Free High Spirits at Harroweby by Mary Chase Comstock Page A

months in a clammy climate would consign that brat Lucy to consumption. Her portion would fall to Selinda and, thence, to him. Moreover, there could be no impediments to his doing exactly what he liked with his captivating but disdainful cousin. He pulled a packet from under his mattress, wrapped himself in a blanket, and crossed to the window. Pulling back the curtain, he leered at a dog-eared set of French postcards depicting in graphically detailed etchings several quite interesting activities for which he had lately begun to cherish a sweltering fond ness. Ah, Selinda, he sighed inwardly, what times we shall have. Then he settled himself into a chair and began to refine his plans.
     

Chapter Eight
     
    As soon as her sister had disappeared down the hall to Rupert’s chamber, Lucy made her own rapid departure toward the opposite wing of Harroweby House. If Lady Sybil Harroweby were indeed “the lady who looks after us,” Lucy reasoned, there seemed to be no time like the present for her to begin. In a few moments, she reached the dim gallery where the shade of Lady Sybil still hovered in a brown study, and apprised her of the danger in which she felt certain her sister Selinda would soon find herself. The ghost, riveted by the child’s breathless communication, had wasted no time but dematerialized forthwith, and Lucy spent several moments pacing wretchedly and thinking excessively dark-thoughts until her ghostly relation reappeared. When she did so, the poor spirit was a good ten shades paler (and markedly more transparent) than she had been before her exit.
    “ Whatever has happened?” Lucy cried, running up to the languishing apparition.
    Lady Sybil settled herself weakly and lifted a preemptory finger. For the next several minutes Lucy could only look on miserably in the pitiful silence, biting her already tortured fingernails, until the ghost began to regain her diaphanous self.
    “Something really must be done. Soon,” Lady Sybil sighed weakly. “I am feeling more myself now, but I am very much afraid that I shall not often be equal to this sort of exertion.”
    Lucy had for some moments been torn in her distress between Selinda ’s horrid plight and the spirit’s obviously fragile condition. Now, somewhat relieved on at least one score, she leaned forward eagerly to hear the ghost’s account of the shocking scene which had just been played in Rupert’s chamber. Lady Sybil, in the spirit of newfound discretion (and to her eternal credit), rendered a somewhat edited version of the scene she had just witnessed, but Lucy, with her uncanny insight, seized immediately on the true nature of the encounter.
    “ Maggoty cad! So the scoundrel means to ruin her, does he?” the child muttered, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “I should have seen how it would be! I should have known he would be up to some foul trick or other, but this is beyond anything! Of course, he must have guessed she would have the likes of him no honest way, but I did not dream he would act so soon. How were you able to stop him, Great-great-grandmama?”
    Lucy ’s ancient but vain relation shuddered at being thus titled and raised a repressive eyebrow. “Lady Sybil will do quite well, child. Fortunately,” she went on, “the scoundrel’s ewer was quite full of water, so I doused him; that is, I am afraid that both of them received a thorough watering. I have never before attempted anything quite so heavy. I can only assume my powers were enhanced by my rage. It is a fortuitous thing for our purposes, though, that he had not yet washed himself.”
    “ Nor would he have been likely to have done so for an age or so,” Lucy remarked with an exceedingly ill-humored grimace. “You may count your blessings, Lady Sybil, that you are not possessed of a sense of smell. Pungent as a polecat is our Rupert.”
    “ Be that as it may,” the ghost went on with a determined sigh, “the effort is not one I could repeat very soon. My powers are