The Black Swan

They came in the morning. It was wonderful to see them and my spirits immediately arose. I took them up to their rooms where everything had been made ready for them; and then I showed them the house which delighted them. Phillida wanted to hear the story of the haunted garden and listened intently when I told her of the young wife who had died when her daughter was born and came back to comfort her; and how the daughter grew into a strange woman who used to sit on the haunted seat under the oak tree and talk to her dead mother. Phillida said it was a delightful story. “You believe it?” she asked.

I replied, “I don’t know. Would you?”

“Yes, I think I would,” she replied. “I think people might come back ... in special circumstances. If they suddenly left the earth... like the woman who left her child. That would be love, wouldn’t it? Some might come back for hate.”

“Phillida,” chided Roland.

“Well, suppose someone had been murdered... mightn’t that person feel that he ... or she... had to come back and haunt the one who had sent him to the grave?”

“Or her,” said Roland lightly.

“Well, of course. You’re laughing at me. He does laugh at me now and then, as you know, Lucie. I suppose I’m full of fancies. That is what my dear brother thinks. But I am not sure about such things. You see what I mean, Lucie, don’t you? I believe you have an open mind, too.”

“Yes, I believe I have.”

“What a morbid conversation,” said Roland. “And in this beautiful house!”

“Well, it was this beautiful house which started it,” pointed out his sister. “Those people under the tree and all that.”

Roland looked at her in affectionate exasperation. Then he said, “Oh, I see you have some good stables here, Lucie. Do you ride much?”

“Yes. I’ve always loved it. It was one of the main attractions of Manorleigh for me.”

“Then perhaps we can ride while we’re here?”

“That would be wonderful.”

“We’ll find one of those inns we’re always hearing about,” said Phillida. “You know the sort. They’ve been there for the last three hundred years; there are underground vaults where they used to hide the goods which had been smuggled into the country; they lured ships onto the rocks and led seamen to their deaths; they hung the excise men on gibbets and buried their corpses in the cellar.”

“Except,” I said, “that we are miles from the sea and I don’t know where your wreckers could have done their evil work.”

“You have started something,” said Roland laughing. ?’You’ve brought out Phillida’s unhealthy taste for the supernatural.”

“That’s right,” went on Phillida. “You hear the moaning in the night of those who died violent deaths.”

How we laughed that weekend! We explored the house. There were lengthy discussions during meals. There was always something to talk about. We rode through the countryside visiting those little villages where Celeste and I used to go canvassing during election time. We found an inn which appealed to Phillida, but the landlord was very prosaic and not given to conversation-which disappointed her. It was a wonderful weekend and I was very sad when it came to an end.

“Couldn’t you stay another day?” I asked when Monday came.

“Oh yes, please. Do let us, Roland,” cried Phillida.

He looked rather sad. “I shall have to be going up to Yorkshire very soon,” he said. My look must have betrayed my disappointment for Phillida came to me and put an arm round my shoulders. “It has been so wonderful knowing you,” she said rather huskily. “I marvel at my luck that day on the boat when I spoke to you. Roland says I shouldn’t do that sort of thing, but I always have and you see how well it has worked out this time. I was right, Roland. You have to admit it ... because if I hadn’t been like that ... we should never have met Lucie.”

“Let us say that you were very right on this occasion,” admitted Roland.

“Please show you mean that by staying another day,” said Phillida.

He hesitated. “Well ...”

I cut in, “Oh, please do. It would give me so much pleasure.”

“Perhaps then ...”

So they did.

Phillida had become a favorite with Mrs. Grant, the cook. From the first she had complimented her on her various dishes and admitted that she herself-as she put it-liked to try her hand at special dishes... something unusual.

On Sunday for lunch Mrs. Grant had served a soufflé. Phillida had praised it and wanted to know exactly how it was done.

Mrs. Grant was enchanted. She was a garrulous woman who came of a family of cooks; her mother had actually cooked in this house and so had her grandmother before that. She it was who had first told Rebecca the story of the haunted seat. The outcome of this was that Mrs. Grant said that she would make a soufflé” for lunch on the Monday and if Phillida would come to the kitchen she would show her exactly how it was done.

Phillida delightedly accepted the invitation.

“So you are going to desert us,” said Roland. “I had thought we would go for a long ride on Monday morning. I’d like to see that village again... the one with the Norman church.”