“Then why don’t you go home earlier?”
“Because it is so stupid, and lonely,” was the mendacious answer.
“Lonely is not the word I should use. I wonder if you are as wise as your neighbours now? Come now, Mrs. Shandon.”
“About what?” said Aggie, with ill-feigned innocence.
“About Briarwood. Haven’t you heard it yet? The ghastly precipice and horse affair?”
“Yes, I suppose we may as well confess that we have.”
“Humph! you are a brave couple to stay on. The Tombs tried it last year for three weeks. The Paxtons took it the year before, and then sub-let it; not that they believed in ghosts—oh, dear no!” and she laughed ironically.
“And what is the story?” I inquired eagerly.
“Well, the story is this. An old retired officer and his wife, and their pretty niece, lived at Briarwood a good many years ago. The girl was engaged to be married to a fine young fellow in the Guides. The day before the wedding, what you know of happened, and has happened every monsoon ever since. The poor girl went out of her mind, and destroyed herself, and the old colonel and his wife did not long survive her. The house is uninhabitable in the monsoon, and there seems nothing for it but to auction off the furniture, and pull it down; it will always be the same as long as it stands. Take my advice, and come into Cooper’s Hotel. I believe you can have that small set of rooms at the back. The sitting-room smokes—but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“That will only be our very last resource,” said Aggie, hotly.