Rusholme Place, a fine old mansion in the Midlands, is seated in a picturesque and well-wooded park, and surrounded by the usual accompaniments of lawns, pleasure-grounds, and gardens. The exterior of Rusholme, although it presents a most attractive appearance, is as nothing compared with the treasures within.
The large entrance hall, and billiard-room, which opens out of it, are said to be an admixture of the Natural History and the Victoria and Albert Museums of South Kensington! The walls of both are covered with trophies of the chase (their owner was a dead-shot, and went far afield for sport). A magnificent bull-moose from Nova Scotia faces a life-like bison, late from Southern India; fine heads of deer surmount the doorways; and along the walls are high glass cases, containing specimens of rare birds, and small animals, such as snow-white hares, weasels, etc. This is the natural history department; there are also displayed in these rooms inlaid damascened Indian arms; Afghan guns; old Spanish chairs upholstered in Cordova leather; a stand of rare books—which include a beautifully illustrated Koran, picked up on a battlefield. A wonderful Chinese embroidered curtain drapes a wall, in front of which stands a table holding a Russian samovar, and a Japanese incense-burner in bronze, of the most terrifying description. In the hall is an ancient carved chest, said to have been washed ashore from the Spanish Armada. Here are also several exquisite figures of Grecian type, about two feet high—these had been dug up on the banks of the Indus, and were said to have been left behind by the hosts of Alexander the Great. Wherever you looked within these two rooms, there was something interesting to see, but it was at night that—astonishing fact—there was something interesting to hear.
After the genial party of billiard players had departed, when the lights were extinguished, the house closed and buried in silence, the collection from all parts of the world exchanged experiences—personal or otherwise, and held discussions—but these were not always attended with success. The stag and the tiger had high words; it had been found necessary to interrupt and silence the stoat and the white hare. It was considered more prudent to confine the evening entertainments to the harmless form of story-telling. The great moose was chairman of the company; the bison, his vis-à-vis, vice-chairman; the Chinese incense-burner and an Afghan jazail occasionally interposed remarks, but, on the whole, peace reigned supreme.
“I now call upon the Ferrara Blade,” said the deep bass of the moose; “let us hear your tale.”
After a moment’s silence, a thin, sharp voice from a corner began without further preamble: “My story, good listeners, is ancient history, but it is true. I will merely relate one incident—no need to more than touch on my own life, for to tell my adventures would take hours. I am a well-tempered Andrea Ferrara blade, married to a Spanish handle of great value. By chance, I entered a military family, and descended from father to son. I have seen desperate fighting in the Low Countries—aye, and in the New World. After a long time came peace—there was no work for me, and I was hung up in my scabbard over a fireplace in the library of the ancient mansion of my Lord of Lanbryde. His home was right in the north of Scotland—its lands were lipped by an ocean that had its further shore in the Arctic Circle. The wind was fine and strong—the sunsets recalled the tropics; air and land bred bold fishermen, and big-boned folk, who held themselves high, and knew not the word ‘fear.’ It was recorded that the race came from the Danes.
“Blairvie, my Lord, was heir to great estates, a tall old man, with a high, hooked nose and bushy brows, a famous swordsman and gamester in his day—which was over. Now he had nought to do but mind his property and harry his tenants. He was a hard landlord—hard to all the world except himself. Married to a lord’s daughter, he had two children—a son in a Highland regiment, and one girl. Blairvie was a tyrant to them, and to everyone within his reach; he turned out folk from places where they and their forebears had lived for generations.
“One very old woman crawled to his door and begged for mercy, but he was as stone. She went down on her knees, and said:
“‘Blairvie, let me die in my ain wee housie. I pray you to leave me where I was born and bred—my time must now be short.’
“But it was all of no use—Blairvie was adamant—so she uprose, and cursed him to his face.
“‘Ye have ta’en away the land from us, aye, and from many—ye that has plenty. See now,’ she said, ‘I lay my malison on you: the land will be ta’en away from you and yours—for ever and ever. Your descendants will not own a yard of green turf, and will die beggars!’ and then she fell in a sort of fit, and was thrown out.