CHAPTER III.
MY LADY'S CHAMBER.
The seashore in late November is never cheerful. The gray, downcastskies sadden the sympathetic ocean; the winds cut to the marrow, and theyellow grass and bare trees make the land as sad-colored as the sea. Buteven at this season a walk along the cliff upon which Ripon House standsis invigorating, if the walker's blood is young. The outlook toward thewater is bluff and bold and the descent sheer.
A neat, gravelled path conforming to the line of the coast divides theprecipice from the smooth, closely-cropped lawn which sweeps down fromthe terrace of the ancient mansion. Ripon House is an imposing, spaciouspile. It bears marks of the tampering of the last century when theresuscitated architecture of Queen Anne threatened to become ubiquitous.
A vast plantation of stately trees originally shut out the buildings onthree sides from the common gaze, but the exigencies of the lawn-tenniscourt and the subsequent destitution of the late earl, who renounced hiswood fire the last of all the luxuries then appurtenant to a noblelineage, have sadly thinned the splendid grove. Nor is the domain voidof historic interest. Here was the scene of the crowning festivity ofthe pleasure-loving Victorian era when the nobility of the UnitedKingdom gathered to listen to a masque by Sir William Gilbert and SirArthur Sullivan in aid of a fund to erect a statue to the memory of oneJohn Brown, a henchman of the sovereign.
But what boots in this age of earnest activity more than a trivialreference to the selfish splendor of a superstitious past? To-day isto-day, and the nails on the coffin-lid of the last Hanoverian wouldscarcely be of silver, so many hungry mouths are to be fed.
Geoffrey Ripon on the morning following his reflections was saunteringalong the gravel path which bordered the cliff. He was reading thehalf-penny morning paper, in which he had just come upon a paragraphdescribing the discovery by the police of a batch of infernal machinessupposed to have been sent over from America by friends of theRoyalists. Among the emissaries captured he read the name of CedricRuskin, an old schoolfellow and great-grandson to an art critic of thatsurname who flourished in former days by force of his own specificgravity. Pained at the intelligence, he sighed heavily, and was on thepoint of sitting down upon a rustic bench close at hand when amelodious, gladsome voice hallooing his name broke in upon hismeditation. He looked up and perceived Miss Maggie Windsor skipping downthe lawn with charming unconventionality.
"Lord Brompton, Lord Brompton."
He raised his hat and stood waiting for the girl, whose motions weremarvellously graceful, especially if her large and vigorous physique beconsidered. No sylph could have glided with less awkwardness, and yet aspindle more closely resembles the bole of a giant oak than MaggieWindsor the frail damsels who bent beneath the keen blasts of NewEngland a hundred years ago. Her countenance disclosed all the sprightlyintelligence which her great-grandmother may have possessed, but herglowing cheeks and bright blue eyes told of a constitution against whichnervous prostration fulminated in vain. Nor were the bang or bangle of aformer generation visible in her composition. But here a deceptivephrase deserves an explanation. "Composition" is an epithet which, leastof all, is applicable. Miss Windsor's perfections of whatever kind werewholly natural.
A St. Bernard dog of superb proportions gambolled at her side.
"I thought it was you," she said. "I am very glad to see you again."
"And I, Miss Windsor, to see you." They shook hands with cordiality."And how do you like your new lodgings?" he inquired.
"Ah, Lord Brompton, I was afraid you would feel nettled that wecapitalists should possess your grand old homestead. My purpose inswooping down upon you in this unceremonious style was to ask you tomake yourself quite at home in the place. Consider it your own if youwill."
"What would your father say to such an arrangement, I wonder?" he asked,glancing at her.
"Oh," she laughed, "papa monopolizes everybody and everything else, butI monopolize him. But you look serious, Lord Brompton, and lesscomplacent, if I may use the expression, than when we met last. Dear oldParis. That was two years ago."
"Ought I to look complacent after reading in the newspaper that my oldschoolmate, Cedric Ruskin, has been arrested on a charge of hightreason?"
"Alas! poor Cedric!--no, that was Yorick. Down, Bayard, down," she criedto her dog.
"A great many things may happen in two years, Miss Windsor. When chancefirst brought us together, I was a landed proprietor, and the heir of anoble lineage. To-day I am a beggar at the feet of fatherless wealth."
"Excuse me, Lord Brompton, I have a father."
"Did I say I was at your feet, Miss Windsor?"
"You are the same clever creature as ever," she answered. "But I ambeginning to believe you are in earnest. Is it possible that you are theLord Brompton who told me once that fate's quiver held no shaft toterrify a philosopher? 'Dust to dust, and what matters it whether kingor chaos rule?' Those were your words. I warned you then, but youlaughed me to scorn--"
"And now you are deriding me."
"You are unjust. I met you with a proffer of hospitality, but you wouldnone of it."
"Am I not to dine with you this evening?"
"True. Then as a further instance that you are still a stoic, come nowand exhibit to me the treasures and secrets of Ripon House. I have gotno farther than the picture gallery as yet. There is an ancestor ofGeorge the Third's time whose features are the prototype of yours--thesame dreamy eye--the same careless smile--the same look of being petted.You remember I always said you had been spoiled by petting."
She led the way across the lawn, with Bayard bounding close at hand.
"I am sure there must be secret galleries and haunted chambers and allsorts of dreadful places. I telephoned to Mr. Jawkins to inquire, but heanswered, 'Not as I know of, miss.' I suppose he is so fearfullypractical he wouldn't care if a real ghost met him in a remote wing."
"What a pity we didn't live in the last century when people still gaveghosts the benefit of the doubt," said Lord Brompton, sadly. "Now we arecertain that there never were any."
"But we may still run across a skeleton in a closet," said the girl.
"Oh, yes. But who, by the way, is Mr. Jawkins?"
"Have you never heard of Mr. Jarley Jawkins, the famous country-houseagent and individual caterer?"
Lord Brompton shook his head.
"He is indeed a remarkable man," she continued. "When we decided to cometo England my father telephoned to Jawkins, who immediately sent out alist of country-seats. We chose this and made arrangements with him tosupply us with guests at so much a head. A regular country-houseparty--a duke and duchess, one or two financially embarrassed noblemen,a disestablished bishop, a professional beauty, a poet-peer, and severalother attractions. Oh, Jawkins is wonderful. They are all coming to-day.Won't it be fun? But it may seem rude to ask you to meet such people? Iam sorry. You will be almost the only guest not hired for the occasion.It was very inconsiderate of me."
"That's all right," said the young lord. "Perhaps I may find an openinghere. I'm looking out for a job. Possibly you may not be aware, MissWindsor, that the porter's lodge, which I occupy at present, is my solepiece of property. I will send my card to Jawkins. By the way, does heconduct them in person?"
"Oh, yes. He comes on the first day to introduce them. Jawkins is a mostamusing man. He is enormously rich and a great _bon-vivant_. He has aretinue of thoroughly trained servants whom he dispatches to hiscustomers, and everything he supplies is in the most perfect taste. Hehas but one weakness: he loves a lord and is the sworn enemy of the new_regime_. Don't you look forward with interest to the feast to-night? Ishall give you a professional beauty to take into dinner; and of courseI shall go in with the man of the highest rank. But here we are," shesaid, as they reached the upper terrace in front of the house.
"What a superb dog you have, Miss Windsor. What is his name?" said LordBrompton, gazing with admiration at the noble creature, who stood on thethreshold, panting after his run.
"His name is Bayard."
"Ah, Miss Windsor, I perceive that you still recognize the glamour of alordly title in the matter of naming your pets. The Chevalier Bayardsmacks of royal prerogative."
"Pardon me; Bayard is named after an American statesman who wascontemporary with my great-grandfather. But isn't he a beauty? He cost$1000. There is not another of his variety in the United States."
"I should like to go to America," said Lord Brompton, pensively, as heentered the familiar library now renovated by the taste of Jawkins. "Myviews have changed materially on many questions since we last met. I cansee that things here are likely to be in a chaotic state for a longtime to come, whereas your institutions have become permanent."
"But you ought to wish to remain and help your fellow-countrymen tobetter things, Lord Brompton. Look at that line of ancestors," sheexclaimed. "You ought to do something worthy of them."
The ex-peer shook his head. "I have ambition, I think, thanks largely tomy friendship with you two summers ago; but the outlook is very gloomy.England is in the hands of professional politicians. There is no chancefor gentlemen in political life."
"But the King may come to his own again," she murmured, in pity for hismood. "Your title is unimpeached at his exiled court."
"I have doubts as to the desirability of a return to the old order ofthings, even if there were hopes of success. It is useless to fightagainst the spirit of the age. The King is old and fat."
"I saw the King riding in a herdic in Boston a few days before wesailed," said Maggie. "He was stopping at the old Province House. Poorsovereign, he looked destitute."
"He is very poor. What was saved from the wreck is in the hands ofBugbee, the London banker. The court has since been moved to the SouthEnd. But a monarchy is surely vastly preferable to our presentadministration. President Bagshaw is a disgrace to any civilizedcommunity, to say nothing of an ideal republic."
"There is the ancestor who looks like you," said she, pointing to theportrait of a cavalier wearing hat and plume and long mustaches. "But isthere no hope from the opposition?" she inquired.
"I cannot yet bring myself to sympathize with the Liberals, althoughtheir leader, Richard Lincoln, is a great and upright man. While theKing lives I can no more be disloyal to the House of Hanover than mynamesake up there could have been to his master's cause. Still, I feelwe are living in an age when opinions are no more secure from revolutionthan dynasties."
"Speaking just now of the Chevalier Bayard reminds me that Jawkinsmentioned as one of the guests he had procured for the occasion--"
"Like so much plate or china," interrupted the quondam peer, bitterly.
"Sir John Dacre," continued Miss Windsor, without regard to hispetulance.
"John Dacre?" he cried, with interest.
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Know him! He was one of my dearest college friends. He is a man of theutmost dignity of soul and consummate breeding."
"Jawkins spoke of him with positive awe as a gentleman of the oldschool. 'He is a chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche_, miss,' said he,'and one of my choicest specimens. He is more precious than Sevreschina; but at present he declines pay.'"
"St. George and the dragon!" cried Lord Brompton, "what would Dacre saycould he hear the comparison? Jawkins's life would not be worth anhour's purchase. We regarded John Dacre at Oxford as the ideal of achivalric nature."
"You interest me greatly," said she. "But what has he been doing sinceyou graduated?"
"We have not met, but I have heard of him as loyal and devoted to theroyal cause when the outlook was darkest. I shall find him the samenoble, ardent soul as ever, I have not a doubt. Like enough his zealwill be the needful spur to my flagging spirit."
They had been wandering through the spacious mansion as they talked, butso absorbed were they in the conversation that the changes in thearrangement of the ancient heirlooms of the once illustrious house ofRipon made but little impression upon Lord Brompton. Weary at last withtheir wanderings the twain seated themselves upon a broad leather couch,from which they could command a view of a magnificent stained-glassmullioned window, which dated back to the days of George the First. Thehalf light of the apartment was perhaps a begetter of remembrances, forthey began to talk of the past, if indeed so short a period back as twosummers deserves to be so entitled. Through Lord Brompton's thoughtsfloated an inquiry as to whether he was not in love with his companion,for, if not, why this joyous sense of re-acquisition on his part? He hadnever forgotten the pleasant, happy hours passed in La Belle France, andhere they were come again, and he was visiting side by side with herwhose smile had been their harbinger.
"But I am forgetting, Lord Brompton, the object of our coming here," sheexclaimed at last. "I want to know the secrets of Ripon House. Where isthe haunted chamber?"
Geoffrey smiled, and rising from his seat walked to the other side ofthe room and touched a spring in the wainscot. A panel flew to one sideand revealed a narrow aperture.
"Follow me if you have a brave heart," he cried, looking back.
The apartment in which they were sitting was the library and this exitwas a curious winding staircase, which gradually grew less dark as theyproceeded. At last they found themselves in a sort of antechamber,scarcely large enough to turn about in, formed by a bay or projection.There was an oak seat with the Ripon arms carved on the back. Above it atiny window, showing the great thickness of the wall, let in a few raysof light.
"Sit down--sh!" said Lord Brompton, and he put his finger to his lipsand nodded toward a low door which was visible a few feet beyond. "It isthere."
"Oh, this is delightful. Is it a real, genuine, ancestral ghost?"
"In that chamber the Lady Marian Ripon, an ancestress of mine, is saidto have died of a broken heart. Her husband, the great-grandson of theLord Brompton whose portrait you think I resemble, was killed at Teb,and three days after her body was borne to the tomb. This was herprivate chamber, and here her spirit is said still to linger. It is nota very original ghost, but its authenticity is unquestioned."
"Have you ever crossed the threshold?" asked the girl, with mocksolemnity.
"Not since childhood, and then only in fear and trembling."
"This is beginning to be positively weird and uncanny," she murmured,"but I propose to defy the spectre and enter."
"Have a care--have a care. But you have no key, Miss Windsor."
She was shaking the handle, which seemed loose and flimsy. "Help me. Itis not fastened," she cried.
They bent their united strength upon the door, which creaked, groaned,and finally burst open with a crash, causing the dust to fly so thatMaggie gave a little shriek of dismay. Complete silence and darknessfollowed the onslaught, and then with a whisper of "Who's afraid?" shedrew forth a lamp of diminutive proportions and Etruscan design, andturning the crank produced a brilliant electric flame, which permeatedthe damp and gloom of the ghostly chamber.
Here was, indeed, a monument to decay and mould of the past. A room rifewith the cobwebs of ages met their vision where the moth-eaten remainsof once gorgeous hangings competed for utter fustiness with the odor ofthe rotting beams and the dismal aspect of the furniture, some of whichhad actually fallen to pieces, as though further stability had beenincompatible with the long absence of human life. The place seemedalmost too desolate for a ghost other than a very morbid spirit insearch of penance. In the centre of the room lay in hopeless confusion apile of all sorts and varieties of garments, many of them of mostantiquated description. Plumed hats and velvet knee-breeches of thecavalier period, Jersey jackets and tea-gowns, with Watteau plaits, suchas were in fashion when Victoria was queen, were mingled with articlesof a more recent date. On the top lay an open volume, the pages of whichwere brown with dust. Maggie picked it up and read:
"Howe'er it be, it seems to me 'Tis only noble to be good; Kind hearts are more than coronets And simple faith than Norman blood."
"By whom is that, Lord Brompton? Ah! I see,
Lord d'Eyncourt. His name ison the title-page."
"An eccentric Victorian poet," said the young man, "of much account inhis own day, if I mistake not."
"I never heard of him," said Maggie, "but I am little of an antiquarian.It is pretty, though."
"I remember," said he, "that we as children used to act theatricals herein those old clothes, duds we ransacked from the closets."
"But where is the ghost? I want to see the ghost!" cried the girl,tossing aside the last bit of tarnished finery. "What is this?" shecontinued, seizing the end of a beam which had become loosened andprojected from the wall.
"You will have the house about our ears if you persist," he cried, as ashower of crumbled stone and mortar followed her investigation.
"Well, it is my house, Lord Brompton; I have the right if I choose to."
"Why remind me of my misfortunes, Miss Windsor?"
"Come and help me, then."
"I wish I might be your helpmate forever," he said. She turned andlooked at him, slightly disconcerted, and then said: "I was wrong. Thewomen of to-day need no help from any one."
She gave the beam a strong wrench, as though to vindicate her assertion.It yielded and disclosed a kind of box or recess set into the wall. Sheplunged therein her hand, and drew forth a handsome sword of rich andsubtle workmanship and antique design. "There," she cried, "am I notright?"
Maggie took it to the light. Around the hilt was wrapped a scroll, whichshe was about to read, when, with a sudden fancy, she paused and said,"What am I doing? These are family secrets, and meant, perhaps, only foryour eyes, Lord Brompton."
"Read it, I beg," said he. She obeyed him. In a faint, feminine hand,which resembled a field of corn bowed by the wind, were written thesewords:
"My grandfather's sword. MARIAN RIPON."
"The ghost--it is the ghost's own work," they cried together.
"And this sword," said he, "belonged to my namesake, the cavalier."
"But look--look." Maggie had been staring at the opposite side of thepaper.
Geoffrey took it from her hand.
"Kind hearts are more than coronets And simple faith than Norman blood."
For a moment they looked at one another in speechless surprise.
"Kneel, Lord Brompton," she said at length. He did so, and taking ascarf from among the pile of vestments she girded the sword about himwith fantastic grace. "Rise, Geoffrey Ripon, knight, and Earl ofBrompton."
"You are forever my sovereign." He kissed her hand. She blushed sweetly,and turning said, "Enough of the past and its customs. We each have apresent to face, and mine for the nonce is Jawkins. He must need mydirections."
Thus it happened that when Lord Brompton next entered the porter's lodgein which he dwelt, he was girded with the sword of his ancestors.