“The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock. The picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester.”

Mr Guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. “It’s unaccountable to me,” he says, still staring at the portrait, “how well I know that picture! I’m dashed,” adds Mr Guppy, looking round, “if I don’t think I must have had a dream of that picture, you know!”

As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr Guppy’s dreams, the probability is not pursued. But he still remains so absorbed by the portrait, that he stands immovable before it until the young gardener has closed the shutters; when he comes out of the room in a dazed state, that is an odd though a sufficient substitute for interest, and follows into the succeeding rooms with a confused stare, as if he were looking everywhere for Lady Dedlock again.

He sees no more of her. He sees her rooms, which are the last shown, as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows from which she looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored her to death. All things have an end — even houses that people take infinite pains to see, and are tired of before they begin to see them. He has come to the end of the sight, and the fresh village beauty to the end of her description; which is always this:

“The terrace below is much admired. It is called, from an old story in the family, the Ghost’s Walk.”

“No?” says Mr Guppy, greedily curious. “What’s the story, miss? Is it anything about a picture?”

“Pray tell us the story,” says Watt, in a half whisper.

“I don’t know it, sir.” Rosa is shyer than ever.

“It is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten,” says the housekeeper, advancing. “It has never been more than a family anecdote.”

“You’ll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a picture, ma’am,” observes Mr Guppy, “because I do assure you that the more I think of that picture the better I know it, without knowing how I know it!”

The story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper can guarantee that. Mr Guppy is obliged to her for the information; and is, moreover, generally obliged. He retires with his friend, guided down another staircase by the young gardener; and presently is heard to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs Rouncewell can trust to the discretion of her two young hearers, and may tell them how the terrace came to have that ghostly name. She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window, and tells them:

“In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the First — I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who leagued themselves against that excellent king — Sir Morbury Dedlock was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account of a ghost in the family before those days, I can’t say. I should think it very likely indeed.”

Mrs Rouncewell holds this opinion, because she considers that a family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. She regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes; a genteel distinction to which the common people have no claim.

“Sir Morbury Dedlock,” says Mrs Rouncewell, “was, I have no occasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. But it is supposed that his Lady, who had none of the family blood in her veins, favoured the bad cause. It is said that she had relations among King Charles’s enemies; that she was in correspondence with them; and that she gave them information. When any of the country gentlemen who followed his Majesty’s cause met here, it is said that my Lady was always nearer to the door of their council-room than they supposed. Do you hear a sound like a footstep passing along the terrace, Watt?”