is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square block of a house,

whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. There are

grounds round it, woods on three sides, and on the fourth a field which slopes

down to the Southampton highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from

the front door. This ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all

round are part of Lord Southerton’s preserves. A clump of copper beeches

immediately in front of the hall door has given its name to the place.


“I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was

introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no truth,

Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable in your rooms

at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to be a silent,

pale-faced woman, much younger than her husband, not more than thirty, I should

think, while he can hardly be less than forty-five. From their conversation I

have gathered that they have been married about seven years, that he was a

widower, and that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has

gone to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she

had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As

the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that her

position must have been uncomfortable with her father’s young wife.


“Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in

feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a

nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to her

husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes wandered continually from

one to the other, noting every little want and forestalling it if possible. He

was kind to her also in his bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they

seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman.