This young man, who had the nose and voice and self-possession of his race, was astounded when this inquisitive elderly gentleman came forward with outstretched hand, and claimed him as his nephew! He had been under the impression that he wished to buy the sugar-bowl. What an extraordinary change this bit of old silver had made in his life, and Lily’s! She was immediately moving to a nursing home, and he to quarters in this grand hotel. He was fitted out by a fashionable tailor, and slipped into his new part with surprising ease; but all the same, remained a quiet, unassuming youth, anxious to adapt himself to his new relatives. He was devoted to his sister, had a practical turn of mind, and, unless “stupid Leonard” was mistaken, Peregrine the younger (in reality Sir Peregrine) had brains!
Leonard Harling and Lizzie his wife were delighted with their “find”; the girl was so pretty and sweet-tempered, the boy a really fine young fellow; and when they returned to their home (of late years near Hamilton) they carried with them, besides stores of ancient silver, a wonderful source of new interests, new hopes, and present happiness—all imported into their lives by an old crested sugar-bowl.
XIII
THE CREAKING BOARD
Bramleigh Place, a fine specimen of an early Jacobean dwelling, had been in the Millard family for nearly three centuries, but of late years the Millards had fallen on evil days. There was no money to maintain the property in fitting state, the farms were let, as well as the shooting; graziers rented the park to the borders of the pleasure ground; the house was closed, and abandoned to dust and spiders; the garden was free to weeds and birds. An elderly couple had been installed in “The Place” as caretakers, but these looked upon it as nothing more or less than a lonesome, draughty, inconvenient abode—a whole mile from the village and a glass of whisky.
Now and then, in summer-time, lodgers at farms, or in the village, would walk over to the stately old mansion, and bribe Mrs. Pilcher to show them around; and she was not inaccessible. Odd shillings, also the price of tea and bread and butter, made a nice little addition to her weekly wages. She opened the tall doors and the heavy shutters, and invited paying visitors into the great saloon, there to gaze upon the Bramleigh Vandyke—a handsome cavalier, with a satin coat and long fair locks—as well as many other valuable paintings and family portraits by Reynolds and Lely, old lacquered cabinets and Chippendale chairs, wonderful settees, card-tables, and screens. Most of the great lofty rooms were half empty, for on the bankruptcy of the late Sir Aubrey Millard there had been a sensational auction, but the residue happened to be heirlooms, and as such, fixtures; and the house was in the curious condition of being neither unfurnished nor yet furnished. Mrs. Pilcher, as she ushered her customers in and out of apartments, and up and down stairs, related many surprising tales of the Millards, and gave the house the reputation of being badly haunted. She was a clever old body, with a loose tongue and a warm imagination, and such were her powers of description, that more than one of her listeners, passing late on the distant highroad, looked down upon the dignified Place, standing in a hollow, with a sensation of fearsome awe.
Young Millard, the owner, was with his regiment in India; there he made the acquaintance of a wealthy American family on tour, and subsequently married the daughter—a charming girl, with a fabulous fortune. Young Lady Millard fell in love with Bramleigh at first sight—it was a place after her own heart!—and she hurried from room to room, exclaiming in raptures as she made discoveries of pictures, tapestries, and furniture—hailing these, one by one, as delightful possessions and priceless treasures. The prompt and energetic new mistress commanded that Bramleigh was to be set in order without delay; the aged Pilchers were dismissed with a pension, and replaced, first by an army of workmen and upholsterers, and then by a staff of gardeners, grooms, and indoor servants. Soon there were horses and motors in the great empty yard, as well as new stables, and a garage. The mouldy Justice Room was turned into a lounge, and long-deserted Bramleigh was transformed by the enchanted wand, which is known as “Money.”
Lady Millard and her husband were young, gay, and popular; they entertained parties for shooting, cricket, and week-ends, as London was only forty miles away; they also were entertained, and frequently from home—or spending a week or two in town. On these occasions, the large number of unemployed servants had ample time to themselves—and Satan was not idle.
Among the women, Fanny Lappage, second housemaid, was the ringleader in mischief and fun; moreover, a remarkably pretty girl and a shameless flirt, with half the men at her beck and call. For all her giddiness, she was a first-rate housemaid, and never shirked work—only for this, the housekeeper would have dismissed her; she was too flighty, too saucy, and too pretty; but there never was a better girl for polishing furniture or turning out a room—and besides, her ladyship liked Fanny.
Chief among Fanny’s slaves was James Hegan, a tall, fine-looking footman, Irish by descent, with jet-black hair, and deep-set dark blue eyes. Naturally smart, silent, and impassive, he was an admirable servant—though plagued out of his wits by Fanny Lappage and her vagaries. She was continually teasing him, and ridiculing him in the servants’ hall, or the still-room, and the long stone passages often echoed with her ringing laugh at Hegan’s expense; whilst he could only stare stupidly, marvel at her cleverness, and admire her bewitching little face.
Trail, the butler, and Mrs. Madden, housekeeper, had often and vainly remonstrated with giddy Fanny—sometimes she really went too far. By a curious instinct, she had discovered that Hegan was nervous and superstitious—on this subject she chaffed him constantly and mercilessly; yet, strange to say, the more she flouted and tormented him, the more ardently he adored her. He was of a naturally silent and melancholy disposition, and it was Fanny’s amazing liveliness that appealed to him. As for superstition—superstition was in his blood (as a child, he had listened to many a weird tale from the lips of an Irish grandmother), and this characteristic was kept alive, and even fanned, by conversations he overheard at his master’s table whilst he waited automatically—listening with all his ears.