CHAPTER XIII

FIRST AID TO THE INJURED

As regards the gray lady whose seeming apparition had spread such wide alarm, anyone curious to know something of the ghostly Ladye Ysobel Ippynge (she was believed to have been poisoned by her husband, Sir Gyles Ippynge, Knight, and first earl of Ippingford in the early part of the twelfth century) will find a true account of her pious life and tragic death in a volume entitled, "Kronicon Uxorium," in the Bodleian library of Oxford, written by the monk Abel of Ipswich and printed in London in 1529.

The pious Lady Ysobel would have been sore distressed had she known what a fearful pother her counterfeit presentment (by Hester Storm) would one day cause. What had really happened was perfectly simple, although the consequences were complicated and far-reaching. When Hester came to the bottom of the stairs she had turned out of her way in the darkness and passed close to a pedestal supporting a suit of armor that kept impressive guard there in the ancestral hall. So close had she passed that the cord of her electric lamp had caught on one of the links in the coat of mail, whereupon, in her plunge away from this ghostly restraint, she had toppled over the grim warrior, pedestal and all, with a crash and rattle of his various resounding parts that had alarmed the entire establishment. And this uproar had terrified Mrs. Baxter all the more because she was already quivering with superstitious dread after reading that creepy tale of Bulwer Lytton's, "A Strange Story"; in fact, it was to seek relief from this obsession that the agitated lady had gone downstairs for some sulphonal sleeping tablets that she had left in the conservatory. And the silent, silver-draped apparition, looming suddenly in the shadows, had done the rest.

For the Storm girl it was an incredibly narrow escape. A mere matter of seconds decided her fate. If young Baxter had carried a candle she would have been discovered. If Mrs. Baxter's candle had not been extinguished by that lady's fall she would also have been discovered. As it was, Hester had time to flee across the dark conservatory and out into the park (by the unlocked door) before Bob, blundering and stumbling through the hall and library, had reached his fainting mother.

It may be added that Hester's quick impersonation of the gray lady was not entirely inspirational. She had heard old Mrs. Pottle refer to the specter that haunted Ipping House that very evening; and, while she watched at the lodge for the Baxter automobile, her thoughts had turned to the shivery legend when she heard An Petronia, with motherly tenderness, putting to bed the four "Pottles" (who seemed wakeful) and assuring them that "the dray lady would tum and det them," if they didn't go to sleep.

It must not be supposed, however, that either the gray lady or her understudy, Hester Storm, was responsible for the series of happenings at Ipping House that ended in converting that comfortably appointed English home into as uncompromising a wilderness, as far as the relatives were concerned, as the most resourceful Swiss Family Robinson could hope to be wrecked upon. There was another agency at work; to-wit, Parker.

Parker, at this particular time, was the only indoors man at Ipping House, his rank being that of butler, footman, and valet combined. For sympathetic and politic reasons, Parker had given notice on the very same day that Mrs. Edge had received her congé from Mr. Baxter.

In appearance Parker was of the candle-complexioned, patent-leather-haired type that nature seems to have distributed impartially between the pulpits and pantries of Great Britain. Parker's greatest personal asset was a subtle fluidity of temperament which caused visitors at a house where he had been engaged only the week before to believe that he was an old family retainer. It was to this priceless gift that Parker owed his success in New York, where he had spent ten profitable years and adorned many expensive houses, seldom staying long in any one place as new accessories to social elegance outbid each other for his services. It was in New York that Parker's face took on its expression of impeccable superiority, the envy of more than one bishop, an expression acquired through his practice of combining with his office of butler (for an extra charge, of course) that of private tutor of social usages to his employers.

In the eyes of Mrs. Edge, and to quote her own words, Parker was the "cream of gentlemen." Between Mrs. Edge and the "cream of gentlemen" there was an understanding. When the Baxters returned to New York in the autumn and the house would be closed for the winter, a small but desirable hotel at Inwich (the next village beyond Millbrook) would be reopened under the management of Mr. and Mrs. Parker.

Hiram Baxter, in spite of his homely American speech, which grated painfully on the butler's fine cockney ear, somehow commanded the respect of this "cream of gentlemen," who felt that there was good material in him. He would like to have taken Baxter in hand. He longed to tell him that detachable cuffs and collars were not permissible; that a black bow tie, if one must wear such a thing in the daytime, should not have its ends tucked under the flaps of the collar. Twice Parker had deliberately hidden the silver clasps with which Hiram suspended his serviette to the lapels of his coat.

"It's fortunate they don't have no English visitors, leastways none that matters," had been Parker's reflection. Had it been otherwise his sense of fastidious shame would have compelled him to give notice. Not even that '66 brandy, upon the question of whose merits Parker and Anton were in such perfect accord, could have induced him to stay.

And now he was turning his back on these liquid joys and two months' wages into the bargain. To be separated from Mrs. Edge was out of the question. She was his fiancée, also the lease of the "Golden Horseshoe" was in her name. The wily Parker, however, saw in the ghost incident a way of visiting his resentment on the Baxter household, and he set about it at once.

At the time of the night alarm Parker had been the first to reach the hall from the servants' wing, and, striking a match, had discovered the figure in armor lying on its face. With an instinctive alacrity, born of former kindly and remunerative ministrations to elderly gentlemen who had "dined," Parker lifted the helpless dummy to his feet and replaced the helmet, which had rolled some distance along the oak floor.

A moment later, when Bob appeared, supporting his mother to the stairs, the butler heard Mrs. Baxter exclaim with hysterical triumph: "There, you can see for yourself, Bob, it wasn't the armor; it's standing up--it never fell down at all----"

Bob raised his candle to inspect the warrior. "Did you pick up the armor, Parker?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Robert; it was standing up just like it is now, sir."

"You can go back to bed, Parker. I'll take a turn round the house myself. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir; thank you, sir."

The next day at noon the cook and the first and second housemaids gave three days' notice. It was thought advisable not to tell Eleanor, and, after a consultation with Hiram, Betty engaged a new cook and one housemaid by telephone from a London agency.

That afternoon the cook confided to the laundress, in a frightened whisper, that she had been told in strict secrecy by Parker, who got it from Gibson, Mrs. Baxter's maid, that Mrs. Baxter had a white mark on her forehead she would carry to her grave, made by the icy fingers of the Gray Lady. The story spread among the servants like an epidemic.

As night came on the last remnant of courage accumulated in the daylight oozed away, the frightened females refused to be separated and passed the night on sofas and chairs in the servants' parlor.

As for Mrs. Baxter, the shock she had received was no mean tribute to Hester's histrionic power. Nothing could remove from Eleanor's mind the conviction that she had actually beheld the supernatural shape of Lady Ysobel Ippynge, dead and buried these hundreds of years.

Mingled with her physical distress, there was a childish sense of outrage in that, having survived a unique and painful adventure, she should, by its belittlement, be robbed of the distinction she felt to be her due.

"If," reasoned the aggrieved lady, "the shock to my nerves isn't proof enough that I have really seen a ghost, then it is because of my great self-control; and all the thanks you get for self-control is to be told that you have nothing the matter with you."

Very well, she would cease to cast this pearl of self-control before the swine of unsympathy. She would let them know how really ill she was. And so, aggravated by the well-meant but irritating optimism of her family, Eleanor Baxter's "nerves" grew daily worse until, on the afternoon of her third day in bed, Hiram telephoned to a nerve specialist in London, who took the first train for Ippingford and informed the suffering lady, after a careful examination, that she was on the verge of complete nervous prostration. This was the first sensible remark Eleanor had heard for a week.

"Don't give yourself a moment's worry, Mr. Baxter," said the doctor, as Hiram put him aboard the train. "All your wife really needs is a change of air. Better take her down to Brighton."

"Hm! Brighton! Swell place by the sea, ain't it?"

"It's quite a fashionable resort, just what Mrs. Baxter needs."

"No ghosts there?" chuckled the big fellow.

"No ghosts," laughed the doctor, as he waved farewell.

Hiram sent Bob back in the automobile and walked home. With this mention of Brighton there had come to him an idea that he wanted to work out, an idea having to do with his general plan of reducing expenses. If a stay at the seashore was what Eleanor needed, why not give her enough of it, say a fortnight or a month? And, if they were going to be away a month, why not close Ipping House and get rid of a raft of servants? And why not---- then frowning he thought of his relatives and of his favorite purpose regarding them as he had outlined it to the Bishop of Bunchester, and then he thought apprehensively of Eleanor.

"Holy cats!" he muttered. "It's goin' to be a job, but I'll do it."

That evening, after dinner, he went to his wife's room and asked her carelessly how she would like to go down to Brighton for a week or two. Eleanor beamed. She would love it. Was he really going to take her? How soon? Could they stay a whole fortnight in Brighton?

Hiram assured her most considerately that they could stay a whole month in Brighton, if she wished. And they would start the next day. She had been through a great strain. It was no joke to see a ghost, he understood that. They ought to have known better than to take a house that had a ghost in it. And then, as tactfully as he could, the old boy came around to his point that it might be just as well to close Ipping House and--and give the ghost a rest.

Eleanor's eyes narrowed dangerously as she watched him from her lace pillow.

"Close Ipping House?" she repeated in a cold, even tone. "Do you realize what you are saying?"

Hiram took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief, first blowing on them deliberately.

"Sure I do; that's why I'm sayin' it. If we shut this house we can fire the servants, all of 'em; then, when we come back we can get new ones, half as many and twice as good. Don't look at me that way, dearie. I hate like everything to disappoint you, but----" he reached over and stroked her white hand tenderly, "you know what I said about expenses? Well, I meant it then and I mean it now. We've got to economize."

"What about my relatives? Our guests?" the wife demanded angrily.

"I guess your relatives'll have to take their chances in a new deal, Eleanor. I'm goin' to have a little talk with 'em to-morrow morning. I told 'em at dinner. Don't worry, I ain't goin' to say a thing but what's for their good. Bet ye three dollars and a half, when ye hear my little speech--

"Hear your speech?" she blazed. "Do you think anything could induce me to be present while you humiliate members of my family? I think it's abominable."

"Hold on! There ain't anything humiliating in a little honest work."

"Work?" she gasped. "Hiram, you don't mean--you're not going to put my relatives--to work?"

Hiram shifted his legs with exasperating calmness, pulled at his short, gray mustache, and was about to reply, when Robert strolled in cheerily and went at once to Eleanor's bedside.

"How's the little mother to-night?" he asked affectionately. Whereupon, to his surprise and to Hiram's great discomfiture, the lady burst into a flood of tears.

"I'm so unhappy," she wailed. "Your father is treating me most--unkindly and--and----" her words were lost in hysterical sobbing.

Whereupon Baxter stalked out of the room like a rumpled Newfoundland dog, leaving Bob to administer filial comfort and smelling salts, the result being that Eleanor was presently able to give her a son a tearful version of Hiram's iconoclastic purposes. Bob listened with an amused and incredulous smile.

"Don't you know, Mother," he reasoned, "that Dad's bark is always worse than his bite? He won't close Ipping House! not a bit of it. I'll talk to him and--what you need is sleep, especially if you're going to Brighton to-morrow."

"I suppose you're right," sighed Eleanor. "You're a dear boy, Bob. Send Gibson here. Tell her to bring a hot water bag and my sulphonal tablets. And do speak to your father. Tell him I can't bear it if he closes Ipping House."

"I'll tell him. Good-night, little Mother. There! It's going to be all right." He kissed her lovingly and stole out of the room.

A few moments later young Baxter joined his father in the library, where the old man was frowning over important papers that he had brought up from town with him that evening. Things were going badly, the news from America was most unsatisfactory, and the father and son, weary and troubled, sat discussing it until long after midnight.

"There's some deviltry behind all this," declared the grizzled old fellow, pounding his fist on the table. "There's crooked work in this copper campaign. Why, that Henderson outfit seems to know what we're doing every day, just as if they had eyes in this room. I tell you there's a leak, Bob, but----" he glowered about the spacious walls under his heavy, black brows.

"Are you sure of this new secretary?" whispered the son.

Hiram's eyes softened, as they rested on the winding stair. "Am I sure of her? Sure of _her_?" Then with a chuckle: "Say, what do you think of my new secretary?"

Bob answered quite seriously: "She seems to be a nice girl, but she's too pretty."

"Think so?"

"I don't believe in very pretty girls for business positions."

"Don't, eh? Well, you can take it from me, my boy, that this partic'lar pretty girl is all right."

Bob glanced at his watch, then rose and stretched himself.

"Half-past two! We can't do any more to-night, Dad. By the way," he suddenly remembered his promise to his mother, "you're not thinking of closing Ipping House?"

Hiram was silent a moment, then, slipping his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, he spoke with a wise drawl.

"Bob, after you've been married a while you'll find that a man thinks a lot o' things and then, when his wife gets at him with the water-works, why he just takes it out in thinkin'."

"Then Ipping House stays open--just as it is."

"There may be some modifications in the 'just as it is' part of it, but--well, yes, Ipping House stays open."

"I'm glad of that. And the relatives? You're not really going to put the relatives to work, are you?"

Hiram closed his jaws with a vigorous snap. "Am I? You just show up in this library to-morrow morning right after breakfast and watch me give the English aristocracy a little of Hiram Baxter's first aid to the injured. Good-night, Son."