“Well, I hope this will be an exception,” said Stratton, laughing.
“I hope so, too, sir, but it’s no laughing matter, and for my part—though, of course, gentlemen have a right to do as they like—I think there is nothing like a big, flat, zinc bath painted oak out, and white in, set on a piece of oilcloth in a gentleman’s bedroom. Then you’ve your big sponge, and a can of water. No trouble about them getting out of order.”
“But the trouble, Mrs Brade,” said Stratton. “No filling; no anything.”
“No, sir, of course not; but you’re always at the mercy of the plumbers; and if these men don’t always leave their work so that it’ll make another job before long, I’m not a Christian woman.”
“Oh, you object to it because it’s new-fashioned,” said Stratton merrily.
“Which, begging your pardon, I don’t, sir. What I do object to is your taking up a beautiful closet to make into a bath room; and out of your sitting room, and none too much cupboard room before. If it had been a cupboard in your bedroom I shouldn’t have said a word.”
“But there was no cupboard there, Mrs Brade, and that closet fitted exactly, so say no more about it.”
“Certainly not, sir, if you don’t wish it; and only too glad am I to have got rid of the workmen; though as I lay in bed last night I said to my husband, ‘Mark my word, John, if Mr Brettison don’t go having a bath made in his room, for there’s the fellow-closet as matches Mr Stratton’s exactly.’”
“To be sure, I never thought of that,” said Stratton merrily. “I’ll give him a hint.”
“Mr Stratton, sir, if you’ve any respect for me and my rheumatism, don’t. The place smells horrid as it is of paint, and French polish, and plumbers, without counting the mess they made, and if you’ll be guided by me you’ll buy a sixpenny box of pastilles and let me burn one every day till the smell of workmen’s gone.”
“Oh, I don’t mind the smell, Mrs Brade. By George, yes, Mr Brettison ought to have a bath put in his.”
“Mr Stratton, sir, don’t, please. He’s sure to if you say a word; and if the workmen come again we shall be having the whole place tumbling about our ears.”
“I hope not. Oh, the old place is strong enough.”
“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.
Stratton’s face flushed warmly, and he stood staring before him at the window.
“I could not go there now,” he muttered, “without seeing the old man first. It would not be honourable. I meant to wait, but—I must speak at once.”
He re-read the letter, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“And I asked her point blank, and she does not even refer to it. Then it was her doing. God bless her! She has been using her interest and working for me. It’s her work, and she must approve of it.”
He hurriedly thrust the letter into his breast as a double rap came at his door, and, upon opening it, Percy Guest came in.
“Got your wire, old chap, and came on at once. Something the matter?”
“Yes; something serious.”
“My dear old man, I’m so sorry. Want help—money? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“No, old fellow,” cried Stratton proudly; “the news came this morning, and I telegraphed to you directly.”
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