Then he remembered making some remark to Guy on the “objective” character of this famous apparition, and Guy had answered, “But they only saw it, as you see a house or a tree. I don’t suppose it made much difference to them.”
Guy betook himself to the mill, and called John Cooper into the room where the bottle of brandy was still locked up in the cupboard in the wall. He had often been as conscious of its presence there, as he could have been of that of the ghost; every morning he thought about it more and more persistently, and every evening when he went away he knew that the day’s victory had left him with less strength for the morrow’s conflict.
Now, when he went up to the cupboard, and turned the key in the lock, and, with his keen ears heard the old manager’s step crossing the court—it was to him as if another hand pushed the lock back—and another than himself suggested a different reason for the summons. But he stood still, leaning against the wall, till the old man came into the room.
Then he put up his hand, and let the door swing open.
“John Cooper,” he said, “take that out, and take it away with you. I’ll own you had right on your side. But you shouldn’t have cackled about it to Mrs Waynflete.”
“Well now,” said Cooper, in a rougher echo of the young man’s slow, musical voice, “I’ve thought of that myself. I’m glad you’ve come to a better mind about it, Mr Guy, for I’d not be willing to see the old missus disappointed in your future.”
“She don’t expect much,” said Guy. “Now then,” after Cooper had taken the brandy-bottle out of the cupboard, and set it beside a file of bills. “Now that you see I’m not going to send the business and myself to the dogs, shut the door, I’ve something to say.”
John Cooper obeyed, and Guy sat down by the table.
“Now then,” he repeated, “we are going to the dogs, and you know it. Let’s look it in the face.”
“Eh, Mr Guy, trade’s fluctuating. We’ll pull round without letting th’ owd lady know there’s aught wrong.”