The Water Ghost and Others

For the purposes of this bit of history, Bangletop Hall stands upon a grassy knoll on the left bank of the River Dee, about eighteen miles from the quaint old city of Chester.  It does not in reality stand there, nor has it ever done so, but consideration for the interests of the living compels me to conceal its exact location, and so to befog the public as to its whereabouts that its identity may never be revealed to its disadvantage.  It is a rentable property, and were it known that it has had a mystery connected with it of so deep, dark, and eerie a nature as that about to be related, I fear that its usefulness, save as an accessory to romance, would be seriously impaired, and that as an investment it would become practically worthless.

The hall is a fair specimen of the architecture which prevailed at the time of Edward the Confessor; that is to say, the main portion of the structure, erected in Edward’s time by the first Baron Bangletop, has that square, substantial, stony aspect which to the eye versed in architecture identifies it at once as a product of that enlightened era.  Later owners, the successive Barons Bangletop, have added to its original dimensions, putting Queen Anne wings here, Elizabethan ells there, and an Italian-Renaissance facade on the river front.  A Wisconsin water tower, connected with the main building by a low Gothic alleyway, stands to the south; while toward the east is a Greek chapel, used by the present occupant as a store-room for his wife’s trunks, she having lately returned from Paris with a wardrobe calculated to last through the first half of the coming London season.  Altogether Bangletop Hall is an impressive structure, and at first sight gives rise to various emotions in the aesthetic breast; some cavil, others admire.  One leading architect of Berlin travelled all the way from his German home to Bangletop Hall to show that famous structure to his son, a student in the profession which his father adorned; to whom he is said to have observed that, architecturally, Bangletop Hall was “cosmopolitan and omniperiodic, and therefore a liberal education to all who should come to study and master its details.”  In short, Bangletop Hall was an object-lesson to young architects, and showed them at a glance that which they should ever strive to avoid.

Strange to say, for quite two centuries had Bangletop Hall remained without a tenant, and for nearly seventy-five years it had been in the market for rent, the barons, father and son, for many generations having found it impossible to dwell within its walls, and for a very good reason:  no cook could ever be induced to live at Bangletop for a longer period than two weeks.  Why the queens of the kitchen invariably took what is commonly known as French leave no occupant could ever learn, because, male or female, the departed domestics never returned to tell, and even had they done so, the pride of the Bangletops would not have permitted them to listen to the explanation.  The Bangletop escutcheon was clear of blots, no suspicion even of a conversational blemish appearing thereon, and it was always a matter of extreme satisfaction to the family that no one of its scions since the title was created had ever been known to speak directly to any one of lesser rank than himself, communication with inferiors being always had through the medium of a private secretary, himself a baron, or better, in reduced circumstances.

The first cook to leave Bangletop under circumstances of a Gallic nature—­that is, without known cause, wages, or luggage—­had been employed by Fitzherbert Alexander, seventeenth Baron of Bangletop, through Charles Mortimor de Herbert, Baron Peddlington, formerly of Peddlington Manor at Dunwoodie-on-the-Hike, his private secretary, a handsome old gentleman of sixty-five, who had been deprived of his estates by the crown in 1629 because he was suspected of having inspired a comic broadside published in those troublous days, and directed against Charles the First, which had set all London in a roar.

This broadside, one of very few which are not preserved in the British Museum—­and a greater tribute to its rarity could not be devised—­was called, “A Good Suggestion as to ye Proper Use of ye Chinne Whisker,” and consisted of a few lines of doggerel printed beneath a caricature of the king, with the crown hanging from his goatee, reading as follows: 

“Ye King doth sporte a gallous grey goatee
Uponne ye chinne, where every one may see. 
And since ye Monarch’s head’s too small to holde
With comfort to himselfe ye crowne of gold,
Why not enwax and hooke ye goatee rare,
And lette ye British crown hang down from there?”

[Illustration]

Whether or no the Baron of Peddlington was guilty of this traitorous effusion no one, not even the king, could ever really make up his mind.  The charge was never fully proven, nor was De Herbert ever able to refute it successfully, although he made frantic efforts to do so.  The king, eminently just in such matters, gave the baron the benefit of the doubt, and inflicted only half the penalty prescribed, confiscating his estates, and letting him keep his head and liberty.  De Herbert’s family begged the crown to reverse the sentence, permitting them to keep the estates, the king taking their uncle’s head in lieu thereof, he being unmarried and having no children who would mourn his loss.  But Charles was poor rather than vindictive at this period, and preferring to adopt the other course, turned a deaf ear to the petitioners.  This was probably one of the earliest factors in the decadence of literature as a pastime for men of high station.

De Herbert would have starved had it not been for his old friend Baron Bangletop, who offered him the post of private secretary, lately made vacant by the death of the Duke of Algeria, who had been the incumbent of that office for ten years, and in a short time the Baron of Peddlington was in full charge of the domestic arrangements of his friend.  It was far from easy, the work that devolved upon him.  He was a proud, haughty man, used to luxury of every sort, to whom contact with those who serve was truly distasteful; to whom the necessity of himself serving was most galling; but he had the manliness to face the hardships Fate had put upon him, particularly when he realized that Baron Bangletop’s attitude towards servants was such that he could with impunity impose on the latter seven indignities for every one that was imposed on him.  Misery loves company, particularly when she is herself the hostess, and can give generously of her stores to others.

Desiring to retrieve his fallen fortunes, the Baron of Peddlington offered large salaries to those whom he employed to serve in the Bangletop menage, and on payday, through an ingenious system of fines, managed to retain almost seventy-five per cent of the funds for his own use.  Of this Baron Bangletop, of course, could know nothing.  He was aware that under De Herbert the running expenses of his household were nearly twice what they had been under the dusky Duke of Algeria; but he also observed that repairs to the property, for which the late duke had annually paid out several thousands of pounds sterling, with very little to show for it, now cost him as many hundreds with no fewer tangible results.  So he winked his eye—­the only unaristocratic habit he had, by-the-way—­and said nothing.  The revenue was large enough, he had been known to say, to support himself and all his relatives in state, with enough left over to satisfy even Ali Baba and the forty thieves.

Had he foreseen the results of his complacency in financial matters, I doubt if he would have persisted therein.

For some ten years under De Herbert’s management everything went smoothly and expensively for the Bangletop Hall people, and then there came a change.  The Baron Bangletop rang for his breakfast one morning, and his breakfast was not.  The cook had disappeared.  Whither or why she had gone, the private secretary professed to be unable to say.  That she could easily be replaced, he was certain.  Equally certain was it that Baron Bangletop stormed and raved for two hours, ate a cold breakfast—­a thing he never had been known to do before—­and then departed for London to dine at the club until Peddlington had secured a successor to the departed cook, which the private secretary succeeded in doing within three days.  The baron was informed of his manager’s success, and at the end of a week returned to Bangletop Hall, arriving there late on a Saturday night, hungry as a bear, and not too amiable, the king having negotiated a forcible loan with him during his sojourn in the metropolis.

“Welcome to Bangletop, Baron,” said De Herbert, uneasily, as his employer alighted from his coach.

“Blast your welcome, and serve the dinner,” returned the baron, with a somewhat ill grace.

At this the private secretary seemed much embarrassed.  “Ahem!” he said.  “I’ll be very glad to have the dinner served, my dear Baron; but the fact is I—­er—­I have been unable to provide anything but canned lobster and apples.”

[Illustration]

“What, in the name of Chaucer, does this mean?” roared Bangletop, who was a great admirer of the father of English poetry; chiefly because, as he was wont to say, Chaucer showed that a bad speller could be a great man, which was a condition of affairs exactly suited to his mind, since in the science of orthography he was weak, like most of the aristocrats of his day.  “I thought you sent me word you had a cook?”

“Yes, Baron, I did; but the fact of the matter is, sir, she left us last night, or, rather, early this morning.”

“Another one of your beautiful Parisian exits, I presume?” sneered the baron, tapping the floor angrily with his toe.

“Well, yes, somewhat so; only she got her money first.”

“Money!” shrieked the baron.  “Money!  Why in Liverpool did she get her money?  What did we owe her money for?  Rent?”

“No, Baron; for services.  She cooked three dinners.”

“Well, you’ll pay the bill out of your perquisites, that’s all.  She’s done no cooking for me, and she gets no pay from me.  Why do you think she left?”

“She said—­”

“Never mind what she said, sir,” cried Bangletop, cutting De Herbert short.  “When I am interested in the table-talk of cooks, I’ll let you know.  What I wish to hear is what do you think was the cause of her leaving?”

“I have no opinion on the subject,” replied the private secretary, with becoming dignity.  “I only know that at four o’clock this morning she knocked at my door, and demanded her wages for four days, and vowed she’d stay no longer in the house.”

“And why, pray, did you not inform me of the fact, instead of having me travel away down here from London?” queried Bangletop.

“You forget, Baron,” replied De Herbert, with a deprecatory gesture—­“you forget that there is no system of telegraphy by which you could be reached.  I may be poor, sir, but I’m just as much of a baron as you are, and I will take the liberty of saying right here, in what would be the shadow of your beard, if you had one, sir, that a man who insists on receiving cable messages when no such things exist is rather rushing business.”

“Pardon my haste, Peddlington, old chap,” returned the baron, softening.  “You are quite right.  My desire was unreasonable; but I swear to you, by all my ancestral Bangletops, that I am hungry as a pit full of bears, and if there’s one thing I can’t eat, it is lobster and apples.  Can’t you scare up a snack of bread and cheese and a little cold larded fillet?  If you’ll supply the fillet, I’ll provide the cold.”

At this sally the Baron of Peddlington laughed and the quarrel was over.  But none the less the master of Bangletop went to bed hungry; nor could he do any better in the morning at breakfast-time.  The butler had not been trained to cook, and the coachman’s art had once been tried on a boiled egg, which no one had been able to open, much less eat, and as it was the parlor-maid’s Sunday off, there was absolutely no one in the house who could prepare a meal.  The Baron of Bangletop had a sort of sneaking notion that if there were nobody around he could have managed the spit or gridiron himself; but, of course, in view of his position, he could not make the attempt.  And so he once more returned to London, and vowed never to set his foot within the walls of Bangletop Hall again until his ancestral home was provided with a cook “copper-fastened and riveted to her position.”

And Bangletop Hall from that time was as a place deserted.  The baron never returned, because he could not return without violating his oath; for De Herbert was not able to obtain a cook for the Bangletop cuisine who would stay, nor was any one able to discover why.  Cook after cook came, stayed a day, a week, and one or two held on for two weeks, but never longer.  Their course was invariably the same—­they would leave without notice; nor could any inducement be offered which would persuade them to remain.  The Baron of Peddlington became, first round-shouldered, then deaf, and then insane in his search for a permanent cook, landing finally in an asylum, where he died, four years after the demise of his employer in London, of softening of the brain.  His last words were, “Why did you leave your last place?”

[Illustration]

And so time went on.  Barons of Bangletop were born, educated, and died.  Dynasties rose and fell, but Bangletop Hall remained uninhabited, although it was not until 1799 that the family gave up all hopes of being able to use their ancestral home.  Tremendous alterations, as I have already hinted, were made.  The drainage was carefully inspected, and a special apartment connected with the kitchen, finished in hardwood, handsomely decorated, and hung with rich tapestries, was provided for the cook, in the vain hope that she might be induced permanently to occupy her position.  The Queen Anne wing and Elizabethan ell were constructed, the latter to provide bowling-alleys and smoking-rooms for the probable cousins of possible culinary queens, and many there were who accepted the office with alacrity, throwing it up with still greater alacrity before the usual fortnight passed.  Then the Bangletops saw clearly that it was impossible for them to live there, and moving away, the house was announced to be “for rent, with all modern improvements, conveniently located, spacious grounds, especially adapted to the use of those who do their own cooking.”  The last clause of the announcement puzzled a great many people, who went to see the mansion for no other reason than to ascertain just what the announcement meant, and the line, which was inserted in a pure spirit of facetious bravado, was probably the cause of the mansion’s quickly renting, as hardly a month had passed before it was leased for one year by a retired London brewer, whose wife’s curiosity had been so excited by the strange wording of the advertisement that she travelled out to Bangletop to gratify it, fell in love with the place, and insisted upon her husband’s taking it for a season.  The luck of the brewer and his wife was no better than that of the Bangletops.  Their cooks—­and they had fourteen during their stay there—­fled after an average service of four days apiece, and later the tenants themselves were forced to give up and return to London, where they told their friends that the “’all was ’aunted,” which might have filled the Bangletops with concern had they heard of it.  They did not hear of it, however, for they and their friends did not know the brewer and the brewer’s friends, and as for complaining to the Bangletop agent in the matter, the worthy beer-maker thought he would better not do that, because he had hopes of being knighted some day, and he did not wish to antagonize so illustrious a family as the Bangletops by running down their famous hall—­an antagonism which might materially affect the chances of himself and his good wife when they came to knock at the doors of London society.  The lease was allowed to run its course, the rent was paid when due, and at the end of the stipulated term Bangletop Hall was once more on the lists as for rent.