though she was said to be a tyrant in the stillroom. The young people were all in high favour, especially Alice, whose sweet face and temper would have endeared her to the devil himself, but there was much shaking of heads over her handsome husband Peter, who had a hot eye for a fine leg, as Matty put it, and was apt to put his arm round the kitchen girls if he had the chance. I could well believe this, having flung a pillow at Peter often enough myself for taking liberties.
"Master John and Mistress Joan are also liked," said Matty, "but they say Master John should stand up more to his father."
Her words put me in mind of the afternoon, and I asked her what she knew of the apartment next to mine.
"It is a lumber room, they tell me," she answered. "Mr. Rashleigh has the key and has valuables shut away."
My curiosity was piqued, though, and I bade her search for a crack in the door. She put her face to the keyhole but saw nothing. I gave her a pair of scissors, both of us giggling like children, and she worked away at the panelling for ten minutes or so until she had scraped a wide enough crack at which to place one eye.
She knelt before it for a moment or two, then turned to me in disappointment.
"There's nothing there," she said. "It is a plain chamber, much the same as this, with a bed in one corner and hangings on the wall."
I felt quite aggrieved, having hoped--in my idiot romantic fashion--for a heap of treasure. I bade her hang a picture over the crack and turned to my dinner. But later, when Joan came to sit with me at sunset and the shadows began to fall, she said suddenly, with a shiver: "You know, Honor, I slept once in this room when John had the ague, and I did not care for it."
"Why so?" I asked, drinking my wine.
"I thought I heard footsteps in the chamber next door."
I glanced at the picture over the crack, but it was well hidden. "What sort of footsteps?" I said.
She shook her head, puzzled. "Soft ones," she said, "like someone who walks with slippered soles for fear he shall be heard."
"How long ago was this?" I asked.
"During the winter," she said. "I did not tell anyone."
"A servant, perhaps," I suggested, "who had no business to be there."
"No," she said. "None of the servants have a key; no one has but my father-in-law, and he was from home then." She waited a moment and then she said, glancing over her shoulder, "I believe it was a ghost."
"Why should a ghost walk at Menabilly?" I answered. "The house has not been built fifty years."
"People have died here, though," she said. "John's old grandfather and his uncle John." She watched me with bright eyes, and, knowing my Joan, I wagered there was more to come.
"So you, too, have heard the poison story," I said, drawing a bow at a venture.
She nodded. "But I don't believe it," she said. "It would be wicked, horrible. He is too good and kind a man. But I do think it was a ghost that I heard, the ghost of the elder brother whom they call Uncle John."
"Why should he pace the room with padded soles?" I asked.
She did not answer for a moment, and then, guiltily, she whispered, "They never speak of it. John made me promise not to tell, but he was mad--a hopeless idiot--they used to keep him shut up in the chamber there."
This was something I had never heard before. I found it horrible.
"Are you certain?" I said.
"Oh, yes," she replied. "There is a bit about it in old Mr. Rashleigh's will, John told me. Old Mr. Rashleigh, before he died, made my father-in-law promise to look after the elder brother, give him food and drink and shelter in the house. They say the chamber there was set aside for him, built in a special way--I don't exactly know.
And then he died, you see, very suddenly of the smallpox. John and Alice and Elizabeth don't remember him; they were only babies."
"What a disagreeable tale," I said. "Give me some more wine and let's forget it."
After a while she went away, and Matty came to draw the curtains .I had no more visitors
"Master John and Mistress Joan are also liked," said Matty, "but they say Master John should stand up more to his father."
Her words put me in mind of the afternoon, and I asked her what she knew of the apartment next to mine.
"It is a lumber room, they tell me," she answered. "Mr. Rashleigh has the key and has valuables shut away."
My curiosity was piqued, though, and I bade her search for a crack in the door. She put her face to the keyhole but saw nothing. I gave her a pair of scissors, both of us giggling like children, and she worked away at the panelling for ten minutes or so until she had scraped a wide enough crack at which to place one eye.
She knelt before it for a moment or two, then turned to me in disappointment.
"There's nothing there," she said. "It is a plain chamber, much the same as this, with a bed in one corner and hangings on the wall."
I felt quite aggrieved, having hoped--in my idiot romantic fashion--for a heap of treasure. I bade her hang a picture over the crack and turned to my dinner. But later, when Joan came to sit with me at sunset and the shadows began to fall, she said suddenly, with a shiver: "You know, Honor, I slept once in this room when John had the ague, and I did not care for it."
"Why so?" I asked, drinking my wine.
"I thought I heard footsteps in the chamber next door."
I glanced at the picture over the crack, but it was well hidden. "What sort of footsteps?" I said.
She shook her head, puzzled. "Soft ones," she said, "like someone who walks with slippered soles for fear he shall be heard."
"How long ago was this?" I asked.
"During the winter," she said. "I did not tell anyone."
"A servant, perhaps," I suggested, "who had no business to be there."
"No," she said. "None of the servants have a key; no one has but my father-in-law, and he was from home then." She waited a moment and then she said, glancing over her shoulder, "I believe it was a ghost."
"Why should a ghost walk at Menabilly?" I answered. "The house has not been built fifty years."
"People have died here, though," she said. "John's old grandfather and his uncle John." She watched me with bright eyes, and, knowing my Joan, I wagered there was more to come.
"So you, too, have heard the poison story," I said, drawing a bow at a venture.
She nodded. "But I don't believe it," she said. "It would be wicked, horrible. He is too good and kind a man. But I do think it was a ghost that I heard, the ghost of the elder brother whom they call Uncle John."
"Why should he pace the room with padded soles?" I asked.
She did not answer for a moment, and then, guiltily, she whispered, "They never speak of it. John made me promise not to tell, but he was mad--a hopeless idiot--they used to keep him shut up in the chamber there."
This was something I had never heard before. I found it horrible.
"Are you certain?" I said.
"Oh, yes," she replied. "There is a bit about it in old Mr. Rashleigh's will, John told me. Old Mr. Rashleigh, before he died, made my father-in-law promise to look after the elder brother, give him food and drink and shelter in the house. They say the chamber there was set aside for him, built in a special way--I don't exactly know.
And then he died, you see, very suddenly of the smallpox. John and Alice and Elizabeth don't remember him; they were only babies."
"What a disagreeable tale," I said. "Give me some more wine and let's forget it."
After a while she went away, and Matty came to draw the curtains .I had no more visitors
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