
 miss. You'll come along with us, Joe ? ' 
 
 1 No ! haven't I told yer ? ' cried the other, violently start- 
 ing backwards. ' Go an' look at it if you will. One sight o' 
 such a thing's enough for me.' 
 
 ' Run to the house, then,' I exclaimed, ' and tell Colonel 
 Kilmain what you have seen. There's your cap on the ground 
 yonder.' 
 
 He picked it up, fixed it with a trembling hand on his 
 head, and walked off quickly. 
 
 • This way he said it was, didn't he ? ' said Poole, walking 
 towards the trees. But when he was in their shadow he 
 stopped. 
 
 I also stopped. My curiosity was fast losing its audacity, 
 though I was still so eager to know if this dead man were Mr. 
 Ransome that to set my mind at rest there were few things I 
 would not have dared. 
 
 ' Did you ever see a dead man ? ' whispered Poole > turning 
 a face of ashy paleness towards me. There was something 
 about the man a great deal more intimidating than the idea of 
 beholding a corpse. 
 
 ' I will wait for Colonel Kilniain,' I said ; and returned to
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 283 
 
 the open grounds. He came after me, and leaned against a 
 tree. 
 
 ' I'll wait, too,' said he ; ' I'll not see it alone. It's given 
 Walters a turn, an' it may serve me worse.' 
 
 He was silent for some moments, and presently said — 
 
 ' I wouldn't mind wagering a pound against a shillin' that 
 it's Mr. Ransome.' 
 
 I looked at him steadily, and asked what made him think that. 
 
 ' Missis,' he said, withdrawing from the tree, and bending 
 forwards, ' you were watching along with me that night in the 
 terrace — do you remember ? ' 
 
 ' What then ? ' 
 
 ' You saw Mr. Ransome, did you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Are you sure it was master ? Could you swear that 
 the person who stood with his back to the fire, and his face 
 dark with the cover over the lamp, was the same gentleman as 
 left yon house getting on now for eight months ago ? ' 
 
 I stared at him with mingled astonishment and fear ; for 
 he was putting into words, and clearly defining to myself, the 
 vague and elusive suspicion that had haunted me for the last 
 fortnight. 
 
 ' Did not you think that man Mr. Ransome ? ' I asked. 
 
 He cast his eyes down, and, pointing with his thumb over 
 his shoulder, exclaimed — 
 
 ' If he don't lie there, I'm willin' to lose a pound agin any 
 man's shillin'.' 
 
 ' But,' I replied, ' even if he is dead there, that should not 
 prove he was not in the drawing-room the other night.' 
 
 ' Supposing he was in the drawing-room,' he exclaimed. 
 c It'll soon be found out. ... Ah ! here they come.' 
 
 I looked up the grounds and saw the Colonel approaching 
 us rapidly, followed by the gardener. He was in his dressing- 
 gown, and walked, or almost ran, in a breathless manner. He 
 showed no surprise on seeing me, but called out when he was 
 yet some distance off, ' What is all this about ? ' In a few 
 moments he was at my side. 
 
 ' Walters says there is a dead body lying under the 
 trees, sir.' 
 
 ' Have you seen it ? ' he asked me. 
 
 ' No, sir.' 
 
 ' Have you courage to see it ? ' 
 
 No ; my courage was gone.
 
 284 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' Show me where it lies,' he said, addressing Walters. 
 
 ' I'll show you the place, sir ; I can't go near it,' replied 
 the old man, wiping his face with a red pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 1 Was it Mr. Eansome, Joe ? ' inquired Poole. 
 
 The Colonel turned with a flash upon him. 
 
 4 What makes you ask that ? ' he demanded furiously. 
 1 Have you seen the body ? ' 
 
 s No, your honour.' 
 
 1 Then what the devil do you mean by saying it is Mr. 
 Eansome ? ' 
 
 ' I asked Joe if it was, sir.' 
 
 The Colonel looked as if he could have struck him, then 
 walked under the trees, calling to Walters to follow. 
 
 Poole strode sulkily off to where he had been at work, 
 and in a few moments was digging with an air of unconcern. 
 
 When the others were some distance under the trees, the 
 gardener stopped and pointed. The Colonel pushed forwards 
 and disappeared. The gardener remained where he had 
 halted, looking in my direction. After a lapse of five minutes 
 the Colonel returned ; the gloom among the trees was too 
 heavy to enable me to see his face until he was close to 
 me — it was ghastly ! He brushed past without appearing 
 to see me ; but when he was yards away, he turned and 
 called my name. I went after him. 
 
 1 Well for you,' he exclaimed, ' that you have not beheld 
 that sight. It is awful ! ' 
 
 I shuddered with the horror that came over me, and asked 
 if there were really a dead man there ? ' 
 
 'Eeally!' he gasped. 'Oh, shocking! shocking! He 
 might have lain there for years. His face is gone —the head 
 only is exposed — the rest of the body is under the earth.' 
 
 He pressed his hands to his eyes and groaned. 
 
 ' Who is it, sir ? Surely not Mr. Eansome ! ' I stammered. 
 
 ' Did you not hear the answer I made to that simpleton 
 yonder ? ' he cried fiercely. ' Mr. Eansome was at that house 
 a fortnight ago — you know he was ! The body under the trees 
 has been where it lies for months — I will swear it ! If you 
 think it is Mr. Eansome, go and look at it and tell me if the 
 decay of a fortnight will make such a picture as you may 
 there see ! ' 
 
 We rapidly neared the Louse. I was silent, marking 
 furtively the efforts he made to subdue himself. On crossing 
 the lawn he stopped.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 285 
 
 1 That body must be some stranger's,' he exclaimed, ' who 
 was trespassing on these grounds, and died suddenly or was 
 killed there. He lies close to the hedge that divides the 
 estate from the fields.' 
 
 ' But Walters says he was buried when he found him.' 
 
 1 By time. The wind has blown, the soil over him and the 
 grass has sprung up around him, and so he seems to have 
 been buried. What a horrible discovery ! the worst that 
 could have occurred ! What am I to do now ? I must send 
 to the police, I suppose.' 
 
 ' The body cannot be left where it is.' 
 
 * You had better go— no, I'll go myself. . . . This will 
 revive all the old detestable suspicion which I had hoped was 
 laid for ever. I'll be foremost now. They shall not say 
 I tried to conceal this discovery. Who can he be ? Who can 
 he be ? ' 
 
 He muttered this question several times, with his eyes 
 fixed vacantly on my face, then wheeled round and hurried 
 into the house. 
 
 Neither of the servants knew of the discovery yet, and I 
 was resolved not to be the first to give them the news. Life 
 appeared to be a strange dream just then, wherein the acting 
 was confused, and from which I could wrest no specific mean- 
 ing. I hid myself in my room and tried to collect my 
 thoughts. What was the import of the horrible thing that 
 had been found ? I thought of what Poole had said, and 
 how his assertion that the man he had seen in the drawing- 
 room was not Mr. Ransome had given life and shape to my 
 own suspicions. And then I wondered if the dead man were 
 Mr. Ransome. If so, and the Colonel's conjecture as to the 
 time the body had been dead were true, then assuredly had he 
 been lying there ever since he was missed — an overwhelming 
 thought. Then what would appear ? That he had committed 
 suicide ? This theory I could not entertain. Had he meant 
 to kill himself, he would have done so in his bedroom. 
 Besides, the body was found under the earth ; and I could 
 not conceive that the winds of seven or eight months, nor of 
 as many years indeed, could heap and plant a grave over the 
 dead. Had he been killed ? By whom '? By Maddox ? Or 
 — and the pulses of my heart seemed arrested by the thought 
 — was this discovery going to confirm old Mrs. Ransome's 
 accusation ? 
 
 But my speculations galloped too fast. Was it Mr. Ran-
 
 286 155 HE THE MAN ? 
 
 some who had been present in the drawing- room a fortnight 
 before ? Let me say it was, and then it was manifest, on the 
 Colonel's testimony, that he who lay under the trees was not 
 Mr. Ransonie. Let me say it was not ; and I involved 
 myself in a maze from which there was absolutely no exit ; 
 because it was taxing my imagination utterly beyond its 
 strength to conceive that any man could be found so like Mr. 
 Ransome in person, manners, and voice, and possessing 
 withal the minute personal knowledge that was necessary to 
 the completeness of the impersonation, as to deceive the 
 Colonel and the four gentlemen who had confronted him and 
 persuade them that he was the missing man. 
 
 I did not hear the Colonel leave the house ; but presently 
 my ear caught the gruff tones of a man speaking in the 
 kitchen, and in a few moments the door of my room was 
 thrown open, and the cook rushed in to tell me that a corpse 
 had been found in the grounds, and that the gardener was in 
 the kitchen telling them about it. I answered that I was 
 aware of the fact, having been in the grounds at the time of 
 the discovery ; whereat, scared by my coolness, she bolted 
 out, that she might not miss any portion of Walter's narra- 
 tive. By-and-by I heard a pair of feet travelling nimbly 
 upstairs. I had no doubt they belonged to the housemaid, 
 who was gone with the news to Mrs. Ransome ; and this was 
 the case, for after a short interval she returned with an order 
 for me to attend mistress in the dining-room. 
 
 ' What is this about a dead body having been found ? ' 
 Mrs. Ransome exclaimed, when she saw me. 
 
 I told her what I knew. 
 
 ' Where is my father ? ' 
 
 ' He has gone, I believe, to inform the police of this dis- 
 covery.' 
 
 ' Is it known who the dead man is ? ' she asked, compres- 
 sing her lips the moment she had spoken and rendering 
 them bloodless. 
 
 ' No, madam ; but I dare say they will find out soon.' 
 
 'Can it be Mr. Ransome?' she cried. 'Where is the 
 gardener ? He saw him. Did he describe the face ? ' 
 
 ' The face is decayed.' 
 
 ' Can it be Mr. Ransome ? ' she repeated. ' If so, then he 
 .as been murdered by Maddox.' 
 
 * I did not catch the true signification of this remark at the 
 tJ:ie - --nt, and had she continued speaking, I might have
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPERS STORY 287 
 
 passed it by without notice. But the sudden flush that came 
 into her face and then left it blanched beyond the power of 
 words to describe ; the quick, agonised movement of her lips ; 
 the recoil of her whole figure ; the half- reel, the lowered head, 
 the eyes full of torment, flashed its import upon me. 
 
 I dared not speak — I dared not look at her. In that 
 breathless interval she succeeded in mastering herself. She 
 made a movement, and I glanced at her. Her hands were 
 clenched, but she held herself erect, and in a low voice 
 said — 
 
 ' I am so in the habit of associating his first disappearance 
 with Maddox that I can never think of him — even now — 
 without forgetting that he has been to this house, and is 
 known to be alive. You can understand this.' 
 
 I answered something at random. She strode across to 
 me a-nd put her hand on my arm. I felt the pressure of her 
 grasp long after she had removed her fingers. 
 
 ' In God's name look at me ! ' she exclaimed, in a voice 
 like a moan. ' You forget what habit doss — what the habit 
 of thinking for months and months of one thing only— of one 
 wretched and abhorred thing only — does ! I said that if the 
 dead body in the grounds is Mr. Ransome, he was murdered 
 by Maddox. I forgot that Mr. Ransome is living. Do you 
 understand me ? Why will you not look at me and answer ? ' 
 
 ' I am looking at you, madam. The only answer I can 
 make to you is, that I pray, with all my heart and strength, 
 that the dead man is not Mr. Ransome.' 
 
 She let fall my arm, and turned away. 
 
 ' It is my destiny ! ' she exclaimed, keeping her back upon 
 me, ' that I should be perpetually saying or doing things to 
 misrepresent myself. But I am not to blame. There is no 
 one who speaks to me but is determined to interpret every 
 look and syllable of mine to my prejudice. My dead mother- 
 in-law,' she added, with a low, bitter laugh, ' gave me a bad 
 name, and, like the dog of the proverb, I may as well be 
 hanged.' 
 
 I could find no answer to make to this ; but it struck me 
 sorrowfully, and as a remark not very far from the truth. 
 
 We neither of us spoke for some moments, and then she 
 confronted me, and inquired if I knew how long her father 
 would be. 
 
 ' Perhaps an hour,' I said. 
 
 ' What will be done with the body ? ' she wanted to know.
 
 288 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 I answered that there would be an inquest held upon it ; 
 and that, in all probability, every member of her household 
 would have to appear as a witness. 
 
 ' For what purpose ? ' she demanded, looking at me search - 
 
 I I am little acquainted with these matters,' I replied , 
 ' but I know that it is always customary for a coroner's jury 
 to assemble when a dead body has been found, in order to 
 learn how he came by his death.' 
 
 ' But if the face is not distinguishable, how will they know 
 who he is ? ' 
 
 ' They will probably find some clue in his dress.' 
 
 ' Will they bring him to this house ? ' she exclaimed, with 
 a shudder. 
 
 ' I dare say they will, madam. The town-hall, or a tavern 
 near the scene of the discovery, is generally chosen for such 
 inquiries. But we are a good distance from Copsford, and 
 they are not likely to carry the body along the main road.' 
 
 1 Will they examine me, do you think ? ' 
 
 ' It is impossible that I should know.' 
 
 ' Don't they expose the body at an inquest, and make the 
 people who give evidence look at it ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 She seated herself hastily, and leaned backwards. 
 
 ' I wish papa had taken me away before this discovery had 
 been made,' she exclaimed faintly. ' Suppose they bring the 
 body to this house ! How horrible to feel that such a thing 
 is under one's roof ! how horrible to remember that such a 
 thing has tainted the atmosphere in which one lives ! ' 
 
 ' O, madam,' I replied, ' do not let us think of the poor 
 dead creature in that way. God knows how he may have died. 
 It is dreadful to imagine him lying all alone under those dark, 
 silent trees, uncoffined, with never a prayer from living heart 
 to God for him. If he is a stranger, what mourners may he 
 not have left ! I am ashamed to think that I was afraid to 
 look at him. Whom can he now harm ? The strongest and 
 wisest of us shall be as he is in a very little while ; and we are 
 bo much more akin to him now that he is dead and corrupted 
 than ever we could be were he living, that I blush for my 
 humanity when I remember that I shrunk from the thought 
 of going near him.' 
 
 She shuddered again, and clapped her hands over her face. 
 
 An hour after the Colonel had quitted the house, he re-
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 2S9 
 
 turned with the inspector and two other men, who came along 
 the avenue hearing a stretcher, which they set down before 
 the door. The housemaid, looking like a ghost, came to tell 
 me they wanted a sheet. I took one from the clothes' press, 
 and went upstairs with it. 
 
 The Colonel and the inspector, stood by the stretcher, and 
 the former looked so ill that, for the life of me, I could not 
 help saying to him — 
 
 ' I hope, sir, it is not necessary that you should again see 
 the body,' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' he exclaimed loudly, reproving my sympathy 
 with a violent frown. 
 
 The reproof made me feel that I had acted with great im- 
 pertinence ; and I faltered out — 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir ; I thought you looked wearied.' 
 
 ' What do you mean, Miss Avory ? For God's sake be 
 intelligible ! ' he cried, staring at me ; whilst the inspector 
 stared at us both. 
 
 Almost confounded by the quite unexpected effect of my 
 remark, which had been uttered out of my full sympathy for 
 him, I explained that he had himself told me the body was a 
 horrible sight ; and I feared that by looking on whilst it was 
 dug up he would be subjecting himself to too heavy a trial. 
 
 ' Really you are very kind to take so much interest in me,' 
 he exclaimed, with an angry sarcastic laugh, which brought 
 the blood burning to my cheeks. ' Why the sight of the 
 body should affect me more than anybody else you shall take 
 another opportunity to explain. Is that the sheet ? Throw 
 it on the stretcher. Mr. Inspector, are we ready ? The gar- 
 dener will find us a spade.' 
 
 The party moved off. I closed the door, overwhelmed 
 with shame. My tongue had undoubtedly betrayed me into 
 an indiscretion ; but still I thought he had acted with great 
 unkindness in refusing to understand the obvious and sole 
 motive I had in addressing him. 
 
 I presently got the better of my offended sensitiveness, and 
 seeing the dining-room deserted, went in and watched the 
 party walking down the grounds. The Colonel marched in 
 front, with the inspector, whose head moved slowly from side 
 to side as he took in the prospect, first on his left hand and 
 then on his right. Presently they hailed Walters, who came 
 to them. An altercation, which found the gardener very ob- 
 stinate, appeared to take place ; which resulted in Poole being 
 
 u
 
 290 IS HE THE MAN ? 
 
 called. It was soon apparent to me that both men refused to 
 disinter the body. One of the bearers of the stretcher cut the 
 matter short by snatching the spade Poole carried out of his 
 hands, and then the four disappeared behind the brow of the 
 hill, leaving the two gardeners staring after them. 
 
 For a long while I held my post at the window. The fire 
 in the grate crackled and spurted, and in the silence that 
 reigned throughout the house I could hear the wind sullenly 
 roaring among the leafless branches in the avenue. The scene 
 was no less desolate now than it had been all the morning. 
 The same lead-coloured sky hung like a near pall over the 
 hills, and all around the horizon, not concealing the view, 
 but making it infinitely sad and bleak, was a chilly, crawling 
 mist. 
 
 My fancy was fascinated by the horror that lay under the 
 distant trees, and set to work to image the thing as it would be 
 seen when the soil that hid it was dug away, and the body ex- 
 posed to view. Again and again I asked myself if this dead 
 man could be Mr. Kansome, and if he had died there, or been 
 murdered, and if killed, who was his murderer. And though 
 the body should not prove to be Mr. Ransome, could I con- 
 tinue to believe that the man who had come to the house a 
 fortnight before was ho ? Imagination was quickened by the 
 tragic circumstance of the time, and I found myself reasoning 
 from premises that had not before occurred to me. Thus I 
 remembered that the lamp had burned dimly in the hall on 
 that night Mr. Ransome was expected, and that the room in 
 which the meeting had been held had been rendered so gloomy, 
 that it was with difficulty I had distinguished the lineaments 
 of the man who confronted the gentlemen. But when I re- 
 called the impression his face had made on me, I was again 
 infinitely puzzled : for beyond all question, in size, shape, 
 eyes, in every point I could recall, he who had stood with his 
 back to the fire was Mr. Ransome. 
 
 I was recalled from these reflections by the sight of the 
 party returning. The inspector walked in advance ; behind 
 him followed the men, bearing the stretcher now covered with 
 a sheet ; by the side of the stretcher was the Colonel. 
 
 I crouched back from the window. If ever I had boasted 
 my courage, I felt its worthlessness then. I trembled from 
 head to foot. My pen cannot describe the picture as I beheld 
 it ; the ghastliness of the white sheet contrasted with the 
 sombre sky overhead ; the bending figures of those who bore
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 291 
 
 the stretcher ; in ihe distance, the two gardeners, close together 
 watching. 
 
 Were they going to bring the body to the house ? Surely. 
 When they were yet some distance off, they halted, and the 
 Colonel came forward quickly. I waited in the hall to receive 
 his orders. He threw open the door violently and entered, 
 stopped abruptly, pressing his harid over his heart, and then 
 in a hollow voice requested me to get him some brandy. I 
 flew to the sideboard and returned with a bottle and a wine- 
 glass ; he filled the glass full and emptied it, half filled it 
 again and swallowed the draught, and handed me the 
 bottle. 
 
 ' The body is to be taken to the spare bedroom.' 
 
 '• Who is it, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Ransoine, the inspector thinks. Is my daughter in 
 her bedroom ? ' 
 
 ' I believe so.' 
 
 ' See that her door is closed. Off with \ou ! ' 
 
 I slunk away stunned. Mrs. Ransonie's bedroom door was 
 shut. I hurried below and was met by the cook. 
 
 ' Are they bringing it here ? ' she whispered. 
 
 ' Yes,' I replied. ' Hush ! where is Sarah ? ' 
 
 ' Here,' answered the girl, coming out of the kitchen. 
 
 ' Do not go upstairs either of you,' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' Tell me, only tell me, miss, I am dying to know,' burst 
 out the cook ; ' is it Mr. Ransome ? ' 
 
 I refused to answer her, and motioning her back, went to 
 my room and shut the door. 
 
 When the agitation into which I had been thrown by what 
 the Colonel had told me was in some measure passed, my 
 curiosity again came to the front, and I opened the door to 
 hear what was going on upstairs. All was quiet. I concluded 
 that the Colonel was with his daughter in her bedroom, and 
 was debating whether there was any need for me to remain 
 in the basement, when footsteps sounded in the hall — a heavy, 
 creaking, professional tramp — and the inspector came to the 
 head of the kitchen stairs and looked down. I shrunk away, 
 having no wish to undergo a cross-examination. He presently 
 began to march up and down the hall. 
 
 I passed the next two hours in my room, incessantly 
 pondering over the extraordinary fatality of this discovery and 
 wearying myself with conjectures as to how it would all end. 
 I could not understand the Colonel's meaning by the answer 
 
 u 2
 
 292 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 he had made to my question about the dead man ; for if the 
 inspector knew the body was Mr. Ransome's, the Colonel 
 should know it too ; yet his answer had implied that he did 
 not know. Perhaps he had not dared look at the corpse, and 
 so got his information about it at secondhand. 
 
 It was now long past the lunch hour, and the cook wanted 
 to receive orders. There seemed a kind of mockery in the 
 thought of taking food under such circumstances ; but nature 
 had to be supported somehow or other ; and I considered it 
 my duty to go upstairs and ask Mrs. Ransome for in- 
 structions. 
 
 I crept softly, for the presence of the dead seemed to im- 
 pose a strange need of stealthiness and silence. The dining- 
 room door was ajar, and through the opening I saw a constable 
 sitting close to the door. So then the inspector had been 
 relieved; but I had not heard the constable come to the 
 house. 
 
 He followed me with his eyes, his duty being to prevent 
 any one from leaving the house. 
 
 The drawing-room door was shut ; I thought Mrs. 
 Ransome might be there, and peeped in. I was surprised to 
 find the Colonel alone, seated in an arm-chair with his arms 
 folded. I was hastily withdrawing when he pronounced my 
 name, and on my looking in again, desired me to enter and 
 shut the door. I apologised for my intrusion and explained 
 that I was seeking Mrs. Ransome. 
 
 ' Don't go near her,' he exclaimed. ' She must be left 
 alone. What do you want ? ' 
 
 I spoke of the lunch. 
 
 ' For whom ? not for us. Neither of us could taste food. 
 Sit down for a moment, Miss Avory. I was sorry to speak to 
 you so rudely this morning. I perfectly appreciated your 
 kindness in desiring me not to witness the disinterment of the 
 body. I felt ill, and no doubt looked so. But all the same 
 your advice was unwise, because the inspector is full of sus- 
 picion, and he would not have scrupled to form any monstrous 
 conclusion on the mere idea, suggested by you, that I was 
 afraid to look at the dead man.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry, sir. I understand the reason of your 
 anger now. I should have taken this view.' 
 
 ' We will say no more about it ; the discovery of the body 
 is an awful calamity. I have a conviction that it is not Mr. 
 Ransome ; still, it may prove so.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 293 
 
 ' But what makes the inspector think it is, sir ? ' 
 
 ' The body is dressed in Mr. Eansome's coat.' 
 
 I started and exclaimed, ' Whom else, then, can it be ? ' 
 
 ' They would not give me time to examine the body 
 closely,' he said, pressing his hands convulsively together, and 
 looking downwards with a most piteous expression. ' " It was 
 for the jury to decide, not for me," the inspector kept on say- 
 ing ; and they laid the body on the stretcher, and covered it 
 up; and there is a man there — pointing towards the door — 
 who will not let me enter the room in which it lies.' 
 
 ' But how should the inspector know that the body has 
 Mr. Ransome's coat on ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' There are some letters in one of the pockets. The man 
 wouldn't show them to me. We crammed them back, and 
 then the body was laid on the stretcher, and covered. All 
 that he s^id was, " This is Mr. Ransome." ' 
 
 ' Did you not say, sir, that the body appeared to have been 
 lying where it was found for many months ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; it has mouldered away into a ghastlier thing than 
 the mind can conceive,' he answered. 
 
 ' Then, sir, you can be sure it was not Mr. Ransome, for 
 he was here a fortnight ago.' 
 
 He started, looked up, and clenched his hand. 
 
 ' That is my reason,' he cried out hoarsely, ' for saying 
 this dead man is not Mr. Ransome. The body would bo 
 fresh — must be fresh, if it were he ! This man has been 
 lying there months and months — there is no face left — he is a 
 skeleton in clothes — an awful sight ! ' 
 
 The blood rushed into his head, and the veins grew knotted 
 about his temples ; never was countenance more tragical than 
 his while he continued staring at me, and the blood darkened 
 his skin, and drops of moisture gathered upon his forehead. 
 
 I dared not hazard any more questions. I asked him if he 
 would let me bring him some refreshment. He shook his 
 head violently, and waved his hand without speaking. Before 
 I reached the door he cried out to me not to go near his 
 daughter ; she was not to be spoken to — she must be left 
 alone. 
 
 I left the room, bewildering my mind with the new and 
 conflicting information he had communicated. 
 
 A little after two o'clock a coffin was brought to the house — 
 three men carried it — and an old woman came with it ; and 
 they all went into the bedroom where the corpse was. After
 
 294 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 they bad been there some minutes, the old woman came down- 
 stairs for some hot water. I was in the kitchen when she 
 entered, and shrank from her as from something evil. In- 
 deed, she was ugly enough to have sat for the portrait of the 
 hag who turns over the contents of the trunk in the last plate 
 of the wonderful ' Kake's Progress,' She did not speak a 
 word. She took a jug from the dresser, put it under the cock 
 of the boiler, and stood working her jaws as she watched the 
 steam. When the jug was full she raised it and tottered out 
 of the kitchen. I heard her scraping her way upstairs and 
 along the hall, and then the bedroom door was shut. Not 
 more than half an hour was occupied by these people to pre- 
 pare the body for the inquest. When their task was accom- 
 plished they glided out of the house noiselessly. 
 
 As if these circumstances, crowding upon each other's 
 heels, were not exciting enough, a new and extravagant detail 
 was communicated by the presence of a crowd of persons in 
 the avenue. Ill news, it is said, flies apace ; and it was very 
 certain it had not lagged in this instance. 
 
 I first caught sight of the people from the window of my 
 own room. There were a good many children in the crowd, 
 a number of men, and several women, some of them with 
 babies in their arms. They were very orderly, and stood 
 staring intently at the house. The coffin had probably at- 
 tracted them, or maybe the report had spread that a dead 
 body had been found at Gardenhurst ; and guessing the mission 
 of the coffin-bearers, a crowd had followed to the gates, from 
 where, finding no portion of the proceedings were to be seen 
 from the road, they had gradually pushed their way into the 
 grounds. 
 
 I was very indignant at the sight of these intruders, and 
 was about to run upstairs, when, to my great satisfaction, I 
 saw the inspector, followed by a couple of constables, propel- 
 ling his way by the officer-like process of planting his elbows 
 in the chests of those nearest at hand ; and in a very few 
 minutes the avenue was deserted. 
 
 The inspector now returned with one of the constables, 
 having perhaps left the other to guard the gates ; and when 
 Sarah came downstairs, after having admitted him, she told 
 me he had ordered her to leave the door open, as the coroner 
 and jury were expected to arrive in a few minutes. 
 
 I hoped that Mrs. Kansome had not seen the crowd. 
 There was something peculiarly degrading in their presence.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPERS STORY 295 
 
 I wondered that she chose to be alone. Guilty or innocent, 
 her full heart would surely need the solace of utterance. If 
 innocent, how terrible must be the sense of the dreadful 
 humiliation that had been brought upon her and her father ! 
 If guilty, what must be her thoughts, knowing that she was 
 standing on the very brink of discovery. My sympathy was 
 so strong that I was about to go to her, in defiance of her 
 father's injunction ; but the resolution was driven out of my 
 mind by a sudden disturbance upstairs, caused by the arrival 
 of some of the jury. They were conducted into the library, 
 where they were kept waiting for the others, who shortly 
 arrived. I then heard them all go upstairs. 
 
 I was ignorant of the meaning of their movements, and 
 listened to their footsteps curiously. Presently the two gar- 
 deners came into the kitchen through the back door, followed 
 by a constable, who stepped up to me and asked me my name. 
 On my replying, he exclaimed, ' Oh, you are to give evidence. 
 You are not to go upstairs, please, until you are called.' 
 
 ' I suppose I ruav go into my room ? ' I said. 
 
 ' That there ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 1 Anybody in it '? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 1 Yes, you can stop there.' 
 
 Saying which he re-entered the kitchen. 
 
 I had now to wait for above half an hour, during which 
 some of the other witnesses were examined ; and then I was 
 told to go upstairs by the constable. The inspector received 
 me without speaking, and mounted to the bedroom, motioning 
 me to follow. I made strong efforts to control myself, but my 
 agitation was very great, and my nerves, as I entered the 
 bedroom, threatened to give way. 
 
 The scene into which I was admitted was one that might 
 have fairly oppressed a stouter heart than mine. The window- 
 blinds w r ere drawn up, and the coffin, supported on chairs, 
 had been placed close to the window to receive the light. 
 The sheet that had covered the body was thrown negligently 
 over the foot of the coffin, which was of a pale yellow. I 
 halted when I saw this dreadful object and a sudden faintness 
 came over me. To my surprise the inspector, dropping his 
 dictatorial tone, approached me and said very kindly, 'You 
 are only required to take one look. It's necessary for 
 the evidence you'll be called on to give. The others have
 
 296 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 viewed it. You must take heart — there's nothing to hurt 
 you.' 
 
 I stared at the coffin, shuddering violently, hut at the 
 same time laying the utmost control upon myself, because I 
 knew it was absolutely necessary that I should look at the 
 body. I now observed that the lid of the coffin framed a long 
 piece of glass. The inspector took my hand, quite gently, for 
 which I felt immeasurably grateful to him, and I walked with 
 all the boldness I could summon to the side of the coffin and 
 looked through the glass. 
 
 For some moments I could see nothing, for my head 
 swam and the glass seemed dark ; then the outline beneath 
 defined itself and I saw — but what I saw I will not describe. 
 The memory haunts me to this hour, and often makes a 
 portion of my dreams. 
 
 ' Take particular notice of what you see,' said the in- 
 spector ; ' that'll help you to tell the jury what you think.' 
 
 I did so, being now able to discern the ghastly and shape- 
 less contents of the coffin clearly enough ; and then sick, 
 cold, and horror-stricken, I backed away and walked with 
 faltering movements to the door. 
 
 I was detained, however, by the inspector, who took a 
 coat, which I had not perceived, from the side of the coffin, 
 and asked me to inspect it. I drew near and looked at it 
 attentively. The cloth was green, in portions mouldy, and 
 stained by the damp of the earth. I could not pretend to say 
 of what material the coat was made ; in shape it was loose, 
 with pockets at the side and a breast pocket, from which the 
 inspector drew three papers and desired me to look at them. 
 The first of these papers was a receipt from a harness-maker 
 at Copsford, made out to Mr. Ransome ; the second was a 
 letter from old Mrs. Ransome, dated from Guildford ; the 
 third was a portion of a letter, but whether in his own writing 
 or not I could not say. But very few of the words were 
 decipherable owing to the humidity having caused the ink to 
 run. The harness-maker's receipt, however, was in good 
 preservation, and the words ' To — Ransome, Esq.,' written 
 on a ruled line at the head of the bill, were very distinct. 
 
 I breathed freely when I was out of that room. The 
 inspector told me to stop in the hall ; but I had not waited 
 above twenty seconds when the cook came out of the dining- 
 room, yellow with fear, and made for the kitchen staircase 
 with surprising agility.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPERS STORY 297 
 
 The inspector now desired me to enter the dining- 
 room ; I did so, and found myself in the presence of a 
 number of men, two of whom were familiar to me as our 
 baker and chemist. I was in the temper to be easily 
 frightened ; but happily the coroner, one L)r. Sheldon, was, 
 without exception, the most amiable-looking old gentleman I 
 ever saw. His glance met mine so kindly that I was at once 
 reassured, and felt as collected as perhaps under the circum- 
 stances it was necessary I should feel. 
 
 I recall the scene distinctly ; but recollect only the leading 
 questions which were put to me. There wa3 one little man, 
 with a very snappish manner and a very sour face, who 
 frequently interrupted the coroner's examination with irrele- 
 vant questions which he delivered with an air of great 
 knowingness, and then dropped his head on one side, with an 
 artful smile at his companions, to catch my answer. The rest 
 were very grave and attentive, and obviously considered the 
 coroner a great man. 
 
 Were I to relate even what I can remember of the 
 examination I underwent, the record would extend to a great 
 many pages. An abridgment of my answers would present 
 the substance of the evidence I gave in this form : 
 
 That my name was Caroline Avory and that I was house- 
 keeper ; and that I had been in my present situation since 
 June. Had viewed the body and was sure it was not 
 Mr. Ransome's ; because the hair on the head of the body 
 was brown, and Mr. Ransome's hair was very black. Could 
 not identify the body with any person I had ever seen, owing 
 to the face being decayed out of all resemblance to anything 
 human. Could not say whether the coat was Mr. Ransome's 
 or not. Remembered seeing him wear a coat cut in that 
 fashion. Had seen the papers found in the pocket of the 
 coat, but could not imagine how they had come there. Was 
 quite positive the body was not Mr. Ransome's for two 
 reasons : first, that its decomposed state proved it to have 
 been dead for many weeks, whereas Mr. Ransome was alive 
 and at his house a fortnight before ; secondly, neither the 
 hair, nor, so far as the outline could be distinguished, the 
 shape of the head, was that of Mr. Ransome. Could swear 
 that all Mr. Ransome's linen was marked with his initials, S. R. 
 Knew that he was mad and of very eccentric habits, but had 
 never heard that he was subject to fits. Had heard footsteps 
 outside the house on the night Mr. Ransome was missed ;
 
 293 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 was sure that some one had been walking in the grounds. 
 Could not tell whether the body was the footman's ; believed 
 it more likely to be the footman's than Mr. Eansome's ; but 
 considered if it were the footman's it could be identified. 
 
 And so on : evidence that conveyed no further illumination 
 than my profound conviction that the body was not Mr. Ean- 
 some's. Two of the jury tried hard to shake me on this 
 point ; but my persuasion was too firm for them. It was 
 enough that the body had brown hair. To suppose that black 
 hair would turn brown after death was absurd ; and unless 
 this could be supposed, then most assuredly the dead man 
 was not Mr. Eansome. The coroner took up one of the jury 
 on this and silenced him. I then left the room. 
 
 Shortly afterwards the jury withdrew to the library to 
 consider their verdict. When I got downstairs I found the 
 under-gardener and the cook hotly arguing. Poole was very 
 quiet and determined. As I passed the door the cook cried 
 out to me to come and say if I believed the body lying upstairs 
 was master's. 
 
 ' No,' I replied ; ' who says it is ? ' 
 
 • I say it is, an' I'll swear it,' rejoined Poole. 
 
 ' You must be as blind as a mole,' exclaimed Walters, ' not 
 to know the difference between brown hair and black.' 
 
 ' I don't care nothing for that,' retorted the other. ' It's 
 brown now, but it was black once.' 
 
 ' That's nonsense,' I said. ' The coroner himself will tell 
 you so. By such assumptions you may prove the dead man 
 anybody.' 
 
 ' Besides,' cried the cook, ' the inspector himself told me 
 that the body must have been lying under the trees for months 
 an' months to be in that state ; and have you lost your 
 memory not to know that Mr. Eansome was alive an' hearty 
 this day a fortnight ago ? ' 
 
 1 Alive an' hearty, yes ! ' sneered Poole, with a glance at 
 me. ' Did yer see him ? ' 
 
 ' You did, and so did I ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 * Ah, and so we did. And pray was you satisfied that he 
 was Mr. Eansome ? ' he demanded very impudently. 
 
 The cook and the gardener stared, and the first said, 
 ' Why, what's come to yer, man ? Would you fly in the face 
 of the gentlemen as saw him wi' their own eyes and was 
 satisfied ? ' 
 
 ' Saw him ! ' said the man contemptuously ; ' I reckon
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 299 
 
 they saw as much of me. Why was the light turned down, 
 and the shadder thrown over his face, I should like to 
 know ? ' 
 
 ' Have you spoken to the Colonel of these doubts of yours ? ' 
 I asked him. 
 
 'No, I haven't,' he answered fiercely; 'but I don't fear 
 his knowing of them.' 
 
 ' Then you had better do so. If you don't, I will.' 
 
 ' So you may, and be d to you ! ' he cried. ' I'm not 
 
 afraid of you nor the Colonel either, nor e'er a one in this 
 house. What I told the jury I'll stick to : that the man 
 upstairs is Mr. Ransonie ! ' 
 
 And with a brutal laugh the fellow walked out of the 
 kitchen. 
 
 There was something far more puzzling than irritating in 
 this man's reckless boldness. What made him assume as a 
 fact the notion that had flashed across my mind only as a 
 suspicion, and a suspicion so dangerous and alarming that 
 I summarily rejected it as often as it recurred to me ? 
 
 Walters was beginning to comment on his mate's rude 
 and violent behaviour, when the cook interrupted him by 
 crying, ' Hark ! ' The jury were leaving the library and 
 returning to the dining-room with their verdict. 
 
 I went out of the kitchen, greatly excited, and mounted 
 the staircase halfway, fearing to advance and listening with 
 strained attention. In a short time the jury left the dining- 
 room and filled the hall. There was a great buzz among 
 them whilst they adjusted their hats. I ascended to the top 
 of the stairs, determined to know what the verdict was ; but 
 was at once reassured by the sight of the Colonel, who was 
 conversing with the coroner, and whose face, white and thin 
 and sickly-looking, wore a smile. 
 
 I said to a tall, beetle-browed man, ' Will you tell me the 
 verdict ? ' 
 
 ' Why, ma'am, that the man is dead ; but who he is, and 
 how he came by his death, there is no evidence to show.' 
 
 I thanked him, and slipped away out of the hall. 
 
 This, then, was the end of it ! And how would the public 
 receive the verdict ? The dead man was most unquestionably 
 not Mr. Ransonie. The jury had obviously found that out by 
 better evidence than any I could have given them. But if he 
 was not Mr. Ransome, how came he with Mr. Ransome's coat 
 on, and with letters belonging to Mr. Ransome on him ? And
 
 300 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 what made Poole so positive that he toas Mr. Ransome ? 
 I had before, involuntarily, and on no better evidence than 
 the casual meeting him on the terrace, suspected Poole of 
 having played some part in the mystery which had puzzled 
 Copsford, and those who knew what Copsford never could 
 know, ever since the day of Mr. Eansome's disappearance; 
 but his behaviour in the kitchen — his dogged declaration that 
 the dead man was Mr. Ransome, his equally dogged declaration 
 that the man who had been brought to the house by the 
 Colonel was not Mr. Ransome — all decided me in regarding 
 him as capable of explaining the whole of the mystery away, 
 if he chose to tell what he knew. At all events, I resolved to 
 have a talk with the Colonel about him. 
 
 By half-past three the house was deserted, and not very 
 long afterwards a hearse drove up, and some men came in 
 and carried the coffin away. The gloom seemed to lift with 
 the departure of that ghastly burden ; but I was sure that the 
 room in which it had been deposited would never be entered 
 again by those to whom the house belonged, and that it 
 furnished an association which, during the remainder of the 
 time the Colonel and Mrs. Ransome stayed at Gardenhurst, 
 would make their home insupportable and odious to them. 
 
 IX 
 
 The afternoon wore away, and a little before six o'clock 
 the Colonel sent for me. The night had fallen densely, with 
 a high wind that whirled the snowflakes in the air, and 
 sometimes brought smart discharges of hail against the 
 windows. 
 
 He was in the dining-room. 
 
 1 1 have been with my daughter all the afternoon. She 
 has been very ill. They made her look at the body, which 
 was cruel. It was an unfit sight for a woman to behold. 
 And after she had given her evidence, she went to her bed- 
 room and fainted, and there she lay on the floor, unconscious, 
 for an hour.' 
 
 1 Oh, sir, I wish I had known it ! ' I exclaimed. * You 
 told me not to go near her.' 
 
 1 She is better now. You can take a cup of tea presently 
 to her. What a day this has been ! ' 
 
 ' Thank God it has ended, and ended well, sir ! ' 
 
 1 Did you see the body ? '
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 301 
 
 1 Yes.' 
 
 ' It was a shocking sight,' he said, with a shudder. 
 
 ' I cannot understand why they should have tried to 
 identify it with Mr. Ransome, sir. The coroner, as a doctor, 
 must have known that the poor man, whoever he is, has been 
 dead many weeks ; and were they not all aware that Mr. 
 Ransome was here a fortnight ago ? ' 
 
 I faltered as I asked this question. He took me up 
 quickly. 
 
 ' Of course they were aware ; and that helped them to 
 their verdict. A doctor named Mason examined the body 
 when it was upstairs, and gave medical evidence.' 
 
 ' What evidence, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Why, that he could find no marks of violence. For my 
 part, I don't think he had the stomach to examine the loath- 
 some thing. I believe he stared at it through the glass, and 
 pronounced upon what he saw. The face had mouldered 
 away, and I should imagine that without a minute inspection it 
 would be impossible to detect signs of violence on that part of 
 the head amid such corruption. Did they show you the coat ?' 
 
 1 Yes, sir.' 
 
 1 Was it Mr. Ransome's ? ' 
 
 ' I could not possibly say.' 
 
 ' How came the letters there ? ' 
 
 ' That is a mystery.' 
 
 ' Ay, more bewildering than anything that has yet occurred. 
 The trousers and waistcoat were of coarse material, and did not 
 match the coat. There was no mark on the linen. The boots 
 had rotted and broken open. He might have been a year 
 lying where he was found.' 
 
 ' Was he not buried, sir, when found ? ' 
 
 ' He was close to the surface. Whether his grave was 
 dug for him or not I cannot imagine. Had he borne signs of 
 violence, then they would have said that his grave had been 
 dug.' 
 
 ' Did it occur to anybody to suggest that he was Maddox ? ' 
 I said. 
 
 He started, looked at me earnestly, and said : 
 
 ' The footman ! I never thought of that. Why should it 
 not be Maddox ? The existence of the letters belonging to 
 Mr. Ransome might then be explained.' 
 
 ' Easily, sir ; by supposing that the letters were stolen 
 from his master's bedroom.'
 
 3°2 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 ' But for what purpose ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot guess.' 
 
 'But nothing but the letters were found in the man's 
 pocket. You remember the footman— I never saw him: 
 stay— I forget. I saw him when I came to Gardenhurst from 
 Boulogne ; but I have no recollection of his face and appear- 
 ance. Did the dead man resemble him in any particular ? ' 
 
 ' In more than I can recall, sir. Yet whom could such a 
 thing resemble ? ' 
 
 ' Was Maddox's hair brown ? ' 
 
 ' It was dark ; but you must remember, sir, that I had not 
 been here long when he was missed, and during that time I 
 saw but very little of him— not enough to leave a distinct 
 impression of him upon my mind, as I discover now, when I 
 endeavour to recollect his face.' 
 
 ' This is a curious conjecture of yours, though,' he 
 exclaimed. _ ' Suppose the dead man should be Maddox ? ' 
 
 I was silent. He looked at me inquiringly. 
 _ ' I am striving to recall him,' I said. ' Maddox was of a 
 middle height, with a somewhat similar cast of face to Mr. 
 Eansome's— I mean, the jawbones were long and the face 
 thin. _ The dead man— I could sec nothing of him ! ' I 
 exclaimed, shuddering at the hideous recollection. 
 
 J Let us imagine the dead man Maddox,' he said, taking a 
 chair, and motioning me to be seated. ' How came he where 
 he was found ? Did he die there, or was he killed ? But he 
 would not be dressed like that, would he ? I know what his 
 livery would be. What was his undress ? ' 
 
 ' He always worked in the morning in a sleeved waistcoat 
 and black cloth trousers. If he had to answer the door he 
 would slip on his coat belonging to his livery.' 
 
 ' The body was not dressed in black cloth ? * 
 
 ♦ No, sir.' 
 
 He was a long while silent, and then repeated : 
 
 ' Suppose the man should be Maddox ? ' 
 
 ' The body is certainly not Mr. Eansome.' 
 
 ' No ; that is past doubt. The letters prove nothing ; they 
 make a mystery, but they prove nothing.' 
 
 ' It might have been surmised that this man was Maddox ; 
 that Mr. Eansome had killed him, and was hiding himself for 
 fear of the consequences.' 
 
 ' Why may not the surmise be entertained now ? ' he 
 demanded eagerly.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 503 
 
 ' Because Mr. Ransome was here a fortnight ago, sir.' 
 
 ' Ah, to be sure,' he replied, drawing back and clasping 
 his hands firmly. ' The chain is so confused that I am apt 
 to overlook some of the links.' 
 
 I took care not to let him see that I noticed his confusion. 
 
 1 Your under-gardener, Poole,' I said, ' declares positively 
 that the dead man is Mr. Ransome.' 
 
 ' Yes ; he was the only one of the witnesses who stated 
 that. He is a blockhead, and acquitted himself like one 
 during the examination. He showed a curious animus against 
 us by implying that Mr. Ransome had been murdered, and 
 that the body upstairs was his. He knew, of course, that that 
 had been the current suspicion for a good many months. I 
 shall discharge him by-and-by, but I must not be in a hurry ; 
 it would not answer my purpose for people to say the man was 
 discharged for suggesting that Mr. Ransome hadbeen murdered.' 
 
 ' He may be a blockhead, sir, but he is a very dangerous 
 one. He does not scruple to declare it as his opinion, that the 
 man who came to this house a fortnight ago was not Mr. 
 Ransome.' 
 
 ' He says that ! ' he exclaimed, knitting his brows. ' Did 
 he give his reasons for having this notion? ' 
 
 ' No, sir.' 
 
 ' You found him peering from the terrace into the drawing- 
 room that night ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 He got up, went to the window, and stood there for some 
 moments, his face concealed from me. Presently he turned 
 and said : 
 
 ' You supply me with a good reason for discharging him. 
 He is dangerous. That notion of his would be a very com- 
 promising rumour to start, wouldn't it ? After this discovery 
 and inquest too ! . . . Your suggestion about Maddox has 
 put a thought into my head ; but I am not sure that I shall 
 act upon it. The inquest is over, the body will be buried. I 
 shall require a little reflection before I resolve to disturb these 
 ashes again, and fix attention upon a new inquiry. And now, 
 Miss Avory, will you be so kind as to take my daughter a cup 
 of tea, and see how she is ? ' 
 
 This was the most unsatisfactory conversation I had ever 
 had with him. "Whatever his views were, he had not con- 
 veyed them. That he believed the dead man to be Maddox, 
 or that he believed him Mr. Ransome ; that he believed Mr.
 
 3°4 
 
 IS HE THE MAN ? 
 
 Eansome dead, or that he believed him alive ; that he believed 
 the man whom the detective Johnson had found to be Mr. 
 Eansome, or that he believed him to be somebody else — was 
 as little to be guessed by me from his manner, as the name of 
 the body was to be guessed from the inquest that had been 
 held upon it. 
 
 What, then, was this mystery ? for a mystery there was, 
 dark and complex, known to the Colonel and his daughter, 
 and to them alone. Had Poole any share in it ? He had 
 worked for some years on the estate ;-he had, to the best of 
 my knowledge, always been well-treated by Mrs. Eansome ; it 
 was impossible, therefore, to suppose that the evidence he 
 had given, or rather the assertions he had made, were dictated 
 by ill-feeling towards his employers. Surely I might almost 
 be justified in supposing that he had a particular reason 
 either for knowing Mr. Eansome to be dead, or for wishing 
 him dead, by his declaring that the discovered body was Mr. 
 Eansome's. He might, indeed, have been deceived by a 
 fancied resemblance ; he might even believe that the humi- 
 dity of the earth, which had rotted and coloured the clothes 
 into an indistinguishable texture, would likewise transform 
 the hair from black into brown. But certainly his obstinacy 
 would yield to the conjoint testimony of the other witnesses, 
 who, every one of us, had positively affirmed that the corpse 
 was not Mr. Eansome's. 
 
 His tenacity, however, persuaded me that he was sincere 
 in his belief that the man who had come to the house a fort- 
 night before was not Mr. Eansome. The most ignorant per- 
 son could not have beheld the condition of the corpse without 
 being quite satisfied that it had been dead for months. To 
 assert, then, that this body was Mr. Eansome's was tanta- 
 mount to saying that Mr. Eansome had been dead for many 
 months. 
 
 These thoughts occupied my mind whilst I prepared the 
 tea which I was to carry to Mrs. Eansome ; and when the 
 tray was prepared, I took it upstairs. 
 
 I knocked timidly, not being sure that my visit would be 
 welcome. Mrs. Eansome's voice bade me enter. I found her 
 lying in her dressing-gown upon the sofa, which had been 
 wheeled close to the fire. A pair of candles were alight on 
 the mantelpiece. The atmosphere of the room was almost 
 disagreeable with the mingled perfumes of toilet-vinegar and 
 other scents. She looked pale and exhausted, and her heavy
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPERS STORY 305 
 
 white arm, bare to the elbow, hung languidly down over the 
 side of the sofa. 
 
 I told her that her father had requested me to bring her 
 some tea. She thanked me without turning her head, but did 
 not ask me to sit. I could tell by her few words of thanks 
 that she had not the strength to converse, and was looking 
 about her to see in what way I could make her more comfor- 
 table before quitting the room, when she asked me in a low 
 tone if I had been examined by the jury. 
 
 I replied that I had. 
 
 1 Did they make you look into the coffin ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes,' I answered. 
 
 • Will you ever forget what you saw ? Whilst I live that 
 horrible sight will haunt me. Why did they force me to look 
 at it ? ' 
 
 ' There were no other means of identifying him. All the 
 witnesses had to look. We were thus enabled positively to 
 declare that the dead man was not Mr. Eansome.' 
 
 1 Suppose he had turned out to be Mr. Eansome, what 
 would have been done ? ' she inquired, rousing herself a 
 little. 
 
 ' Such a discovery would have been very unfortunate and 
 menacing, after the suspicions which have been bandied 
 about.' 
 
 ' People, of course, would have said that he had been 
 murdered, and that his mother was in the right when she 
 accused me of the crime.' 
 
 ' No doubt something of the kind would have been said.' 
 
 ' And what would they have done to me ? ' 
 
 1 Nothing. What proofs would they have to go upon ? ' 
 
 ' Will the matter end now ? ' she demanded, with a small 
 feverish impatience quickening her physical lassitude. 
 
 ' No doubt. The jury are satisfied that the dead man is a 
 stranger. How he came where he was found, and how he 
 managed to have letters belonging to Mr. Eansome on him, 
 are problems which may never be solved. The face was de- 
 cayed beyond all possibility of recognition, and the worst that 
 can now be said is, that the body of a man was found at 
 Gardenhurst, under what the newspapers call suspicious cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 1 The letter from Mrs. Eansome was dated last April, papa 
 told me. The harness-maker's bill is two years old.' 
 
 1 Indeed ! I forgot to ask Colonel Kilmain about the dates 
 
 x
 
 3 o6 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 of these papers. I cannot imagine how this unknown man 
 came by them.' 
 
 ' Could not they tell whether he had been murdered or 
 not ? ' 
 
 ' It seems they could find no signs to indicate a violent 
 death. Suppose he was murdered. A single blow might 
 have killed him. That blow need not necessarily leave such 
 a mark as would be distinguishable amid the decay of the 
 body. In the absence of such sign, I don't see what other 
 conclusion the jury could have arrived at than the plain ver- 
 dict they recorded.' 
 
 ' Who could he have been ? ' she inquired. ' How came 
 he at Gardenhurst ? Was he a friend of Mr. Ransome ? But 
 even that would not account for his having papers of Mr. 
 Ransome upon him.' 
 
 'I asked Colonel Kilmain if he thought the body was' 
 Maddox's.' 
 
 She started forward, and exclaimed, with a deep-drawn 
 breath — 
 
 ' It may have been Maddox ! ' 
 
 ' The hair was brown. Maddox's hair was brown, was it 
 not, madam ? ' 
 
 ' It was dark, certainly,' she answered, looking at me 
 eagerly. 
 
 ' Unfortunately,' I continued, ' the hair was the only re- 
 cognisable sign the body presented. There was literally 
 nothing else that would help to prove the theory that this 
 man was Maddox. Nothing was found in his pockets but 
 those letters of Mr. Ransome. Whoever the man was, it was 
 pretty certain that if he was not murdered he was robbed. 
 One cannot conceive that a man would be wandering about 
 with nothing in his pockets but letters belonging to another 
 man, of no use to him.' 
 
 ' But is nothing to be said in favour of your conjecture 
 that he was Maddox ? ' she said, sinking back and resuming 
 her listless manner. ' Let it be one or the other of them ; 
 master or man — it would not matter. One of them, dead, 
 might explain the disappearance of the other.' 
 
 ' You mean the original disappearance ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, of course,' she answered quickly. 
 
 ' We know, on Mr. Ransome's confession, that he knew 
 nothing of Maddox and the robbery of the plate.' 
 
 • I told you that myself.'
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 307 
 
 - Yes, madam, you did.' 
 
 1 But are we bound to believe what Mr. Eansome says ? 
 Make me believe that the dead man whom we have seen 
 to-day is Maddox, and you will convince me that he was 
 murdered by Mr. Eansome.' 
 
 'I should hesitate to take that view, even supposing we 
 knew this body to be the footman's. Had we not full proof 
 that Mr. Bansoine was living a fortnight ago, there would be 
 much more probability in the conjecture that the body was 
 his, and that he had been murdered by Maddox.' 
 
 She sipped her tea languidly, and said, ' Mr. Eansome had 
 not brown hair.' 
 
 I was anxious to drop the subject, for I found myself 
 getting into a labyrinth, and dreaded lest I should make some 
 remark, inadvertently, to lead her to suspect that I questioned 
 the identity of the man who had been brought to the house 
 by her father. On this account I said nothing to her about 
 Poole. There were many reasons why I should not appear to 
 possess such a suspicion. I had largely shared her own and 
 her father's confidence, and could not, consistently with the 
 gratitude I felt towards them both for many acts of kindness, 
 imply my belief of their being guilty of an extravagant im- 
 position, the maintenance of which made falsehood a com- 
 pulsory condition of their actions and speech. Again, in the 
 event of my suspicion proving right, I had to consider the 
 great provocation the Colonel had received to practise this 
 imposition, in the overwhelming accusation old Mrs. Eansome 
 had brought against his daughter, and in the sinister scandal 
 that had been circulated to her dishonour in Copsford. But 
 chiefly I had to consider that my suspicion might be quite 
 unwarrantable ; and certainly, when I came to examine the 
 foundation on which it rested, I could refer it to no better 
 origin than the assertion of Poole (who could not know more 
 of the truth than I), and to one or two slips I had noticed in 
 the Colonel's and his daughter's conversation with me. 
 
 She continued harping for some time on my theory, that 
 the dead man might be Maddox ; and then she told me the 
 questions which had been put to her by the coroner, and how 
 she had fainted when she reached her bedroom. At this 
 juncture her father entered the room, which gave me an 
 opportunity to slip away. 
 
 I little guessed, as I went downstairs, how very close we 
 all were to the solution of one portion of the mystery, of which 
 
 x2
 
 3 oS LS HE THE MAN? 
 
 these pages tell the story. Fateful as the day had proved, 
 the strangest of the events which belonged to it had yet to 
 happen. 
 
 On reaching the basement, I heard the sound of a male 
 voice in the kitchen, and there found the upper-gardener, 
 Walters. 
 
 ' Good evening, mum,' said he. ' I thought I'd just step 
 this way, to larn if there was anything fresh.' 
 
 The kitchen was very warm, and looked very comfortable. 
 A bright red fire glowed in the grate, and shone in the well- 
 polished crockery and glasses upon the dresser. Through the 
 window one might see the snowflakes falling, gleaming white 
 in the light as they dropped softly past the black glass. At 
 the end of the table sat the housemaid, sewing, the picture of 
 a smart English servant. The cook confronted the gardener, 
 her red, fat arms upon the table, her attitude and face alive 
 with the curiosity and awe the events of the day had inspired 
 in her soul. The gardener looked rather shiny with the snow 
 that had melted upon his shoulders. He was partaking of 
 some tea and bread and butter, which the hospitable cook had 
 been good enough to set before him. Very homely and honest 
 was the aspect of his old brown face, freed of the stains and 
 damp of his day's labour by a plentiful application of soap. 
 The scene was so cosy that I was tempted to draw one of the 
 wooden chairs from the wall. 
 
 ' I hope the mistress ain't none the worse for what's hap- 
 pened,' exclaimed Walters. 
 
 ' The sight of the body made her ill,' I answered. 
 
 ' An awful sight ! ' said the cook. ' Sarah and me sleep 
 together to-night. I wouldn't lie alone not if I was to be 
 boiled alive for refusin'.' 
 
 ' You should ha' seen it as I did,' exclaimed Walters. 
 ' Close agin the hedge the grass is pretty short and fine. I 
 took my spade and planned out a good-sized sod, ready for 
 lifting. Then I dug my spade in, and heaved up ; but the 
 tool slipped, as though I had struck glass, and brings up some 
 stuff along wi't which I fell on my knees to look at, for I 
 reckoned it wur a new kind of plant, and was puzzled by it. 
 I did think it uncommon like hair too ; an' when my nose 
 were close agin it I noticed that the mould had a queer look — 
 a kind o' crumbly look— though it was hard enough with the 
 frost. I give a kind o' pull at the hair, not knowin' it to be 
 such, and the soil gives way like pie-crust, and out came the
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY] 309 
 
 man's head ; an' I think it drove me daft for awhile, for I 
 stood looking at it a bit quite silly.' 
 
 ' I should have run away ! I should have thought I had 
 opened a hole for the devil to come through ! ' said! the cook 
 in a faint voice. 
 
 ' What 'ud ha' been the good of running away ? ' replied 
 Walters. ' Had he looked like a dead man I'd ha' felt no fear, 
 no more than if I wur looking at you. It wur the suddenness 
 of the head jumping up out o' the mould, and the ugly, 
 mangled face as came out along with it, as turned me sick 
 and silly.' 
 
 'All of us here,' said I, ' saw the body in the coffin ; did 
 any of you trace a likeness to anybody you knew in it ? ' 
 
 • There wur nothing to see — nothing like a man, I mean,' 
 replied the gardener. 
 
 1 Do you remember Maddox ? ' 
 
 'I remember him, rather,' cried the cook. 
 
 • Did it strike you that the dead man might be Maddox ? ' 
 ' No,' answered the cook breathlessly. ' Is he Maddox ? ' 
 
 • I am sure I don't know,' I replied. ' Maddox had brown 
 hair, and so had the body.' 
 
 ' I don't think Maddox's hair was brown, mum,' said the 
 gardener. ' It was darker than brown — it was very near 
 black.' 
 
 1 You're wrong,' exclaimed the cook ; ' it was lighter than 
 brown ; it was more the colour of your hair, Miss Avory.' 
 
 'I say it was very near black,' persisted the gardener. 
 ' Cast your thoughts back, missis, an' you'll agree with me.' 
 
 ' If he is Maddox,' said I, ' he'll not owe his identification 
 to us. But the matter is of no consequence, for the jury have 
 disposed of it as far as it can be disposed of.' 
 
 1 They made me look at the corpse,' said the housemaid, 
 1 when they found out I had opened the door to Mr. Eansome 
 that night he came here. I didn't notice the hair was 
 brown.' 
 
 ' What colour wur it, then ? ' asked the gardener. 
 
 ' More the colour of my hair,' she replied ; her hair was u 
 light auburn. 
 
 The old man pish'd, and drank his tea. 
 
 I began to appreciate the difficulties lawyers complain of 
 in trying to obtain evidence. Here were four of us, all pro- 
 fessing to know exactly what we were talking about, flatly 
 contradicting one another. I changed the subject by asking
 
 3 io IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Walters when his daughter was going to be married to 
 Poole. 
 
 ' Oh, it's off,' he answered. ' She an' him quarrelled some 
 time ago. His temper don't please her.' 
 
 ' She has acted wisely in my opinion,' said I. ' There's some- 
 thing wrong about him, and I should very much like to find 
 out what it is. What made him so impertinent to me to-day ? ' 
 
 ' Something's come over him lately that's often puzzled 
 me myself,' replied Walters. ' He used to work well when he 
 first came here ; but he's grown very careless and skulking, 
 and I'm constantly at him for neglecting his work and doing 
 things wrong. He talks of goin' away — leavin' the country. 
 The sooner the better — that's what I says.' 
 
 ' Fancy his declaring that wasn't Mr. Ransome who came 
 here the other day,' exclaimed the cook. ' Is he in his right 
 mind, I wonder ? ' 
 
 ' One would think to hear him talk,' said I, ' that he knew 
 more about Mr. Ransome than he chose to tell. His declaring 
 that the dead man w r as Mr. Ransome, in defiance of his own 
 eyes— for he was in the terrace that night peeping at the 
 gentlemen in the drawing-room through the window — seems 
 very suspicious to inc.' 
 
 ' If the dead man had been Mr. Ransome,' cried the cook 
 warmly, ' it would be as likely as not that Poole had murdered 
 him ! * 
 
 • Hush ! ' said Walters, ' you mustn't talk like that ! ' 
 
 ' Did he ever speak to you about Mr. Ransome ? ' I asked 
 the old man. 
 
 ' Well, yes ; more nor I cared to hear. When them sus- 
 picions about Mrs. Ransome first got about, he was always 
 knocking off work to come an' have a yarn about the master. 
 But I wouldn't have nothin' to say to him. It wur no 
 business of his or mine.' 
 
 « What did he say ? ' 
 
 ' Why, that his notion was, Mr. Ransome ivas murdered, 
 an' that the murder 'ud one day be brought to light.' 
 
 ' How should he know, if he didn't do it hisself ? ' de- 
 manded the cook. 
 
 ' His idea was,' continued the old man, taking up his cap 
 and looking towards the door, ' that Maddox had played off on 
 the master's madness, an' got him out o' the house, and then 
 killed him. And then he'd say, ' If that ain't true, Joe, who 
 knows if the old lady warn't in the right ? ' This 'ud make
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 311 
 
 me angry, and I rather believe as the cause of that quarrel 
 'tween him an' my gal was my sayin' that he wur no man for 
 strivin' to ruin the character of the mistress as paid him, an' 
 had always been kind to him.' 
 
 Saying this, he got up, emptied his tea-cup, wished us 
 good-night, and walked out of the kitchen. 
 
 I stopped in the kitchen for the 'rest of the evening, pre- 
 ferring the company of the servants and the cheerful lire to 
 the solitude of my room, where I very well knew the spectre 
 of memory — the face I had looked at through the glass in the 
 coffin — awaited me. The housemaid told me that the Colonel 
 was with his daughter in her bedroom. They were talking 
 over their future plans, no doubt ; and, among other matters, 
 I might now conclude that I was not likely to be housekeeper 
 at Gardenhurst much longer. Mrs. Ransome must utterly 
 abhor the place by this time. Even I, who found a comfort- 
 able home in it, was growing very weary of its monotony. 
 The estate itself was a little Paradise ; but places are made 
 pleasant not by pleasant sights, but by pleasant associations. 
 The house had been gloomy enough while Mr. Ransome 
 inhabited it. The suspicions his disappearance engendered 
 had made it a very dark and melancholy home indeed. It 
 scarcely needed the discovery of the dead body, and the 
 abundant gossip that would be excited by it, to make Garden- 
 hurst intolerable to its possessors. 
 
 The cook and I talked over the probability of both of us, 
 before long, being in search of new situations ; and then we 
 passed in review all that had happened since I had been in 
 the house, and conjectured, as best we could, Poole's motives 
 in protesting that Mr. Ransome bad been murdered; and 
 then, by an easy transitioii, we got upon the subject of the 
 inquest, which set us talking of murders in general, while the 
 housemaid entertained us with an account of the murder of a 
 factory apprentice in the city she came from, which was so 
 ghastly (related as it was with demure unction, and much 
 secret enjoyment of the perspiration it engendered), that I 
 heartily sympathised with the cook's terrors, and looked 
 forward with some apprehension to my usually lonesome job 
 of locking up the house for the night. 
 
 When Sarah had taken up the hot water and glasses atten 
 o'clock, she told us tbat Mrs. Ransome was in the dining- 
 room with her father. Hearing this I thought it my duty to 
 go and inquire how she was. So I went upstairs. Certainly
 
 312 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Mrs. Ransome looked very ill. The hollows under her eyes 
 were quite livid, and contrasted painfully and disagreeably 
 with the ashy paleness of the rest of her face. She was 
 wrapped in a dressing-gown, and sat on a low chair before the 
 fire ; while her father, looking fagged to death and very 
 nearly as ill as she, leaned back in an armchair opposite her, 
 his hands folded on bis breast, and his face full of deep and 
 painful reflection. 
 
 I asked Mrs. Eansome if there was anything I could do for 
 her before she went to bed. 
 
 ' No, thank you ; there is nothing, Miss Avory.' 
 
 ' I persuaded Mrs. Ransome to come downstairs,' said the 
 Colonel. ' She has been in her bedroom nearly all day.' 
 
 ' I think Mrs. Ransome wants a change from this house 
 altogether, sir,' I exclaimed, impressed more and more, the 
 longer I looked at her, by her forlorn, weakly, and broken- 
 hearted aspect. 
 
 • She shall have a change before long, depend upon it,' he 
 answered, with sudden energy. ' And the change shall be a 
 permanent one, too.' 
 
 • I am afraid you have eaten nothing to-day, madam.' 
 
 ' Very little ; but I shall feel better to-morrow, I hope,' 
 she replied. ' I am going to bed in a few minutes. Will 
 you tell Sarah to see to the fire in my room ? ' 
 
 I attended to her request myself, and after I had heaped 
 some coals on the grate, could not forbear gazing around the 
 large and handsome apartment, and reflecting on the many 
 strange events that had taken place since I first peeped into 
 this room on my arrival at Gardenhurst. I recalled that night 
 when, from the bedroom overhead, I had heard the handle of 
 a door turned, the tread of a footstep in the garden, the creak 
 of the staircase on the landing. I recalled my astonishment 
 on discovering next morning that both Mr. Ransome and the 
 footman were missing. I recalled the long and tedious 
 interval of suspense that had followed that discovery, and the 
 supposed final solution of the mystery in the visit of Mr. 
 Ransome to Gardenhurst. Who was that man ? Was he 
 indeed Mr. Ransome ? If so, how came my doubts of him ? 
 What grounds had Poole for his positive declaration that this 
 man was not Mr. Ransome ? And who was the dead man who 
 had been unearthed from his resting-place under the trees ? 
 
 As I asked myself these questions, as I reviewed the whole 
 of the conflicting circumstances as they occurred to my mind,
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 313 
 
 I felt that the mystery was darker than ever it had been 
 before ; that the very details which might seem to explain 
 away the most puzzling portions of the enigma had, in reality 
 only more hopelessly complicated it. If the man that had 
 been produced by the Colonel were Mr. Ransome, where was 
 he now ? How was it, that amid the numerous conversations 
 I had with the Colonel and his daughter during the fortnight, 
 no reference to his whereabouts — no comment upon his extra- 
 ordinary and final leave-taking — no conjecture as to his 
 intentions — had ever escaped either of them? And where 
 was Maddox that he was not to be found ? The detection of 
 the footman should have seemed an easier task than the 
 detection of his master ; for, in robbing the house, he had 
 carried away many tokens of his guilt, through any of which 
 the police might trace him. 
 
 A footstep startled me from the reverie into which I had 
 fallen. I left the room, and met Mrs. Ransome coming up- 
 stairs, followed by her father. They wished me good-night 
 as they passed, and I observed that as Mrs. Ransome turned 
 the bend of the staircase, she threw a startled glance at the 
 door of the room in which the body had been lodged. The 
 mere existence of that room was now a horror in the house. 
 The Colonel called to me when I was in the hall — 
 
 ' Miss Avory, I shall not come downstairs again. You 
 can send the servants to bed, and lock up.' 
 ' Very well, sir,' I replied. 
 
 I heard him go with his daughter into her bedroom. He 
 was clearly very anxious about her. 
 
 Had I not secretly shared in the cook's fears, I should no 
 doubt have found them comical enough. She was decidedly 
 annoyed to hear that the Colonel had told me to send the 
 servants to bed, declaring that in her last place the servants 
 never went to bed before eleven ; that for her part she 
 didn't feel at all sleepy ; that six hours' sleep was 
 long enough for anybody in health ; all which meant that 
 she was afraid to go upstairs. Grumbling, and starting at 
 the shadows thrown by her candle, and peering earnestly 
 ahead of her, she passed out of the kitchen, followed by Sarah, 
 who nearly trod her down in her anxiety to keep close. 
 Their footsteps died away, and I was left alone. 
 
 I was not so in love with the silence and loneliness of the 
 lower part of the house at that moment as to care to loiter ; 
 accordingly, I lighted my candle^ and locked up the basement,
 
 3 i 4 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 after raking out the fire in my room. This done, I went 
 upstairs and bolted the hall-doors, and went into the dining- 
 room to see to the fastenings of the windows. I was so used 
 to this last duty of my every day's work that I went about it 
 quite mechanically. I directed my steps to the drawing-room, 
 meaning to extinguish the hall-lamp as I went upstairs. The 
 small flame of my candle barely pierced the gloom of the 
 large room, darkened yet by its sombre drapery, the velvet 
 curtains, the dark walnut furniture, the chocolate-coloured 
 carpet. The atmosphere was raw and nipping. Colder it 
 could scarcely have been had all the windows been wide open. 
 My impression was that one of the windows was open. 
 
 I placed the candle on the table, and walked to the window 
 facing the door. That was fastened ; so was the next. I 
 went to the others facing the terrace. 
 
 Through them— not a window in the house had shutters — 
 I saw the grounds stretching pale beyond the pillars of the 
 terrace — a blank surface of snow gathering depth even as I 
 watched from the flakes which thickened the air. The snow 
 aided by the moon, whose light was not to be eclipsed though 
 her orb was hidden, made a species of twilight in which even 
 objects some distance off were visible. The near bushes, 
 whitened atop, their under-branches blackly marked upon the 
 snow, resembled human beings ; nor was it difficult, by keep- 
 ing the eye fixed on them, to imagine tbat they moved, 
 
 I had halted a moment before the first window overlook- 
 ing the terrace. I now passed to the second. But scarcely had 
 I looked through it, when I shrieked and recoiled. Staring 
 in through it, in a crouching posture, so as to see into the 
 room through the curtains, which were festooned off at the 
 point where his eyes were, was the figure of a man. I could 
 not distinguish his face ; the candle was too far off to reflect 
 its light upon him ; nothing but his outline, sharply defined 
 against the snow, which formed the background, was per- 
 ceptible. 
 
 I stood for a moment rooted to the floor, my mouth dry, 
 my heart beating wildly, my whole body struck motionless by 
 the sudden terror caused me by this unexpected apparition. 
 In that moment the figure motioned with his hand ; the 
 gesture acted upon me like a shock of galvanism. Swiftly as 
 my legs could carry me I fled from the room, and bounded up 
 the stairs. 
 
 I knocked furiously at the Colonel's bedroom door, but
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 315 
 
 elicited no answer ; but in a moment or two Mrs. Ransome's 
 bedroom door was opened, and the Colonel came out. With- 
 in I saw Mrs. Ransome seated before the fire, 
 
 ' What is the matter, Miss Avory ? ' asked the Colonel. 
 
 ' There is a man on the terrace, sir,' I answered, breath- 
 lessly. ' He is looking through the drawing-room window.' 
 
 ' Where is your candle ? ' 
 
 ' I left it burning in the drawing-room.' 
 
 He hurried downstairs. I followed him, taking courage 
 from his presence, and eager to show him where the man had 
 been, in case he should be gone. I heard Mrs. Ransome call 
 to me, but would not stay to answer her. My belief was that 
 the man was Poole. The Colonel had snatched a stick from 
 the hat-stand, and had passed through the drawing-room when 
 I entered ; he was in the act of opening the terrace window. 
 
 ' Be on your guard, sir,' I cried ; ' there may be more than 
 one.' 
 
 ' Let there be a dozen,' he answered, ' some of them shall 
 find me tough enough, I promise. Bring the candle this way.' 
 
 As he spoke he threw open the window and stepped out, 
 grasping his stick with both hands. The bitter night air 
 streamed in and sent shudder after shudder through me. 
 The Colonel stood full in the window, a foot beyond it, look- 
 ing steadily to the right ; and I heard him say ■ 
 
 ' What are you doing there ? ' 
 
 A voice answered. I did not catch tbe words, but the 
 tone thrilled through me as though a voice had spoken from 
 the grave. 
 
 The stick fell from the Colonel's hand ; he threw up his 
 arms in a wild and unaccountable gesture. 
 
 1 At last ! ' he cried. In another instant he had thrust 
 forth his hands and whirled, with the strength of a giant, the 
 man into the room. He had him by the collar ; he retained 
 his hold for several moments, then let go. The man's arms 
 hung idly by his side. The Colonel fell back a step, and they 
 looked at each other without speaking. 
 
 Fifteen days before, dating from that very night, the man 
 I now looked at was supposed to have been at Gardenhurst. 
 Fifteen days before this man had been young-looking, well- 
 dressed, fresh and spruce as any careful buck of the age. 
 
 In a fortnight what had he become ? 
 
 A ragged-faced, bearded, dishevelled madman, with eyes 
 bloodshot, wild and famished ; with features nipped and
 
 316 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 pinched and bloodless ; with a gaze aimless and wandering, 
 but sinister. Could a fortnight work such a change ? This 
 man I knew — knew him as I knew the man before whom he 
 stood stirless in all but his eyes. This was the man who, 
 many months ago, had left the house, whom some thought 
 dead, whom some thought murdered — him, and no other, as 
 surely as he who had confronted the four gentlemen in this 
 very room fifteen days before was not Mr. Ransome ! 
 
 What a sight ! — how piteous ! — how broken ! — how un- 
 speakably changed ! 
 
 He was kept at bay by the Colonel's eyes ; but if ever 
 madness, desperate and hunted, restrained for the moment, 
 but waiting its opportunity, was embodied, it stood there. 
 
 The Colonel's self-possession was extraordinary ; the pas- 
 sion that had burned in him on his discovering who this 
 intruder was, had given way before the tragically wretched 
 aspect the man presented. There would, indeed, have been 
 something unworthy in anger in the presence of such a 
 creature as this ; whom, when the first shock of amazement 
 had passed from me, I could not behold without compassion. 
 To all appearance frozen by the cold, he yet seemed insensible 
 to the sufferings it must have caused him. His clothes were 
 thin, and scarcely fitted to protect the body from the chill 
 even of a spring night. They were, moreover, soiled and 
 worn and travel-stained. His beard was short and curly, but 
 obviously the growth of many weeks. His hair was long and 
 (he had removed his hat when the Colonel had released him, 
 and there was something indescribably touching in this purely 
 mechanical act of courtesy) fell in tangled curls about his 
 forehead. He never looked either at the Colonel or me, but 
 glanced round the room, and frequently in the direction of 
 the door. 
 
 The silence was broken by the Colonel. He had been 
 looking at him fixedly, and now said : 
 
 ' What do you want here at this hour ? ' 
 
 1 1 have come to see my wife,' he replied, and as he made 
 this answer he looked at me momentarily and smiled. 
 
 ' You choose a strange hour to return to her. You have 
 been more than half a year away. Where have you been all 
 this time ? ' 
 
 The Colonel asked these questions quite calmly. But he 
 looked at the man as he would look at a hound who might fly 
 at his throat if he averted his eye.
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 317 
 
 1 1 will tell my wife where I have been and why I left her. 
 Let me see her.' 
 
 ' You cannot see her now. To-morrow, perhaps. Where 
 do you come from ? are you stopping at Copsford '? ' 
 
 ' I am stopping nowhere. I have my fancies, and I go 
 where they lead me.' He looked downwards with a smile 
 and added, ' Am I not well-dressed enough to see my wife ? 
 If not, let me go to my room. I have clothes there.' 
 
 He addressed himself to me ; that is, with his face turned 
 in my direction, but with his eyes on the floor. ' And I can 
 shave also, and wash myself. I can shave by candle-light. 
 She'll know me then.' 
 
 The Colonel glanced at me. He was obviously, for the 
 moment, at a loss to know how to act. The flame of the 
 candle I held was waved to and fro by the draught from the 
 open window. He noticed this rather than the bitter cold of 
 the night air, and desired me to close the window. I put the 
 candle down and turned to obey his order. Mr. Eansome 
 took the candle in his hand. 
 
 ' I know where my room is and Avhere my wife sleeps,' he 
 said, with a strange mixture of courtesy and cunning in his 
 manner. ' Do not trouble to accompany me.' 
 
 He made a step towards the door. The Colonel seized 
 his arm and took the candle from him. 
 
 ' I have told you that you cannot see your wife to-night,' 
 he said ; ' if you are in want of a lodging I will accompany 
 you to Copsford and obtain one for you.' 
 
 The man stood stock-still, looking irresolutely and with 
 the expression I well remembered from the door to the 
 ground, over and over again. 
 
 ' I have my sleeping-places and can find them without 
 help,' he said, after a short pause. ' I have come to see my 
 wife. You cannot prevent me from seeing her, sir. She is 
 lawfully my wife, and I claim the right to see her.' 
 
 He raised his voice, and there were symptoms of irritation 
 in his subdued but rapid gestures. I noticed that he put his 
 hand to his breast and kept it there a moment. 
 
 The perfectly sane manner in which he spoke threw the 
 Colonel off his guard. 
 
 ' You dare not say that you have the right to see your 
 wife. You deserted her many months ago, and by so doing 
 have forfeited your claims as a husband. You have brought 
 misery and shame upon her and me ! Coward! — beware ! do
 
 318 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 not anger me. I have many wrongs to avenge — do not force 
 me to recur to them at this moment.' 
 
 His eyes shone, he clenched his fist, and advanced a step as 
 though awaiting or provoking an excuse to strike. I trembled 
 from head to foot. His passion seemed to transform him 
 into a figure of iron. I transferred my gaze to the nerveless, 
 attenuated madman, and felt that let him give but a sign and 
 I should witness him prostrate and bleeding on the ground. 
 
 The wretched creature's hand again sought his breast, 
 and he glanced towards the door. 
 
 It opened at that moment— opened wide — and Mrs. Ran- 
 some stood on the threshold. I heard the madman shriek ; I 
 saw him spring towards her. The Colonel was after him like 
 a flash of light ; a pistol-shot rang through the room ; and 
 while the echoes of the report still reverberated, both men 
 were on the ground locked in a deadly straggle. 
 
 I stood for a moment transfixed, and then rushed forward. 
 Mrs. Ransome kept her place in the doorway. In the gloom 
 I could not for a moment or two tell which man was under- 
 most , but when I had approached close I beheld the Colonel 
 kneeling on Mr. Ransome's breast both hands upon his throat. 
 The madman's face was livid with strangulation ; there was 
 foam upon his lips, white and thick ; his arms beat the floor; 
 his eyes were upturned and showed the whites with horrid 
 effect against the dusky skin in which they were set. 
 
 ' You will kill him ! ' I shrieked, and looked imploringly at 
 Mrs. Ransome , but she resembled a grand image of stone 
 motionlessly gazing down upon the shocking spectacle. 
 
 ' You will kill him, sir ! ' I shrieked again ; and in my 
 agony and misery I could have thrown myself upon the men 
 and plucked those remorseless fingers from the choking throat. 
 
 ' Fetch me a rope — quick ! ' cried the Colonel ; never shift- 
 ing his attitude, swaying only to the movements of the tortured 
 body he was strangling. 
 
 There was a box-cord in the pantry. I had seen it there 
 that morning. I rushed into the hall, groped my way down- 
 stairs, felt for and found the cord, and returned with it. 
 
 The madman lay still enough. I thought he was dead. 
 The Colonel let go his hold of the wretch's throat to take the 
 line But no sooner had he raised his hands than Mr. Ransome 
 gave a twist, dislodged the Colonel, gained his feet, and rushed 
 towards his wife. She fled to her father with a wild and peal- 
 ing cry, eluding by a hair's breadth the outstretched hands of
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY 319 
 
 the madman. In a moment he was down again, felled by a 
 blow that brought him to the earth like a log ; and with mar- 
 vellous rapidity and presence of mind the Colonel was winding 
 the cord round and round him. 
 
 He stood up when his task was done, breathless and pant- 
 ing. Mrs. Ransome cowered near him. 
 
 ' Are you hurt ? ' he asked her, gasping out his words. 
 
 ' No,' she answered. 
 
 ' Miss Avory I dare not leave this man. You must go to 
 Copsford, and procure help.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; ' and I was preparing to leave the room when 
 the madman began to plunge. His efforts to liberate himself 
 from his bonds were frightful to witness. He kept his eyes 
 on his wife, and wrestled madly with his arms, sometimes 
 getting on to his knees, and then falling backwards or forwards 
 as the case might be, cursing and blaspheming, and plunging 
 amid such cries as might fitly issue from the lips of the 
 damned. He was raving mad now, and with his discoloured 
 face and flaming eyes formed a picture the awfulness of which 
 I cannot believe was ever paralleled. 
 
 ' Away with you, Miss Avory ! ' cried the Colonel. ' If you 
 are afraid to go alone, waken the other servants, and make 
 them accompany you.' 
 
 1 1 am not afraid to go alone, sir.' 
 
 And as I made this answer, I hastened out of the room. 
 In less than five minutes I was equipped in cloak and bonnet, 
 and toiling through the deep snow. 
 
 I was not above a dozen yards away from the house, when 
 I was brought to a stand by the sound of a second pistol-shot, 
 instantly followed by a scream. My momentary belief was 
 that the man had actually accomplished the object which 
 manifestly had brought him to the house, by shooting his wife. 
 Faint with fear and horror I staggered back to the house. 
 The door of course was closed. I rang furiously, waited, rang 
 again and yet again. Had my ears deceived me ? Was the 
 shot I had heard but the echo ringing in my head of the first 
 shot that had been fired in the drawing-room ? 
 
 Hark ! footsteps came quickly along the passage ; the door 
 was opened. 
 
 ' Who is that ? ' demanded the voice of the Colonel. 
 
 1 1, sir. Has Mrs. Ransome been shot ? : 
 
 ' No. Come this way — see for yourself.' 
 
 The passage and anteroom were in pitch darkness ; I
 
 3 20 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 groped my way after him, and gained the hall, where the lamp 
 burned brilliantly, and followed into the drawing-room. 
 
 I saw what had happened quickly enough. Mr. Ransome 
 had succeeded in liberating his right arm from the rope in 
 which the Colonel had bound him ; twisted along the floor to 
 where the pistol with which he had aimed at his wife had 
 fallen, and shot himself with it. He lay on his left side, stone 
 dead, with a dark spot over the right temple. 
 
 Mrs. Ransome was in a swoon, upon the floor, with the 
 two pale and horrified servants whom the pistol-shots had 
 brought from their beds, busy about her. One of them had 
 brought a candle, and this helped the illumination of the 
 candle I had myself left in the drawing-room. But both of 
 them together shed but a very imperfect light, and the strange 
 and shocking tragedy seemed to borrow not a little of its ghast- 
 liness from the gloom that lowered sullenly in the large room. 
 
 • He had shot himself,' said the Colonel to me in a whisper, 
 ' before I could raise my hand. He was bellowing one mo- 
 ment, and then he was still ; and I went to my daughter, 
 meaning to conduct her past him out of the room. But 
 scarcely had I turned my back, when the shot was fired. My 
 daughter screamed, and fainted. I thought he had killed her. 
 I rushed back, and saw that he had shot himself. Look at 
 him. He still holds the pistol, do you see? It is double- 
 barrelled— observe that ! There is no doubt that he meant 
 to kill her first, and then himself.' 
 
 * Is he dead, sir ? ' I asked, trembling violently. 
 
 ' Dead ? Ay ! would you wish it otherwise ? You need 
 not linger. Go and ring the inspector up, and tell him what 
 has happened. The end has come, indeed ! You told me you 
 were not afraid to walk alone— are you ? Both those women 
 shall accompany you if you wish.' 
 
 He was almost wild with excitement, and gasped out his 
 words in the strangest manner. 
 
 ' I will go, sir, at once.' 
 
 ' I dare not leave the body, for fear that it should be dis- 
 turbed,' he continued, walking with me to the door. • His 
 attitude as he lies dead there proves suicide. That hand of 
 his clutching the pistol bears witness to the doer of this deed. 
 Do you understand me ? Murder has been talked of for a long 
 while. He must not be touched. Let the inspector find him 
 as he is. The villain is his own witness now. Lose no time, 
 Miss Avory.'
 
 321 
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 
 
 {Concluded.) 
 
 I take up the thread of the story at the point where Miss 
 Avory begins her second instalment — namely, on the day on 
 which I quitted Gardenhurst for London, in obedience to the 
 letter of the detective, Johnson, whose positive declaration 
 that he had found Mr. Eansome left me in no doubt of the 
 success of his quest. 
 
 That letter had found me hopeless. Over and over again 
 I had patiently pondered every chance that was in the least 
 likely to occur to remove from my daughter's character the 
 stain that Mrs. Ransome's accusation had left upon it. I had 
 advertised in the then most popular prints, offering a large 
 reward for the discovery of the man whose description I gave. 
 I had set to work one Mathewson, the same who had given 
 me information respecting the writer of the letter signed 
 ' Justitia,' to make patient and diligent inquiry, not only in 
 Copsford, but throughout the neighbourhood, after the two 
 missing men. I had offered, through the inspector, a reward 
 to any of the constables under him who should bring me in- 
 formation regarding either Mr. Ransome or Maddox. 
 
 In vain. My advertisements were unanswered. My Cops- 
 ford emissary could obtain no clue of any kind, though he ques- 
 tioned the country-people far and wide. The inspector never 
 had any news to give me. And, worse than all, my London man, 
 Johnson, in whoin I had lodged all my hopes, remained silent. 
 
 My depression at times was overwhelming. In a sense I 
 became a monomaniac. My mind refused to admit any other 
 thought but the one question — How was this mystery to be 
 solved ? My imagination grew intolerably morbid. Miserable 
 misgivings possessed me, the darkest of which was a suspicion 
 of my daughter. I own that there were times when it seemed 
 to me likely that she knew what had become of her husband. 
 What could her resolute denials prove ? Her protestations of
 
 322 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 innocence were inflamed with passion, and increased my fears. 
 Her fierce allusions to her husband terrified me, as the delirium 
 of guilt rendered callous by hate and rage. There was another 
 consideration that staggered me — the haughty and contemp- 
 tuous intrepidity with which she had at first encountered my 
 suspicions. I never thought of referring this attitude to the 
 indignation and pride of conscious innocence. 
 
 I could scarcely credit my senses when I received John- 
 son's letter. But the summons to London was peremptory, 
 and, as you have read, I lost no time in obeying it. 
 
 The day was a detestable one, wet, windy, and depressing 
 to the last degree. At Copsford I hired a post-chaise, which 
 
 took me to L at a gallop, and I was just in time to catch 
 
 the up-coach. I remember that journey as clearly as I 
 remember anything ; the wet and hazy landscape, the damp, 
 silent passengers, the deserted streets of the town through 
 which we passed, the gloomy and humid coffee-room in which 
 we dined, our entry into London, with the yellow lights 
 shining through the fog. 
 
 It was half-past seven. Johnson, who had calculated the 
 hour at which the coach would arrive, had appointed to meet 
 me at a coffee-house in the Strand. A church clock was 
 striking eight when the fly that had brought me from 
 Southwark set me down at the house. 
 
 Johnson waited for me in a private room behind the bar. 
 He was a thin, undersized man, with a pale, inflexible face, 
 iron-grey eyebrows, small whiskers, and a steady, resolute 
 manner. He had for many years followed the queer profes- 
 sion of hunting down people and hunting up evidence, and 
 had been recommended to me by the Copsford solicitor aa 
 singularly keen, patient, and sagacious. 
 
 ' Good evening, sir,' said he. ' You have had a cold ride 
 to London. Never remember this month so wintry before.' 
 
 'I had given up all hope of ever hearing from you,' I 
 replied. 
 
 He smiled, dropped his mouth on one side, and suggested 
 that something hot would do me good after my journey. He 
 also suggested that something hot would do him good after 
 his waiting. His taste led him to boiling hot rum and lemon- 
 peel. Our wants having been supplied, he routed the fire 
 into a blaze, took a chair on one side of it, and without more 
 kdo related his story. That story he conveyed with very 
 remarkable brevity, by the simple means of omitting half the
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 323 
 
 words another man would have used, and by relating only 
 the actual facts of it. 
 
 It was to this effect : — 
 
 Unknown to me, he had begun his inquiries by stopping 
 at Copsfordfor two days. By this sojourn he gained nothing. 
 So he set to work to beat the neighbourhood. A man 
 answering to Mr. Ransome' s description had been seen to 
 pass along the road leading to Sandwell a few days before ; 
 he followed, called at every inn and tavern in the place, but 
 obtained no tidings. He travelled to the next town, and 
 there procured information that led him further north. He 
 had, he believed, lighted on the track of Mr. Ransome, and 
 the one or two stories he told me of his manner of making 
 inquiries astounded me by the cunning and cleverness they 
 illustrated. 
 
 Step by step he traced the man through half-a-dozen 
 towns and villages, and finally landed himself at Guildford, 
 having in his progress made the circuit of two counties. 
 
 It only remained for him to find out the bouse in whicli 
 Mr. Ransome had put up. But tbis took him a whole day. 
 The house was a mean tavern, up a back street. But the 
 discovery was made a day too late. The landlord positively 
 declared that the gentleman who, he said, had called himself 
 a Guildford man, though he had never seen him before, and 
 who, in his opinion, was mad, had left that morning for 
 London, having slept one night in his house. 
 
 I had explained to Johnson the nature of the suspicions 
 that were entertained against Phoebe ; and he would therefore 
 have known, by communicating the news that Mr. Ransome 
 was alive, that those suspicions must fall dead. But he was 
 too slow and careful a man to report on hearsay evidence 
 only. He could never imagine that it would have infinitely 
 relieved my misgivings of Phcebe to learn that Mr. Ransome 
 was living, for the reason that he had no notion that I ques- 
 tioned my daughter's innocence. I had informed him that 
 there was no chance of obtaining my daughter's acquittal at 
 the hands of public opinion until Mr. Ransome was found 
 and produced ; and so, until Mr. Ransome was found, he saw 
 no end to be gained by writing to me. 
 
 At the booking-office of the coach he substantiated the 
 landlord's information by the testimony of the book-keeper, 
 who stated that the man described had started for London 
 by the coach that morning. 
 
 y 2
 
 324 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 There was nothing to do then but follow Mr. Ransome to 
 London. He admitted that the quest took the aspect of a 
 difficult and chance affair, now that it was to be pushed in 
 a metropolis in which the hiding-places were as numerous as 
 the population. 
 
 Many weeks passed of which he offered no account. He 
 might wish me to suppose that he had been vigilant and 
 active all this time ; and doubtless he was, as the sequel 
 showed. 
 
 He was walking up Oxford Street one night, when there 
 passed him a man whom he instantly turned and followed. 
 The light of a street lamp had disclosed a face which seemed 
 to correspond in every particular with the description he had 
 received of Mr. Ransome. The man went as far as the 
 Tottenham Court Road, where he entered a chop-house, and 
 supped. He then came out, walked up Oxford Street, and 
 turned into Berners Street. "When halfway advanced along 
 the street, he stopped before a house and admitted himself 
 with a latch-key. 
 
 Johnson watched this man for several days and nights 
 running. He discovered that he never emerged in the day- 
 time ; that his regular hour for sallying forth was about 
 half-past ten at night ; and that his object for so sallying 
 forth was for no more sinister purpose than to obtain some 
 supper and some exercise. 
 
 Such habits, coupled with the striking resemblance of the 
 man to Mr. Ransome, would naturally confirm Johnson in 
 his theory that his long search was ended at last. But he 
 was too cautious to form conclusions by what be saw only. 
 He boldly presented himself at the house, and had an inter- 
 view with the landlady, whom he easily pledged to secrecy, 
 by representing that her lodger was a man of fortune, who 
 had run away from his friends, and that, if she would help 
 him to restore the gentleman, who was eccentric, to his home, 
 she might depend upon receiving a reward. By this means 
 he learned that the lodger had been four months in the house ; 
 that he went under the name of Cleveland ; that she was 
 positive that was not his real name ; that he was singular in 
 his habits ; that she could not tell where he came from ; and 
 she finally ended by informing Johnson that, from what he 
 had told her, she had not the least doubt her lodger was the 
 person he was in search of. 
 
 Such was Johnson's story, the whole of which was con-
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 325 
 
 veyed in about ten minutes, in brief, dry monosyllables, 
 whilst he sipped his rum and water, and aired his legs at 
 the fire. 
 
 ' And now, what is to be done ? ' I asked. 
 
 1 You must see him.' 
 
 1 Certainly. At his lodgings ? ' 
 
 ' No ; he'll sup to-night in Tottenham Court Road. He 
 has three cook-shops, and he takes 'em in turns. We'll go 
 there, and you shall have a look at him through the glass 
 door, when the time comes.' 
 
 < What time ? ' 
 
 ' Eleven o'clock.' 
 
 I was in the humour to witness nothing inconsistent 
 with the part I deemed this madman capable of playing 
 in any piece of personal information about him that Johnson 
 could tell me of. That he should sup furtively at low 
 cook-shops was in nowise more surprising than that he 
 should run away from his home, and hide himself in 
 London and elsewhere, for no other reason than because 
 he was mad. 
 
 The long time Johnson and I had to wait before the hour 
 for repairing to Tottenham Court Road arrived could not be 
 more fitly employed than by our ordering and eating a 
 supper. I was in a high state of excitement, and was per- 
 fectly satisfied by the answers Johnson made to my num- 
 berless inquiries that the man he had discovered was Mr. 
 Ransome. He was equally confident, and in great spirits, 
 which he expressed by a fixed and cunning smile, and 
 numerous winks and odd, ironical ejaculations. 
 
 The coffee-house in which we supped was a very re- 
 spectable house, and since I was in it, I thought I might as 
 well sleep there as anywhere else. I therefore ordered a 
 bedroom to be got ready, and a fire lighted ; and having 
 made this arrangement for passing the night, prepared to 
 accompany Johnson to Tottenham Court Road. 
 
 He had watched his man long enough to count with 
 security upon the regularity of his habits ; but of course, he 
 told me, he could not guarantee that the man would be at 
 the chop-house at eleven, or at any other hour that night. 
 We must take our chance ; under any circumstances he could 
 certainly procure me a view of the man next day. 
 
 The night was a cheerless one, raw and foggy, slushy 
 under foot, thick and black overhead. The flyman chose
 
 326 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 those intricate and grimy streets which lie between Holborn 
 and the Strand ; and in some of them the only signs of life 
 and light visible came from the public-house, where, as we 
 rattled past, I might catch a glimpse of a white -faced, 
 hungry -looking crowd, assembled round the bar, and a 
 woman or two outside in the street waiting, and presently 
 overtake a drunken man reeling to his home. 
 
 It was ten minutes to eleven when we alighted at the 
 corner of Tottenham Court Koad. I told the driver to wait, 
 and went with Johnson up the street. On the right, a few 
 minutes' walk from the corner, was a little chop-house— low 
 pitched, with a couple of shelves in its window, upon which 
 were displayed to the best advantage such eatables as the 
 proprietor might think would best attract customers. The 
 glass entrance-door was closed. Johnson stepped up to it, 
 and looked through, came back to me, and said, 'He's not 
 there yet.' 
 
 I pulled my shawl well about my mouth and ears, and 
 with Johnson at my side, twice took the turn of the pavement, 
 from where the fly stood to the chop-house. I had plenty of 
 patience, and was ready to wait as long as Johnson should 
 think necessary. 
 
 We were returning, with our faces directed up the pave- 
 ment, when a man passed us, walking quickly, going the 
 same way with ourselves. 
 
 Johnson pulled my sleeve. 
 
 ' There he is,' he exclaimed. 
 
 I stepped out briskly ; but before I could get near enough 
 to enable me to see his face he turned into the chop-house. 
 
 ' Go to the door, sir, and look at him,' said Johnson. 
 
 I went close to the glass, and peered through it ; while 
 Johnson remained outside. The man stood at the counter, 
 waiting to address the shopman, who was attending to an 
 old man at a side table. The interior of the shop was well 
 lighted, and I waited with indescribable anxiety for the man 
 to turn his head. He was dressed in a thick topcoat, dark 
 trousers, and a low-crowned, broad. brimmed hat, fashionable 
 at the time for country wear, and such as I had myself seen 
 on Mr. Ransome at Gardenhurst. 
 
 During some moments he kept his face turned away, so 
 that I could only see the back of his head ; but he presently 
 looked round, Avith an impatient gesture, and I saw Mr. 
 Eansome, as I remembered him at Broadstairs, cleanly-
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 327 
 
 shaved, long-jawed, the moustache long on the upper lip, 
 the eyes black ! 
 
 In the conviction that possessed me that this was the 
 man, I could have rushed forward and seized him, so fierce 
 was the sudden passion the sight of him excited in me. 
 Johnson unconsciously restrained me by a whisper. 
 
 ' Is he the man you want ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' I answered, so agitated that I could scarcely 
 articulate. 
 
 ' You are quite sure, sir ? ' 
 
 I looked at the man again. 
 
 He kept his hat on. I wished that he would remove it. 
 Beyond all possibility of delusion the resemblance was too 
 startling for me to conceive it an accident. There was 
 indeed something wanting in the attitude, something wanting 
 in the movements of the body — for he was now speaking to 
 the shopman — which would have dissatisfied me there and 
 then but for the overwhelming impression produced by the 
 face. It was long since I had seen Mr. Ransome. I had 
 to date my recollection of him virtually from my acquaint- 
 ance with him at Broadstairs ; for my visit to Garden- 
 hurst when he was there had been short, and my impres- 
 sions confused by my anxiety and the discomforts of my 
 brief stay. 
 
 ' If I could hear him speak,' I whispered, ' I should be 
 more satisfied.' 
 
 ' Impossible now, sir,' replied Johnson. ' If he should see 
 you, it's ten to one if, on going to his lodgings to-morrow, we 
 shouldn't find him bolted. Come away if you please. I'll 
 tell you my plans as we go along.' 
 
 I walked with him to the fly, and we started for the 
 Strand. His plans were simple enough. He would call for 
 me at ten o'clock next morning and accompany me to Berners 
 Street. The landlady, on my telling her that her lodger was 
 the man I sought, would take me to him, heedless of the 
 injunction he had given her to admit no one who asked to see 
 him. This had been arranged between her and Johnson. It 
 was best that I should have my interview with Mr. Ransome 
 alone. Johnson would remain downstairs. I should have to 
 use my own judgment in dealing with the man , but if he 
 refused to show himself at Copsford, I must then take measures 
 to obtain conclusive testimony to his being alive. 
 
 I bade Johnson good- night at the door of the coffee-house,
 
 323 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 and he walked away towards Charing Cross. Wearied by my 
 journey and the excitement of the day, I called for a candle 
 and went to bed ; but not to sleep for a long while after I had 
 extinguished the light. The windows of my bedroom over- 
 looked the Strand, and the incessant clattering of the vehicles 
 passing to and fro over the stones, until my ears got used to 
 the noise, kept sleep banished as effectually as if a drummer 
 had been stationed in the room. I heard the unfamiliar 
 chimes of the church-clocks striking about me, and the mur- 
 mur of voices in the room overhead and next door. More- 
 over my bedroom was small, stuffy, and oppressively furnished 
 with curtains which loaded the bed, and loaded the windows, 
 and made breathing a matter of calculation and labour. 
 
 But I should have fared no better, as respected rest, had I 
 occupied my room at Gardenhurst. The one question that 
 engrossed me was — was the man I had seen Mr. Ransome ? 
 Had I dared to own the truth to myself, I should have 
 answered in the negative. It had been Mr. Ransome's face 
 — his height— his figure; but with something missing: a 
 subtle something my memory was powerless to define, though 
 it felt the want. 
 
 But my doubt of his identity would involve too over- 
 whelming a disappointment, too heavy a shock to the hopes 
 on whose fulfilment I had counted with reckless and deter- 
 mined confidence to suffer me to admit it. I reasoned that 
 in the time during which the man had been absent from his 
 home he had changed ; he might be less mad ; the eccentric 
 life upon which he had voluntarily entered might have modi- 
 fied by conditions of its own, which I could not guess, the 
 characteristics of movement, of glance, of attitude, which I 
 seemed to remember in my daughter's husband, and which I 
 had missed in the man Johnson had taken me to see. In the 
 months which had elapsed since I had last beheld him, his 
 insanity might have sobered and wrought the subtle change 
 which baffled and frightened me. I ought to have managed 
 somehow to hear his voice. Johnson should have suffered me 
 to linger a little while longer at the door to observe if he 
 removed his hat. Had I been permitted to obtain more 
 evidence of the man's identity by a longer observation of 
 him, I should have been spared the miserable and tormenting 
 hours of suspense which found me sleepless even after the 
 dawn had brightened on the window-blinds. 
 
 I was up and dressed by nine, and had finished breakfast
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 329 
 
 when Johnson arrived. The streets were still full of fog, amid 
 which hung the sun, a copper-coloured ball. My morning's 
 reflections had deepened my misgivings that the man we were 
 about to visit was not the man I wanted ; but I did not 
 express my fears to Johnson. 
 
 ' We'll stop at the corner of the street,' he said, as we 
 entered a fly. ' If we drove up to the door the sound of the 
 wheels might make him look out of the window. He mustn't 
 see you. Stand well in the door when you've knocked.' 
 
 ' Am I to ask for Mr. Cleveland ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, and give your name. The landlady '11 know who 
 you are then.' 
 
 Yv T e alighted at the corner of Berners Street and dismissed 
 the fly. When we had walked a short distance, Johnson 
 said, ' Yonder's the house. Go and knock boldly, and keep 
 well to the door.' 
 
 I did as he bade me, whilst he walked leisurely forwards, 
 looking across the street away from the house that his face 
 might not be seen. He returned when the door was opened. 
 
 ' I wish to see Mr. Cleveland,' I said to the woman, whom 
 I judged, and soon discovered, to be the landlady. ' My name 
 is Colonel Kilmain.' 
 
 She looked hard at me, caught sight of Johnson, smiled, 
 and asked me to walk in. 
 
 Johnson followed me into the hall. 
 
 ' Is he up ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Yes, having breakfast,' answered the woman. 
 
 ' Better walk up at once, sir,' said Johnson, interrupting 
 me as I was about to ask the landlady some questions. ' I'll 
 stop here. Just direct the gentleman, missis.' 
 
 Although I had formed no plan of action, I followed the 
 woman upstairs, having very little doubt that, if the man 
 turned out to be Mr. Ransome, I should soon find out what 
 to do. We went up three flights of stairs, and the landlady, 
 halting on the landing, pointed to the door on the right, and 
 said in a whisper — 
 
 ' You had best walk straight in, sir ; for if he should guess 
 who you are, he might turn the key, and then there'd be no 
 chanse of getting at him at all.' 
 
 Spying which, she went downstairs, whilst I walked to the 
 door, beat an apologetic rap with my knuckles, and entered 
 quickly. 
 
 I found myself in a bedroom. Up in a corner stood a
 
 330 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 gloomy fourposter, and near the door was a chimney, with a 
 small fire burning in the grate and a little kettle singing on 
 the fire. A round table had been pushed to the window, and 
 on it was an apology for a white tablecloth, furnished with a 
 plate, a cup, a loaf of bread, an egg, and a teapot. 
 
 At this table was seated the gentleman whom I had 
 viewed through the glass door of the chop-house, breakfasting, 
 in his shirt-sleeves, unshaved, collarless, and with his un- 
 brushed hair so exact a counterpart of Mr. Ransome's that 
 for a moment or two I stood motionless, persuaded that my 
 daughter's husband was before me. 
 
 He looked at me with profound astonishment, turning 
 slowly in his chair, and letting fall the knife with which he 
 was about to help himself to a slice of bread. Then jumping 
 up, he exclaimed — 
 
 ' Who the deuce are you, sir ? and what do you want in 
 my bedroom ? ' 
 
 His voice disillusioned me in a second. Had he under- 
 gone a bodily transformation, I should not more certainly have 
 known that he was not the man I wanted. 
 
 Perhaps in some small measure I had anticipated the 
 disappointment ; but the blow was not the less prostrating. 
 I felt myself turn deadly pale, I breathed with difficulty, and 
 put my hand against the wall to steady myself. 
 
 He continued staring at me with unfeigned amazement. 
 If he thought me mad, nothing could have been more just 
 than his supposition. 
 
 ' I apologise for this intrusion,' I stammered. ' I have 
 been misled. This is a dreadful mistake.' 
 
 ' Have you come to see me ? ' he asked, taking me in from 
 top to toe and eyeing me very suspiciously. 
 
 ' No,' I answered ; ' not you, but a man whom you closely 
 resemble, named Ransome.' 
 
 ' My name is Cleveland,' he exclaimed quickly. ' I gave 
 orders to the landlady of this house not to admit anybody who 
 asked for me.' 
 
 ' The whole thing,' I replied, recovering a little of my 
 composure, ' is a mistake. I was so confident that you were 
 Mr. Ransome that I did not scruple to intrude upon you. 
 I beg, sir, that you will accept my most humble apology.' 
 
 ' Oh, no need to say that,' he exclaimed, softening as if by 
 magic. 4 I see that you are disappointed and distressed. 
 Pray sit and rest yourself.'
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 331 
 
 I was about to decline to intrude upon him an instant 
 longer when, struck anew by bis startling resemblance to Mr. 
 Ransome, an extraordinary thought entered my mind. It 
 came upon me like an electric shock, terrifying me by its 
 audacity, and yet fascinating me too by its extreme practica- 
 bility. I remained rooted to the ground whilst I watched 
 him hurriedly slip on a collar and his coat ; and then, 
 breaking away from the spell in which my idea had bound 
 me, I pulled a chair forwards and seated myself. 
 
 He had now made himself presentable and resumed his seat. 
 
 ' You have no need to make any apologies,' he said, after 
 keeping bis eyes fixed on me for some time in expectation of 
 being addressed ; ' and there is no necessity to explain unless 
 you want to do so. I see that this is a mistake ; though it's a 
 rather curious one, isn't it ? ' 
 
 ' So curious,' I replied, ' that I should not feel justified in 
 quitting this room until I had satisfied you that I am the 
 victim of an extraordinary error and a most bitter disappoint- 
 ment. Can you spare me ten minutes ? Or, if you should 
 wish to be alone, will you allow me to call upon you in the 
 course of tbe day at any hour you may name ? ' 
 
 ' You don't trespass,' he answered ; ' I was just finishing 
 my breakfast. Will you have a cup of tea ? ' 
 
 I thanked him, and he poured some tea into a cup, which 
 he took from the mantelshelf. His manner was wonderfully 
 cool and easy. When silent, his resemblance to Mr. Ransome 
 was extraordinary ; but when he spoke, his voice aud the 
 expressions which entered his face modified tbe likeness. 
 The essential difference between the two men lay in the eyes. 
 This man's were black, but clear ; but Mr. Ransome's were 
 dusky, not brilliant, and the irids tinged the whites. 
 
 I was about to begin my story when I recollected that 
 Johnson waited below. It was manifest that, if the plan 
 I was now fully resolved to submit to Mr. Cleveland (as I 
 must henceforth call him) was to be carried out, Johnson 
 must not guess that we had mistaken the man. I therefore 
 explained that I had left a companion in tbe hall, whom I 
 did not wish to keep waiting, and with an apology for quitting 
 the room, I hastened downstairs, taking care to leave my hat 
 behind me, that he might know I should return. When I 
 reached the second landing, I leaned over the banisters and 
 called to Johnson, who was seated on a hall chair, sucking 
 the top of his stick.
 
 332 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 He looked up. 
 
 ' It's all right,' I said ; « you need not stop. Call at the 
 coffee-house to-night at nine.' 
 
 ' Right you are, sir,' he answered, nodded coolly, walked to 
 the hall door and let himself out. Of course, if I was satis- 
 fied, he was. He had, he considered, done the work for which I 
 had hired him, and had nothing more to do but take his money. 
 
 I returned to the bedroom, repeating my apology for 
 having left it, and begging Mr. Cleveland to have a little 
 patience, as I would presently explain to him who this man 
 was I had dismissed. The feeling that Johnson was out of 
 the house, somehow, increased my courage. I carefully shut 
 the door, and drawing a chair close to the table, began my 
 story without further word of preface. There was little that 
 I either softened or omitted. Every moment was confirming 
 my resolution to use this man as an instrument for freeing 
 my daughter from the suspicion of having murdered her 
 husband ; and I plainly perceived that my initial step must 
 be to closely and faithfully relate every particular connected 
 with Mr. Kansome's mysterious disappearance. 
 
 'And now, sir,' I said, bringing my story to an end, ' you 
 understand the reason of this intrusion upon you, and the 
 bitter disappointment the discovery that you are not the man 
 the detective has been searching for causes me.' 
 
 ' Perfectly. I wish I were the man, for my own sake. Do 
 you smoke ? I can offer you some tobacco.' 
 
 ' Thank you, I have some cigars ; will you take one ? ' 
 
 I handed him my case ; he extracted a cigar and 
 lighted it. 
 
 'Ami so very like Mr. Ransome ? ' he asked, stretching 
 himself backwards, and looking at me with a smile. 
 
 ' So like that I could have sworn you were he when I saw 
 you last night.' 
 
 ' But all the same, I can't think much of your detective's 
 sharpness for bringing you up from the country before making 
 sure that I was somebody else.' 
 
 ' You must remember,' I answered, ' that every inquiry he 
 made appeared to corroborate the strong evidence of the like- 
 ness. You have been here four months.' 
 
 ' Yes, that's true.' 
 
 ' Your habits are — well, I must call them singular. You 
 keep indoors all day — pray pardon me; I wish to show you 
 the reasons for the detective being deceived.'
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 333 
 
 'No offence,' he exclaimed coolly ; ' but how the deuce do 
 you know that I have been here four months, and that I stop 
 indoors all day ? ' 
 
 1 Johnson got this information from the landlady — acting, 
 you will understand, under the impression that you were Mr. 
 Eansome.' 
 
 ' Ah ! and what else did my landlady say ? ' 
 
 I should have been going too far to have asserted that the 
 landlady had hinted his name was assumed. There was no 
 direct proof of that ; moreover, his affairs could no longer be 
 objects of my curiosity now. So I replied that what I had 
 told him was, I believed, the chief information Johnson had 
 obtained from the landlady. 
 
 He smoked unconcernedly for some moments, and then, 
 glancing at me, exclaimed — 
 
 ' Mr. Johnson might have got me into a mess. You have 
 been very candid, and no harm can be done if I follow your 
 example. My own story is not quite so tragical as Mr. Ran- 
 some's — indeed, I am afraid it is dreadfully vulgar and com- 
 monplace. I am in hiding from my creditors.' 
 
 He laughed, and added, 'What a good cigar this is! Smok- 
 ing such tobacco recalls old times.' 
 
 ' Are your debts heavy ? ' 
 
 ' Pretty heavy. I would rather be here than in the Fleet. 
 I'll tell you a secret ; I am waiting for a chance to get abroad.' 
 
 ' I am going to ask you some questions, not out of curi- 
 osity, but for a motive I will presently explain. My difficulty 
 is heavier than yours. We can help each other. If you will 
 extricate me, I will extricate you. You speak of getting abroad. 
 Where do you wish to go ? ' 
 
 ' America.' 
 
 1 Have you no friends in this country who will help you ? ' 
 
 ' I have tired the governor out,' he replied, flipping his 
 cigar-ash over the carpet. ' I dare not even write to him, for 
 he has sworn in the last letter he sent to give my address to 
 my creditors if I apply to him for money again.' 
 
 ' What money do you require to carry you abroad ? ' 
 
 ' I could do with two hundred. I have written twice to a 
 screw of an uncle, and got a letter this morning from him en- 
 closing ten pounds. What's the use of ten pounds ? I can't 
 begin life on that. And if the bailiffs nab me, I'm done for ; 
 there's not a relative but would rather see me dead in jail 
 than advance the money I owe to get me out.'
 
 334 IS HE THE MAN ? 
 
 ' I'll give you two hundred pounds if you will do what I 
 want.' 
 
 He looked at me steadily a moment, sucked his cigar, ex- 
 pelled a thick cloud, and asked — ' What ? ' 
 
 ' If you'll personate Mr. Ransome for half an hour.' 
 
 He whistled, laughed, looked grave, and said — 
 
 ' What's the part, sir ? — a ghost's ? ' 
 
 • I am perfectly serious,' I answered, relieved by the levity 
 with which he received the remark. I had expected a very 
 different answer. ' My daughter's character is at stake ; a 
 monstrous falsehood was started by her mother-in-law and 
 credited by heaps of persons living in our neighbourhood. I 
 must deal with this lie by another lie ; but a lie more honest, 
 for it has for its object the vindication of an innocent and 
 cruelly wronged woman — my only child ! Will you help 
 me?' 
 
 ' I cannot answer off-hand,' he replied, growing nervous on 
 a sudden. ' I want the money, but I don't know whether I 
 can earn it in this way. Do you mean to say that people 
 who knew Mr. Eansome will believe I am he ? ' 
 
 ' I will take care they do not find out their mistake.' 
 
 ' But what good will half an hour's acting do ? ' 
 
 I threw down my cigar, and rose in my agitation. 
 
 'I have not yet formed any plans,' I responded, pacing the 
 room. ' The scheme I have suggested only occurred to me 
 when I saw you just now. Will you let me call upon you at 
 this hour to-morrow ? I shall then have matured the plan, 
 and will lay it before you complete.' 
 
 ' It is a perilous undertaking, isn't it ? ' he asked, taking 
 the little kettle from the hob, where it was shooting a long 
 volume of steam into the room. 
 
 ' W T hat peril there is,' I answered, ' is not likely to reach 
 you. You can, if you choose, make arrangements to be on 
 your way to America the day following your visit to Cops- 
 ford.' 
 
 1 But won't somebody see with half an eye that I am not 
 Mr. Ransome ? ' he exclaimed, stretching his legs before the 
 fire, with a coat-tail over each arm. 
 
 ' His mother is dead. My daughter will be in the secret. 
 The very audacity of the scheme will diminish the likelihood 
 of detection ; and I'll take care that you are seen only by those 
 who are not so familiar with Mr. Ransome as to distinguish 
 the difference between you.'
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 335 
 
 ' What are you going to do with the servants ? 
 ' They shall not see you.' 
 
 • You want rue to go to Copsford, is it ? ' 
 
 ' That will require consideration. I can only see dimly as 
 yet how the thing is to be done ; but it is to be done. Will 
 this hour to-rnorrow suit you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, very well.' 
 
 • You must not,' I exclaimed earnestly, ' suffer yourself to be 
 prejudiced against this undertaking until the matured scheme 
 is placed before you.' 
 
 ' Look here,' he answered, ' if I should consent to do what 
 you want, you must pledge me your word not to grow inquisi- 
 tive about me, and try to find out my name, and where I came 
 from, and who I am, and all that.' 
 
 ' I promise you, on my honour,' I replied, perceiving now 
 that the landlady was right, and that Cleveland was not his 
 name. 
 
 ' I want the money you offer, and don't mind lending you 
 a hand to get your daughter out of her scrape. But just as 
 we were strangers to each other an hour ago, so we must be 
 strangers to each other the moment the business is over ; I go 
 my way, and you go yours. Is that understood ? ' It was 
 the one condition of the scheme I could have most wished to 
 insist upon. 
 
 ' Perfectly. I should have stipulated for this myself, had I 
 not feared that you might misconstrue my object.' 
 
 ' Very well, sir. Then I shall expect you here to-morrow 
 morning at this hour.' 
 
 In a few minutes I was walking briskly in the direction of 
 the Strand. 
 
 11 
 
 Johnson called at the coffee-house that night as I had 
 directed him. The heaviest obligation of my scheme was the 
 necessity it placed me under to tell falsehoods. But the 
 obligation was a condition of the scheme, and not to be 
 obviated. 
 
 I informed him that I had to call on ' Mr. Bansome ' next 
 morning ; that I had represented the critical position in which 
 his mysterious disappearance had placed my daughter ; and 
 tbat I had no doubt he would keep the promise he had made 
 me to accompany me to Copsford. 
 
 Johnson highly relished this satisfactory conclusion of his
 
 336 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 labours, and very naturally began to ask me some questions, 
 which grew so embarrassing, that to end them I pulled out 
 my cheque-book and wrote him a draft, under cover of which 
 I was enabled to get rid of him, without his conceiving his 
 dismissal sudden or odd. Before he left me, he said that, if Mr* 
 Ransome gave me any trouble, I was to let him know, and he 
 would undertake to oblige him to present himself at Copsford. 
 
 I slept but little that night ; but the result of my long 
 meditation was to supply me with a very perfect plan for 
 carrying out my stratagem. 
 
 At the appointed hour next morning I repaired, with a 
 composed face, but a very agitated mind, to Berners Street, 
 and was admitted by the landlady, who dropped a curtsey on 
 seeing me. 
 
 As she was conducting me upstairs, she stopped to ask me 
 if her lodger was the gentleman I wanted. I held up my 
 finger very seriously, and shook my head ; from such vague 
 signs she could draw any meaning that pleased her. 
 
 ' I'm not to be forgotten, sir, Mr. Johnson said, if the 
 lodger is the gentleman,' she remarked. 
 
 ' I'll remember you,' I replied. And I may as well say 
 here that I kept my promise ; for after I returned to Garden- 
 hurst, I sent her ten pounds, which I considered was about as 
 much as her services were worth. 
 
 Mr. Cleveland was fully dressed, and waited for me. I 
 was greatly struck by his singular likeness to Mr. Ransome, 
 which was more defined now that he was trimly habited. He 
 bowed politely, and placed a chair for me near the little grate ; 
 then threw himself into his easy chair, and asked me if I had 
 matured my scheme. 
 
 ' Fully,' I replied, and inquired how it struck him now 
 that he had had time to reflect over it. 
 
 He wanted to hear my plans before he answered that 
 question. 
 
 The manner in which he said this fully persuaded me that 
 he would consent, and merely dallied that he might make me 
 believe he had scruples. Encouraged by this belief, I un- 
 folded my plans, which were as follow : — 
 
 I was quite certain that, although Mr. Ransome had lived 
 two years at Gardenhurst, he was little known to the Cops- 
 ford people. For his habits were wayward : he was repeatedly 
 absent from his home ; m his walks he chose the country, and 
 Seldom the frequented paths of it.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 337 
 
 It was my intention, I said, to summon three or four wit- 
 nesses to the house, men of position, whose word would be 
 held conclusive. I had noted down four names, two of whom 
 I knew were acquainted with Mr. Eansome, though it was 
 impossible they could be so familiar with him that they should 
 be able to detect an impostor in Mr. Cleveland. Curiosity, 
 strengthened by the appeal I would make, would bring the 
 other two to the house ; and they were bound to assume the 
 truth from the assurance of their colleagues. 
 
 The two gentlemen who knew Mr. Eansome were Mr. 
 Skerlock and Mr. Hastings. The others, who, if they knew 
 him at all, could only know him by sight, were Mr. Ledbury 
 and Sir Anthony Lauder. If two out of the four attended the 
 meeting, I should be satisfied ; but I should be better satisfied 
 to have them all. 
 
 I proposed that Mr. Cleveland should accompany me to 
 Peterham, where his very name would be unknown ; for he 
 might run a risk should he stop at Copsford. The interview 
 should take place in the evening, and I would take care so to 
 regulate the light in the room that his face should be imper- 
 fectly beheld. This would require judgment on his part, but 
 the ruse was practicable, and might be so adroitly managed as 
 to escape the attention of the witnesses, who, having no 
 suspicion of the plot, would find nothing to attract them in 
 such minor details. 
 
 I told him that the only person of whom I stood in the 
 least fear was Miss Avory, the housekeeper — that was, if she 
 should see him ; but of this there was little danger, for I would 
 take care that he was admitted by the housemaid, who had 
 come to the house some time after Mr. Ransome had left it, 
 and therefore did not know him ; and that on the termination 
 of the interview, which need not be protracted beyond a quarter 
 of an hour at the very outside, I would myself conduct him to 
 the hall door. 
 
 For the matter of the interview, it was imperative that he 
 should say as little as he could. This I might manage by 
 putting questions to him which would imply his intentions to 
 the audience, while they would involve him in monosyllabic 
 replies only. For instance, I would ask him if his reason for 
 leaving the house was because he was unhappy with his wife ? 
 And I would then demand if he still adhered to his resolution 
 not to live with her again ? Questions of this kind would 
 convey the substance of the motives which I wished our 
 
 z
 
 338 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 auditors to believe had impelled Mr. Eansome to quit his home, 
 without obliging him (Mr. Cleveland) to enter into any ex- 
 planations himself. I submitted that the audacity of the 
 scheme would insure its success ; that my name stood so high 
 that the witnesses would never dream I could lend myself to 
 a scheme which people who had no sympathy with the extra- 
 ordinary end for which I was working would call dishonour- 
 able ; and I wound up by appealing to his humanity to assist 
 me in cleansing my daughter's name of the cruel and unjust 
 stain that rested upon it. 
 
 There was no need for this appeal. I had seen in his face 
 that his mind was made up before I had finished telling him 
 my plans. But that final sentence of mine was a lucky stroke, 
 for it enabled him to waive the money profit of the undertaking 
 as a quite outside consideration, and to profess himself willing 
 to help me because I had touched his feelings. This was 
 ridiculous ; but I swallowed the absurdity with a grave face, 
 thanked him cordially for his acquiescence, and said that I 
 would put notes to the value of two hundred pounds in his 
 hand when I conducted him out of the house after the inter- 
 view. 
 
 Though the plot was ripe and my agent willing, I deemed 
 it advisable to wait a day or two in London before returning 
 to Gardenhurst, conceiving that a greater air of truth would 
 attach to the undertaking if I afterwards stated that the reason 
 of my stay in London was the difficulty I met with in prevail- 
 ing upon ' Mr. Eansome ' to accompany me to his home. 
 There was a perpetual reference in my thoughts to Miss Avory, 
 whose sagacity I had learnt to respect. I was, indeed, so 
 afraid that she would discover the imposition that all manner 
 of schemes for obviating this risk entered my head. Some- 
 times I made up my mind to discharge her ; but abandoned 
 the intention when I considered its heartlessness, and recalled 
 the obligations Phoebe was under to her. Then I thought of 
 sending her away on a holiday ; but feared the conclusions 
 she would draw when she afterwards learned that I had brought 
 Mr. Eansome to the house in her absence. Then I thought 
 of taking her into my confidence, and leaving it to her to 
 acquit or condemn me for my guilty efforts on behalf of my 
 child ; but the notion of such candour alarmed me. In truth, 
 my fortitude was great enough to carry me through the com- 
 mission of a wrong, but was not yet equal to the task of con- 
 fessing it.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 339 
 
 I therefore adhered to my original arrangement of so con- 
 triving the interview that none hut those who were invited as 
 witnesses should see the representative of the missing man. 
 
 Before I could take Mr. Cleveland to Peterham, it was 
 necessary that I should see Phoebe. I would gladly have been 
 spared the ordeal of obtaining my child's connivance at a dis- 
 creditable plot. This, indeed, was the hardest trial of all — 
 harder even than the pitiful and humbling necessity my 
 scheme forced upon me of speaking falsehoods and acting the 
 liar's part. 
 
 On the fourth day, dating from my departure from home, 
 I returned to Gardenhurst. 
 
 I had been with Mr. Cleveland every day, had had long 
 conversations with him, had instructed him to the utmost 
 heights of my memory in the character he was to enact ; but 
 found, by his not choosing to understand my motive for 
 lingering in London, that he was impatient to get through the 
 play and obtain the reward. 
 
 I considered this a useful state of mind, which must not be 
 toyed with ; and therefore, to lose no time, ordered the fly 
 that carried me from Copsford to wait at Gardenhurst, that I 
 might be able to catch the coach and be in London again that 
 night. 
 
 The cause of my having to repeat these wearisome journeys 
 was Mr. Cleveland's steadfast refusal to quit his hiding-place 
 until I had gained my daughter's consent to the scheme. 
 
 That consent was yet to be gained. 
 
 Miss Avory received me at the door. I hurried past her, 
 and found my daughter in the drawing-room. The fly was 
 waiting ; it gave me an excuse for despatch, and I lost no time 
 in telling her my scheme. She was thunderstruck, terrified, 
 indignant, by turns ; if the scheme were discovered, would not 
 (she wanted to know) her guilt appear conclusive on the mere 
 evidence of the stratagem I employed to clear her ? I replied 
 that, if I had the smallest fear that the scheme would be dis- 
 covered, I would not attempt it. I represented to her that 
 either her husband was dead, or hiding in some distant country, 
 and that there was little or no chance of her ever hearing of 
 him again ; that unless he could be proved to have been alive 
 after his disappearance from the house, her guilt would remain 
 a permanent assumption in the minds of those who believed 
 old Mrs. Bansome's accusation ; that if this suspicion were 
 not effectually removed, by any means, base or honourable, her 
 
 z2
 
 34o IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 position would grow more critical as time progressed ; for the 
 murmurs of the gossips were not to be silenced. The atten- 
 tion of the law might be directed to her, and any day might 
 witness her arrest on no better evidence than the persistent- 
 suspicion of the neighbours — a suspicion the durability of 
 which might cause even humane and upright men to regard 
 the disappearance of her husband as significant and worthy 
 of inquiry. 
 
 In spite of these arguments, which perfectly expressed the 
 reasons that moved me to this undertaking, she remained 
 obstinately opposed to the scheme, until my anger was aroused, 
 and I swore that, if she refused to help herself by helping me, 
 I would leave the house and never see her again. 
 
 This threat, which I was quite in the temper to carry out, 
 frightened her into submission. I thereupon hurriedly 
 acquainted her with the arrangements I had made to bring 
 about the interview, exhorted her to be on her guard against 
 Miss Avory's inquisitiveness, and left the house, after having 
 addressed the few words to Miss Avory in the library which 
 she has mentioned in her narrative. 
 
 This confession need not go much further. The story of 
 the scheme has already been related. I merely undertook in 
 this place to show how it originated and the manner in which 
 I carried it through. 
 
 The account I gave to Miss Avory of the meeting in the 
 drawing-room, shortly after the gentlemen had left the house, 
 was accurate enough. But no words will express what I felt 
 when I stood in that room with the four gentlemen ranged on 
 one side of the table gazing at the impostor, whose non- 
 chalance filled me with alarm. Had I guessed that we had a 
 secret witness in Miss Avory, I believe I should have lost all 
 control over myself, so convinced should I have been that her 
 keen eyes would master the truth at once. 
 
 Just as I had anticipated, the success of the scheme was 
 owing to its audacity. 
 
 Mr. Skerlock and Mr. Hastings had seen Mr. Kansome ; 
 the other two might probably have never set eyes on him. 
 But their ignorance of the real man was a consideration that 
 I took care should not occur to them. Mr. Bansome had 
 been reported murdered ; to disprove the report he had come 
 to Gardenhurst. Witnesses were invited to behold him. They 
 came to see Mr. Bansome. It was impossible they should 
 conceive that any other man but Mr. Bansome was likely to
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 341 
 
 be introduced to them. It was their honest persuasion that 
 Mr. Eansome stood before them. They left the house, to a 
 man, satisfied. 
 
 This was, I dare say, a trick which would have been 
 impracticable to any man who stood less high than myself in 
 the general esteem. The stratagem cost me my honour ; but 
 I was content to make the sacrifice ; for my honour was of 
 little worth to me whilst my daughter lay under the darkest 
 of suspicions. 
 
 Mr. Cleveland did not act his part well. But had he acted 
 it ten times worse than he did, no doubt of his identity would 
 have been excited. He remained a quarter of an hour in tbe 
 room ; and the moment Mr. Ledbury, who had been pom- 
 pously inveighing against his cruelty, was silent, he bowed and 
 walked out. I followed him, and as I opened the hall door, 
 flipped the bank-notes I had promised into his hand. 
 
 ' Take my warmest thanks for what you have done,' I 
 whispered. 
 
 ' All right,' he replied. ' Keep your promise ' ; by which 
 he meant the promise I had made him not to inquire into his 
 past. He left the house, and I have never heard of him from 
 that day to this. 
 
 I lingered until I heard the fly that waited for him drive 
 off. I then rejoined the others. 
 
 The worst of the ordeal was over. I had both the nerve 
 and the spirit now to act my part well. Mr. Skerlock came 
 up and congratulated me on the resolution I had shown in 
 bringing the man to the house. My remedy, he said, in sum- 
 moning witnesses, might be considered by some an extreme 
 measure. But in his opinion I was perfectly justified in doing 
 what I had clone. 
 
 ' It is idle to deny,' he exclaimed, addressing the others, 
 ' that public opinion has been excited against Mrs. Eansome 
 by her mother-in-law's accusation. It is true that Mrs. Ran- 
 some has not been formally charged with the commission of 
 the deed which public prejudice has placed to her account. 
 But a sensitive mind will find but little difference between the 
 humiliation of a legal inquiry and the humiliation of gossip. 
 It behoved Colonel Kilmain to spare no efforts to prove his 
 daughter an innocent woman. I rejoice in the triumph of his 
 efforts and congratulate him on his successful vindication of 
 his child.' 
 
 Sir Anthony spoke to the same effect; and then Mr.
 
 542 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 Hastings made a speech in which he exhorted me to direct 
 my efforts towards a reconciliation between the husband and 
 wife. 
 
 To this I replied that I had done all I meant to do , and 
 shuffled out of that embarrassing view of the question by 
 begging the gentlemen to help themselves to wine. 
 
 There was a bitter irony in all this, which I felt more 
 acutely when I was alone and recalled the scene and the 
 conversation. 
 
 Yet I might have hoped that, when they were out of the 
 house, some degree of tranquillity, some sense of security 
 would have returned to me. But scarcely was the hall door 
 closed upon them when I thought of Miss Avory. I dreaded 
 meeting her infinitely more than I had dreaded the interview 
 between Mr. Cleveland and the witnesses. When, after I had 
 called her to join my daughter and me in the drawing-room, 
 she had spoken of having seen ' Mr. Kansome ' through the 
 window, my dismay was so profound that, but for the ready 
 relief I obtained from the excuse she gave me to run to 
 the window to see if Poole were there, my agitation must then 
 and there have betrayed me. 
 
 And yet in a few days the mystery was to be cleared up. 
 Had Johnson but delayed writing to me for those few days, I 
 should have been spared the deception I practised, which, 
 abundantly as I can excuse its commission, I can never recur 
 to without pain and remorse. The sense of the wrong my 
 daughter and I had jointly perpetrated estranged us. A 
 deeper gloom gathered over both of us ; for whilst, on my 
 part, no effort could crush out of my heart the detestable 
 suspicion of her, which sickened my waking thoughts and 
 poisoned my dreams at night, so, on her side, the thoughts 
 of the barbarous injustice that had been done her was ren- 
 dered more poignant yet by the remembrance that she had 
 connived at a deception to vindicate the innocence which 
 should never have been doubted. 
 
 Other sources of anxiety contributed to make my life at 
 this period a burden. I instinctively felt that Miss Avory's 
 suspicions were excited ; that, though she could find no reason 
 for challenging the identity of the man I had brought to the 
 house, she was full of distrust. The necessity of seeming to 
 her other than I was, of conversing as though Mr. Ransome's 
 discovery were an accomplished fact, was an odious and un- 
 bearable trial to me.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 343 
 
 Again, I was haunted by the fear that Mr. Cleveland might 
 betray me. At the onset I had felt satisfied that my secret 
 would be safe with him ; but my confidence was diminished by 
 my nervousness, and by the consideration that he was poor, 
 that he was unscrupulous (as I might judge by the readiness 
 with which he had fallen into my scheme), and that he might 
 threaten me with exposure if I refused to buy his silence. 
 
 Existence became intolerable. My scheme had, indeed, 
 succeeded so far as my daughter's character was concerned ; 
 but I was soon taught that, though her innocence was esta- 
 blished, the evil repute that had so long hung about her name 
 still lingered, and would take a long, long while to become ex- 
 tinct. With the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Skerlock and Mr. 
 Hastings, no one called on us. There was only one remedy 
 for this state of things — to quit the country. I abhorred the 
 name of Copsford. Gardenhurst had grown hateful to us 
 both as the scene of miseries which memory would find in- 
 effaceable. If I delayed carrying out my resolution, it was 
 because I doubted the wisdom of abrupt departure. Life 
 seemed so full, of contingencies that I knew not what to-morrow 
 might bring forth. The discovery of Maddox, for instance, 
 might expose the whole of my conspiracy ; and if that ex- 
 posure happened, and Mr. Ransome remained unfound, the 
 public would assuredly leap to the conclusion that my daughter 
 was actually guilty of her husband's death, that I was aware 
 of the fact, and that I had adopted the extraordinary measure 
 of introducing an impostor to the house in the hope of effec- 
 tually averting suspicion. 
 
 Such was the state of affairs when the dead body was 
 found under the trees at the foot of the estate. Many years 
 have passed since that time, but the horror with which the 
 news of the discovery affected me is as fresh in my memory 
 now as if the event had taken place yesterday. My belief was 
 that the body was Mr. Ransome's. I plunged into the trees 
 alone, for the gardeners had not the courage to follow me ; 
 but the spectacle that met my gaze was too loathsome for me 
 to examine. Not until the body was in the coffin was I 
 enabled to take note of the details of its ghastliness ; and then 
 I was satisfied that it was not Mr. Ransome. Yet how came 
 the letters belonging to Mr. Ransome in the pocket of the 
 coat on the body ? The jury's finding was worthless as re- 
 spected the solution of this new mystery. But as to the verdict 
 itself, I had anticipated it on the mere strength of the evidence
 
 344 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 of Mr. Ransome 's hair being black and the hair of the body 
 being brown. Miss Avory spoke to me afterwards of Poole ; 
 how he had sworn«that the dead man was Mr. Ransome ; how 
 he had declared that the man I had brought to the house was 
 an impostor. I can scarcely recall the impression this in- 
 formation made on me, for the final event followed so rapidly 
 that my memory grows confused in trying to separate the 
 actions and emotions of that bewildering day. But one con- 
 viction seized and never left me — that in some way Poole was 
 connected with the mystery that had perplexed and over- 
 whelmed us since the long gone-by fateful month of July. 
 
 How Mr. Ransome came to the house on the night follow- 
 ing the day on which the inquest was held, and how he died, 
 you have read ; the truth is perfectly told in Miss Avory 's 
 statement. It was not the ending I could have chosen for the 
 unhappy man ; but being done, it was not to be washed un- 
 done. It terminated for him a life that would have been worse 
 than a hundred deaths ; whilst it dismissed his wife from an 
 abhorred companionship, and liberated her from a servitude 
 so unbearable that the mere story of it does not convey one 
 fraction of its real anguish. 
 
 Had any of the gentlemen whom I had invited to bear 
 witness to the existence of Mr. Cleveland as Mr. Ransome 
 attended the inquest (which, as in the former case, was held 
 at Gardenhurst, owing to the distance at w-hich it was situated 
 from Copsford), it was almost certain that the trick I had 
 practised on them would have been discovered. The dead 
 man, with his sunken, wasted face, his beard, his wild, neg- 
 lected hair, bore but little resemblance to the man I had 
 introduced ; nor was it possible that the change could have 
 been accounted for by the brief time that had elapsed since he 
 was supposed to have come to the house, smooth-cheeked, 
 healthy-looking, trimly attired, decorous in manner and aspect. 
 But the jury knew of this only on hearsay. The witnesses, 
 comprising my daughter, myself, Miss Avory, the cook, and 
 the upper- gardener, Walters, all swore to his being Mr. Ran- 
 some. The jury were satisfied ; people who were not present, 
 and did not therefore see the corpse, were equally satisfied ; 
 and the funeral, which took place three days afterwards, found 
 and left everybody, with three exceptions, perfectly persuaded 
 that the Mr. Ransome whom the four gentlemen had seen 
 and the Mr. Ransome upon whom the inquest had been held 
 were one and the same person.
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 345 
 
 The three exceptions were my daughter and myself, of 
 course, and Miss Avory. She had guessed the truth the 
 moment she set eyes on the real man. The doubts which had 
 long haunted her scarcely needed this confirmation of their 
 accuracy. 
 
 I consulted with my daughter, and asked her if Miss 
 Avory should be taken into our confidence. We were about 
 to leave Gardenhurst for ever. My daughter could hardly find 
 a better, a more faithful, and a more sympathetic companion 
 than her housekeeper, who had proved herself in every respect 
 superior to her position, and who was well qualified to bo 
 raised to a higher and more congenial footing. 
 
 My conversation with Phoebe resulted in my having a long 
 interview with Miss Avory, to whom I imparted the whole 
 story of my plot. She listened without surprise, without in- 
 terruption, without demonstration of any kind, and when I 
 had ended, said — 
 
 • Had I been in your place, I should have done the same 
 thing, sir. We know the accusation to be false now ; but 
 Mrs. Bansoine always knew it to be false.' 
 
 I told her that she was the only person, unless I excepted 
 Mr. Bansome's personator, who knew of the scheme ; and I 
 added that my reason for taking her into my confidence was 
 to prepare the way for offering her the post of companion to 
 my daughter. She was overjoyed by the proposal, and ac- 
 cepted it at once ; and it was in this way that she came to 
 reside with us. 
 
 I sold Gardenhurst, and quitted it for Tours, at which 
 place we resided for some years after leaving England. There 
 was only one person in Copsford to whom I bade farewell — 
 Mr. Skerlock, whose kindness to my daughter and myself 
 throughout our trying experience I could never forget. 
 
 The sale of the estate, however, detained me unwillingly 
 for some time longer than I wished ; and I tried to put the 
 delay to some use by inquiring where Mr. Eansome had con- 
 cealed himself during the long months he had been absent 
 from his home. But my efforts proved fruitless. I never 
 succeeded in obtaining any information respecting him, in 
 discovering a single creature who had met him. 
 
 My conclusions, however, in which Miss Avory concurred, 
 were probably near the truth. I supposed that he had left 
 the house in a fit of madness, impelled by his horror of the 
 threat Miss Avory had implied, and by his serious persuasion
 
 346 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 that she would contrive' to have her threat executed. The 
 words he had made use of to her proved his belief that, up to 
 the moment of his conversation with the housekeeper in the 
 drawing-room, that day when his mother was in the house, his 
 secret, or, in other words, his madness, was unsuspected. There 
 was nothing for it, then, but to suppose that the fear which 
 Miss Avory's professed discovery had inspired, added to his 
 horror of being confined in an asylum, had driven him from 
 the house, and kept him a wanderer during the long space of 
 time that separated his disappearance from his return. 
 Whether he was actually the man whom Johnson had followed 
 to Guildford and there lost sight of it was impossible to 
 guess. But it was past all question that the object of his 
 return to Gardenhurst was to shoot his wife. 
 
 On this part of the mystery I can throw no further light ; 
 nor is it possible to state, on more authoritative grounds than 
 conjecture, that his mother was really sincere in believing 
 that he had been murdered. 
 
 And Maddox ? and the dead man whom we had found in 
 Gardenhurst, with letters on him belonging to Mr. Ransome ? 
 
 Some years had to elapse before this perplexity was un- 
 riddled. 
 
 Poole had left Gardenhurst a few days before the return 
 of Mr. Ransome. He was away from his work one day, and 
 next morning Walters told me that he had met him, and that 
 he had said he didn't mean to do any more work for Colonel 
 Kilmain. 
 
 I was too much harassed and troubled at the time to 
 think much of this ; but I was pleased that the man had dis- 
 missed himself from my service, as I had resolved to get rid 
 of him, but hardly knew how to do so without implying that 
 his discharge was owing to his assertion that the man I had 
 brought to the house was an impostor. 
 
 After Mr. Ransome's death and funeral I often thought of 
 Maddox, and of the dead body we had found, and of the probable 
 share that Poole had in the mystery ; but his absence frus- 
 trated my curiosity, and my stay in England being enforced 
 for a few weeks, I was unwilling to rake up the ashes of the 
 past by making any other inquiries than those I was secretly 
 prosecuting with respect to Mr. Ransome's actions and hiding- 
 places during his disappearance. 
 
 Four years after I had left Gardenhurst I came to London 
 on business for a week. I stopped at a hotel at the West
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 347 
 
 End, and was one morning reading a newspaper, when my 
 attention was attracted by some closely-printed matter, headed 
 ' Confession of Murder ! ' I looked down the column, and 
 saw the name — James Poole. 
 
 I began to read. 
 
 The confession was to this effect : — 
 
 A man names James Poole had called at the police office 
 at Copsford, and asked permission to make a statement. He 
 said that five years ago he was employed as under-gardener 
 on the estate formerly belonging to Colonel Kilmain, called 
 Gardenhurst. The name of the footman in the service of the 
 family was Maddox. One day Maddox proposed that they 
 should rob the house. A quantity of valuable plate was kept 
 in a safe in the housekeeper's room ; he had taken the im- 
 pression of the lock in wax, and sent it to a chum of his in 
 London, who had forwarded him a key made from the 
 impression. He wanted assistance to carry off the plate, 
 secrete it, and dispose of it by degrees. Poole lived in a small 
 cottage away from the town, which offered a good hiding- 
 place for the booty, and Poole could send small parcels of it 
 from time to time to Maddox, in London, who would convert 
 the silver into money. 
 
 Poole consented, and a night for the robbery was fixed 
 upon. On that night Mr. Ransome left the house. By what 
 Maddox afterwards told Poole, who waited for him in the 
 avenue, it appeared that the footman, on quitting his bedroom, 
 was alarmed by hearing someone moving on the landing 
 beneath. He looked over the banister, and saw a figure glide 
 out of Mr. Eansome's bedroom and go downstairs. After 
 waiting a short time, he descended, and peeped into Mr. Ran- 
 some 's bedroom, the door of which was open, and there found 
 a candle burning. There was nobody in the room. He 
 listened, and heard footsteps outside the house hurrying 
 towards the avenue. Poole believed that Maddox robbed his 
 master's room during this interval, he having afterwards 
 heard that the drawers had been ransacked. The dressing- 
 case, of which there had been some talk, he knew nothing 
 about. That, he dared say, Mr. Ransome took away with 
 him. After a long time Maddox came out of the house 
 through the drawing-room window, which he said he had 
 found open, and met Poole, who told him that Mr. Ransome 
 had just gone through the avenue, creeping along in a strange 
 way. Maddox answered, with a laugh, that if he came back,
 
 348 IS HE THE MAN? 
 
 he'd miss a coat, for he had taken the liberty of putting on 
 One of the coats he had found hanging behind the door, so 
 that if his description should be given, he would not be known 
 by his clothes. Fearing that Mr. Ransome might be lingering 
 at the gates, Poole proposed that they should bear the sack 
 containing the plate to the trees, and make for the cottage by 
 the way of the fields. He had armed himself with a bludgeon 
 in case of being met or followed ; he declared that the 
 temptation to kill Maddox did not enter his mind until they 
 were among the trees ; and the devil whispered that one 
 blow would make him master of the booty in the sack ; and, 
 in a moment, he struck his companion with all his strength 
 across the face, between the eyes, with the bludgeon, and the 
 man fell backwards with a groan, and expired. Poole left 
 him where he lay, and hoisting the sack on his shoulders, 
 made for his cottage, where he hid the sack, and taking a 
 spade, returned and buried Maddox, after emptying his 
 pockets, under the trees, near the hedge, where he was found. 
 He did not feel his crime then, nor for a long while after- 
 wards. He worked as usual on the estate for fear that, if he 
 left it, he should be suspected of having had a hand in the 
 double disappearance which was puzzling everybody. He 
 further stated that his object in swearing that the body when 
 found was Mr. Ransome's, was that people might believe the 
 missing master had been murdered by Maddox. For the last 
 two years he had been haunted by his crime night and day, 
 and was now a doomed man and forced to confess his guilt. 
 If they doubted his story, let them pull up the flooring of the 
 cottage where he had lived, and there they'd find the sack of 
 plate. The report added that the cottage had been searched, 
 and the sack containing the plate discovered. 
 
 That was all. 
 
 I had come to England for a week only ; but I had to 
 stop a month. For next day I went down to Copsford, 
 identified my daughter's property, and was bound over to 
 give evidence at the forthcoming assizes. The trial was 
 purely formal. The prisoner pleaded guilty and had declined 
 counsel's aid. The duty of judge and jury was therefore not 
 very arduous ; the one returned a verdict, the other passed 
 sentence, and the man was hanged. 
 
 Since that time I have often been tempted to commit this 
 story to paper ; but have invariably been deterred by con- 
 siderations having reference wholly to my daughter. Those
 
 THE COLONEL'S STORY 349 
 
 considerations are no longer paramount ; the wrong I com- 
 mitted I may now expiate by public confession. Some few, I 
 doubt not, may yet be living who will not be displeased at an 
 opportunity of reading the true history of the strange affair, 
 that took place many years ago, which excited much interest 
 at the time, and was long afterwards remembered as the 
 Copsford Mystery. 
 
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