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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.
THE END.
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