“I don’t know, sir,” said the porter’s wife, shaking her head; “it’s a very old and tumble-down sort of place, and I’ve heard noises, and crackings, and rappings, sometimes, as have made my flesh creep. They do say the place is haunted.”
“With rats?”
“Worse, sir. Oh, I’m told there were strange goings on here in the old times, when a Lord Morran lived here. I’ve heard that your cupboard—”
“Bath room.”
“Well, sir, bath room, was once a passage into Mr Brettison’s chambers, and his closet was a passage into yours, and they used to have dinners, and feasts, and dancing, and masked balls, at which they used to play dominoes. The gambling and goings on was shameful. But please, sir, don’t say a word to Mr Brettison. I’ve trouble enough with him now. There never was such a gentleman for objecting to being dusted, and the way those big books of his that he presses his bits of chickweed and groundsel in do hold the dust is awful. If you wished to do him some kindness you’d get him away for a bit, so that I could turn his rooms inside out. Postman, sir.”
Mrs Brade hurried to the outer door and fetched a letter just dropped into the box, and upon this being eagerly taken, and opened, she saw that there was no further chance of being allowed to gossip, and saying “Good-morning, sir,” she went out, and down to the porter’s lodge.
Malcolm Stratton’s hands trembled as he turned the letter over and hesitated to open it.
“What a manly hand the old lady writes, and how fond she is of sporting their arms,” he continued, as he held up the great blot of red wax carefully sealed over the adhesive flap of the envelope.
Then tearing it open he read:
Westbourne Terrace, Thursday.
My Dear Mr Stratton:
Thank you for your note and its news. Accept my congratulations. You certainly deserved to gain the post; the work will be most congenial, and it will give you an opportunity for carrying on your studies, besides placing you in the independent position for which you have worked so long and hard. I wish my dear old friend and schoolfellow, your mother, had lived to see her boy’s success. You must go on now with renewed confidence, and double that success.
Very sincerely yours, Rebecca Jerrold.
Malcolm Stratton, Esquire.
P.S.—I shall be at home to-morrow evening. Come and see me, and bring your friend. Nobody will be here but the girls, who are going to give me a little music, as my brother dines out.