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- float: left; - margin-right: 1em } - -.align-right { clear: right; - float: right; - margin-left: 1em } - -.align-center { margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto } - -div.shrinkwrap { display: table; } - -/* SECTIONS */ - -body { margin: 5% 10% 5% 10% } - -/* compact list items containing just one p */ -li p.pfirst { margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0 } - -.first { margin-top: 0 !important; - text-indent: 0 !important } -.last { margin-bottom: 0 !important } - -span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 } -img.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0; max-width: 25% } -span.dropspan { font-variant: small-caps } - -.no-page-break { page-break-before: avoid !important } - -/* PAGINATION */ - -.pageno { position: absolute; right: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.pageno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.lineno { position: absolute; left: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.lineno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.toc-pageref { float: right } - -@media screen { - .coverpage, .frontispiece, .titlepage, .verso, .dedication, .plainpage - { margin: 10% 0; } - - div.clearpage, div.cleardoublepage - { margin: 10% 0; border: none; border-top: 1px solid gray; } - - .vfill { margin: 5% 10% } -} - -@media print { - div.clearpage { page-break-before: always; padding-top: 10% } - div.cleardoublepage { page-break-before: right; padding-top: 10% } - - .vfill { margin-top: 20% } - h2.title { margin-top: 20% } -} - -/* DIV */ -pre { font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.9em; white-space: pre-wrap } - -</style> -<title>MR. POSKITT'S NIGHTCAPS</title> -<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" /> -<meta name="PG.Title" content="Mr. Poskitt's Nightcaps" /> -<meta name="PG.Producer" content="Al Haines" /> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<meta name="DC.Creator" content="J. S. Fletcher" /> -<meta name="DC.Created" content="1911" /> -<meta name="PG.Id" content="45685" /> -<meta name="PG.Released" content="2014-05-29" /> -<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> -<meta name="DC.Title" content="Mr. Poskitt's Nightcaps Stories of a Yorkshire Farmer" /> - -<link href="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" rel="schema.DCTERMS" /> -<link href="http://id.loc.gov/vocabulary/relators" rel="schema.MARCREL" /> -<meta content="Mr. Poskitt's Nightcaps Stories of a Yorkshire Farmer" name="DCTERMS.title" /> -<meta content="nightcaps.rst" name="DCTERMS.source" /> -<meta content="en" scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" name="DCTERMS.language" /> -<meta content="2014-05-30T02:36:40.923055+00:00" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" name="DCTERMS.modified" /> -<meta content="Project Gutenberg" name="DCTERMS.publisher" /> -<meta content="Public Domain in the USA." name="DCTERMS.rights" /> -<link href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45685" rel="DCTERMS.isFormatOf" /> -<meta content="J. S. Fletcher" name="DCTERMS.creator" /> -<meta content="2014-05-29" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" name="DCTERMS.created" /> -<meta content="width=device-width" name="viewport" /> -<meta content="EpubMaker 0.3.20 by Marcello Perathoner <webmaster@gutenberg.org>" name="generator" /> -</head> -<body> -<div class="document" id="mr-poskitt-s-nightcaps"> -<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">MR. POSKITT'S NIGHTCAPS</span></h1> - -<!-- this is the default PG-RST stylesheet --> -<!-- figure and image styles for non-image formats --> -<!-- default transition --> -<!-- default attribution --> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="clearpage"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="align-None container language-en pgheader" id="pg-header" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the </span><a class="reference internal" href="#project-gutenberg-license">Project Gutenberg License</a><span> -included with this eBook or online at -</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<div class="align-None container" id="pg-machine-header"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>Title: Mr. Poskitt's Nightcaps -<br /> Stories of a Yorkshire Farmer -<br /> -<br />Author: J. S. Fletcher -<br /> -<br />Release Date: May 29, 2014 [EBook #45685] -<br /> -<br />Language: English -<br /> -<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>MR. POSKITT'S NIGHTCAPS</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span></span></p> -</div> -<div class="align-None container coverpage"> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 64%" id="figure-10"> -<img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt="Cover art" src="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">Cover art</span></div> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container titlepage"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="x-large">MR. POSKITT'S -<br />NIGHTCAPS</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><em class="italics large">STORIES OF A YORKSHIRE FARMER</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">RE-TOLD BY -<br />J. S. FLETCHER</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">TORONTO -<br />THE COPP CLARK CO. LTD. -<br />1911</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="introduction"><span class="bold large">INTRODUCTION</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Everyone who has had the pleasure of Mr. Poskitt's -acquaintance knows that that estimable -Yorkshireman is not only the cheeriest of hosts, -but the best of companions. Those of us who -have known the Poskitt High Tea (a much more -enjoyable meal than a late dinner) know what -follows the consumption of Mrs. Poskitt's -tender chickens and her home-fed hams. The -parlour fire is stirred into a blaze; the hearth is -swept clean; the curtains are drawn; the -decanters, the cigars, and the quaint old leaden -tobacco-box appear beneath the shaded lamp, -and Mr. Poskitt bids his guests to cheer up, -to help themselves, and to feel heartily -welcome. And when those guests have their -glasses at their elbows, their cigars and pipes -between their lips, and their legs stretched in -comfort, Mr. Poskitt has his story to tell. Few -men know the countryside and its people, with -their joys, their sorrows, their humours better -than he; few people there can surely be who -would not enjoy hearing him tell of the big and -little dramas of life which he has watched, with -a shrewd and sympathetic eye, during his -seventy years of work and play, of cloud and -sunshine. In some of these Nightcap stories -(so termed by their hearers because Mr. Poskitt -insists on telling them as preparatory to his own -early retirement, which is never later than ten -o'clock) he is sometimes humorous and sometimes -tragic. I trust the re-telling of them may -give some pleasure to folk who must imagine -for themselves the cheery glow of Mr. Poskitt's -hearth.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>J. S. FLETCHER.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"><em class="italics">London, May</em><span> 1910.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CONTENTS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span class="small">CHAP.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><a class="reference internal" href="#introduction">INTRODUCTION</a></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"><span>I </span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-guardian-of-high-elms-farm">THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM</a><span> -<br />II </span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-stranger-in-arcady">A STRANGER IN ARCADY</a><span> -<br />III </span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-man-who-was-nobody">THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY</a><span> -<br />IV </span><a class="reference internal" href="#little-miss-partridge">LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE</a><span> -<br />V </span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-marriage-of-mr-jarvis">THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS</a><span> -<br />VI </span><a class="reference internal" href="#bread-cast-upon-the-waters">BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS</a><span> -<br />VII </span><a class="reference internal" href="#william-henry-and-the-dairymaid">WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID</a><span> -<br />VIII </span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-spoils-to-the-victor">THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR</a><span> -<br />IX </span><a class="reference internal" href="#an-arcadian-courtship">AN ARCADIAN COURTSHIP</a><span> -<br />X </span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-way-of-the-comet">THE WAY OF THE COMET</a><span> -<br />XI </span><a class="reference internal" href="#brothers-in-affliction">BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION</a><span> -<br />XII </span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-man-or-a-mouse">A MAN OR A MOUSE</a><span> -<br />XIII </span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-deal-in-odd-volumes">A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES</a><span> -<br />XIV </span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-chief-magistrate">THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-guardian-of-high-elms-farm"><span class="bold x-large">MR. POSKITT'S NIGHTCAPS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER I</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>In the cold dreariness of that February -morning the whole glace looked chilly and -repellent in the extreme. There, on a little -knoll, which by comparison assumed almost -hill-like proportions amongst the low level of -the meadows and corn-lands at its feet, stood -the farmstead—a rambling mass of rough grey -walls and red roofs; house, barns, stables, -granary, and byres occurring here and there -without evident plan or arrangement. Two or -three great elm-trees, now leafless, and black -with winter moisture, rose high above the -chimneys and gables like sentinels inclined to -sleep at their posts; above their topmost -branches half-a-score of rooks flapped lazy -wings against the dull grey of the sky; their -occasional disconsolate notes added to the -melancholy of the scene. And yet to an -experienced eye, versed in the craft of the land, -there was everything to promise well in the -outward aspect of High Elms Farm. The -house, if very old, was in good repair, and so -were the buildings; the land was of excellent -quality. But it only needed one glance to see -that the house had not been tenanted for some -time; its windows gave an instant impression -that neither lamp-light nor fire-light had -gleamed through them of late, and to enter the -great stone-paved kitchen was to experience the -feeling of stepping into a vault. That feeling -of dead emptiness was in all the outbuildings, -too—the stables, the granary, the byres were -lifeless, void; ghostliness of a strange sort -seemed to abide in their silence. And beneath -the curling mists which lay over the good acres -of corn-land, weeds were flourishing instead of -growing crops.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On that February morning two young men, -so much alike that no one could mistake them -for anything else than what they -were—twin-brothers—stood at the stone porch of the house, -staring at each other with mutually questioning -eyes. They were tall, finely built, sturdy -fellows of apparently twenty-six years of age, -fair of hair, blue of eye, ruddy of cheek, with -square, resolute jaws and an air of determination -which promised well for their success in -life. Closely alike in their looks, they carried -their similarity to their dress. Each wore a -shooting-coat of somewhat loud pattern; each -sported a fancy waistcoat with gilt buttons; each -wore natty riding-breeches of whipcord, which -terminated in Newmarket gaiters of light fawn -colour. Each wore his billycock hat inclined -a little to the left side; each had a bit of -partridge's feather stuck in his hatband. And at -this moment each was nibbling at a straw.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is a queer place, Simpson," said one -of these young men after a silence which had -lasted for several minutes. "A real queer place!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is, Isaac!" assented the other. "It is, -my lad. The queerest place ever I set eyes on. -You couldn't say a truer word."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac Greaves nibbled more busily at his -straw. He lifted the rakish-looking billycock -and scratched his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the matter with it?" he said. -"What's up with it, like? It's a good house; -they're good buildings, if they are -old-fashioned; it's good land."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye—sadly neglected," said his brother. -"Fine crops of thistles."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That could be put right," said Isaac. -"Matter of work and patience that—the main -thing is, it's good land. And—why can't they -let it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Simpson Greaves shook his head. He, too, -nibbled more zealously at his straw.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's something against it, evidently," he -said. "Those two last tenants they had -wouldn't stop—cleared out quick, both of 'em. -For why, I don't know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac threw away his straw and drew a cigar -from his waistcoat pocket. He lighted it and -took two or three deliberate puffs before he -spoke.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," he said at last, "there's no doubt -about it, Simpson—if it's to be had at the rent -we've heard of it's such a bargain as no man in -his senses should miss. I'm in for it, if you are. -It's better land, it's a better house, they're better -buildings than what we've got at present, and -we're paying more than twice as much. And, of -course, our time's up come Lady Day. Look -here—we've got the lawyer's directions; let's -ride on to Sicaster and see him and hear what -he's got to say."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come on, then," assented Simpson. "It's -only another five miles or so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There were two stout cobs attached by their -bridles to the garden gate, and on them the -brothers soon rode into the nearest market-town. -With no more delay than was necessitated -by stabling the cobs and drinking a glass -of ale at the Golden Lion, they presented -themselves at the office of the solicitor who acted as -agent for the estate on which High Elms Farm -was situate, and in due course were conducted -to his presence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll leave the talking to you, Isaac," -whispered Simpson, who was more reserved than -his twin-brother. "Find out all you can."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac was nothing loath—he knew his powers. -He plunged straight into the matter as soon as -he and Simpson confronted an elderly man, -who eyed them with interest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Morning, sir," said Isaac. "Our name is -Greaves, Isaac and Simpson Greaves, brothers. -We're just giving up a farm over Woodbarrow -way yonder, and we're on the look-out for -another. We heard at Cornchester market that -you've a farm to let very cheap—High Elms -Farm—so we thought we'd like to have a look -at it and see you about it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The solicitor looked steadily at both brothers, -one after the other. Then he cleared his throat -with a non-committal sort of cough.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said, "yes. Have you been over -the place, Mr. Greaves?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We've been over every bit of it this -morning," replied Isaac.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?" said the solicitor.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's good land—badly neglected," said Isaac.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very badly neglected," added Simpson.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That, of course, is why you're asking such -a low rent for it," suggested Isaac, with a -shrewd glance at the man of law.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man of law consulted his delicately -polished finger-nails. He suddenly looked at -Isaac with a frank smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The fact of the case is that I can't let it," -he said. "It's been tenantless four years now. -Two men have had it—one stopped a month, -the other a fortnight. Each said he'd rather -pay a couple of years' rent to get out than stop -there any longer. So—there you are!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The twin-brothers looked at each other. -Each shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's a queer 'un, Isaac!" said Simpson.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is a queer 'un, Simpson!" responded -Isaac with added emphasis. He turned to the -solicitor again. "And pray what's the reason, -sir?" he inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The solicitor smiled—not too cheerfully—and -spread out his hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They say the place is—haunted," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Haunted?" repeated Isaac. "What—ghosts, -eh? Well, I don't think a few ghosts -more or less would make much difference to us, -Simpson, my lad—what?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not that I know of," answered Simpson, stolidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The solicitor looked from one to the other -and smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I've told you what happened," he -said. "Those other two men were neither of -them any more likely to be impressed by ghosts -than you seem to be, but I can tell you that I've -seen both of them labouring under such intense -fear that they were on the very verge of -breaking down. That's all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Two pairs of blue eyes fixed themselves on -the man of law's face and grew wider and wider; -two mouths gradually opened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll just tell you about it," said the solicitor, -who was plainly not averse to playing the part -of narrator, "and then, when you've heard -everything, you can decide for yourselves -whether you care to go further into the matter -or not. Now, until just over four years ago -High Elms Farm was tenanted by an old man -named Josiah Maidment, who'd been there for -quite thirty years. He was a queer, eccentric -old chap, who had never married, and who lived -almost by himself. He never had a housekeeper, -nor a female servant in the house—whatever -he needed doing was done for him -by the woman at the neighbouring cottage."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's where we got the keys of the house," -said Isaac.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just so. Well," continued the solicitor, "a -little more than four years ago old Maidment -suddenly disappeared. He went out of the -house one morning, dressed in his second-best -suit, as if he was going to market—and he was -never seen again. Never seen—never heard -of! Nor could we find any relation of his. He -had money in the bank, and he had securities -there which proved him a well-to-do man. We -advertised and did everything we could, but -all to no purpose. We kept things going for -a while; then the stock was sold, and very soon -we let the farm to a new tenant. That's just -three years since. And that was when all the -trouble began."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"With the ghosts?" said Simpson.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, with something," said the solicitor, -smiling. "The new tenant had no sooner got -his stock in than he became aware that there was -something wrong. The very first night he was -there his sheep-dog, an animal which he'd had -for years, disappeared. They thought it had -gone back to the old home, but it hadn't—it -had just disappeared. Then the horses in the -stables began to make such noises at night that -it was impossible to sleep. If you went to them -you found them shivering with fright. Just the -same with the cows. As for the sheep, they -were always found in the morning huddled -together in a corner of whatever field they were -in. In short, the whole place was -panic-stricken. But by what? Nobody ever saw -anything. The farmer and his men watched for -nights, without effect. Yet as soon as ever their -backs were turned the thing began. And at the -end of a month the men went—and were -thankful to go."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The twin-brothers were now thoroughly -fascinated. Their eyes invited more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The second man came, after an interval," -continued the solicitor. "Just the same things -happened to him. His sheep-dog disappeared—his -horses, cattle, and sheep were frightened -out of their lives. And then came worse. This -man was a young married man who had a wife -and one child. The child was a bright, lively -boy of about five. One afternoon its mother -was busy, and had let it go into the orchard to -play under the apple-trees. As it was a long -time in coming in she went to seek it. She -found it—yes, but how do you think she found -it? Mad! Utterly mad! that poor child had -lost its reason—through fright. And so that -tenant went. There, gentlemen, is the story -of High Elms Farm. It's queer, but it's true."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac Greaves drew a long breath, stared hard -at his brother, and shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, of all the things I ever did hear tell -of!" he said. "How might you account for it, -now, sir?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The solicitor spread out his hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Account for it!" he exclaimed. "My good -sir, ask me to account for all or any of the -mysteries which baffle human knowledge! -Nobody can account for it. All I know is what -happened to these men. I tell you they were -frightened—frightened in the worst way."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I expect everybody hereabouts knows this -story?" asked Isaac.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You may be sure they do, or the farm would -have been taken long since at this reduced -rental," answered the solicitor. "There's -nobody hereabouts would take it—not they!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac looked at Simpson. They regarded -each other for a full moment in silence; then -Isaac turned to the solicitor.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're asking ten shillings an acre?" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should be glad to get a tenant at that," -answered the man of law wearily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Make it eight, and we'll take it," said Isaac. -"And we'll start on to clearing things up at -once. Ghosts, sir, don't bother me and Simpson -much—we'll take our chance. But——" and -there Isaac branched off into technical details -about the conditions of tenancy, which showed -the solicitor that he had a shrewd man to deal with.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On Lady Day the twin-brothers brought their -live stock to High Elms Farm, and by nightfall -everything was in place. The house had -already received their furniture, and had been -made spick and span by their housekeeper and -a strapping maid. There was nothing cold and -cheerless about it now.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We might have been settled down for a -year or two, Isaac," said Simpson as the two -brothers sat smoking in the parlour that night. -"Everything's in order."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye, and the next thing's to finish getting -the land in order," said Isaac. "We're not -going to shift out of here as quickly as those -other chaps did, Simpson, my lad—ghosts or no -ghosts."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder if we shall hear or see anything?" -said Simpson, meditatively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac glanced at a couple of up-to-date -fowling-pieces which hung over the mantel-piece.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He wagged his head in a self-assured and -threatening manner.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I see any ghosts," he said, "I'll let daylight -through 'em. It'll be a fine ghost that can -stand a charge of Number 4."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye," said Simpson, "but then, according -to what some folk say——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He paused, rubbing his chin, and his brother -stared at him with the suspicion of a doubt in -his mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?" said Isaac, impatiently. "Well?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"According to some folk," said Simpson, -"there's ghosts as you can't see. You can only -feel 'em."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac mixed himself a drink and lighted a -cigar. He plunged his hands deep in the -pockets of his riding-breeches, and facing his -brother, stared hard at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe you're afraid, Sim!" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Simpson stared just as hard back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, then, I'm not!" he retorted. "I'm -afraid of naught—that I can see and get at. -All the same we both agreed that this was a -queer place."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Queer or no queer, here we are, my lad, at -a ridiculous rental, and here we stop," said -Isaac. "It'll take something that I've never -heard of to shift us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An hour later, it then being nine o'clock—the -brothers took a lanthorn and, after their -usual custom, went round the farm-buildings to -see that everything was safe for the night. -They were well-to-do young men, these two, -and they had brought a quantity of valuable -live stock with them. The stables, the folds, -the byres, the cow-houses were all full; the -pig-cotes were strained to their utmost capacity, for -both Simpson and Isaac believed in pigs as a -means of making money. Not for many a -year had the old farmstead contained so much life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They went from stable to stall, from fold to -byre, from cote to granary—all was in order for -the night. The horses turned sleepy heads and -looked round at the yellow light of the swinging -lanthorn; the cows gazed at their owners with -silky eyes; the young bullocks and heifers in -the knee-deep straw of the folds stared lazily at -the two inspectors. Over this bovine life, over -the high roofs and quaint gables the deep blue -of the night hung, pierced with the shafts of a -thousand stars.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All's right," said Isaac, as they finished up -at the pigs. "By the bye, where did Trippett -fasten up that new dog?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Back-yard, I told him," answered Simpson, -laconically.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let's have a look at him," said Isaac.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He led the way round to a cobble-paved -yard at the rear of the house, where in a corner -near the back-kitchen door stood a brick kennel. -Out of this, at the sound of their footsteps, -came a diminutive collie, who, seeing them, got -down on his belly and did obeisance after his -fashion. Isaac considered him attentively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I never did see such dogs as Trippett -contrives to get hold of, Simpson," he said, half -peevishly. "Why can't he get something -decent to look at?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He says this is a rare good one with sheep, -anyway," said Simpson.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He says that about all of 'em," said Isaac. -"I'll try him myself to-morrow. Come on—I -see they've given him something to eat."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The dog, still grovelling, whined and -trembled. He came the length of his chain -towards the two brothers, wriggling ridiculously, -wagging his tail, gazing slavishly out of his -brown eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Doesn't look much of a plucked one," -commented Isaac. "I expect he's another of -Trippett's failures. Come on, Sim."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They went off round the house, and the new -dog, whom the shepherd had that day -purchased from a very particular friend for a -sovereign, shivered and whimpered as the light -disappeared. Then he retreated into his kennel -and curled up ... listening as a frightened -child listens in a lonely room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The two brothers went round the house by -the outer paddock. All about them lay the -land, silent as the sea is when no wind stirs. -There was not a sound to be heard, not a light -to be seen save in their own windows. They -stood for a moment under the great black-blue, -star-pierced dome.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a quietish spot this, Sim, at night," -said Isaac, in a whisper which was quite -involuntary. "I'd no idea——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Crash went the lanthorn out of Simpson's -hand—that hand, shaking, convulsive, gripped -his brother's arm as if with fingers of steel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My God, Isaac, what's that! that—there!" -he gasped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac felt himself shiver as he looked. -Right in the darkness before him he saw what -seemed to be two balls of vivid green fire—no, -red fire, yellow fire, all sorts of fire, burning, -coruscating, and ... fixed on him. And for -a second he, like Simpson, stood spell-bound; -then with a wild cry of "A gun, a gun!" he -turned and dashed for the parlour, followed by -his brother. But when they dashed back with -their guns a moment later the eyes had gone. -And from somewhere in the adjacent wood -there suddenly rose into the profound stillness -of the night a strange cry, such as neither of -them had ever heard before. It was a long, -wailing cry as of something in infinite despair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The brothers, breathing hard, went back into -the house and shut the door. Inside the -parlour, looking at each other, each saw the other's -brow to be dripping with sweat; each, after one -look, turned away from the other's eyes. And -each, as by mutual instinct, poured out a glass -of spirit and drank it off at a gulp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isaac," said Simpson, "there is something!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac put his gun aside, shook himself, and -tried to laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pooh!" he said. "We're a couple of -fools, Simpson. Happen it's because it's our -first night here and we're feeling strange, and -haven't forgotten what the lawyer told us. It -was a fox."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A fox hasn't eyes that size," said Simpson. -"And, what about that cry? You never heard -aught like that, Isaac, never! No more did I."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"An owl in the woods," said Isaac.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't deceive me about owls," -answered Simpson. "No, nor dogs, nor foxes, -nor anything else that makes a noise at night -in the country. Isaac, there is something!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, confound it!" said Isaac. "You'll -make me think you're as bad as the lawyer. -Come on, let's go to bed."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And to bed they went, and nothing happening, -slept. But very early next morning Isaac -was awakened by loud knocking at his door. -Then sounded the housekeeper's voice, agitated -and frightened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Isaac, sir, Mr. Isaac, will you get up at -once, sir!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the matter?" growled Isaac. "Is -the place on fire?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That new dog, sir, that Trippett bought -yesterday—oh, I do wish you'd come down -quick, sir—we're that afraid!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac suddenly bounced out of bed, bundled -on some clothes, and rushed out of his room. -On the landing he met Simpson, similarly -attired to himself, and very pale.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I heard her," he said. "Come on!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They ran down-stairs and through the kitchen -to the little yard behind. There stood a group -of frightened people—the shepherd, Trippett, -a ploughboy or two, the housekeeper, the maid. -In their midst, at their feet, lay the unfortunate -little collie, dead. And they saw at one glance -that his throat had been torn clean out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once inside the house again the brothers -looked at each other for a long minute without -speaking. They were both very pale and their -eyes were queer and their hands shook. -Simpson spoke first: his voice was unsteady.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is something, Isaac," he said, in a -low voice. "There is—something!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Isaac set his teeth and clenched his hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll see it through, Simpson," he said. "I'll -see it through."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye, but what is it?" said Simpson.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wait," said Isaac.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then began the same course of events which -had signalized the short stay of their -predecessors. The horses were frightened in -their stables; the cattle were found huddled -together and panting in the folds; the sheep -were driven off the land into the surrounding -roads and woods. And the two brothers -watched and watched—and saw nothing, not -even the fiery eyes. Until that period of their -existence neither Isaac nor Simpson Greaves -had known what it was to come in touch with -anything outside the purely material elements -of life. Coming of a good sound stock which -had been on the land and made money out of -the land for generations, they had never done -anything but manage their affairs, keep shrewd -eyes on the markets, and sleep as comfortably -as they ate largely. They were well-balanced; -they were not cursed with over-much -imagination; such things as nerves were unknown to -them. But with their arrival at High Elms -Farm matters began to alter. The perpetual -fright amongst the horses and cattle at night, -the cause of which they could not determine; -the anxiety of never knowing what might occur -at any moment; these things, conspiring with -the inevitable loss of sleep, affected health and -appetite. Simpson gave way first; he was a -shade more susceptible to matters of this sort -than his brother, and possibly not so strong -physically. And Isaac noticed it and grew -more incensed against this secret thing, and -all the more so because he felt himself so -impotent in respect to combating it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One night matters came to a climax. In -the very hush of midnight pandemonium broke -out in the stables. The horses were heard -screaming with fear; when the two brothers got -to them they found that every beast had -broken loose and that they were fighting and -struggling for life to force a way out—anywhere. -They burst through the door which -Isaac opened, knocking him down in their wild -rush, leapt the low wall of the fold, and fled -screaming into the darkness of the fields. -Some were found wandering about the land in -the morning; some were brought back from -distant villages. But one and all refused, -even to desperate resistance, to enter the -stables again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A few mornings after that Simpson came -down to breakfast attired for travelling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look here, Isaac," he said, "ask no -questions, but trust me. I'm going away—about -this business. I'll be back to-morrow night. -Things can't go on like this."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he made a pretence of eating and -went off, and Isaac heard nothing of him until -the next afternoon, when he returned in company -with a stranger, a tall, grizzled, soldier-like -man, who brought with him a bloodhound in -a leash. Over the evening meal the three men -discussed matters—the stranger seemed -mysteriously confident that he could solve the -problem which had hitherto been beyond -solution.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was almost a full moon that night—at -nine o'clock it was lighting all the land. -The stranger took his bloodhound out into the -paddock in front of the house and fastened it -to a stake which Isaac had previously driven -securely into the ground. At a word from -him the great beast barked three times—the -deep-chested notes went ringing and echoing -into the silent woods. And from somewhere -in the woods came in answer the long, -despairing wail which the brothers had heard more -than once and could never trace.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's it!" they exclaimed simultaneously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then whatever it is, it's coming," said the -bloodhound's master. "Get ready for it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He spoke a word to the hound, which -immediately settled down trustfully at the foot -of the stake. He and the brothers, each armed -with a shot-gun, took up a position behind a -row of shrubs on the edge of the garden, and -waited.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Some minutes passed; then the bloodhound -stirred and whined.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Coming," said the visitor.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The bloodhound began to growl ominously—in -the moonlight they saw him bristle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Close by," said his master.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the coppice in front of them they heard -the faintest rustling sound as of a body being -trailed over dried leaves. Then——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The eyes!" whispered Simpson. "Look—there!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Out of the blackness of the coppice the two -gleaming eyes which the brothers had seen -before shone like malignant stars. They were -stationary for a moment; then, as the -bloodhound's growls grew fiercer and louder they -moved forward, growing larger. And -presently into the light of the moon emerged a -great, grey, gaunt shape, pushing itself -forward on its belly, until at last it lay fully -exposed, its head between its paws, its baleful -eyes fixed on the hound.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Steady!" whispered the visitor. "It'll get -up—it's wondering which side to go at him -from. Wait till I give the word."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The grey thing's tail began to lash from side -to side; its body began to quiver. Little by -little it lifted itself from the ground and began -to creep circle-wise towards the bloodhound, -now tearing madly at his chain. The fierce -eyes were turned slantwise; there was an ugly -gleam of bared white fangs; the tread was that -of a panther. Suddenly its back arched, its -limbs seemed to gather themselves together.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The three guns rang out simultaneously, and -the grey shape, already springing, jerked -convulsively and fell in a heap close to the -tethered hound. There it lay—still. -Simpson Greaves fetched a lanthorn which he had -kept in readiness within the house, and the -three men went up to the dead animal and -examined it. Till that moment they had felt -uncertain as to what it really was that they had -destroyed—they now found themselves looking -at a great dog of uncertain breed, massive -in size, more wolf than dog in appearance, with -a wicked jaw and cruel fangs which snarled -even in death. And one of them at least -began to have some dim comprehension of the -mystery.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The noise of the shooting had roused the -other inmates of the house; they came running -into the paddock to hear what had happened. -There, too, came hurrying the woman from the -neighbouring cottage who had cooked and -tidied for Josiah Maidment in the old days. -And gazing at the dead beast in the light of the -lanthorn she lifted up her hands with a sharp -exclamation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lord ha' mussy, if that there isn't -Mr. Maidment's gre't dog!" she said. "It went -away wi' him that very mornin' he disappeared."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why didn't you tell us Maidment had a -dog?" growled Isaac. "I never heard of it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, mister, I'm sure I never thought of -it," said the woman. "But he had, and that's -it, as sure as I'm a Christian. It were the -savagest beast ever you see—wouldn't let -anybody go near the old gentleman. Where can -it ha' been all this time?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That," said the bloodhound's master, "is -just what we are going to find out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He released the hound from its chain, and -putting it in a leash, bade the brothers follow -him. Then he set the hound on the dead -animal's track—hound and men broke into the -deep woods. There was no break in their -course, no turning aside, no loss of scent. The -baying of the usurper had been instantly -answered by the former guardian of High Elms -Farm. Through thick undergrowth, by scarcely -passable paths, beneath thickets and bushes, -the three men, led by the straining hound, -pushed on until they came to a deep valley in -the woods, where a limestone crag jutted out -from beneath overhanging trees. Here, -behind a bramble-brake, which concealed it from -any one in the valley, the hound stopped at a -hole just large enough to admit a fully-grown -man. By the light of the lanthorn which -Simpson had brought with him they saw the -footprints of a dog on the loose soil.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's a cave in there," said the -bloodhound's master. "Give me the light—I'm going in."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So shall I, then," said Isaac, stoutly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I," said Simpson.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The tunnel leading into the cave was not -more than a few feet in length; they were -quickly able to stand upright and to throw the -light around them. And with a mutual fear -they gripped each other's arms, for there -huddled on the floor lay the body of an old, -grey-headed man, who had evidently been -stricken with death as he was counting over the -secret hoard of which he had made this lonely -place the receptacle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We will give that poor brute a fitting -burial," said the bloodhound's master, as they -went back to the farmstead. "He was a -primitive savage in his ways, but a rare -upholder of what he felt to be his rights. Bury -him under the big elm-tree."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-stranger-in-arcady"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER II</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A STRANGER IN ARCADY</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Where the animal which subsequently -became so famous in the village to whose sober -quietude it brought an unexpected breath of -romance first came from no one ever knew. -Its coming was as mysterious as the falling -of rain or growing of corn in the night; it -must, indeed, have arrived in the night, for -it was certainly a part and parcel of Little -St. Peter's when Little St. Peter's awoke -one morning. Those early birds who were -out and about before the gossamers on the -hedgerows had felt the first kiss of the -autumn sun were aware of the presence of a -remarkably lean pig, who was exploring the -one street of the village with inquisitive nose, -questioning eyes, and flapping ears. It went -from one side of the street to another, and it -was obviously on the look-out for whatever -might come in its way in the shape of food. -There was an oak near the entrance to the -churchyard; the stranger paused beneath it as -long as there was an acorn to be found amongst -the fallen leaves. Farther along, there was a -crab-apple-tree in the parson's hedge, the fruit -of which was too bitter for even the most -hardened boy of the village; it stopped there -to devour the fallen sournesses which lay in -the shining grass. But always it was going -on, searching and inquiring, and its eyes grew -hungrier as its swinging gait increased in speed. -And coming at last to a gap in the fence of -Widow Grooby's garden, it made its way -through and set to work on the lone woman's -potatoes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was an hour later that the marauder was -driven out of this harbour of refuge, bearing -upon its lean body the marks of the switch with -which Widow Grooby had chased it forth, but -within its ribs the comfortable consciousness -of a hearty meal. When it had uttered its -final protest against the switch, it went along -the street again, furtive and friendless, but this -time with the more leisurely pace of the thing -that has breakfasted. Widow Grooby gazed -after it with an irate countenance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I could like to know whose gre't hungry -beast that there is!" she remarked to a -neighbour who had been attracted to her cottage -door by the pig's lamentations as he quitted -the scene of his misdeeds. "It's been all over -my garden and etten half-a-row o' my best -potatoes, drat it. And it couldn't have done -that, Julia Green, if your Johnny hadn't made -that gap in my fence when I ran him out t'other -night for being at my winter apples, no it -couldn't! I think your William might ha' -mended that gap before now—that's what I think."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our William's summat else to do than -mend gaps," said Mrs. Green sullenly. -"And the gap were there before our Johnny -came through it. And it's none our pig -anyway, for ours is in its sty at this here present -moment, a-eating its breakfast, so there!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The styless and proper-breakfastless pig, -unconscious of this discussion and of its -possibilities of development into a good, -old-fashioned, neighbourly quarrel, went farther -along the village street, still prospecting. There -were people about now, men and women, and -the door of the Fox-and-Fiddle had been -thrown open, and one or two habitués stood -within the sanded hall, taking their accustomed -morning glass. The pig passed by, and as he -passed turned an inquisitive nose towards the -scent of stale ale and tobacco. He went -forward, and as he went, one man put his head out -of the door after him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whose pig's that there?" he said, scratching -his ear. "I don't rek'lect seein' that pig -before, nowhere."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Another man, standing at the bar, strode to -the door and looked forth at the stranger. He -was a curious-looking individual, very porcine -of appearance, very red and greasy of face and -hand, and as bald as man could be. He wore -a blue linen apron over his clothes, and from -his side a formidable steel dangled from a -leather belt. He was, in short, the butcher -and pig-killer of the village, and had a -professional interest in pigs of all classes. And -he surveyed the wandering pig with a keen eye, -shook his head, and went back to his ale. He -knew every pig in Little St. Peter's—this was -a stray-away from somewhere else.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's none of ours," he said, with a sniff -of disdain. "Jack Longbottom's pig's the -only one in Peter's that's in a badly way, and -it's a stone heavier nor what that pig is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It'll be a poorish pig, then!" remarked the -other man. "But Jack were never much of a -hand at pig-feeding."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The ownerless pig continued his explorations. -He went up a by-lane or two, looked -in at the gates of a farmstead here and a -farmstead there, but always returned to the street -unsatisfied. He managed to get a light lunch -off a bowl of potato peelings which a woman -threw into the road as he passed, but he was -still hungry, and had visions of a trough, -liberally furnished with pig-meal. And at noon, -being famished, and remembering the gap in -Widow Grooby's garden fence, he went -recklessly back to it, and finding that William -Green had not yet repaired it, pushed his way -through and once more entered on work of a -destructive nature.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This time Widow Grooby on discovering -him made no personal effort to dislodge the -intruder. She was doing a day's starching and -ironing, being by profession a laundrywoman, -and she and her assistant, a young woman from -a few doors away, were as throng, said -Mrs. Grooby, as Throp's wife, and were not to be -interrupted by anything or anybody.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Blest if that there dratted pig isn't in -my garden agen!" exclaimed Widow Grooby. -"That's the second time this morning, and now -it's at them carrots. Howsumever, it's not a -woman's place to take up stray cattle—Martha -Jane, slip round to James Burton's, the pinder's, -and tell him there's a strange pig on my -premises, and I'll thank him to come and take it -out at once and put it in the pinfold, which is -its lawful place. Them as it belongs to can -come and pay for it—and then I'll talk to 'em -about paying me for the damage it's done."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The pinder, interrupted at his dinner, came -slowly and unwillingly to perform his duty. -It was no easy thing to drive a stray pig into -the village pound; stray horses, donkeys, and -cattle were not so difficult to manage, but a pig -was a different thing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whose pig is it?" he inquired surlily, as -he followed Martha Jane and munched his last -mouthfuls. "If it be that rampagious -rorp-scorp o' Green's, why don't they fetch it out -theirselves?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then it isn't," answered Martha Jane. -"It's an animal as comes from nowhere, and -you've to put it in the pinfold this minute, -Mrs. Grooby says."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aw, indeed!" remarked the pinder. "An' -I wonder how she'd like breaking off her dinner -to put pigs in pound. Howsumever——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There were boys and girls coming from -school just then, and Mr. Burton enlisted their -services in driving the stray pig out of the -widow's garden and conducting it to the place -of incarceration. Pig-like, as soon as it began -to be chivied it showed a powerful inclination -to go anywhere but where it was wanted to go. -In a few moments the quiet street was riotous -with noise and commotion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The pinfold lay in the shadow of the old -lych-gate which gave admittance to the -churchyard, the spreading yew-trees, and the ancient -church itself. Like all the rest of the things -about it, it was grey and time-worn, and -redolent of a long-dead past. A square enclosure -of grey, lichen-covered walls, against one of -which stood the village stocks, against another -the mounting-steps from which many a fine old -squire and sprightly damsel had taken saddle -to ride homeward after church, its interior, now -rarely used, was a mass of docks and nettles; -its door was green and mouldy, and would -scarce have withstood a couple of sturdy kicks -from a stout ass. When that door was opened, -however, for the reception of captives, most of -them backed away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The pig proved himself as unwilling to enter -the pound as any of his many predecessors. -He looked in, saw the uninviting gloom, the -nettles, the docks, the absence of anything -amongst which he could root, and he turned and -made valiant efforts to escape his captors. He -doubled this way and that; he struggled out of -corners; he tried to wriggle through the -lych-gate. The pinder, remembering his interrupted -dinner, shouted; the boys yelled; the girls -screamed. But the stray pig, dodging hither -and thither, still eluded their attempts to -impound him, though he now screamed a little -and was getting short of breath. Suddenly he -collapsed against the churchyard wall, as if -wearied out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was at this moment that Miss Lavinia -Dorney, who occupied the pretty house and -garden close to the church, came down to the -foot of her lawn, attracted by the unwonted -commotion, and beheld the exhausted pig and -his tormentors. Miss Lavinia was a spinster lady -of fine presence, very noble and dignified in -manner, who was noted for her shawls and her -caps, both of which she wore with distinction. -She looked very imposing as she stood there, -half-concealed by the shining holly-hedge -whose neatly clipped edges fitted in so well with -the elegance of their surroundings, and Burton -touched his cap, the boys pulled their -forelocks, and the girls curtsied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Lavinia, lifting -a pair of elegantly-mounted pince-nez to -the bridge of her aristocratic nose. "Dear me, -what a noise! Oh, that's you, James Burton, -isn't it? And what is all this commotion about?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We want to get that there pig into the -pinfold, mum," answered the pinder, wiping his -forehead. "But it's the contrariest beast -ever I see! It's eaten up nearly all Mistress -Grooby's kitchen garden."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Lavinia looked more closely and saw -the fugitive.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear me!" she said. "It must be hungry, -Burton. Whose animal is it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dunno, mum," answered the pinder, in a -tone that suggested an utter lack of interest in -the subject. "But it's none a Little Peter's -pig—it's too thin, there's naught but skin and -bone on it. It's my opinion, mum, it would -eat anything, that pig would, if it had the -chance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And who is going to feed it in the pound?" -asked Miss Lavinia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Burton shook his head. He was much more -concerned about feeding himself than about -feeding the pig.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dunno, mum," he replied. "It's none of -my business. And nobody might never come -for that there pig, and it's naught but skin and -bone as it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The poor animal needs food and rest," -said Miss Lavinia with decision. She turned -and called across her lawn. "Mitchell—come -here," she commanded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A man who was obviously a gardener approached, -looking his curiosity. Miss Lavinia -indicated the group in the road below the -holly-hedge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mitchell," she said, "isn't there a piggery -in the stable-yard?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mitchell, coachman, gardener, general -factotum in Miss Lavinia's small establishment, -gathered an idea of what his mistress meant -and almost gasped. A pig in his scrupulously -kept preserves!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, ma'am," he said, rubbing his chin, -"there is certainly a sty, ma'am. But it's -never been used since we came here, ma'am."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then we will use it now, Mitchell," said -Miss Lavinia. "There is a poor animal which -needs rest and refreshment. Burton and the -bigger boys will help you to drive it in, and -Burton may have a pint of ale, and the boys -some apples. See that the pig has straw, or -hay, or whatever is proper, Mitchell, and feed -it well. Now, all you smaller children, run -home to your dinners."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No one ever dreamed of questioning any -order which Miss Lavinia Dorney issued, and -the stray pig was ere long safely housed in a -sty which had certainly never been used -before.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nice new job for you, Mitchell!" said -Burton, over a jug of ale in the kitchen. "And -if you want a word of advice, keep the beast -fastened in—he's a good 'un for gardens."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't know what direction he came -from?" asked Mitchell, anxiously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not I!" answered the pinder. "What for?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing," said Mitchell. "At least, if you -did, I'd send my son on the road, making -inquiries about him. He must belong to -somebody, and I don't want no pigs in my -stableyard. And you know what the missis is?—if -she takes a fancy to anything, well——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mitchell ended with an expressive grimace, -and Burton nodded his head sympathetically. -Then he remembered his dinner and hurried -off, and the gardener, who had not kept pigs -for many years, begged another jug of ale -from the cook in order to help him to remember -what the staple sustenance of those animals -really was. As he consumed it his ideas on -the subject became more and more generous, -and when Miss Lavinia Dorney went into the -stable-yard after luncheon to see how her latest -protégé was getting on she found the -new-comer living and housed in a style which he -himself may have dreamed of, but certainly -never expected two hours previously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm glad to see you have made the poor -thing so comfortable, Mitchell," said Miss -Lavinia. "Of course, you understand what -pigs require?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, ma'am!" replied Mitchell. "What -a fine pig like that wants is plenty of good -wheat straw to lie in, and the best -pig-meal—that's crushed peas and beans and maize -and such-like, ma'am—and boiled potatoes, -and they're none the worse for a nice hot -mash now and again. They're very nice -eaters, is pigs, ma'am, as well as uncommon -hearty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't you think this is a very thin pig, -Mitchell?" asked the mistress.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, ma'am, he's uncommon thin," replied -Mitchell. "I should say, ma'am, that that -there pig had known what it was to feel -hungry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor thing!" said Miss Lavinia. "Well, -see that he has all he can eat, Mitchell. Of -course, I must advertise for his owner—you're -sure he doesn't belong to any one in the -village?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm certain he doesn't, ma'am!" replied -Mitchell. "There isn't another pig in Little -St. Peter's as thin as what he is. Nor in Great -St. Peter's, neither, ma'am," he added as by -an afterthought.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, as his former owner, or owners, -seems to have neglected him," said Miss -Lavinia with severe firmness, "I shall feed -him well before advertising that he is -found. So see to it, Mitchell. And by the -bye, Mitchell, don't you think he is very dirty?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mitchell eyed the pig over. His glance was -expressive.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think he must have been sleeping out, -ma'am," he replied. "When an animal's -homeless it gets neglected shocking."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Couldn't you wash him, Mitchell?" -suggested Miss Lavinia. "I'm sure it would do -him good."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mitchell stroked his chin.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, ma'am," he said, "I never heard of -a pig being washed unless it was for show or -after it had been killed, ma'am, but I dare say -I could, ma'am. As soon as I've an hour to -spare, ma'am," he continued, "I'll get my son -to help me, and we'll have some hot water and -turn the biggest hosepipe on him in the little -yard—I'll get it off him, ma'am!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Lavinia cordially approved this -proposition and went away, and Mitchell remarked -to himself that no man ever knew what a day -might not bring forth, and went to smoke in -the loneliest part of the garden. Later in the -afternoon he and his son performed the pig's -ablutions, and the junior Mitchell, remarking -that it was no use doing things by halves, got -a stout scrubbing-brush from the scullery and -so successfully polished the animal that he -looked as if he had just been killed and -scalded. Miss Lavinia, going to see him next -morning on her usual round of the stables and -poultry-yard, was delighted with his changed -appearance, and praised her gardener unreservedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mitchell, however, was not so much enamoured -of his new occupation as he professed -to be in his mistress's presence. For one thing, -he was just then very busy in the garden; for -another, the pig began to make more and more -calls upon his time. It speedily developed, -or, rather, made manifest, a most extraordinary -appetite, and by some almost malevolent -prescience discovered that it had only to call -loudly for anything that it wanted to have its -desires immediately satisfied. No one who -had chanced to see its entry into Little -St. Peter's would have recognized it at the end of -a fortnight. Its ribs were no longer visible; it -was beginning to get a certain breadth across -its back; its twinkling eyes were disappearing -in its cheeks. The weekly bill for its board -and lodging amounted to a considerable figure -in shillings, but Miss Lavinia neither -questioned nor grumbled at it. She was delighted -with the pig's progress, and she believed it had -come to recognize her. There was distinct -regret in her voice when one morning she -remarked—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now that the animal is so much better after -its wanderings, Mitchell, I think we must -advertise for its owner. He will no doubt be -glad to have his property restored to him. I -will write out the advertisement to-day, and -send it to the newspaper."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mitchell stroked his chin. He had different -ideas—of his own.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think there's need to do that, -ma'am," he said. "I've been making an -inquiry about that pig, and I rather fancy I know -who it is as he belongs lawful to. If you'll -leave it to me, ma'am, I think I can find out for -certain, without advertising of him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very good, Mitchell," agreed Miss -Lavinia. Then she added, half-wistfully, "I -hope his owner will be glad to have him back."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think there's much doubt about -that, ma'am," said Mitchell, glancing at the -pig, who at that moment was stuffing himself -out with his third breakfast. "I should think -anybody 'ud be glad to see a pig like that -come home looking as well as what he does."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And so beautifully clean, Mitchell, thanks -to you," said Miss Lavinia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mitchell replied modestly that he had done -his best, and when his mistress had gone into -the house he slapped the pig's back just to -show that he had better thoughts of it than -formerly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Blest if I don't make something out of you -yet, my fine fellow!" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That evening, after he had had his supper, -Mitchell put on his second-best suit and went -to call on a small farmer who lived up a lonely -lane about three miles off. He spent a very -pleasant hour or two with the farmer and came -away full of that peaceful happiness which -always waits on those who do good actions and -engineer well-laid schemes to success.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It'll benefit him and it'll benefit me," he -mused, as he went homeward, smoking a two-penny -cigar which the small farmer had pressed -upon him in the fulness of his gratitude. "And -if that isn't as things ought to be, well, then -I'm a Dutchman!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Next day, as Miss Lavinia sat in her -morning-room, going through the weekly accounts, -the parlour-maid announced the arrival of a -person who said he had come about the pig. -Miss Lavinia looked dubiously at the spotlessness -of the linen carpet-cover, and asked the -parlour-maid if the person's boots seemed -clean. As it happened to be a bright frosty -morning the parlour-maid considered the -person suitable for admittance and brought him -in—a shifty-eyed man with a shock of red hair -who ducked and scraped at Miss Lavinia as -if he experienced a strange joy in meeting her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So you have come about the pig which I -found!" said Miss Lavinia pleasantly. "You -must have been very sorry to lose it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The caller elevated his eyes to the ceiling, -examined it carefully, and then contemplated -the inside of his old hat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I were sorry, mum," he said. "It were a -vallyble animal, that there, mum—it's a -well-bred 'un."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But it was so thin and—and dirty, when it -came to me," said Miss Lavinia with emphasis. -"Painfully thin, and so very, very dirty. My -gardener was obliged to wash it with hot water."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man scratched his head, and then shook it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, I dessay, mum!" he said. "Of -course, when a pig strays away from its proper -home it's like a man as goes on the tramp—it -don't give no right attention to itself. Now, -when I had it, ah!—well, it were a picture, and -no mistake."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You shall see it now," said Miss Lavinia, -who felt the caller's last words to contain -something of a challenge. "You will see we have -not neglected it while it has been here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She led the way out to the stable-yard or to -the sty, where the pampered pig was revelling -in the best wheat straw and enjoying a leisurely -breakfast—even Miss Lavinia had noticed that -now that it was certain of its meals, and as -many of them as it desired, it ate them with -a lordly unconcern. It looked up—the man -with the red hair looked down. And he -suddenly started with surprise and breathed out a -sharp whistle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, mum!" he said with conviction. -"That's my pig—I know it as well as I know -my own wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then, of course, you must have it," said -Miss Lavinia. There was a touch of regret in -her voice—the pig had already become a -feature of the stable-yard, and she believed -that he knew his benefactress. "I suppose," -she continued, "that you have many pigs?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A goodish few on 'em, mum," replied the man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Would you—I thought, perhaps, that as -you have others, and this one seems to have -settled down here, you might be inclined to—in -fact, to sell him to me?" said Miss Lavinia -hurriedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The red-haired person once more scratched -his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, of course, mum, pigs is for selling -purposes," he said. "But that there pig, he's -an uncommon fine breed. What would you -be for giving for him, mum, just as he stands?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At this moment the pig, full of food and -entirely happy, gave several grunts of -satisfaction and begun to rub its snout against the -door of the sty. Miss Lavinia made up her mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Would you consider ten pounds a suitable -sum?" she asked timidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The red-haired man turned his head away -as if to consider this proposal in private. -When he faced round again his face was very -solemn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, of course, mum," he said, "of course, -as I said, he's a vallyble animal is that there, -but as you've fed him since he were found and -have a liking to him—well, we'll say ten -pounds, mum, and there it is!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then if you will come into the house I will -give you the money," said Miss Lavinia. -"And you may rest assured we shall treat the -pig well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure of that, mum," said the seller. -"And very pretty eating you'll find him when -his time comes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he got his money, and drank a jug of -ale, and went away, rejoicing greatly, and on -his way home he met Mitchell, who had been -to the market-town in the light cart, and who -pulled up by the road-side at sight of him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The red-haired man winked knowingly at the -gardener.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?" said Mitchell.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All right," answered the other. He winked -again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mitchell began to look uneasy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where's the pig?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where I found it," answered the red-haired -man. "In the sty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why didn't you bring it away?" asked -Mitchell. "You said you would."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The red-haired man again winked and -smiled widely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've sold it," he said. "Sold it to your -missis. For ten pounds."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He slapped his pocket and Mitchell heard -the sovereigns jingle. He almost fell out of -his seat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sold it!—to our missis!—for ten pounds!" -he exclaimed. "You—why, it weren't yours -to sell!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Weren't it?" said the red-haired man. -"Well, there you're wrong, Mestur Mitchell, -'cause it were. I knew it as soon as I set eyes -on it, 'cause it had a mark in its left ear that I -gave it myself. And as your missis had taken -a fancy to it and bid me ten pound for it, why, -of course, I took her at her word. Howsumever," -he concluded, putting his hand in his -pocket, "as you put me on to the matter, I'll -none be unneighbourly, and I'll do the -handsome by you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Therewith he laid half-a-crown on the -splashboard of the light cart, winked again, -and with a cheery farewell strode away, leaving -the disgusted gardener staring at the scant -reward of his schemings.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-man-who-was-nobody"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER III</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>That was one of the finest of all the fine -mornings of that wonderful spring, and Miriam -Weere, when she saw the sunlight falling across -the orchard in front of her cottage, and heard -the swirl of the brown river mingling with the -murmur of the bees in their hives under the -apple-trees, determined to do her day's work -out of doors. The day's work was the washing -of the week's soiled linen, and no great task -for a strapping young woman of five-and-twenty, -whose arms were as muscular as her -gipsy-coloured face was handsome. Miriam -accordingly made no haste in beginning -it—besides, there was the eighteen-months-old -baby to wash and dress and feed. He woke out -of a morning sleep as she finished her -breakfast, and began to make loud demands upon -her. She busied herself with him for the next -hour, laughing to herself gleefully over his -resemblance to his father, big blue-eyed, -blonde-haired Michael; and then, carrying him -out to the daisy-spangled grass of the orchard, -she set him down beneath an apple-tree, and -left him grasping at the white and gold and -green about him while she set out her wash-tubs -a few yards away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miriam Weere had never a care in the world. -Her glossy hair, dark as the plumage on a -rook's breast, her clear hazel eyes, her glowing -cheeks, the round, full curves of her fine figure, -combined with the quickness and activity of her -movements to prove her in possession of rude -and splendid health. There was only another -human being in Ashdale who could compete -with her in the appearance of health or in good -looks—her husband, Michael, a giant of well -over six feet, who, like herself, had never known -what it was to have a day's illness. The life of -these two in their cottage by the little Ash was -one perpetual round of good humour, good -appetite, and sound sleep. Nor was there any -reason why they should take thought for the -morrow—that is, unduly. Higher up the valley, -set on a green plateau by the bank of the river, -stood Ashdale Mill, between the upper and -nether stones of which most of the grain grown -in the neighbourhood passed. And Ashdale -Mill was the property of Tobias Weere, -Michael's father, who was well known to be a -rich man, and some day Michael would have——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That was the only question which occasionally -made Miriam knit her brows. What would -Michael have when old Tobias died? The -mill, the mill-house, the garden and orchard -around it, two or three acres of land beside, and -the fishing rights of the river from Ashdale -Bridge to Brinford Meadows belonged -absolutely to Tobias, who had bought the freehold -of this desirable property when he purchased the -good-will of the business twenty years before. -He had only two sons to succeed to whatever -he left—Michael and Stephen. Michael was -now general superintendent, manager, traveller, -a hard indefatigable worker, who was as ready -to give a hand with the grain and the flour as to -write the letters and keep the books. Stephen, -on the other hand, was a loafer. He was fonder -of the village inn than of the mill, and of going -off to race meetings or cricket matches than of -attending to business. He was also somewhat -given to conviviality, which often degenerated -into intemperance, and he had lately married -the publican's daughter, a showy, flaunting -wench whom Miriam thoroughly detested. -Considering the difference that existed between -the two brothers, it seemed to Miriam that it -would be grossly unfair to share things equally -between them, and more than once she had said -so to Michael. But Michael always shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Share and share alike," he said. "I ask no -fairer, my lass."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then," she answered, "if it's like that, you -must try to buy Stephen out, for he'll never do -any good."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, that's more like it!" said Michael.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miriam was thinking of these things as she -plunged her strong arms into the frothing -soapsuds and listened to her baby cooing under the -apple-trees. She had heard from a neighbour -only the night before of some escapade in which -Stephen had been mixed up, and her informant -had added significantly that it was easy to see -where Stephen's share of old Toby's money -would go when he got the handling of it. -Miriam resolved that when Michael, who was -away on business in another part of the country, -came home she would once more speak to him -about coming to an understanding with his -brother. She was not the sort of woman to see -a flourishing business endangered, and she -never forgot that she was the mother of -Michael's first-born. Some day, perhaps, she -might see him master of the mill.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Save for the murmur of the river flowing at -the edge of the garden beneath overhanging -alders and willows, and the perpetual humming -of the insects in tree and bush, the morning was -very still and languorous, and sounds of a louder -sort travelled far. And Miriam was suddenly -aware of the clap-clap-clap of human, stoutly-shod -feet flying down the narrow lane which ran -by the side of the orchard. Something in the -sound betokened trouble—she was already -drying her hands and arms on her rough apron -when the wicket-gate was flung open and a girl, -red-faced, panting, burst in beneath the pink -and white of the fruit-trees.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it, Eliza Kate?" demanded Miriam.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The girl pressed her hand to her side.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's—th'—owd—maister!" she panted. -"Margaret Burton thinks he's bad—a stroke. -An' will you please to go quick."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look to the child," said Miriam, without a -glance at him herself. "And bring him back -with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then she set off at a swift pace up the steep, -stony lane which led to Ashdale Mill. The -atmosphere about it suggested nothing of -death—the old place was gay with summer life, and -the mill-wheel was throwing liquid diamonds -into the sunlight with every revolution. Miriam -saw none of these things; she hurried into the -mill-house and onward into the living-room. -For perhaps the first time in her life she was -conscious of impending disaster—why or what -she could not have told.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Old Tobias lay back in his easy-chair, -looking very white and worn—his housekeeper, old -Margaret Burton, stood at his side holding a -cup. She sighed with relief as Miriam entered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh, I'm glad ye've comed, Mistress -Michael!" she said. "I'm afeard th' maister -has had a stroke—he turned queer all of a -sudden."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you sent for the doctor?" asked -Miriam, going up to the old man and taking his -hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye, one o' th' mill lads has gone post haste -on th' owd pony," answered the housekeeper. -"But I'm afeard——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tobias opened his eyes, and, seeing Miriam, -looked recognition. His grey lips moved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Tisn' a stroke!" he whispered faintly. -"It's th' end. Miriam, I want to say—summat -to thee, my lass."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miriam understood that he had something -which he wished to say to her alone, and she -motioned the housekeeper out of the living-room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's a drop o' brandy in the cupboard -there," said Tobias, when the door was closed -upon himself and his daughter-in-law. "Gi' me -a sup, lass—it'll keep me up till th' doctor -comes—there's a matter I must do then. Miriam!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, father?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Miriam, thou's a clever woman and a strong -'un," the old man went on, when he had sipped -the brandy. "I must tell thee summat that -nobody knows, and thou must tell it to Michael -when I'm gone—I daren't tell him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miriam's heart leapt once and seemed to -stand still; a sudden swelling seized her throat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell Michael?" she said. "Yes, father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Miriam ... hearken. Michael—he weren't—he -weren't born in wedlock!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Michael's wife was a woman of quick perception. -The full meaning of the old man's words -fell on her with the force of a thunderstorm -that breaks upon a peaceful countryside without -warning. She said nothing, and the old man -motioned her to give him more brandy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Weren't born in wedlock," he repeated, -"and so is of course illegitimate and can't heir -nowt o' mine. It was this way," he went on, -gathering strength from the stimulant. "His -mother and me weren't wed till after he were -born—we were wed just before we came here. -We came from a long way off—nobody knows -about it in these parts. And, of course, -Michael's real name is Michael Oldfield—his -mother's name—and, by law, Stephen takes all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stephen takes all!" she repeated in a dull voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Old Tobias Weere's eyes gleamed out of the -ashen-grey of his face, and his lips curled with -the old cunning which Miriam knew well.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I ha' put matters right," he said, with a -horrible attempt at a smile, "I ha' put matters -right! Didn't want to do it till th' end, 'cause -folk will talk, and I can't abide talking. I ha' -made a will leaving one-half o' my property -to my son, Stephen Weere; t'other half to -Michael Oldfield, otherwise known as Michael -Weere, o' Millrace Cottage, Ashdale, i' th' -county——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old man's face suddenly paled, and -Miriam put more brandy to his lips. After a -moment he pointed to a bunch of keys lying on -the table beside him, and then to an ancient -bureau which stood in a dark corner of the -living-room. "It's i' th' top—drawer—th' will," -he whispered. "Get it out, my lass, and lay -the writing things o' th' table—doctor and -James Bream'll witness it, an' then all will be -in order. 'Cause, you see, somed'y might -chance-along as knew the secret, an' would -let out that Michael were born before we were -wed, an' then——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sick and cold with the surprise and horror of -this news, Miriam took the keys and went over -to the old bureau. There, in the top drawer, -lay a sheet of parchment—she knew little of law -matters, but she saw that this had been written -by a practised hand. She set it out on the table -with pen and ink and blotting-paper—in silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A lawyer chap in London town, as axed no -questions, drew that there," murmured Tobias. -"Wants naught but signing and witnessing and -the date putting in. Why doesn't doctor come, -and Jim Bream on the owd pony? Go to th' -house door, lass, and see if ye can see 'em coming."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miriam went out into the stone-paved porch, -and, shading her aching eyes, looked across the -garden. Eliza Kate had arrived with the baby, -and sat nursing it beneath the lilac-trees. It -caught sight of its mother, and stretched its -arms and lifted its voice to her. Miriam gave -no heed to it—her heart was heavy as the grey -stones she stood on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She waited some minutes—then two mounted -figures came in sight far down the lane, and she -turned back to the living-room. And on the -threshold she stopped, and her hand went up to -her bosom before she moved across to the old -man's chair. But the first glance had told her -what the second confirmed. Tobias was dead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miriam hesitated one moment. Then she -strode across the living-room, and, snatching up -the unsigned will, folded it into a smaller -compass, and thrust it within the folds of her -gown.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was a matter of wonder to everybody, and -to no one more so than her husband, that Miriam -appeared to be so much affected by her -father-in-law's death. It was not that she made any -demonstrations of grief, but that an unusual -gloom seemed to settle over her. Never gay in -the girlish sense, she had always been -light-hearted and full of smiles and laughter; during -the first days which followed the demise of old -Tobias she went about her duties with a knitted -brow, as if some sudden care had settled upon -her. Michael saw it, and wondered; he had -respected his father and entertained a filial -affection for him, but his death did not trouble -him to the extent of spoiling his appetite or -disturbing his sleep. He soon saw that Miriam -ate little: he soon guessed that she was sleeping -badly. And on the fourth day after his hurried -return home—the eve of the funeral—he laid -his great hand on her shoulder as she was stooping -over the child's cradle and turned her round -to face him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the matter, my lass?" he said -kindly. "Is there aught amiss? You are as -quiet as the grave, and you don't eat, nor get -sleep. The old father's death can't make that -difference. He was old—very old—and he's a -deal better off."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is such a lot to think of just now," -she replied evasively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Michael, man-like, mistook her meaning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, aye, to be sure there is, lass," he agreed. -"To-morrow'll be a busyish day, of course, for -I expect there'll be half the countryside here -at the burying, and, of course, they all expect -refreshment. However, there'll be no stint of -that, and, after all, they'll only want a glass of -wine and a funeral biscuit. And as for the -funeral dinner, why—there'll only be you and -me, and Stephen and his wife, and your father -and mother, and Stephen's wife's father and -mother, and the lawyer."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The lawyer!" exclaimed Miriam. "What lawyer?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What lawyer? Why, Mr. Brooke, o' -Sicaster, to be sure," answered Michael. "Who -else?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's he coming for?" asked Miriam.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Coming for? Come, my lass, your wits -are going a-woolgathering," said Michael. -"What do lawyers come to funerals for? To -read father's will, of course!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is there a will?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Made five years ago, Mr. Brooke said this -afternoon," he replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know what's in it?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Michael laughed—laughed loudly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nay, come, love!" he said. "Know what's -in it! Why, nobody knows what's in a will until -the lawyer unseals and reads it after the funeral -dinner."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't know," she said listlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, of course, that's neither here nor -there," said Michael; "and I must away to -make a few last arrangements. If there'll be -too much work for you to-morrow, Miriam, -you must get another woman in from the village."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There'll not be too much work, Michael," -she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In her heart she wished there was more -work—work that would keep her from thinking of -the secret which the dead man had left with -her. It had eaten deep into her soul and had -become a perpetual torment, for she was a -woman of great religious feeling and strict ideas -of duty, and she did not know where her duty -lay in this case. She knew Michael for a proud -man, upon whom the news of his illegitimacy -would fall as lightning falls on an oak come to -the pride of its maturity; she knew, too, how -he would curse his father for the wrong done -to his mother, of whom he had been passionately -fond. Again, if she told the truth, Michael -would be bereft of everything. For Stephen -was not fond of his brother, and Stephen's wife -hated Miriam. If Stephen and his wife heard -the truth, and proved it, Michael would -be—nobody. For, after all, Tobias had not had -time to make amends.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And now there was the news of this will held -by Lawyer Brooke! What could there be in -it, and how was it that Tobias had not spoken -of it? Could it be that he had forgotten it? -She knew that for some years he had been more -or less eccentric, subject to moods and to gusts -of passion, though there had never been any -time when his behaviour would have warranted -any one in suspecting his mind to be affected -or even clouded. Well—she could do nothing -but leave the matter until to-morrow when the -dead man's will was read.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As wife of the elder son, Miriam was hostess -next day, and everybody who saw her marvelled -at two things—one, the extraordinary pallor on -her usually brightly tinted cheeks; the other, -the quiet way in which she went about her duties. -She was here, there, and everywhere, seeing to -the comfort of the funeral guests; but she spoke -little, and keenly observant eyes would have -said that she moved as if in a dream. At the -funeral dinner she ate little; it was an effort to -get that little down. As the time drew near for -the reading of the will, she could scarcely -conceal her agitation, and when they were at last all -assembled in the best parlour to hear Tobias's -testament declared, she was glad that she sat at -a table beneath which she could conceal her -trembling fingers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She wondered why Mr. Brooke was so long -in cleaning his spectacles, so long in sipping his -glass of port, so slow in breaking the seal of the -big envelope which he took from his pocket, -why he hum'd and ha'd so before he began -reading. But at last he began....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a briefly worded will, and very plain in -its meaning. Having cause, it set forth, to be -highly displeased with the conduct of his -younger son, Stephen, and to believe that he -would only waste a fortune if it were left to him, -Tobias left everything of which he died -possessed to his elder son, Michael, on condition -that Michael secured to Stephen from the time -of his (Tobias's) demise, a sum of three pounds -a week, to which a further sum of one pound a -week might be added if Stephen's conduct was -such as to satisfy Michael. If Stephen died -before his father, Michael was to make a similar -allowance to his widow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The various emotions which had agitated -Miriam were almost forgotten by her in the -tumult which followed. Stephen's wife and her -father and mother broke out into loud denunciation -of the will; Stephen himself, after staring -at the solicitor for a moment, as if he could not -credit the evidence of his own eyes or ears -smote the table heavily and jumped to his feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a damned lie!" he shouted. And he -made as if he would snatch the will and tear it -to pieces. Mr. Brooke calmly replaced it in -his pocket, and as calmly sipped his port.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"On the contrary, my friend," he said. "And—it -is your father's will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father!" sneered Stephen's wife's mother. -"A nice father to——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Michael rose with a gesture that brought -silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"None of that!" he said. "Who's master -here? I am! Say a word against my dead -father, any of you, and by God! out you go, -neck and crop, man or woman. Now, then, -you'll listen to me. I'm bound to say, with -every respect for him, that I don't agree with -this will of my father's. My wife here'll bear -me out when I say that my idea as regards -Stephen and myself coming into his property -was—share and share alike. It seems father -had other notions. However, everything is now -mine—I'm master. Now, a man can do what -he chooses with his own. So listen, Stephen. -Give up that drinking, and gambling, and -such-like, and come to work again and be a man, and -you shall have one-half of all that there is. -But, mind you, I've the whip hand, and you'll -have to prove yourself. Prove yourself, and -we'll soon set matters straight. I want no more -than my half, and now that all's mine—well, -law or no law, I'll share with you ... but you'll -have to show that you can keep my conditions."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Everybody's eyes were fixed on Stephen -Weere. He sat for a moment staring at the -table—then, with a curse, he flung out of the -room. The smell of the old flesh-pots was still -in his nostrils; the odour of the wine-pots in his -remembrance—a fact which probably sent him -to the little room in which the refreshments of -a liquid sort had been set out. He helped -himself to a stiff glass of brandy and water, and -had gulped half of it down when he felt certain -fingers lay themselves appealingly on his left -elbow. He turned with a curse, to encounter -the witch-like countenance and burning eyes of -the old housekeeper, Margaret Burton.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you want, you old hag?" he said, -with another curse. "Get out!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the old woman stood—her bony fingers -still on his arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hester Stivven!" she said. "Mester -Stivven! Has he—has he left me owt?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Stephen burst into a harsh laugh and re-filled -his glass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Left you owt?" he exclaimed jeeringly. -"Left you owt? He's left nobody nowt but -Michael—curse him! He's left him—all there is!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Margaret Burton drew back for a second and -stared at him. He drew himself away from her -eyes. Suddenly she laid her hand on him again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mester Stivven," she said, coaxingly, -"come wi' me—I ha' summat to tell you. Come!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ten minutes later Stephen walked into the -best parlour, followed by Margaret Burton. -Michael was engaged in an earnest conversation -with the rest, and especially with Stephen's -wife, as to Stephen's future. Stephen lifted a -commanding hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stop that!" he said. "We've had enough -of you—we'll see who's master here. My turn," -he went on, as Michael would have spoken. -"Come forward, Margaret. This woman, Mr. Brooke, -has been my father's housekeeper since -my mother died, and was servant for years -before that—weren't you, Margaret?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Twelve years before that, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Twelve years before that—and in my -mother's confidence," Stephen continued.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, then, Margaret, take Mr. Brooke into -that corner. Tell him what you've told me -about what my mother told you the week she -died, and give him those papers she left with -you to prove what she said. And then—then -we'll see, we'll see!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The rest of the people watched the whispered -colloquy between the solicitor and the old -woman with mingled feelings. It was a large, -rambling room, with great embrasures to the -windows, and nobody could hear a word that -was said. But Miriam knew that she was not -the only possessor of the secret, and she -unconsciously slid her hand into Michael's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lawyer Brooke, some folded papers in his -hand, came back with knitted brow and troubled -eyes. He was going to speak, but Stephen -stopped him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm master here," he said. "Margaret, -come this way." He pointed to Michael. -"What's that man's real name?" he asked, with -an evil sneer. "Is it—well, now, what is it? -'Cause, of course, his isn't what mine is. Mine -is my father's—mine's Weere."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, sir—it's Oldfield. His mother's -name—'cause, of course, he were born out of -wedlock. Your father and mother wedded later on."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the silence that followed Miriam heard the -beating of Michael's heart. He rose slowly, -staring about him from one to the other.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not—true?" he said questioningly. -"It's——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miriam rose at his side and laid both hands -on his arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's true, Michael," she said. "It's true. -Your father told me ten minutes before he died."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Michael looked down at her, and suddenly -put his arm round her and kissed her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come away, Miriam," he said, as if the -others were shadows. "Come away. Let's go -home—the child'll be wanting us."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="little-miss-partridge"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Next to the church and the King George—with -possibly the exception of the blacksmith's -shop, where most of the idlers gathered -to gossip of an afternoon, especially in -winter—Miss Partridge's general store was the chief -institution in Orchardcroft. To begin with, it -was the only house of a mercantile character in -the place, and it would have fared ill with any -one rash enough to have set up an opposition -business to it; to end with, its proprietor was so -good-natured that she made no objection to the -good wives of the village if they lingered over -their purchases to chat with each other or with -her. Life in Orchardcroft was leisurely, and -an hour could easily be spent in fetching a stone -of flour or a quarter of a pound of tea from -Miss Partridge's emporium. And, as Miss -Partridge often remarked, the women were -better employed in exchanging views at her -counter than the men were in arguing at the -tap of the King George.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a queer little place, this general store—a -compendium of grocery, drapery, confectionery, -and half-a-dozen other trades. There -were all sorts of things in the window, from -rolls of cheap dress goods to home-made toffee; -inside the shop itself, which was neither more -nor less than the front room of a thatched -cottage, there was a display of articles which -was somewhat confusing to eyes not accustomed -to such sights. It was said of a celebrated -London tradesman that he could supply -anything from a white elephant to a pin—Miss -Partridge could hardly boast so much, but it -was certain that she kept everything which -the four hundred-odd souls of Orchardcroft -required for their bodies—butcher's meat -excepted. What was more, she knew where -everything was, and could lay her hands on it -at a moment's notice; what was still more, she -was as polite in selling a little boy a new -ready-made suit as in serving a ploughman with his -Saturday ounce of shag or nail-rod tobacco. -For that reason everybody liked her and -brought their joys and sorrows to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On a bright spring afternoon, when the -blackbirds and thrushes were piping gaily in her -holly-hedged garden, Miss Partridge sat behind -her counter knitting. She was then a woman of -close upon sixty—a rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed -woman, small in stature, grey of hair, out of -whose face something of a benediction seemed -always to shine upon everybody. She wore a -plain black dress—nobody in Orchardcroft -could remember Miss Partridge in anything but -black for more than thirty years—over which -was draped a real silk white shawl, fastened at -the neck with a massive brooch of Whitby jet, -and on her head was a smart cap in which were -displayed several varieties of artificial flowers. -Shawl and cap denoted that Miss Partridge was -dressed for the day; in the morning less showy -insignia were displayed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We're very quiet this afternoon, Martha -Mary," observed Miss Partridge to her general -factotum, who, having finished the housework, -was now dusting the upper shelves. "There's -been nobody in since old Isaac came for his -tobacco."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, m'm," said Martha Mary, "but there's -Jane Pockett coming up the garden just now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then we shall hear something or other," -said Miss Partridge, who knew Mrs. Pockett's -characteristics; "Jane has always some news."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Pockett, a tall, flabby lady, who acted -a great part in the village drama of life, seeing -that she saw all its new-comers into the world -and all its out-goers leave its stage for ever, -came heavily into the shop and dropped still -more heavily into a chair by the counter. And -without ceremony she turned a boiled-gooseberry -eye on the little shopkeeper.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hev' yer heerd the noos?" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What news, Jane?" asked Miss Partridge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Pockett selected a mint humbug from a -bottle on the counter and began to suck it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, of course, yer remember Robert -Dicki'son, t' miller, at Stapleby yonder?" she -said. "Him as died last year, leavin' a widder -and two childer, a boy an' a girl?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Partridge's head bent over her knitting.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," continued Mrs. Pockett, "it were -thowt 'at he died middlin' weel off, but now it -turns out 'at he didn't. In fact, he's left nowt, -and t' mill were mortgaged, as they term it, and -now they're barn to sell 'em up, lock, stock, and -barril. It's a pity, 'cos t' lad's a nice young -feller, and they say 'at if nobbut they could pay -t' money he could work up a good trade. It's a -thousand pounds 'at they want to settle matters. -See yer, I hev' a bill o' t' sale i' my pocket—t' -billposter gev' me it this mornin'. Ye'll notice -'at there's a nicish bit o' furniture to dispose on. -But what will t' widder and t' two childer do, -turned out i' that way?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's very sad," said Miss Partridge; "very sad."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laid the bill aside and began to talk of -something else. But when Jane Pockett had -purchased three yards of flannel and departed, -she read the bill through and noted that the sale -was to take place on the next day but one. And -taking off her spectacles she laid them and the -knitting down on the counter, and bidding -Martha Mary mind the shop, she went up to -her own room and, closing the door, began to -walk up and down, thinking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Forty years slipped away from Miss Partridge, -and she was once more a girl of nineteen -and engaged to Robert Dickinson. She remembered -it all vividly—their walks, their talks, -their embraces. She opened an old desk and -took from it a faded photograph of a handsome -lad, some equally faded ribbons, a tarnished -locket—all that was left of the long-dead dream -of youth. She put them back, and thought of -how they had parted in anger because of a -lover's quarrel. He had accused her of flirting, -and she had been too proud to defend herself, -and he had flung away and gone to a far-off -colony, and she had remained behind—to be -true to his memory all her life. And twenty -years later he had come back, bringing a young -wife with him, and had taken Stapleby Mill—but -he and she had never met, never spoken. -And now he was dead, and his widow and -children were to be outcasts, beggars.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Customers who came to the little shop that -evening remarked to each other on its mistress's -unusually quiet mood, and hoped Miss -Partridge was not going to be ill. But Miss -Partridge was quite well when she came down -to breakfast next morning, dressed in her best -and wearing her bonnet, and she looked very -determined about something.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You'll have to mind the shop this morning, -Martha Mary, for I'm going to Cornchester," -she said. "Get Eliza Grimes to come and do -the housework."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once in Cornchester Miss Partridge entered -the local bank—an institution which she -regarded with great awe—and had a whispered -consultation with the cashier, which resulted in -that gentleman handing over to her ten -banknotes of a hundred pounds each—the savings -of a lifetime.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Going to invest it, Miss Partridge?" said -the cashier, smiling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Y-yes," answered Miss Partridge. "Y-yes, -sir—to invest it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She put the thousand pounds in her -old-fashioned reticule and went off to a legal -gentleman whom she had once or twice had occasion -to consult. To him she made a communication -which caused him to stare.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear madam," he exclaimed. "This is -giving away all you possess."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," interrupted Miss Partridge. "I have -the shop."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, at any rate, take the place as security," -began the solicitor; "and——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," said Miss Partridge, firmly. "No, sir! -No one is to know; no one is ever to -know—except you—where the money came from. It's -my money, and I've a right to do what I please -with it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, very well," said the solicitor. "Very -well. I'll settle the matter at once. And you -may be sure the poor things will be very grateful -to their unknown benefactor."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Partridge walked home by way of -Stapleby churchyard. She turned into its -quietude and sought out Robert Dickinson's -grave. There were daisies growing on the green -turf that covered it, and she gathered a little -bunch of them and carried them home to put -away with the ribbons and the locket. And that -done she took off her best things and dropped -once more into the old way of life.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-marriage-of-mr-jarvis"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER V</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>When the lift-boy came down to the ground-floor -again and threw open the door of the -cage in which he spent so many mechanical -hours every day, he became aware that the -entrance hall was just then given up to a -solitary female who was anxiously scanning the -various names which appeared on the boards -set up on either side. He gathered a general -impression of rusticity, but, sharp as he was, -would have found himself hard put to it to -define it—the lady's bonnet was not -appreciably different from the bonnets worn by -respectable, middle-class, town ladies; the lady's -umbrella was not carried at an awkward angle. -Nevertheless he was quite certain that if the -lady was going aloft to anywhere between there -and the sixth floor she was about to step into -an elevator for the first time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stood waiting, knowing very well that -the stranger would presently address him. It -was gloomy in the entrance hall, and he saw -that she could not see the names on the -top-half of the board at which she was gazing. -She turned, glanced hastily at the opposite -board, then looked half-doubtfully at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Young man," she said, "can you tell me if -Mr. Watkin Vavasower's office is anywhere -about here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Vavasore, mum?—third floor, mum—just -gone up, has Mr. Vavasore," replied the -lift-boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stood aside from the door of his cage -with an implied invitation to enter. But the -lady, whom in the clearer light of the inner -hall he now perceived to be middle-aged and -of stern countenance, looked doubtfully at the -stairs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose I shall see the name on the door -if I go up-stairs, young man?" she said. "It's -that dark in these London places——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Step inside, mum," said the lift-boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The lady started and looked inside the cage -as she might have looked inside one of her -own hen-coops if she had suspected the -presence of a fox therein. She turned a suspicious -eye on the boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is it safe?" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then, instinctively obeying the authoritative -wave of the official hand, she stepped inside -and heard the gate bang. She gave a little -gasp as the world fell from under her feet; -another when the elevator suddenly stopped -and she found herself ejected on a higher plane.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I'm sure——" she began.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Second door on the left, mum," said the -boy, and sank from view.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The lady paused for a second or two, -glanced down the shaft as if she expected to -hear a shriek of agony from the bottom, and -then slowly moved in the direction which the -boy had indicated. A few steps along the -corridor and she stood before a door on which was -inscribed in heavy brass letters, highly polished, -the name "Mr. Watkin Vavasour."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She hesitated a moment before knocking; -when she did so, her knock was timid and -gentle. But it was heard within, for a girl's -voice, sharp and business-like, bade her enter. -She turned the handle and walked into a -comfortably furnished room wherein sat a very -smart young lady who was busily engaged with -a typewriter and who looked up from her work -with questioning eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is Mr. Watkin Vavasower in?" inquired -the caller.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The smart young lady rose from her desk -with an air of condescending patience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What name, madam?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The caller hesitated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, if it's agreeable," she said, "I'd -rather not give my name to anybody but the -gentleman himself, though of course if——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take a chair, please," said the smart young -lady. She vanished through an inner door -marked "Private," leaving the visitor to examine -an imitation Turkey carpet, a roll-top American -desk, two office chairs, and a reproduction of -the late Lord Leighton's </span><em class="italics">Married</em><span>, which hung -over the fire-place. She was speculating as to -the nationality of the two persons concerned in -this picture when the smart young lady returned -with an invitation to enter Mr. Vavasour's -presence. Mr. Vavasour, a somewhat more than -middle-aged, stoutish gentleman, whose name -would more fittingly have been Isaacs, Cohen, -or Abraham, and who evidently set much store -by fine linen and purple and the wearing of -gold and diamonds, rose from behind an -elegant rosewood writing-table and waved his -visitor to the easiest of chairs with much grace. -His highly polished bald head bowed itself -benevolently towards her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what can I have the pleasure of doing -for you, my dear madam?" Mr. Vavasour -inquired blandly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The visitor, who had examined Mr. Vavasour -with a sharp glance as she made a formal -bow to him, gave a little prefatory cough, and -gazed at Mr. Vavasour's cheery fire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course," she said, "I am addressing -Mr. Watkin Vavasower, the matrimonial agent? -The Mr. Vavasower as advertises in the newspapers?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just so, madam, just so," replied Mr. Vavasour -in soothing tones. "I am that individual. -And whom have I the pleasure of receiving?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, Mr. Vavasower, my name is -Mrs. Rebecca Pringle," said the visitor. "Of -course, you'll not know the name, but you're -familiar with the name of the place I come -from—the Old Farm, Windleby?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Vavasour swept a jewelled hand over -his high forehead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Old Farm, Windleby?" he said. -"The name seems familiar. Ah, yes, of -course—the address of a respected client, -Mr.—yes, Mr. Stephen Jarvis. Dear me—yes, -of course. A very worthy gentleman!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, Mr. Vavasower," said Mrs. Pringle, -smoothing her gown, which the agent's sharp -eyes noticed to be of good substantial silk, -"there's many a worthy gentleman as can make -a fool of himself! I've nothing to say against -Stephen, especially as I've kept house for him -for fifteen years, which is to say ever since -Pringle died. But I'm not blind to his faults, -Mr. Vavasower, and of course I can't see him -rush to his destruction, as it were, without -putting out a finger to stop his headlong flight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Vavasour made a lugubrious face, shook -his head, and looked further inquiries.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'It's come to my knowledge, Mr. Vavasower," -continued Mrs. Pringle, "that Stephen -Jarvis, as is my first cousin, has been having -correspondence with you on the matter of -finding a wife. A pretty thing for a man of his -years to do—five-and-fifty he is, and no -less—when he's kept off the ladies all this time! -And I must tell you, Mr. Vavasower, that his -family does not approve of it, and that's why -I have come to see you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Vavasour spread out fat hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear madam!" he said, deprecatingly. -"My dear Mrs. Pringle! It is a strict rule of -mine never to discuss a client's affairs, or -to——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Pringle favoured him with a knowing -look.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course, it would be made worth -Mr. Vavasower's while," she said, tapping a small -reticule which she carried. "The family -doesn't expect Mr. Vavasower to assist it for -nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Vavasour hesitated. He called up the -Jarvis case in his mind, and remembered that -Mr. Stephen Jarvis did not want a moneyed -wife, and that, therefore, there would be no -commission in that particular connection.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who are the members of the family, -ma'am?" he inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Pringle looked him squarely in the face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The members of the family, Mr. Vavasower," -she replied, "is me and my only son, -John William, as has always been led to look -upon himself as Stephen Jarvis's heir. And, -of course, if so be as Stephen Jarvis was to -marry a young woman, well, there'd no doubt -be children, and then——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To be sure, ma'am, to be sure!" said -Mr. Vavasour comprehendingly. "Of course, you -and your son have means that would -justify——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My son, John William, Mr. Vavasower, is -in a very nice way of business in the grocery -line," answered Mrs. Pringle. "But of course -I don't intend to see him ousted out of his -proper place because Stephen Jarvis takes it into -his head to marry at his time of life! Stephen -must be put off it, and there's an end of the -matter."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, my dear madam!" exclaimed Mr. Vavasour. -"How can I prevent it? My client -has asked me for introductions; he is -somewhat particular, or I could have suited him -some weeks ago. He desires a young and -pretty wife, and——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Old fool!" exclaimed Mrs. Pringle. -"Well, he's not to have one, Mr. Vavasower—as -I say, it's not agreeable to me and John -William that he should. And as to how you -can prevent it, well, Mr. Vavasower, I've a -plan in which you must join—me and John -William will make it worth your while to do -so—that will put Stephen Jarvis out of conceit -with matrimony. The fact of the case is, -Mr. Vavasower, Stephen is a very close-fisted man. -He's the sort that looks twice at a sixpence -before he spends it—and then, like as not, he -puts it back in his pocket."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Vavasour inclined his head. He was -interested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, Mr. Vavasower," continued Mrs. Pringle, -"Stephen is as innocent of the ways -of young women as what a pagan negro is. -He's never had aught to do with them; he -doesn't know how expensive they are. If he -knew how the young woman of now-a-days -flings money about, he'd faint with terror at the -prospect of wedding one. Now, you must -know a deal of clever young women, Mr. Vavasower, -your profession being what it is—actresses -and such-like, no doubt, as could play -a part for a slight consideration. If you could -get such a one as would come down to the Old -Farm as my guest for a fortnight or so, and -would obey orders as to showing Stephen Jarvis -what modern young women really is—well, we -should hear no more of this ridiculous -marrying idea. Of course, I could pass the young -woman off as a distant relation of my poor -husband's, just come from America or -somewhere foreign. I would like her to show -expensive tastes and to let Stephen see what a -deal it would cost to keep a young wife. And -of course she'd have to be a bit what they call -fascinating—-but you'll understand my -meaning, Mr. Vavasower. And I can assure you -that although Stephen Jarvis is such a well-to-do -man, he's that near and mean that you'll do -better to deal with me and John William than -with him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Vavasour, who had been thinking hard, -rubbed his hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the terms, my clear madam?" he said. -"Let us consider the terms on which we shall -conduct this little matter. Now——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Mrs. Pringle and Mr. Vavasour talked -very confidentially, and eventually certain crisp -bank-notes passed from the lady to the agent, -and a document was signed by the former, and -at last they parted with a very good -understanding of each other.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For you'll understand, Mr. Vavasower," said -Mrs. Pringle, as she shook hands at the door -of the private room, "that I'm not going to be -particular about spending a hundred or so when -it's a question of making sure of a good many -thousands and a nice bit of property. And -Stephen Jarvis is a hearty eater, and disposed -to apoplexy, and he might be took sudden."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Mrs. Pringle went away and returned -to the Old Farm, and for the next fortnight -kept a particularly observant eye on Mr. Jarvis -and on the correspondence which reached him -from and through Mr. Vavasour. She noticed -that he became grumpy and dissatisfied almost -to moroseness—-the fact was that the agent, in -order to keep his contract with Mrs. Pringle, -was sending the would-be Benedick a choice of -unlikely candidates, and Mr. Jarvis was getting -sick of looking at photographs of ladies none of -whom came up to his expectations. As for -Mrs. Pringle, she conducted her correspondence -with Mr. Vavasour through John William, -whose grocery establishment was in a neighbouring -market-town, and it was not until the -end of the second week after her return home -that she received a communication from him -which warranted her in taking the field.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, upon my honour!" she exclaimed, -as she sat at breakfast with Mr. Jarvis one -morning and laid down a letter which she had -been reading. "Wonders never will cease, -and there's an end of it. Who do you think -I've heard from, Stephen?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nay, I don't know," growled Mr. Jarvis, -who had just received the photograph of a very -homely-looking young woman from Mr. Vavasour, -and was much incensed by what he considered -the agent's stupidity. "Who?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, from my niece—leastways a sort of -niece, seeing as she was poor George's sister -Martha Margaret's daughter—Poppy -Atteridge, as has just returned to England from -foreign parts," answered Mrs. Pringle. "Her -father was an engineer and took her over to -Canada when he went to settle there after his -wife died. He's dead now, it seems, and so -the poor girl's come home. Dear me!—I did -once see her when she was little. She writes -quite affectionate and says she feels lonely. -Ah, if I'd a house of my own, I'd ask her to -come and see me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ask her to come and see you here, then!" -said the farmer. "I'm sure there's room -enough, unless she wants to sleep in six -bed-chambers all at once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I'm sure it's very kind of you," said -Mrs. Pringle, "and if you really don't mind, I -will ask her. I don't think you'll find her in -the way very much—they were always a quiet, -well-behaved sort, the Atteridges."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Jarvis remarked that a few lasses, more -or less, in the house were not likely to trouble -him, and having finished his breakfast, lighted -a cigar, and locked up the homely-looking -lady's photograph in his desk with a hearty -anathematization of Mr. Vavasour for sending -it, went out to look at his sheep and cattle and -forgot the breakfast-table conversation. -Indeed, he thought no more of it until two days -later, when, on his going home from market to -the Saturday evening high tea, Mrs. Pringle -met him in the hall with the news that her niece -had arrived, and was in the parlour.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, indeed!" said Mr. Jarvis, who was in -a very benevolent mood, consequent upon his -having got an uncommonly good price for his -wheat and spent a convivial hour with the -purchaser. "Poor thing—I doubt she'll have had -a rare cold journey."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he walked into the parlour to offer the -poor young thing a welcome to his roof and -hearth, and found himself encountered by a -smiling and handsome young lady who had -very sparkling eyes and a vivacious manner, -and whom he immediately set down as the -likeliest lass he had seen for many a long -day. He thought of the gallery of dowdies -whom Mr. Vavasour had recently sent him by -counterfeit presentment, and his spirits rose -rapidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, deary me to-day!" he said, as he -began to carve the home-fed ham in delicate -slices. "Deary me to-day! I'd no idea that -we were to be honoured with so much youth -and beauty, as the saying is. I was looking -forward to seeing a little gel, Mrs. Pringle. -Your aunt there didn't prepare me for such a -pleasant surprise, Miss—nay, I've forgotten -what the name is!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Atteridge," said Mrs. Pringle's supposed -niece. "But call me Poppy, Mr. Jarvis—I -shall feel more at home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poppy!" chuckled Mr. Jarvis. "Ecod, -and a rare pretty poppy an' all! Deary me—deary me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Atteridges was always a good-looking -family," said Mrs. Pringle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should think they must ha' been," said -Mr. Jarvis, handing his guest some cold fowl -and ham with an admiring look. "I should -think they must ha' been, ma'am, judging by -the sample present. So for what we're about -to receive——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Jarvis, Mrs. Pringle, and Miss Atteridge -spent a very pleasant evening. The guest, in -addition to great vivacity, talked well and -interestingly, and it began to dawn upon the -housekeeper that she really must have been in -Canada, as she knew so much about life there. -In addition to Miss Atteridge's conversational -powers it turned out that she played the piano, -and in response to Mr. Jarvis's request for a -tune or two, she sat down to an ancient -instrument which had not been opened within the -recollection of Mrs. Pringle, and extracted -what music she could from it. Mr. Jarvis was -highly delighted, and said so.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But if you're so fond of music, Mr. Jarvis, -you should buy a new piano," said Miss -Atteridge airily. "I've no doubt this has been a -good one, but I'm afraid it's quite done for now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Happen I might if I'd anybody to play on -it," said Mr. Jarvis, with a sly look.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, you could find lots of people to play -on it," said Miss Atteridge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When the guest had retired Mr. Jarvis mixed -his toddy, and in accordance with custom, -handed a glass to Mrs. Pringle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's a rare fine lass, that niece o' yours, -missis," he said. "You're welcome to ask her -to stop as long as she likes. It'll do her good."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Next morning Mr. Jarvis, saying that he had -business in the market-town, ordered out his -smart dog-cart and the bay mare, and asked -Miss Atteridge to go a-driving with him. They -made a good-looking pair as they drove off, for -the farmer, in spite of his five-and-fifty years, -was a handsome and well-set-up man, with -never a grey hair in his head, and he had a -spice of vanity in him which made him very -particular about his personal appearance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Jarvis and Miss Atteridge were away all -the morning—when they returned to dinner at -half-past one both seemed to be in very good -spirits. They and Mrs. Pringle were sitting in -the parlour after dinner when the housekeeper -perceived a cart approaching the house, and -remarked upon the fact that it contained a -queer-looking packing-case and was attended by two -men who wore green baize aprons.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye," said Mr. Jarvis, carelessly, "it'll be -the new piano that I bought this morning for -the young lady here to perform upon. You'd -better go out, missis, and tell 'em to set it down -at the porch door. If they want help there's -John and Thomas in the yard—call for 'em. -And we'll have the old instrument taken out -and the new one put in its place."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Pringle went forth to obey these orders, -feeling somewhat puzzled. The young lady -from Mr. Vavasour's was certainly playing -her part well, and had begun early. But why -this extraordinary complaisance on Mr. Jarvis's -part—Mr. Jarvis, who could, when he liked, -say some very nasty things about the household -accounts? She began to feel a little doubtful -about—she was not sure what.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That night the parlour was the scene of what -Mr. Jarvis called a regular slap-up concert. -For it turned out that Miss Atteridge could -not only play but sing, and sing well; and -Mr. Jarvis was so carried away with revived musical -enthusiasm, that after telling the ladies how he -used to sing tenor in the church choir at one -time, he volunteered to sing such pleasing -ditties as "The Farmer's Boy," "The -Yeoman's Wedding," and "John Peel," and -growing bolder joined with Miss Atteridge in duets -such as "Huntingtower," and "Oh, that we two -were maying." He went to bed somewhat -later than usual, declaring to himself that he -had not spent such a pleasant evening since the -last dinner at the Farmers' Club, and next -morning he made up a parcel of all the -photographs and documents which Mr. Vavasour had -sent him, and returned them to that gentleman -with a short intimation that he had no wish for -further dealings with him, and that if he owed -him anything he would be glad to know what -it was.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On the following Sunday Mr. John William -Pringle, a pale-eyed young gentleman who -wore a frock-coat and a silk hat, and had a -habit of pulling up his trousers at the knees -whenever he sat down, came, according to -custom, to visit his mother, and was introduced to -his newly-found relative. John William, after -a little observation, became somewhat sad and -reflective, and in the afternoon, when Mr. Jarvis -and Miss Attendee had walked out into the -land to see if there was the exact number of -sheep that there ought to be in a certain distant -field, turned upon his parent with a stern and -reproachful look.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And a nice mess you've made of it with -your contrivings and plannings!" he said -witheringly. "You've done the very thing -we wanted to avoid. Can't you see the old -fool's head over heels in love with that girl? Yah!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing of the sort, John William!" -retorted Mrs. Pringle. "Of course, the gal's -leading him on, as is her part to do, and well -paid for it she is. You wait till Stephen Jarvis -reckernizes what he's been spending on -her—there's the piano, and a new hat, and a -riding-habit so as she can go a-riding with him, and a -gipsy ring as she took a fancy to that day he -took her to Stowminster, all in a week and -less—and you'll see what the effect will be. You're -wrong, John William!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm dee'd if I am!" said John William, -angrily. "It's you that's wrong, and so you'll -find. Something's got to be done. And the -only thing I can think of," he continued, -stroking a badly sprouted growth on his upper lip, -"is that I should cut the old ass out myself. -Of course, I could throw the girl over afterwards."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With this end in view Mr. Pringle made -himself extraordinarily fascinating at tea-time -and during the evening, but with such poor -effect that at supper he was gloomier than ever. -He went home with a parting remark to his -mother that if she didn't get the girl out of the -house pretty quick he and she might as well go -hang themselves.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As Mrs. Pringle had considerable belief in -John William's acumen she was conscience-stricken -as to her part in this affair, and took -occasion to speak to Miss Atteridge when they -retired for the night. But Miss Atteridge not -only received Mrs. Pringle's remarks with -chilling hauteur, but engineered her out of her room -in unmistakable fashion. So Mrs. Pringle -wrote to Mr. Vavasour, saying that she thought -the purpose she desired had been served, and -she wished Miss Atteridge to be removed. -Mr. Vavasour replied that her instructions should -be carried out. But Miss Atteridge stayed on. -And more than once she and the housekeeper, -Mr. Jarvis being out, had words.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As if you ever was in Canada!" said -Mrs. Pringle, sniffing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Atteridge looked at her calmly and coldly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I lived in Canada for three years," she -answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A gal as goes to a agent to find a husband!" -said Mrs. Pringle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—I went to get employment as a lady -detective," said Miss Atteridge. "Mr. Vavasour, -you know, is a private inquiry agent as -well as a matrimonial agent."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what did you come here for?" demanded -Mrs. Pringle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Atteridge looked at her interlocutor -with a still colder glance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fun!" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then she sat down at the new piano and -began to play the "Moonlight Sonata," and -Mrs. Pringle went into the kitchen and slammed -the parlour door—after which she wondered -what John William would say next Sunday. -On the previous Sunday he had been nastier -than ever, and had expressed his determination -to be dee'd at least six times.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But when the next Sunday came Miss Atteridge -had departed. All Friday she had been -very quiet and thoughtful—late in the -afternoon she and Mr. Jarvis had gone out for a -walk, and when they returned both were much -subdued and very grave. They talked little -during tea, and that evening Miss Atteridge -played nothing but Beethoven and Chopin and -did not sing at all. And when Mrs. Pringle -went to bed, after consuming her toddy in the -kitchen—Mr. Jarvis being unusually solemn -and greatly preoccupied—she found the guest -packing her portmanteau.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am going away to-morrow, after breakfast," -said Miss Atteridge. "As I shall not be -here on Sunday please say good-bye for me to -Mr. John William."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>John William, coming on Sunday in time for -dinner, found things as they usually were at -the Old Farm in the days previous to the -advent of Miss Atteridge. Mr. Jarvis was in the -parlour, amusing himself with a cigar, the -sherry decanter, and the </span><em class="italics">Mark Lane Express</em><span>; -Mrs. Pringle was in the front kitchen -superintending the cooking of a couple of stuffed -ducks. To her John William approached with -questioning eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's gone!" whispered Mrs. Pringle. -"Went off yesterday. He's been grumpyish -ever since—a-thinkin' over what it's cost him. -Go in and make up to him, John William. -Talk to him about pigs."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>John William re-entered the parlour. Mr. Jarvis, -who was of the sort that would show -hospitality to an enemy, gave him a glass of -sherry and offered him a cigar, but showed no -particular desire to hear a grocer's views on -swine fever. There was no conversation when -Mrs. Pringle entered to lay the cloth for dinner.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We've had no music this day or two," said -Mrs. Pringle with fane cheerfulness. "Play -the master a piece, John William—play the -'Battle of Prague' with variations."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>John William approached the new piano.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's locked," he said, examining the lid of -the keyboard. "Where's the key?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Jarvis looked over the top of the </span><em class="italics">Mark -Lane Express</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The key," he said, "is in my pocket. -And'll remain there until Miss Atteridge—which -her right name is Carter—returns. But -not as Carter, nor yet Atteridge, but as -Mrs. Stephen Jarvis. That'll be three weeks -to-day. If John William there wants to perform -on t' piano he can come then and play t' -'Wedding March'!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then John William sat down, and his mother -laid the table in silence.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="bread-cast-upon-the-waters"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was close upon sunset when the derelict -walked into the first village which he had -encountered for several miles, and he was as tired -as he was hungry. On the outskirts he stopped, -looked about him, and sat down on a heap of -stones. The village lay beneath him; a typical -English village, good to look upon in the -summer eventide. There in the centre, -embowered amongst tall elm-trees and fringed -about with yew, rose the tower and roof of the -old church, grey as the memories of the far-off -age in which pious hands had built it. Farther -away, also tree-embowered, rose the turrets and -gables of the great house, manor and hall. -Here and there, rising from thick orchards, -stood the farmhouses, with their red roofs and -drab walls; between them were tiny cottages, -nests of comfort. There were pale blue wisps -of smoke curling up from the chimneys of the -houses and cottages—they made the weary man -think of a home and a hearthstone. And from -the green in the centre of the village came the -sound of the voices of boys at play—they, too, -made him think of times when the world was -something more than a desert.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He rose at last and went forward, walking -after the fashion of a tired man. He was not -such a very bad-looking derelict, after all; he -had evidently made an attempt to keep his poor -clothes patched, and had not forgotten to wash -himself whenever he had an opportunity. But -his eyes had the look of the not-wanted; there -was a hopelessness in them which would have -spoken volumes to an acute observer. And as -he went clown the hill into the village he looked -about him from one side to the other as if he -scarcely dared to expect anything from men or -their habitations.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He came to a large, prosperous-looking farmstead; -a rosy-cheeked, well-fed, contented-faced -man, massive of build, was leaning over the low -wall of the garden smoking a cigar. He eyed -the derelict with obvious dislike and distrust. -His eyes grew slightly angry and he frowned. -Human wreckage was not to his taste.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the man on the road was hungry and -tired; he was like a drowning thing that will -clutch at any straw. He stepped up on the -neatly-trimmed turf which lay beneath the -garden wall, touching his cap.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you a job of work that you could give -a man, sir?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The rosy-faced farmer scowled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man in the road hesitated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm hard pressed, sir," he said. "I'd do a -hard day's work to-morrow in return for a -night's lodging and a bit of something to eat."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye, I dare say you would," said the farmer, -scornfully. "I've heard that tale before. Be -off—the road's your place."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The derelict sighed, turned away, half-turned -again. He looked at the well-fed countenance -above him with a species of appealing sorrow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday -morning," he said, and turned again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As he turned he heard a child's piping voice, -and, looking round, saw the upper half of a -small head, sunny and curly, pop up over the -garden wall.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Daddy, shall I give the poor man my -money-box? 'Cause it isn't nice to be hungry. -Shall I, daddy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the farmer's face did not relax, and the -derelict sighed again and turned away. He had -got into the road, and was going off when the -big, masterful voice arrested him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here, you!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The derelict looked round, with new hope -springing in his heart. The man was beckoning -him; the child, on tiptoe, was staring at him out -of blue, inquisitive eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come here," said the farmer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The derelict went back, hoping. The man at -the wall, however, looked sterner than ever. -His keen eyes seemed to bore holes in the -other's starved body.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I give you your supper, and a night's -lodging in the barn, will you promise not to -smoke?" he said. "I want no fire."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The derelict smiled in spite of his hunger and -weariness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've neither pipe nor tobacco, sir," he said. -"I wish I had. But if I had I'd keep my word -to you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The farmer stared at him fixedly for a -moment; then he pointed to the gate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come through that," he said. He strode -off across the garden when the derelict entered, -and led the way round the house to the kitchen, -where a stout maid was sewing at the open door. -She looked up at the sound of their feet and -stared.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give this man as much as he can eat, -Rachel," said the farmer, "and draw him a -pint of ale. Sit you down," he added, turning -to the derelict. "And make a good supper."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he picked up the child, who had clung -to his coat, and lifting her on to his shoulder, -went back to the garden.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The derelict ate and drank and thanked God. -A new sense of manhood came into him with -the good meat and drink; he began to see -possibilities. When at last he stood up he felt like -a new man, and some of the weary stoop had -gone out of his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The farmer came in with a clay pipe filled -with tobacco.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here," he said, "you can sit in the yard and -smoke that. And then I'll show you where you -can sleep."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So that night the derelict went to rest full of -food and contented, and slept a dreamless sleep -amongst the hay. Next morning the farmer, -according to his custom, was up early, but his -guest had been up a good two hours when he -came down to the big kitchen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's no idler, yon man, master," said -Rachel. "He's chopped enough firewood to -last me for a week, and drawn all the water, -and he's fetched the cows up, and now he's -sweeping up the yard."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give him a good breakfast, then," said the -farmer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When his own breakfast was over he went to -look for the derelict, and found him chopping -wood again. He saluted his host respectfully, -but with a certain anxiety.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now if you want a job for a day or so," -said the farmer, with the curtness which was -characteristic of him, "I'll give you one. Get -a bucket out of the out-house there, and come -with me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He led the way to a small field at the rear of -the farmstead, the surface of which appeared -to be very liberally ornamented with stones.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want this field clearing," said the farmer. -"Make the stones into piles about twenty yards -apart. When you hear the church clock strike -twelve, stop work, and go to the house for your -dinner. Start again at one, and knock off again -at six."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Whatever might have been his occupation -before the derelict worked that day like a nigger. -It was back-aching work, that gathering and -piling of stones, and the July sun was hot and -burning, but he kept manfully at his task, -strengthened by the hearty meal set before him -at noon. And just before six o'clock the farmer, -with the child on his shoulder, came into the -field and looked around him and stared.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're no idler!" he said, repeating the -maid's words. "I'll give you a better job than -that to-morrow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And that night he gave the derelict some -clothes and boots, and next morning set him to -a pleasanter job, and promised him work for -the harvest, and the derelict felt that however -curt and gruff the farmer might seem his bark -was much worse than his bite. And he never -forgot that he had saved him from starvation. -But the derelict's times were not all good. -Country folk have an inborn dislike of -strangers, and the regular workers on the farm -resented the intrusion of this man, who came -from nowhere in particular and had certainly -been a tramp. They kept themselves apart -from him in the harvest fields, and made open -allusion to his antecedents. And the derelict, -now promoted to a small room in the house, and -earning wages as well as board, heard and said -nothing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Nor did the farmer go free of gibe and jest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So ye've taken to hiring tramp-labour, I -hear," said his great rival in the village. "Get -it dirt cheap, I expect?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can expect what you like," said the -derelict's employer. "The man you mean is as -good a worker as any you've got, or I've got, -either. Do you think I care for you and your -opinion?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In fact, the farmer cared little for anything -except his child. He had lost his wife when the -child was born, and the child was all he had -except his land. Wherever he went the child -was with him; they were inseparable. He had -never left it once during the six years of its life, -and it was with great misgivings that in the -autumn following the arrival of the derelict he -was obliged to leave it for a day and a night. -Before he went he called the derelict to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've come to trust you fully," he said. -"Look after the child till to-morrow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If the farmer had wanted a proof of the -derelict's gratitude he would have found it in -the sudden flush of pride which flamed into the -man's face. But he was in a hurry to be gone, -and was troubled because of leaving the child; -nevertheless, he felt sure that he was leaving -the child in good hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's queer how I've taken to that fellow," he -said to himself as he drove off to the station six -miles away. "I wouldn't have trusted the child -to anybody but him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man left in charge did nothing that day -but look after the child. He developed amazing -powers, which astonished Rachel as much as -they interested the young mind and eyes. He -could sing songs, he could tell tales, he could do -tricks, he could play at bears and lions, and -imitate every animal and bird under the sun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lawk-a-massy!" said Rachel. "Why, you -must ha' had bairns of your own!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A long time ago," answered the man. "A -very long time ago."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He never left his charge until the charge was -fast asleep—sung to sleep by himself. Then he -went off to his little room in the far-away wing -of the house. And in an hour or two he wished -devoutly that he had stretched himself at the -charge's door. For the farmstead was on fire, -and when he woke to realize it there was a -raging sea of flame between him and the child, -and folk in the yard and garden were shrieking -and moaning—in their helplessness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the man got there in time—in time for the -child, but not for himself. They talk in all that -countryside to this day of how he fought his -way through the flames, how he dropped the -child into outstretched arms beneath, safe, and -then fell back to death.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Upon what they found left of him the farmer -gazed with eyes which were wet for the first time -since he had last shed tears for his dead wife. -And he said something to the poor body which -doubtless the soul heard far off.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were a Man!" he said. "You were a real Man!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then he suddenly remembered that he -had never known the Man's name.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="william-henry-and-the-dairymaid"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The trouble at Five Oaks Farm really began -when Matthew Dennison built and started a -model dairy, and found it necessary to engage -the services of a qualified dairymaid. A good -many people in the neighbourhood wondered -what possessed Matthew to embark on such an -enterprise, and said so. Matthew cared nothing -for comment; he had in his pocket, he said (as -he was very fond of saying), something that -made him independent of whatever anybody -might think or say. It was his whim to build -the model dairy, just as it is the whim of some -men to grow roses or to breed prize sheep at -great cost, and he built it. It was all very spick -and span when it was finished, and the -countryside admired its many beauties and modern -appliances without understanding much about -them. And then came the question of finding -a thoroughly expert dairymaid.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Somebody—probably the vicar—advised -Matthew to advertise in one of the farming -papers, and he and his wife and their only son, -William Henry, accordingly spent an entire -evening in drafting a suitable announcement of -their wishes, which they forwarded next day to -several journals of a likely nature. During the -next fortnight answers began to come in, and -the family sat in committee every evening after -high tea considering them gravely. It was not -until somewhere about fifty or sixty of these -applications had been received, however, that -one of a really promising nature turned up. -This was from one Rosina Durrant, who wrote -from somewhere in Dorsetshire. She described -herself as being twenty-five years of age, -thoroughly qualified to take entire charge of a -model dairy, and anxious to have some -experience in the North of England. She gave -particulars of her past experience, set forth -particulars of the terms she expected, and enclosed -a splendid testimonial from her present -employer, who turned out to be a well-known -countess.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew rubbed his hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now this is the very young woman we -want!" he said. "I've always said from the -very beginning that I'd have naught but what -was first-class. I shall send this here young -person my references, agree to her terms, and -tell her to start out as soon as she can."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm afraid she's rather expensive, love," -murmured Mrs. Dennison.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not to a few pounds one way or -another," answered Matthew. "I'm one of -them that believe in doing a thing right when -you do do it. Last two years with a -countess—what? What'd suit a countess 'll suit me. -William Henry, you can get out the writing-desk, -and we'll draw up a letter to this young -woman at once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>William Henry, who had little or no interest -in the model dairy, and regarded it as no more -and no less than a harmless fad of his father's, -complied with this request, and spent half-an-hour -in writing an elegant epistle after the -fashion of those which he had been taught to -compose at the boarding-school where he had -received his education. After that he gave no -more thought to the dairymaid, being much -more concerned in managing the farm, and in -an occasional day's hunting and shooting, than -in matters outside his sphere. But about a week -later his father opened a letter at the -breakfast-table, and uttered a gratified exclamation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, the young woman's coming to-day," -he announced. "She'll be at Marltree station -at precisely four-thirty. Of course somebody'll -have to drive over and meet her, and that -somebody can't be me, because I've a meeting of the -Guardians at Cornborough at that very hour. -William Henry, you must drive the dog-cart over."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>William Henry was not too pleased with the -idea, for he had meant to go fishing. But -he remembered that he could go fishing -every afternoon if it pleased him, and he -acquiesced.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've been wondering, Matthew," said -Mrs. Dennison, who was perusing the letter through -her spectacles; "I've been wondering where to -put this young person. You can see from her -writing that she's of a better sort—there's no -common persons as writes and expresses -themselves in that style. I'm sure she'll not want -to have her meals with the men and the gels in -the kitchen, and of course we can't bring her -among ourselves, as it were."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew scratched his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Deng my buttons!" he said. "I never -thought o' that there! Of course she'll be what -they call a sort of upper servant, such as the -quality have. Aye, for sure! Well, let's see -now—I'll tell ye what to do, missis. Let her -have the little parlour—we scarce ever use -it—for her own sitting-room, and she can eat there. -That's the sensiblest arrangement that I can -think on. Then we shall all preserve our -various ranks. What do ye say, William Henry?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>William Henry said that he was agreeable to -anything, and proceeded to make his usual -hearty breakfast. He thought no more of his -afternoon expedition until the time for setting -out came, and then he had the brown mare -harnessed to a smart dog-cart, and set off along -the roads for Marltree, five miles away. It was -a pleasant afternoon in early April, and the land -had the springtide's new warmth on it. And -William Henry thought how happy he would -have been with his fishing-rod.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Marltree is a junction where several lines -converge, and when the train from the south -came in several passengers alighted from it to -change on to other routes. Amongst this crowd -William Henry could not detect anything that -looked like the new dairymaid. He scrutinized -everybody as he sat on a seat opposite the train, -and summed them up. There was a clergyman -and his wife; there was a sailor; there were three -or four commercial travellers; there were some -nondescripts. Then his attention became -riveted on a handsome young lady who left a -carriage with an armful of books and papers -and hurried off to the luggage-van—she was so -handsome, so well dressed, and had such a good -figure that William Henry's eyes followed her -with admiration. Then he remembered what -he had come there for, and looked again for the -dairymaid. But he saw nothing that suggested -her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The people drifted away, the platform -cleared, and presently nobody but the -handsome young lady and William Henry remained. -She stood by a trunk looking expectantly about -her; he rose, intending to go. A porter -appeared; she spoke to him—the porter turned -to William Henry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here's a lady inquiring for you, sir," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The lady came forward with a smile and held -out her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you Mr. Dennison?" she said. "I am -Miss Durrant."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>William Henry's first instinct was to open his -mouth cavernously—his second to remove his hat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do you do?" he said, falteringly. "I—I -was looking about for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But of course you wouldn't know me," she -said. "I was looking for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've got a dog-cart outside," said William -Henry. "Here, Jenkinson, bring this lady's -things to my trap."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He escorted Miss Durrant, who had already -sized him up as a simple-natured but very -good-looking young man, to the dog-cart, saw her -luggage safely stowed away at the back, helped -her in, tucked her up in a thick rug, got in -himself, and drove away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm quite looking forward to seeing your -dairy, Mr. Dennison," said Miss Durrant. "It -must be quite a model from your description."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>William Henry turned and stared at her. -She was a very handsome young woman, he -decided, a brunette, with rich colouring, dark -eyes, a ripe mouth, and a flashing smile, and -her voice was as pleasing as her face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lord bless you!" he said. "It isn't my -dairy—I know nothing about dairying. It's -father's."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Durrant laughed merrily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I see!" she said. "You are Mr. Dennison's -son. What shall I call you, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My name is William Henry Dennison," he replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what do you do, Mr. William?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look after the farm," replied William -Henry. "Father doesn't do much that way now—he's -sort of retired. Do you know anything -about farming?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I love anything about a farm," she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you care for pigs?" he asked, eagerly. -"I've been going in a lot for pig-breeding this -last year or two, and I've got some of the finest -pigs in England. I got a first prize at the -Smithfield Show last year; I'll show it you when -we get home. There's some interest, now, in -breeding prize pigs."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With such pleasant conversation they whiled -the time away until they came in sight of Five -Oaks Farm, on beholding which Miss Durrant -was immediately lost in admiration, saying -that it was the finest old house she had ever -seen, and that it would be a delight to live -in it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Some of it's over five hundred years old," -said William Henry. "And our family built it. -We don't rent our land, you know—it's our own. -Six hundred acres there are, and uncommon -good land too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With that he handed over Miss Durrant to -his mother, who was obviously as surprised at -her appearance as he had been, and then drove -round to the stables, still wondering how a lady -came to be a dairymaid.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I'm sure I don't know, Matthew," said -Mrs. Dennison to her husband that night in the -privacy of their own chamber, "I really don't -know how Miss Durrant ought to be treated. -You can see for yourself what her manners -are—quite the lady. Of course we all know -now-a-days that shop-girls and such-like give -themselves the airs of duchesses and ape their -manners, but Miss Durrant's the real thing, or -I'm no judge. Very like her people's come -down in the world, and she has to earn her own -living, poor thing!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, never you mind, Jane Ann," said -Matthew. "Lady or no lady, she's my dairy-maid, -and all that I ask of her is that she does -her work to my satisfaction. If she's a lady, -you'll see that she'll always bear in mind that -her present position is that of a dairymaid, and -she'll behave according. We'll see what the -morrow brings forth."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What the morrow brought forth was the -spectacle of the dairymaid, duly attired in -professional garments of spotless hue, busily -engaged in the performance of her duties. -Matthew spent all the morning with her in the -dairy, and came in to dinner beaming with -satisfaction.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's a regular clinker, is that lass!" he -exclaimed to his wife and son. "I've found a -perfect treasure."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The perfect treasure settled down into her -new life with remarkable readiness. She -accepted the arrangements which Mrs. Dennison -had made without demur. Mrs. Dennison, -with a woman's keen observation, noted that she -was never idle. She was in and about the dairy -all day long; at night she worked or read in -her own room. She had brought a quantity of -books with her; magazines and newspapers were -constantly arriving for her. As days went on, -Mrs. Dennison decided that Miss Durrant's -people had most certainly come down in the -world, and that she had had to go out into it -to earn her own living.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just look how well she's dressed when she -goes to church on a Sunday!" she said to -Matthew. "None of your gaudy, flaunting -dressings-up, but all of the best and quietest, -just like the Squire's lady. Eh, dear, there's -nobody knows what that poor young woman -mayn't have known. Very likely they kept their -horses and carriages in better days."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Doesn't seem to be very much cast down," -said Matthew. "The lass is light-hearted -enough. But ye women always are fanciful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>While Mrs. Dennison indulged herself in -speculations as to what the dairymaid had been, -in the course of which she formed various -theories, inclining most to one that her father -had been a member of Parliament who had lost -all his money on the Stock Exchange, and while -Matthew contented himself by regarding Miss -Durrant solely in her professional capacity, -William Henry was journeying along quite -another path. He was, in fact, falling head over -heels in love. He received a first impression -when he saw Miss Durrant at Marltree station; -he received a second, and much stronger one, -next morning when he saw her in the spotless -linen of the professional dairymaid. He began -haunting the dairy until the fact was noticed by -his mother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, I thought you cared naught about -dairying, William Henry," she said, one day at -dinner. "I'm sure you never went near it when -your father was laying it out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the use of seeing anything till it's -finished and in full working order?" said -William Henry. "Now that it is in go, one -might as well learn all about it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, ye couldn't have a better instructress," -said Matthew. "She can show you something -you never saw before, can Miss Durrant."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Durrant was certainly showing William -Henry Dennison something he had never seen -before. He had always been apathetic towards -young women, and it was with the greatest -difficulty that he could be got to attend -tea-parties, or dances, or social gatherings, at all of -which he invariably behaved like a bear who -has got into a cage full of animals whom it does -not like and cannot exterminate. But it became -plain that he was beginning to cultivate the -society of Miss Durrant. He haunted the -dairy of an afternoon, when Matthew -invariably went to sleep; he made excuses to bring -Miss Durrant into the family circle of an -evening; he waylaid her on her daily constitutional, -and at last one Sunday he deliberately asked -her to walk to church with him at a neighbouring -village. And at that his mother's eyes were -opened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Matthew," she said, when William Henry -and Miss Durrant had departed, "that boy's -smitten with Miss Durrant. He's making up to her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew, who was disposed to a peaceful -nap, snorted incredulity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ye women take such fancies into your -heads," he said. "I've seen naught."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You men are so blind," retorted Mrs. Dennison. -"He's always going into the dairy—he's -been walks with her—he's always getting me to -ask her in here to play the piano——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And uncommon well she plays it, too!" -grunted Matthew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—and now he's taken her off to church!" -concluded Mrs. Dennison. "He's smitten, -Matthew, he's smitten!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew stirred uneasily in his chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, well, my lass!" he said. "Ye know -what young folks are—they like each other's -company. What d'ye think I sought your -company for? Not to sit and stare at you, as if you -were a strange image, I know!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, it all went on and ended in the proper -way," said his wife, sharply. "But how do you -know where this'll end?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't know that aught had begun," said -Matthew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Dennison, who was reading what she -called a Sunday book, took off her spectacles -and closed the book with a snap.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Matthew!" she said. "You know that it's -always been a settled thing since they were -children that William Henry should marry his -cousin Polly, your only brother John's one child, -so that the property of the two families should -be united when the time comes for us old ones -to go. And it's got to be carried out, has that -arrangement, Matthew, and we can't let no -dairymaids, ladies as has come down or not, -interfere with it!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew, who was half asleep, bethought -himself vaguely of something that had been -said long ago, when Polly was born, or at her -christening—when the right time came, she and -William Henry, then six years old, were to wed. -John, Matthew's younger brother, had gone in -for trade, and was now a very well-to-do -merchant in Clothford, of which city he had been -mayor. Matthew woke up a little, made a rapid -calculation, and realized that Polly must now be -nineteen years of age.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye, aye, my lass," he said, "but you've got -to remember that whatever fathers and mothers -says, children don't always agree to. William -Henry and Polly mightn't hit it off. Polly'll -be a fine young lady now, what with all them -French governesses and boarding-schools in -London and Paris, and such-like."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our William Henry," said Mrs. Dennison, -with heat and emphasis, "is good enough for -any young woman of his own class. And a man -as owns six hundred acres of land is as good -as any Clothford worsted merchant, even if he -has been mayor! And now you listen to me, -Matthew Dennison. I had a letter yesterday -from Mrs. John saying that she believed it -would do Polly good to go into the country, as -she'd been looking a bit poorlyish since she -came back from Paris, and asking if we could -do with her for a few weeks. So to-morrow -morning I shall go over to Clothford and bring -her back with me—I've already written to say -I should. We haven't seen her for five -years—she was a pretty gel then, and must be a -beauty by now, and we'll hope that her and -William Henry'll come together. And if you -take my advice, Matthew, you'll get rid of the -dairymaid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew slowly rose from his chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then I'm denged if I do aught of the -sort!" he said. "Ye can fetch Polly and -welcome, missis, and naught'll please me better -than if her and William Henry does hit it off, -though I don't approve of the marriage of -cousins as a rule. But I'm not going to get rid -of my dairymaid for no Pollies, nor yet no -William Henrys, nor for naught, so there!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Mrs. Dennison put on her spectacles -again and re-opened her Sunday book, and -Mr. Dennison mixed himself a drink at the -sideboard and lighted a cigar, and for a long time -no sound was heard but the purring of the cat -on the hearth and the ticking of the grandfather -clock in the corner.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Mary Dennison duly arrived the next -evening, under convoy of her aunt, and received -a cordial and boisterous welcome at the hands -and lips of her uncle and cousin. She was an -extremely pretty and vivacious girl of nineteen, -golden-haired and violet-eyed, who would have -been about as much in place in managing a -farmstead as in presiding over a court of law. -But Mrs. Dennison decided that she was just -the wife for William Henry, and she did all that -she could to throw them together. In that, -however, no effort was needed. William Henry and -his cousin seemed to become fast friends at -once. On the day following Polly's arrival he -took her out for a long walk in the fields; when -they returned, late for tea, there seemed to be a -very excellent understanding between them. -After that they were almost inseparable—there -was little doing on the farm just then, and there -was a capable foreman to see after what was -being done, so William Henry, much to his -mother's delight, began taking Polly for long -drives into the surrounding country. They used -to go off early in the morning and return late in -the afternoon, each in high spirits. And -Mrs. Dennison's hopes rose high, and her spirits were -as high as theirs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But there were two things Mrs. Dennison -could not understand. The first was that Miss -Durrant was as light-hearted as ever, and as -arduous in her labours, in spite of the fact that -William Henry no longer went walks with her -nor took her to church. The second was that -when he and Polly were not driving they spent -a considerable amount of time in the model dairy -of an afternoon with Miss Durrant, and that -unmistakable sounds of great hilarity issued -therefrom. But she regarded this with -indulgence under the circumstances.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When they're together," she said, "young -folks is inclined to make merry. Of course I -must have been mistaken about William Henry -being smitten with the dairymaid, considering -how he's now devoted to his cousin. He was no -doubt lonelyish—young men does get like that, -though I must say that William Henry never -did show himself partial to young ladies."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>However partial William Henry may or may -not have been to young ladies in the past, it was -quite certain that he was making up for it at that -stage of his existence. The long drives with -Polly continued, and Polly came back from -each in higher spirits than ever. Mrs. Dennison -expected every day to hear that her dearest -hopes were to be fulfilled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then came the climax. One evening, -following one of the day-long drives, William -Henry announced to the family circle that he -was going to Clothford next morning, and -should require breakfast somewhat earlier than -usual. By nine o'clock next day he was gone, -and Mrs. Dennison, not without a smirking -satisfaction, noticed that Polly was uneasy and -thoughtful, and developed a restlessness which -got worse and worse. She tried to interest the -girl in one way or another, but Polly slipped off -to the dairy, and spent the entire day, except -for meal-times, with Miss Durrant. When -evening and high tea came she could scarcely -eat or drink, and her eyes perpetually turned to -the grandfather clock.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If William Henry has missed the five-thirty, -my dear," said Mrs. Dennison, "he's certain to -catch the six-forty-five. He were never a one -for gallivanting about at Clothford of an -evening, and——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And at that moment the parlour door opened -and William Henry walked in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The girl stood up, and Matthew and his -wife, watching keenly, saw her turn white to -the lips. And William Henry saw it, too, -and he made one stride and caught her by the -hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's all right, Polly," he said. "It's all -right! See!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He drew a letter from his pocket, tore the -envelope open, and handed his cousin the -enclosure. She glanced its contents over as if -she were dazed, and then, with a wild cry of -joy, threw her arms round William Henry and -fairly hugged him. And then she threw herself -into the nearest chair and began to cry -obviously from pure happiness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mercy upon us, William Henry Dennison, -what's the meaning of this?" exclaimed -William Henry's mother. "What does it mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>William Henry picked up the letter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It means this, mother," he said. "That's a -letter from Uncle John to Polly, giving his full -consent to her marriage with a young gentleman -who loves her and whom she loves—I've been -taking her to meet him for the past month (that's -why we went for those long drives), and a real -good 'un he is, and so says Uncle John, now -that at last he's met him. You see, Polly told -me all about it the first day she was here—and, -why, of course——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With that William Henry went out of the -room in a meaning silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course," said Matthew; "of course, if -my brother John approves of the young man, -it's as good as putting the hall-mark on gold -or silver."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Polly jumped up and kissed him. Then she -kissed Mrs. Dennison.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, oh, Polly, Polly!" said Mrs. Dennison. -"I meant you to marry William Henry!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I don't love William Henry—in that -way, aunt," replied Polly. "And besides, -William Henry loves——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And just then William Henry made a second -dramatic appearance, holding himself very -stiffly and straight, and leading in Miss Durrant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father and mother," he said, "this lady's -going to be your daughter."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>So the trouble at Five Oaks Farm came to -a good ending. For everybody was satisfied -that the best had happened, and therefore was -happy.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-spoils-to-the-victor"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The man of law, bland, courtly, old-world -mannered, tilted back his chair, put the tips of -his fingers together and smiled at the -grey-haired, hard-featured man who sat, grim and -silent, on the other side of his desk.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear Mr. Nelthorp!" he said, in the -tone of one pronouncing a final judgment. "It -doesn't matter a yard of that tape what either -Sutton or his solicitors say. We know—know, -mind!—that it is utterly impossible for him to -take up the mortgages. He is at your mercy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite's -smiling face—somewhere far back in -his mental consciousness he was wondering why -Postlethwaite always smiled in that bland, -suave manner when he dispensed advice from -his elbow-chair. It was a smile that seemed to -be always on hand when wanted, and it was -never so sweet as when disagreeable things -were to be dealt with. It seemed to Martin -Nelthorp that there was nothing to smile at in -the matter they were discussing—certainly there -was no humour or pleasure in the situation for -the immediate subject of discussion, Richard -Sutton. But Mr. Postlethwaite continued to -smile and to hold his head a little on one side, -watching his client from between half-closed -eyelids.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At your mercy," he repeated softly. "Ab-so-lute-ly -at your mercy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Martin Nelthorp shook his great frame a -little—as a mastiff might if suddenly stirred -into activity. He was a big man, and his burly -figure seemed to fill the office; his voice, when -he spoke, was very deep and strong.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What you mean," he said, fixing his keen -grey eyes on the solicitor, "what you mean is -that if I like I can ruin him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Postlethwaite smiled and bowed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You apprehend my meaning exactly, my -dear sir," he said blandly. "Ruin is the word."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not a very nice word to hear or to -use in connection with any man," said Martin -Nelthorp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Postlethwaite coughed. But the smile -remained round his clean-shaven lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The ruin of most men, my dear friend," he -said oracularly, "is brought about by themselves."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just so," said Martin Nelthorp. "All the -same, the finishing touch is generally put to -things by somebody else. You're sure Sutton's -as badly off as what you make out?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Postlethwaite fingered his papers and -turned to some memoranda. He scribbled -certain figures on a scrap of paper and faced his -client.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The position, my dear Mr. Nelthorp," he -said, "is exactly this. You hold a first and -second mortgage on Sutton's flour mill and on -his house and land—in fact, on his entire -property, and the sum you have advanced -represents every penny of the full value. You are -now wanting, principal and interest, exactly -nine thousand, seven hundred and fifty-three -pounds, ten shillings, and fourpence. He -cannot pay this money—indeed, I question -if he could by any chance find one-fourth of -it, and you are in a position to foreclose at -once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mean that I can sell him up?" said -Martin Nelthorp bluntly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lock, stock, and barrel!" replied Mr. Postlethwaite.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Martin Nelthorp rubbed his chin.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's no very nice thing to ruin a man—and -his family with him," he remarked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Postlethwaite again coughed. He took -off his gold-rimmed glasses and affected to -exercise great care in polishing them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is there any particular reason why you -should consider Sutton before considering -yourself?" he said softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Martin Nelthorp's face darkened, and a -hard, almost vindictive look came into his eyes. -The hand which held his ash-plant stick -tightened about it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No!" he said. "That there isn't! On -the contrary——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye, just so, just so!" said the solicitor. -"Of course, that's an old tale now, but old -wounds will rankle, my dear sir, old wounds -will rankle!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Martin Nelthorp stared hard at Mr. Postlethwaite -from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows. -He got up slowly, and buttoned his great -driving-coat and put on his broad-brimmed, -low-crowned hat, still staring at the man of law.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I'll bid you good day," he said -"It's time I was getting home, and I've still to -meet a man at the George and Dragon. Do -no more in that matter till you see me again—of -course, Sutton doesn't know that I bought -up the two mortgages?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He hasn't an idea of it, my dear sir," -answered the solicitor.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Martin Nelthorp hesitated a moment, then -nodded as if to emphasize what he had just -said, and again exchanging farewells with -Mr. Postlethwaite, went out into the market-place -of the little country town, now relapsing into -somnolence at the end of an October day. He -stood at the foot of Mr. Postlethwaite's steps -for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and -then moved slowly off in the direction of the -George and Dragon. The man whom he -expected to meet there had not yet arrived; he -sat down in the parlour, empty of any presence -but his own, and gave himself up to reflection. -At his mercy—at last!—after nearly thirty -years of waiting, at his mercy! The only -enemy he had ever known, the only man he -had ever had cause to hate with a bitter, -undying hatred, was now by the decrees of destiny, -by the whirling of fortune's wheel, brought -within his power. If he pleased, he, Martin -Nelthorp, could ruin Richard Sutton, could -turn him out of the old place in which the -Suttons had lived for generations, could sell -every yard of land, every stick of furniture that -he possessed, could leave him and his—beggars.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And as he sat there in the gloomy parlour, -staring with brooding eyes into the fire, he said -to himself—Why not? After all, it had been -said in a long distant age—</span><em class="italics">An eye for an eye, -a tooth for a tooth</em><span>! Again he said to -himself—Why not, now that the hour and the -opportunity had come?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Nelthorp let his mind go back. He was -now nearly sixty, a hale, hearty man, the biggest -and cleverest farmer in those parts, rich, -respected, made much of by the great folk, -looked up to by the little; a man of influence -and power. He was going down into the -valley of life under a fine sunset and soft -evening airs, and there were few who did not -envy him a prosperous career and the prospect -of a green old age. But Martin Nelthorp had -always carried a trouble, a rankling sorrow in -his breast, and he was thinking of it as he sat -staring with sombre eyes at the dull red glare -of the sullen cinders in the grate. It was the -worst sort of sorrow that could befall a man of -his type of character, for he was both sensitive -and proud, quick to feel an injury or a slight, -slow to let the memory of either pass from him. -It is said of a Yorkshireman that he will carry -a stone in his pocket for ten years in -expectation of meeting an enemy, and turn it at the -end of that time if the enemy has not chanced -along. Martin Nelthorp might have turned his -stone twice, but he would have done so with no -feeling of vindictiveness. There was nothing -vindictive about him, but he had a stern, -Israelitish belief in justice and in retribution.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The incidents—mean, ignoble—of his wrong -came up before him as he sat there waiting, and -their colours were as fresh as ever. Five-and-twenty -years before he had been on the verge -of marriage with Lavinia Deane, celebrated all -the countryside over for her beauty and her -vivacity. Everything was arranged; the -wedding-day was fixed; the guests invited; the -bride's finery sent home. Suddenly came news -that made women weep and men smile. Almost -on the eve of the wedding Lavinia ran -away with Richard Sutton, and was married to -him in a distant town. It was a bad business, -said everybody, for Richard Sutton had been -Martin Nelthorp's bosom friend from childhood, -and was to have been his best man at the -wedding. Nobody could conceive how the -thing had come about; the girl had always -seemed to be in love with Martin, and had -never been seen in company with Sutton. But -there the facts were—they were married, and -Martin Nelthorp was a bitterly disappointed -and wronged man. The man who broke the -ill news to him would never speak of how he -received that news, of what passed between -them, or of what he said on hearing of the -falseness of his sweetheart and the treachery of his -friend, but it was commonly rumoured that he -swore some dreadful oath of vengeance on the -man and woman who had wrecked his life. -And the neighbours and the people of the -district watched eagerly to see what would -happen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But years went on and nothing happened. -Richard Sutton and his wife stayed away from -the village for some time; there was no -necessity for their immediate return, for Sutton had -a fine business as a corn-miller and could afford -to appoint a capable manager in his absence. -But they came back at last, and as Martin -Nelthorp's farm was within a mile of the mill, the -busybodies wondered how things would go -when the two men met. Somehow they never -did meet—at least, no one ever heard of their -meeting. Nelthorp kept himself to his farm; -Sutton to his mill. Years went by, and things -resolved themselves into a state of quiescence -or indifferentism: the men passed each other -in the market-place or on the highroad and -took no heed. But keen-eyed observers used -to note that when they passed in this way -Sutton used to go by with averted head and -downcast eye, while Nelthorp strode or rode on with -his head in the air and his eye fixed straight -before him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Whether there had been a curse put upon -them or not, Sutton and his wife did not thrive. -Almost from the time of their marriage the -business went down. In his grandfather's and -father's days there had been little competition; -the opening up of the countryside by railways -made a great difference to Sutton's trade. His -machinery became out of date, and he -neglected to replace it with new until much of his -business had slipped away from him. One way -and another things went from bad to worse; he -had to borrow, and to borrow again, always -hoping for a turn in the tide which never came. -And eventually, through the instrumentality of -Mr. Postlethwaite, everything that he had was -mortgaged to Martin Nelthorp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Martin, during these years, had prospered -exceedingly. He had been fortunate in -everything in his life, except his love affair. He -had money to begin with—plenty and to spare -of it—and he knew how to lay it out to the -best advantage. He was one of the first to see -the importance of labour-saving machinery and -to introduce it on his land in good time. Again, -there was nothing to distract his attention from -his land. He put all thought of marriage out -of his head when Lavinia proved false to him; -indeed, he was never afterwards known to -speak to a woman except on business. For -some years he lived alone in the old farmhouse -in which he had been born. Then his only -sister lost her husband, and came to live with -Martin, bringing with her her one child, a boy, -who had been named after his uncle. Very -soon she, too, died, and the boy henceforward -formed Martin's one human interest. He -devoted himself to him; educated him; taught -him all that he himself knew of farming, and -let it be known that when his time came his -nephew would step into his shoes. The two -were inseparable; now, when the boy had come -to man's age and the man had grown grey, they -were known for many a mile round as Old -Martin and Young Martin.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Old Martin knew, as he sat by the parlour -fire, that the old feeling of hatred against -Richard Sutton was by no means dead within -him. He had robbed him of the woman he -loved, the only woman he ever could love, and, -as the solicitor had said, the old wound still -rankled. Well, it was in his power now to -take his revenge—his enemy was at his feet. -But—the woman? She, too, would be ruined, -she would be a beggar, an outcast. It would -be turning her out on the road. Well—his face -grew stern and his eyes hard as he thought of -it—had she not once turned him out on a road, -longer, harder to tread than that? </span><em class="italics">An eye for -an eye, a tooth for a tooth....</em></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It never occurred to him to ask himself if -there were any children who might be affected.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man who presently came in to keep his -appointment with Martin remarked afterwards -that he had never known Mr. Nelthorp so hard -and determined in bargaining as he was that evening.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When the bargaining was done Martin -Nelthorp got on his horse and rode home to his -comfortable fireside. It was always a pleasure -to him to get under his own roof-tree after a -long day on the land or an afternoon at market -or auction. There was the evening meal in -company with his nephew; the easy-chair and -the newspaper afterwards; the pipe of tobacco -and the glass of toddy before going to bed. -And Old Martin and Young Martin, as most -folk thereabouts were well aware, were more -like companions than uncle and nephew; they -had many tastes in common—hunting, -shooting, sport in general, and the younger man -was as keen a farmer as the elder. There -was therefore no lack of company nor of -conversation round the parlour fire at the Manor -Farm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But on this particular night, for the first time -since either of them could remember, there was -an unusual silence and restraint round the -supper-table. Both men as a rule were good -trenchermen—a life in the open air helped -them to hearty and never-failing appetite. -This night neither ate much, and neither -seemed disposed to talk much. Old Martin -knew why he himself was silent, and why he -was not inclined to food—he was too full of -the Sutton affair. But he wondered what made -his nephew so quiet, and why he did not -replenish his plate after his usual fashion. As -for Young Martin he had his own thoughts to -occupy him, but he, too, wondered what made -the elder so obviously thoughtful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Old Martin remained quiet and meditative -all the evening. He held the newspaper in his -hands, but he was not always reading it. He -had his favourite pipe between his lips, but he -let it go out more than once. Young Martin -was similarly preoccupied. He affected to -read the </span><em class="italics">Mark Lane Express</em><span>, but he was more -often staring at the ceiling than at the printed -page. It was not until after nine o'clock, at -which hour they generally began to think of -bed, that any conversation arose between them. -Young Martin started it, and with obvious -confusion and diffidence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's a matter I wanted to mention to -you to-night, Uncle Martin," he said. "Of -course, I won't speak of it if you've aught -serious to be thinking of, but you know I never -keep aught back from you, and——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it, my lad?" asked the elder man. -"Speak out—I was only just studying about a -business matter—it's naught."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Young Martin's diffidence increased. He -shuffled his feet, became very red, and opened -and shut his mouth several times before he -could speak.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's like this," he said at last. "If you've -no objection I should like to get married."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Old Martin started as if he had been shot. -He stared at his nephew as though he had said -that he was going to fly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Married!" he exclaimed. "Why, my -lad—goodness be on us, you're naught but a -youngster yet!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm twenty-six, uncle," said Young Martin.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Twenty-six! Nay, nay—God bless my -soul, well, I suppose you are. Time goes on -so fast. Twenty-six! Aye, of course," said -Old Martin. "Aye, you must be, my lad. Well, -but who's the girl?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Young Martin became more diffident than -ever. It seemed an age to him before he could -find his tongue. But at last he blurted the -name out, all in a jerk.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lavinia Sutton!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Martin Nelthorp dropped his pipe and his -paper. He clutched the back of his elbow-chair -and stared at his nephew as he might have -stared at a ghost. When he spoke his own -voice seemed to him to be a long, long way off.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lavinia Sutton?" he said hoarsely. "What—Sutton -of the mill?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," answered Young Martin. Then he -added in a firm voice: "She's a good girl, -Uncle Martin, and we love each other true."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Old Martin made no immediate answer. He -was more taken aback, more acutely distressed, -than his nephew knew. To cover his confusion -he got up from his chair and busied himself in -mixing a glass of toddy. A minute or two -passed before he spoke; when he did speak -his voice was not as steady as usual.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's a poor man, is Sutton, my lad," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know that," said Young Martin stoutly. -"But it's Lavinia I want—not aught from him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's in a very bad way indeed," remarked -the elder man. "Very bad."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Young Martin made no reply. Old Martin -took a long pull at the contents of his glass and -sat down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't know Sutton had children," he said -absently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's only Lavinia," said his nephew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lavinia! The reiteration of the name cut -him like a knife: the sound of it sent him -back nearly thirty years. Lavinia! And no -doubt the girl would be like her mother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're no doubt aware, my lad," he said, -after another period of silence, during which -his nephew sat watching him, "you're no doubt -aware that me and the Suttons is anything but -friends. They—the man and his wife—wronged -me. Never mind how. They wronged me—cruel!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Young Martin knew all about it, but he was -not going to say that he did.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was not Lavinia's fault, uncle," he -said softly. "Lavinia—she wouldn't wrong -anybody."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Old Martin thought of the time when he had—faith -in women. He sighed, and drinking off -his toddy, rose heavily, as if some weight had -been put on him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, my lad," he said, "this is one of those -things in which a man has to choose for -himself. I shouldn't like to have it on my -conscience that I ever came between a man and a -woman that cared for each other. But we'll -talk about it to-morrow. I'm tired, and I've -got to look round yet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he went out to fulfil his nightly task, -never neglected, never devolved to any one -else, of looking round the farmstead before -retiring to rest. His nephew noticed that he -walked wearily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Outside, in the fold around which horses and -cattle were resting or asleep in stall or byre, -Martin Nelthorp stood and stared at the stars -glittering high above him in a sky made clear -by October frost. He was wondering what it -was that had brought this thing upon him—that -the one thing he cared for in the world -should seek alliance with the enemies of his life -who now, by the ordinance of God, lay in his -power. He had given Young Martin all the -love that had been crushed down and crushed -out; he was as proud of him as if the lad -had been his own son by the woman he -cared for; he meant to leave him all that he -had; he was ambitious for him, and knowing -that he would be a rich man he had some -dreams of his nephew's figuring in the doings -of the county, as councillor or magistrate—honours -which he himself had persistently -refused. And it had never once come within his -scheme of things that the boy should fix his -affections on the daughter of the enemy—it had -been a surprise to him to find out that he even -knew her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Martin Nelthorp walked up and down his -fold and his stackyard for some time, staring -persistently at the stars. Though he did not -say so to himself, he knew that that astute old -attorney, Postlethwaite, was right when he said -that old wounds rankle. He knew, too, that -however much a man may strive to put away -the thought from himself, there is still enough -of the primitive savage left in all of us to make -revenge sweet. And he had suffered through -these people—suffered as he had never thought -to suffer. He looked back and remembered -what life had been to him up to the day when -the news of a man's treachery and a woman's -weakness had been brought to him, and he -clenched his fists and set his teeth, and all the -old black hatred came welling up in his heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He shan't have her!" he said. "He shan't -have her! A good girl!—what good could -come of stock like that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he went indoors and up to his chamber, -and Young Martin heard him walking up and -down half the night. When he himself got -down next morning his uncle had gone out: -the housekeeper, greatly upset by the fact, -seeing that such a thing had never happened -within her fifteen years' experience of him, said -that the master had had no more breakfast -than a glass of milk and a crust of bread, -and she hoped he was not sickening for an -illness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment Martin Nelthorp was riding -along the russet lanes towards the market-town. -There had been a strong frost in the -night, and the sky above him was clear as only -an autumn sky can be. All about him were -patches of red and yellow and purple, for the -foliage was changing fast, and in the hedgerows -there were delicate webs of gossamer. Usually, -as a great lover of Nature, he would have seen -these things—on this morning he rode straight -on, grim and determined.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was so early at Mr. Postlethwaite's office -that he had to wait nearly half-an-hour for the -arrival of that gentleman. But when -Mr. Postlethwaite came his client lost no time in -going straight to his point.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want all papers of mine relating to that -Sutton affair," he said. "Before I settle what -I shall do I must read through 'em myself. -Give me the lot."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Postlethwaite made some would-be facetious -remark as to legal phraseology, but Martin -Nelthorp paid no attention to it. He carried -the papers away with him in a big envelope, -and riding straight home at a smart pace, took -them into the little room which he used as an -office, and went carefully through them merely -to see that they were all there. That done, -he tore certain of them in half, and enclosing -everything in another cover, he addressed it to -Richard Sutton.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Old Martin went into the parlour and -found Young Martin there, cleaning a gun. He -clapped him on the shoulder, and the young -man, looking up, saw that something had gone -out of his elder's eyes and face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, my lad!" said Old Martin cheerily. -"You can marry the girl—and you can go and -make the arrangements this morning. And -while you're there you can give this packet to -Richard Sutton—he'll understand what it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then, before his nephew could find his -tongue, Martin Nelthorp strode over to the -kitchen door and called lustily for his breakfast.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="an-arcadian-courtship"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IX</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">AN ARCADIAN COURTSHIP</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Sweetbriar Farm, when I went to visit my -cousin there, seemed to me a crystallization of -all the storied sweets of Arcadia as one reads -of them in the poets and the dreamers. The -house itself was some five hundred years old; -it had diamond-paned windows framed in ivy; -on one side, where there was no ivy, the grey -walls were covered with clematis and -honeysuckle and jessamine. There was a walled -garden, gay with blossom; there was an orchard, -where the blossom fell on lush grass in which -golden daffodils sprang up. At the end of the -orchard ran a stream, brown and mysterious, in -whose deeper pools lurked speckled trout. All -about the house and the garden and the orchard -the birds sang, for the nesting and breeding -season was scarce over, and at night, in a -coppice close by, a nightingale sang its heart -out to the rising moon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Within the old farmstead everything was as -Arcadian as without. The sitting-room—otherwise -the best parlour—was a dream of old oak, -old china, old pewter, and old pictures. It smelt -always of roses and lavender—you could smoke -the strongest tobacco there without offence, for -the flower-scent was more powerful. A dream, -too, was my sleeping-chamber, with lavender-kept -linen, its quaint chintz hangings, and its -deep window-seat, in which one could sit of a -night to see the moonlight play upon garden -and orchard, or of an early morning to watch -the dew-starred lawn sparkle in the fresh -sunlight. And, once free of the house, there was -the great kitchen to admire, with its mighty -hearth, its old brass and pewter, its ancient -grandfather clock, its flitches and hams -hanging, side by side with bundles of dried herbs, -from the oaken rafters; and beyond it the dairy, -a cool and shadowy place where golden butter -was made out of snow-white cream; and beyond -that, again, the deep, dungeon-like cellar where -stood the giant casks of home-brewed -ale—nectar fit for the gods.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Nor were the folk who inhabited this Arcadia -less interesting than the Arcadia itself. My -cousin Samuel is a fine specimen of an -Englishman, with a face like the rising sun and -an eye as blue as the cornflowers which grow in -his hedgerows. There was his wife, a gay and -bustling lady of sixty youthful years, who was -never without a smile and a cheery word, and -who, like her good man, had but one regret, -which each bore with admirable resignation—that -the Lord had never blessed them with -children. There were the people who came and -went about the farm—ruddy-faced and -brown-faced men, young maidens and old crones, -children in all stages of youthfulness. And -there was also John William and there was -Susan Kate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>John William Marriner—who was usually -spoken of as John Willie—was the elder of the -two labourers who lived in the house. He was -a youth of apparently one-and-twenty years of -age, and as straight and strong as a promising -ash-sapling. Whether in his Sunday suit of -blue serge, or in his workaday garments of -corduroy, John Willie was a picture of rustic -health—his red cheeks always glowed, his blue -eyes were always bright; he had a Gargantuan -appetite, and when he was not smiling he was -whistling or singing. Up with the lark and at -work all day, he spent his evenings in the -company of Susan Kate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Susan Kate was the maid-of-all-work at -Sweetbriar Farm—a handsome, full-blown -English rose of nineteen, with cherry cheeks -and a pair of large, liquid, sloe-black eyes which -made her white teeth all the whiter. It was an -idyll in itself to see Susan Kate—whose -surname was Sutton—milking the cows, or feeding -the calves out of a tin bucket; it was still more -of an idyll to watch her and John William -hanging over the orchard gate of an evening, the -day's work behind them and the nightingale -singing in the neighbouring coppice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It seemed to me that Mr. Marriner and Miss -Sutton were certainly lovers, and that -matrimony was in their view. Now and then they -went to church together, Susan Kate carrying -a clean handkerchief and a Prayer Book, John -Willie carrying Susan Kate's umbrella. -Sometimes they went for walks on a Sunday -afternoon; I more than once encountered them on -these occasions, and curiously observed the -manner of their love-making. We invariably -met in shady lanes or woodland paths—Mr. Marriner -in his Sunday suit, with some hedgerow -flower in his buttonhole, invariably came -first, bearing Miss Sutton's umbrella, with which -he would occasionally switch the grass; Miss -Sutton, very rosy-cheeked, followed at a -distance of two yards. They never seemed to hold -any discourse one with the other, but if they -looked sheepishly conscious, they were -undeniably happy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Into this apparent Paradise suddenly entered -a serpent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There came into the sitting-room one morning, -when I happened to be alone there, a Susan -Kate whom I had certainly not seen before. -This Susan Kate had evidently spent a -considerable part of the night in affliction—her -eyes were red and heavy, and there was even -then a suspicious quiver at the corners of her -red and pouting lips. She laid the tablecloth, -set the plates and the knives and forks upon the -table as if it was in her mind to do an injury to them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, Susan Kate!" said I. "What is the matter?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Susan Kate's only immediate answer was to -sniff loudly, and to retire to the kitchen, whence -she presently returned with a cold ham, uncarven -as yet, and a crisp lettuce, either of which -were sights sufficient to cheer up the saddest -heart. But Susan Kate was apparently indifferent -to any creature comforts. She sniffed -again and disappeared again, and came back -with the eggs and the toast and the tea.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm afraid, Susan Kate," said I, with all the -dignified gravity of middle age, "I'm afraid -you are in trouble."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Susan Kate applied a corner of her apron to -her left eye as she transferred a bowl of roses -from the sideboard to the middle of the -breakfast-table. Then she found her tongue, and I -noticed that her hands trembled as she -rearranged my cup and saucer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's all that there Lydia Lightowler!" she -burst out, with the suddenness of an April -shower. "A nasty, spiteful Thing!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I drew my chair to the table.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And who is Lydia Lightowler, Susan -Kate?" I inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Susan Kate snorted instead of sniffing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's the new girl at the Spinney Farm," -she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh!" I said. "I didn't know they had a -new girl at the Spinney Farm. Where's -Rebecca got to?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Becca's mother," replied Susan Kate, "was -took ill very sudden, and 'Becca had to leave. -So this here Lydia Lightowler come in her -place. And I wish she'd stopped where she -came from, wherever that may be!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah!" I said. "And what has Lydia Lightowler -done, Susan Kate?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Susan Kate, whose stormy eyes were fixed on -something in vacancy, and who was twisting -and untwisting her apron, looked as if she would -like to deliver her mind to somebody.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, it isn't right if a young man's been -making up to a young woman for quite six -months that he should start carrying on with -another!" she burst out at last. "It's more -than what flesh and blood can stand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Quite so, quite so, Susan Kate," I said. -"I quite appreciate your meaning. So John -Willie——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had to go on an errand to the Spinney -Farm last night," said Susan Kate; "to fetch -a dozen of ducks' eggs it was, for the missis, -and lo and behold, who should I come across -walking in Low Field Lane but John William -and Lydia Lightowler—a nasty cat! So when -I saw them I turned and went another way, -and when John William came home him and -me had words, and this morning he wouldn't -speak."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here Susan Kate's tears began to flow -afresh, and hearing the approach of her mistress -she suddenly threw her apron over her head -and rushed from the parlour, no doubt to have -a good cry in some of the many recesses of the -ancient farmstead. It was plain that Susan -Kate's heart was fashioned of the genuine -feminine stuff.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the course of my walk that morning I -crossed the field in which Mr. John William -Marriner was performing his daily task. -Usually he sang or whistled all day long, and -you could locate him by his melody at least a -quarter of a mile away. But on this particular -morning—a very beautiful one—John William -was silent. He neither whistled nor sang, and -when I got up to him I saw that his -good-natured face was clouded over. In fact, John -William looked glum, not to say sulky. He -was usually inclined to chat, but upon this -occasion his answers were short and mainly -monosyllabic, and I did not tarry by him. It -was plain that John William was unhappy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So there was a cloud over Arcadia. It -appeared to increase in density. It was on a -Tuesday when it first arose; after Wednesday -Susan Kate wept no more, but went about with -dry eyes and her nose in the air, wearing an -injured expression, while John William -conducted his daily avocations in a moody and -sombre fashion. There were no more idylls of -the orchard gate, and the farmhouse kitchen -heard no merry laughter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But on the next Monday morning I found -Susan Kate laying the breakfast-table and -showing undoubted signs of grief—in fact, she -looked as if she had cried her eyes out. And -this time there was no need to invite her -confidence, for she was only too anxious to pour -out her woes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He walked her to church and home again -last night!" exclaimed Susan Kate, nearly -sobbing. "And they sat in the same pew and -sang out of the same book, same as what him -and me used to do. And Bob Johnson, he saw -them going down Low Field Lane, and he said -they were hanging arms!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear, dear, dear!" said I. "This, Susan -Kate, is getting serious."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And it's the Flower Show at Cornborough -this week," continued Susan Kate, "and he'd -promised faithful to take me to it, but now I -expect he'll take her—a nasty, mean, spiteful cat!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"John William's conduct is most extraordinary," -I said. "It is—yes, Susan Kate, it -is reprehensible. Reprehensible!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Susan Kate looked at me half suspiciously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want to say nothing against John -Willie," she said. "I know what's the matter -with him. It's 'cause she dresses so fine—I saw -her the first Sunday she came to church. And -John Willie has such an eye for finery. But -fine feathers makes fine birds. I could be just -as fine as what she is if I hadn't had to send -my wages home to my mother when father broke -his leg the other week. There's a hat in Miss -Duxberry's window at Cornborough that would -just suit me if I could only buy it. I'd like to -see what John Willie would say then. 'Cause -I'm as good-looking as what she is, any day, -for all she's got yellow hair!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Susan Kate retired, presumably to -weep some more tears. But next morning she -was all pride again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's going to take her to the Flower Show," -she said, as she set the breakfast-table. "He -told Bob Johnson so last night, and Bob told -me this morning."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's very bad, Susan Kate," I said. "A -man should never break his promise. I'm -surprised at John William. Hasn't he said -anything to you about it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We haven't spoken a word to each other -since I gave him a piece of my mind about -meeting him and her in Low Field Lane," said -Susan Kate. "Nay, if he prefers her to me he -can have her, and welcome. I shall have naught -no more to do with young men—they're that -fickle!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall you go to the Flower Show, Susan -Kate?" I inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I shan't!" snapped out Susan Kate. -"They can have it to themselves, and then -they'll happen to be suited."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I walked into Cornborough during the day -and discovered the whereabouts of Miss Duxberry's -shop. It was not difficult to pick out -the hat to which Susan Kate had referred, nor -to realize that the girl had uncommonly good -taste, and that it would look very well indeed -on her wealth of raven hair. A label attached -to its stand announced that it came from Paris, -and that its price was a guinea—well, Susan -Kate was well worthy of twenty-one shillings'-worth -of the latest Parisian fashion. Besides, -there was John William's future to consider. -So I dispatched the Paris hat to Sweetbriar -Farm by a specially commissioned boy, who -solemnly promised to remember with what duty -he was charged.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That evening, after my return to the farm, -and following upon my supper and a short -conference with Susan Kate, I made my way to the -courtyard, where Bob Johnson, the second -"liver-in," was invariably to be found in his -leisure moments, seated on the granary steps, -and engaged either in plaiting whip-lashes or -making whistles out of ash-twigs. Mr. Johnson -was a stolid, heavy-faced, heavily-fashioned -young gentleman of twenty, with just sufficient -intelligence to know a plough from a harrow, -and a firm conviction that the first duty of all -well-regulated citizens was to eat and drink as -much as possible. I gave him a cigar, at which -he immediately began to suck as if it had been -his own pipe, and passed the time of day with him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose you'll be going to the Flower -Show to-morrow?" I said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Johnson shook his head over his whiplash.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure I don't know," he answered. "The -master's given us a half-day off, but I'm none -so great on them occasions. I doubt I shan't -be present."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look here," I said, "would you like to earn -half-a-sovereign?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In order to emphasize this magnificent offer -I drew the coin alluded to from my waistcoat -pocket and let the evening sun shine on it. -Mr. Johnson's eyes twinkled and he opened his -mouth cavernously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How?" he said, and scratched his right ear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now listen to me," I said; "to-morrow -afternoon you're to put your best things on, and -you're to take Susan Kate to the Flower Show. -I'll give you two shillings to pay you in, and -five shillings to take with you, and you shall -have five shillings more when you come back."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Johnson scratched his ear again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Happen Susan Kate won't go," he said, -dubiously. "I've never walked her out anywheres."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Susan Kate will go with you," I said, -decisively. "You be ready at three o'clock. -And remember, you're not to say a word about -this to anybody—not one word to John William. -If you do, there'll be no ten shillings."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Johnson nodded his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"John Willie's going to the Flower Show," -he remarked. "He's going with the new -servant-lass at the Spinney Farm. Him and -Susan Kate's fallen out. I say, mister!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?" I replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not a great one for lasses," said -Mr. Johnson. "I don't want Susan Kate to think -that I'm courting her. 'Cause I'm not going to."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Susan Kate will quite understand matters," -I said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, of course ten shilling is ten shilling," -murmured Mr. Johnson. "Otherwise I should -have stopped at home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At half-past two next day I took up a position -in the garden from which I could see the setting -out to the Flower Show. Presently issued forth -John William, clad in his best and sporting a -yellow tea-rose—he marched valiantly away, but -his face was gloomy and overcast. A quarter -of an hour later Miss Sutton and Mr. Johnson -appeared round the corner of the house. The -lady looked really handsome in her best gown -and the new hat, and it was very evident to my -jaded eyes that she knew her own worth and -was armed for conquest. There was a flush on -her cheek and a light in her eye which meant a -good deal. As for Mr. Johnson, who was -attired in a black cut-away coat and slate-blue -trousers, and wore a high collar and a billycock -hat two sizes too small for him, he looked about -as happy as if he were going to instant -execution, and gazed miserably about him as though -seeking some deliverance. He walked a yard -in the rear of Susan Kate—and Susan Kate -seemed to regard him as one regards a dog at heel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It might have been about an hour and a half -afterwards that Mr. Johnson came shambling -down the meadow towards the farm—alone. -He looked thoughtful, but infinitely relieved, as -if some great weight had been lifted from his -mind. I went out into the courtyard, and found -him sitting on the wall of the well.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are soon home again," I remarked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he answered, "yes. I didn't see no -call to stop there—Flower Shows is naught in -my line. Of course I did what you said, -mister—I took Susan Kate there, and went in with -her, and walked her round."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And where is Susan Kate?" I inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Johnson took off the too-small billycock -and scratched his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why," he said, "she's with John Willie. -Ye see, when her and me got there I walked her -round the big tent, and we met John Willie and -that there Lydia Lightowler from the Spinney. -Susan Kate took no notice of 'em, but passed -'em as if they were so much dirt, and John -Willie he looked at us as black as thunder. -Well, we went on, and we'd gotten to a quietish -part when up comes John Willie by himself and -gets hold of me by the arm. 'What does thou -mean,' he says, fierce-like, 'by walking my lass -out? Thee hook it, else I'll break every bone -in thy body!' 'I didn't know Susan Kate were -thy lass now,' I said. 'I thought ye'd -quarrelled.' 'Hook it!' he says. 'Oh, very well,' -I says. 'Ye can settle it among yourselves.' So -I left Susan Kate with him and came home. -Ye might give me that other five shilling now, -if ye please, mister."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Mr. Johnson retired to assume more -comfortable attire, and I went for a walk to -meditate. And coming back in the soft twilight -I came across John William and Susan Kate. -They were lingering at the wicket gate, and his -arm was round her waist, and just as I caught -sight of them he stooped and kissed her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That, of course, accounted for the extraordinary -happiness in Susan Kate's face when -she laid the cloth for supper.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-way-of-the-comet"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER X</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE WAY OF THE COMET</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>If he should happen to be alive (and if he is -he must now be a very old man, and have had -ample time for reflection about more things -than one), Bartholomew Flitcroft will have -heard of the comet which is now in our -neighbourhood with what are usually described as -mingled feelings. It is not quite within my -recollection as to when it exactly was that the -last comet of any note visited us; if -Bartholomew exists, and has preserved his memory, he -has better cause to know than most men. At -least, that may be so or may not be so, because -no one can ever tell how anything is going to -turn out. When that particular comet had -come and gone Bartholomew was a sorely -disappointed man; whether he really had reason -to be, no one will ever know.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As regards Bartholomew's status in the -world, he was a smallish farmer at -Orchardcroft—a middle-aged, raw-boned, hatchet-faced -man, whose greatest difficulty in life was to -make up his mind about anything. If an idea -about sowing spring wheat or planting potatoes -came into his head as he walked about his land, -he would stand stock still wherever he was and -scratch his ear and think and consider until his -mind was in a state of chaos. He had always -been like that, and, being a bachelor, he got -worse as he got older. He would never do -anything unless he had what he called studied -it from every side, and once when one of his -stacks got on fire he was so long in deciding as -to which of the two neighbouring towns he -would send to for the fire-engines that the stack -was burned, and three others with it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So far as was known to any one acquainted -with him, Bartholomew never turned his attention -to the subject of marriage until he was well -over forty years of age. Whether it then -occurred to him because his housekeeper married -the butler at the Hall nobody ever could say -with any certainty, but it is certain that he then -began to look about for a wife. Naturally he -exercised his characteristic caution in doing so, -and he also hit upon a somewhat original plan. -He kept his eyes open whenever he went to -church or market, and, it being a fine spring -and summer when the idea of matrimony came -to him, he began to ride of a Sunday evening -to the churches and chapels in neighbouring -villages with a view to looking over the likely -ladies. That was how he at last decided to -marry Widow Collinson, of Ulceby.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now, Widow Collinson was a pleasant-faced, -well-preserved woman of some forty -summers, whose first husband, Jabez Collinson, -had had a very nice business as corn miller at -Ulceby, and had consequently left her -comfortably provided for. When he died she kept -the business on, and it was said that she was -already improving it and doing better than -Jabez had done. Such a woman, of course, -was soon run after, and all the more so because -she had no encumbrances, as they call children -in that part of the country; there were at least -half-a-dozen men making sheep's eyes at her -before Bartholomew came upon the scene. -Whatever it was that made her take some sort -of liking to Bartholomew nobody could understand, -but the fact is that she did—at any rate, -Bartholomew began riding over to Ulceby at -least three times a week, and it was well known -that the widow always gave him a hot supper, -because the neighbours smelt the cooking. -One night she cooked him a couple of ducks, -with stuffing of sage and onions, and, of course, -everybody knew then that they were contemplating -matrimonial prospects. And those who -were acquainted with Bartholomew's prevalent -characteristic were somewhat surprised that he -had made up his mind so quickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was always considered in Orchardcroft -that if it had not been for Mr. Pond, the -schoolmaster, the marriage of Mrs. Collinson and -Mr. Flitcroft would have been duly solemnized -that very year. Bartholomew might have -caused some delay at the post, but it was plain -that he meant business if he once got off. And -it was certainly the school-master who made -him do what he did. He and Mr. Pond were -near neighbours, and they had been in the habit -of smoking their pipes in one or the other's -house for many years. They would have a -drop of something comforting, and sit over the -fire, and Mr. Pond used to tell Bartholomew -the news, because Bartholomew never read -anything except the market reports and Old -Moore's Almanack. And one night when they -were thus keeping each other company and -Bartholomew was thinking of Mrs. Collinson and -her mill, Mr. Pond remarked, with a shake of -the head—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is very serious news about this comet, -Mr. Flitcroft."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What news?" asked Bartholomew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why about this comet that's hastening -towards us," replied Mr. Pond.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's a comet?" inquired Bartholomew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A comet," said Mr. Pond, in the tones he -used when he was teaching the children, "a -comet is a heavenly body of fire which rushes -round space at a prodigious rate of speed. -It's rushing towards us now, sir, at millions and -millions of miles a day!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How big is it?" asked Bartholomew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Much bigger than what our earth is, -Mr. Flitcroft," answered the school-master. "Its -tail is twenty millions of miles long."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you say it's coming here?" continued -Bartholomew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So the scientific gentlemen are agreed, sir," -said Mr. Pond. "Yes, this vast body of fire is -rushing upon us as wild beasts rush on their -prey. It may be mercifully turned aside and -only brush us with its tail; it may crash right -upon us, and then——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Pond finished with an expressive "Ah!" -and Bartholomew gaped at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is it all true?" he asked. "Is it in the -newspapers?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The newspapers, sir, are just now full of -it," replied the school-master. "It's the topic -of the hour. Sir Gregory Gribbin, the great -astronomer, says that we shall most certainly -be crushed by the tail. And if the tail is -composed of certain gases—as he thinks it will -be—well!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What'll happen?" asked Bartholomew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall all be asphyxiated—smothered!" -answered Mr. Pond, solemnly. "We shall be -withered up like chaff by fierce fire."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Mr. Pond had departed Bartholomew -took up the </span><em class="italics">Yorkshire Post</em><span>, and for the first -time ignored the market reports, over which he -generally pored for an hour every evening. -He read a lot of learned matter about the -rapidly approaching comet, and he went to bed -with his brain in a whirl. Next morning he -ignored the market reports again, and let his -coffee get cold while he read more about the -comet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It so chanced that Bartholomew was unable -to visit Ulceby for several days after that, -owing to sickness breaking out amongst his -cattle, and when he next went the widow -noticed that he looked much worried and was -preoccupied. As the cattle were all right -again, she wondered what was the matter, but -at first got no satisfactory explanation. -Bartholomew seemed unusually thoughtful, and -twiddled his thumbs a great deal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I say," he said, "I—I think we'd better -put off the idea of being wed until we see what -this comet does—eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What comet?" asked the amazed widow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, this comet that's approaching," -answered Bartholomew. "It's coming like a -bullet. I was going to put the banns up both -here and at Orchardcroft this week, but I don't -see what use it is getting married if we're all -going to be burned to ashes in the twinkling of -an eye. I'll read you all the latest news about it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With that Bartholomew, whom Mrs. Collinson -was by that time regarding with mingled -feelings of apprehension and something closely -bordering on contempt, pulled out a quantity -of newspaper cuttings which he had carefully -snipped out of various journals—his taste for -science having suddenly developed. He read -out the astronomical terms with sonorous voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a very serious thing," he said. "I think -we must put matters off. The comet 'll be here -soon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose you're going to look out for it?" -said Mrs. Collinson in a constrained voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, me and Mr. Pond, our school-master, -has bought a telescope," replied Bartholomew, -grandly. "Yes, we propose to make what they -call observations."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure you couldn't be better employed," -remarked Mrs. Collinson.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The next night, and the next, and the next -again, and for several nights Mr. Pond and -Mr. Flitcroft engaged in astronomical pursuits. -Then, Sunday coming, Mr. Flitcroft heard -strange news which sent him post-haste to his -widow. She met him at her door—coldly. -Mr. Flitcroft gasped out a question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she said, "it is true. Me and -Mr. Samuel Green have been cried in church this -morning, and I'm going to marry him. So now -you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But what shall I do?" cried Bartholomew, -scratching his ear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do?" said Mrs. Collinson. "You can do -what your precious comet 'll do. Go back where -you came from!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="brothers-in-affliction"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It used to be said all over the countryside that -you might go for a long day's march and search -all the towns and villages you came across -and then return home without finding such an -example of David-and-Jonathan-like affection -and devotedness as was seen in the lives of -Thomas and Matthew Pogmore. To begin -with, they were twins who had lost both parents -before they themselves attained to manhood; -this sad occurrence seemed to draw them -closely together, and at the age of fifty they -were still living, bachelors, in the ancient -farmhouse wherein they had first seen the light of -day. They had never ran after women, young -or otherwise, and everybody who knew them—as -everybody did—said that they would live -and die single. Some uncharitable people said -they were much too mean to marry, for they -had a great reputation for economy and were -well known to look at both sides of a sixpence -a long time before they parted with it. And -yet there were other people who wondered that -they never had married, for they were both -well-set-up, good-looking, rosy-cheeked, -well-preserved men, who had been handsome in early -manhood and were still good to look upon. In -all respects they were very much alike in -appearance—they were alike, too, in the fact that -each possessed a pair of small, sly eyes which -always seemed to be on the outlook.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The domestic life of Thomas and Matthew -in their old farmhouse was one of quiet and -peaceful days. They were well-to-do, and the -land they farmed was good. They had a -housekeeper, some ten years their senior, who -knew all their ways. They lived the most -regular of lives. At eight o'clock they -breakfasted. From nine until one they were out and -about their fields or their folds. At one they -dined, glanced at the newspaper, smoked a -pipe, drank one glass, and took a forty seconds -nap, each in his own easy-chair. When they -were thus refreshed they went out into the land -again until half-past five, when high tea was set -in the parlour. After its consumption—and -they were hearty eaters—the spirit-case was set -out with the cigars, and the peaceful duties of -the evening began. Sometimes they read more -of the newspapers; sometimes they talked of -pigs or turnips or the different qualities of -artificial manure. And at precisely ten o'clock, -having consumed exactly so much grog and -smoked exactly so many pipes or cigars, they -retired to bed and slept the sleep of the -innocent. It was a harmless life and very soothing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This life, of course, had its occasional -variations. There was, for instance, the weekly -market-day, when they attended the little town -four miles off, did business, dined at the -ordinary and took their market allowance. They -were generous about the latter, as they were in -all matters of food and drink, but nobody ever -saw them market-merry—they were much too -cautious and wise for that. Then there were -occasional fair-days to attend, and sometimes -they journeyed into distant parts of the country -to buy sheep or cattle—these occurrences made -a break in life for them, but it was seldom that -their well-fed forms were not found one on -each side of the hearthrug when the shades of -evening fell.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then, greatly to the astonishment of -Matthew, Thomas suddenly began a new -departure. As a rule the brothers rode home -together from market; there came a period when -he was missing when going home time arrived, -and Matthew had to go home without him. -On three occasions he got back late, and made -excuses. He began to make more excuses -about riding into the market-town of an -evening, and his twin-brother was often left alone. -Matthew grew alarmed, then frightened. And -when at last he realized that Thomas, when he -went off in this mysterious way, invariably -dressed himself up, Matthew broke into a cold -sweat and dared to voice a horrible suspicion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's after a woman!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He glanced round the comfortable parlour -and thought what it might mean if Thomas -introduced a wife into it. She would, of -course, want to alter everything—women always -did. She would say that cigars made the -curtains smell, and forbid the decanters to be -brought out until bed-time. And she would -expect, no doubt, to have his easy-chair. The -prospects were terrible.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who can she be?" he wondered, and his -consternation was so great that he let his cigar -go out and his grog turn cold.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thomas came home that night with very -bright eyes and a distinguished air. He mixed -himself a drink and enthroned himself in his -easy-chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Matthew, my lad!" he said in his grandest -manner. "Matthew, I've no doubt that people -have oft wondered how it was that we never -entered into the matrimonial condition of -life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew shook his head sadly. Something -was coming.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Matrimony, Thomas," he answered feebly, -"matrimony, now, is a thing that never occurred -to me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thomas waved his hand comprehendingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just so, just so, Matthew," said he. "Of -course, we were too young to think about such -things until—until recently. A man shouldn't -think of them things until he's come to an age -of discretion."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew took a moody sip of the contents of -his glass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Was you thinking of that state of life -yourself, Thomas?" he inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thomas grew in grandeur and importance -until he looked like a large frog.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was about to make the announcement, -Matthew," he said, "the important announcement -that I am about to lead to the altar -Mrs. Walkinshaw——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What, her of the Dusty Miller!" exclaimed -Matthew, naming a well-known hostelry in the -market-town.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Walkinshaw—Mrs. Thomas Pogmore -as will be—certainly is proprietor of that house, -Matthew," replied Thomas. "Yes, she is!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well—well!" said Matthew. "Ah, just -so." He glanced at his brother with the sly -Pogmore expression. "I should think she's -got a pretty warmly-lined purse, eh, Thomas?—he -was a well-to-do man, was her first -husband."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have no doubt Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as -will be can bring a nice little fortune with her, -Matthew," said the prospective bridegroom, -with great complacency, "a ve-ry nice little -fortune. There'll be what the late Mr. Walkinshaw -left, and what she's saved, and there'll -be the goodwill of the business, which should -make a pretty penny."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And there's no encumbrances, I think," -remarked Matthew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is no encumbrances," said Thomas. -"No, it's a comfortable thing to reflect upon is -that. I—I couldn't abear to have a pack -of—of children about the place."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew glanced about him once more and -once more sighed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, of course, it'll make a difference," he -began.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thomas raised a deprecatory hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not to you, Matthew!" he said. "Not in -the least, brother. Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as -will be knows that one-half of everything here -is yours. It'll only mean buying another -armchair, which can be placed in the middle of the -hearth there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, of course, with having been in the -public line she'll know what men is," said -Matthew, somewhat reassured. "I couldn't -like to see anything altered in the old place -nor my habits interfered with."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Thomas Pogmore intimated that everything -would continue on the old lines, and -presently marched off to bed, humming a gay tune. -He was evidently in high good humour with -himself, and he continued to be so for some -weeks, during which period Mrs. Walkinshaw, -who was a handsome, black-eyed widow of -presumably forty-five, occasionally drove over -and took tea with the twins, possibly with the -view of getting acquainted with her future -home. She was a sprightly and vivacious -dame, and Matthew thought that Thomas had -shown good taste.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then came a night when Thomas, arriving -home earlier than usual, entered the parlour -looking much distressed, threw himself into a -chair and groaned. That he felt in a very bad -way Matthew immediately deduced from the -fact that he neglected to supply himself with -spirituous refreshment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the matter, Thomas?" inquired the -younger twin.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thomas groaned still more loudly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Matter!" he exclaimed at last, making a -mighty effort and resorting to the decanters -and cigars. "Matter a deal, Matthew. I -dare say," he continued, after he had drunk his -potion with a suggestion of its being bitter as -aloes, "I dare say I should have been warned, -for there's a many proverbs about the frailty and -deceit of women. But, of course, never having -had aught to do with them I was unarmed for -the contest, so to speak."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then she's been a-deceiving of you, -Thomas?" asked Matthew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Deceived me cruel," sighed Thomas. "I -shall never believe in that sex again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew blew out a few spirals of blue smoke -before he asked a further question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I could hope," he said at last, "I could -hope, Thomas, that it were not on the money -question?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thomas shook his head dolefully, afterwards -replenishing his glass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It were on the money question, Matthew," -he said. "I understood that she'd come to me -with a considerable fortune; a very considerable -fortune!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?" asked Matthew, breathlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thomas spread out his hands with a -despairing gesture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All passes from her if she marries again!" -he said tersely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is it true?" inquired Matthew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Told me so herself—this very evening," -answered Thomas.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A dead silence came over the farmhouse -parlour. Thomas lighted a cigar and smoked -pensively; Matthew refilled his churchwarden -pipe and puffed blue rings at the ceiling, -whereat he gazed as if in search of inspiration. It -was he who spoke first.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a bad job, this, Thomas," he said; "a -very bad job. Of course, you'll not be for -carrying out your part of the arrangement?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have been cruel deceived," said Thomas.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At the same time," said Matthew, "when -this here engagement was made between you, -you didn't make it a condition that the fortune -should come with her?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No-o!" answered Thomas.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then, of course, if you throw her over she -can sue you for breach of promise, and as -you're a well-to-do man the damages would be -heavy," remarked Matthew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thomas groaned.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What must be done, Thomas, must be done -by management," said the younger twin. "We -must use diplomacy, as they term it. You -must go away for a while. It's a slack time -with us now, and you've naught particular to -do—go and have a fortnight at Scarborough -Spaw, and when that's over go and see Cousin -Happleston at his farm in Durham; he'll be -glad to see you. And while you're away I'll -get the matter settled—leave it to me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thomas considered that very good advice -and said he would act on it, and he went off to -his room earlier than usual in order to pack a -portmanteau, so that he could set off from the -immediate scene of his late woes early next -morning. When he had departed Matthew -mixed himself his usual nightcap, and, having -taken a taste of it to see that it was according -to recipe, proceeded to warm his back at the -fire, to rub his hands, and to smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It were a good conception on my part to -speak to Lawyer Sharpe on that matter," he -thought to himself. "I wonder Thomas never -considered of it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He drew a letter from his breast-pocket, and -read it slowly through. This is what he read—</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>"PRIVATE -<br />10, </span><em class="italics">Market Place, Cornborough</em><span>, -<br /></span><em class="italics">May</em><span> 11, 18—.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"MR. MATTHEW POGMORE.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"DEAR SIR,—In accordance with your -instructions I have caused the will of the late -Mr. Samuel Walkinshaw, of the Dusty Miller -Hotel in this town, to be perused at Somerset -House. With the exception of a few trifling -legacies to servants and old friends, the whole -of the deceased's fortune was left unconditionally -to the widow, there being no restriction of -any kind as to her possible second marriage. -The gross personalty was £15,237 odd; the -net, £14,956 odd. In addition to this the -freehold, good-will, stock and furniture of the -Dusty Miller was also left to the widow.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<dl class="docutils"> -<dt class="noindent"><span>"I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,</span></dt> -<dd><p class="first last noindent pfirst"><span>"SAMUEL SHARPE."</span></p> -</dd> -</dl> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Matthew folded this epistle carefully in its -original folds and restored it to his pocket, still -smiling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah!" he murmured. "What a thing it is -to have a little knowledge and to know how to -take advantage of it!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he, too, retired to bed and slept well, -and rose next morning to see his twin-brother -off, bidding him be of good cheer and -prophesying that he should return a free man. -Left alone, he chuckled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew allowed some days to elapse before -he went into Cornborough. Mrs. Walkinshaw -looked somewhat surprised to see him, though -of late he had taken to visiting the house -occasionally. As a privileged visitor he passed into -her private parlour.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And pray what's become of Thomas these -days?" she inquired, when Matthew was -comfortably placed in the cosiest chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew shook his head. His manner was -mysterious.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't ask me, ma'am," he said, sorrowfully. -"It's a painful subject. Of course, however, -between you and me and the post, as the saying -is, Thomas has gone to Scarborough Spaw, -ma'am."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To Scarborough!" exclaimed Mrs. Walkinshaw. -"What for?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Matthew sighed and then gave her an expressive look.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's very fond of a bit of gay doings, is -Thomas, ma'am," he said. "Likes to shake -a loose leg, now and then, you understand. -It gets a bit dull at our place in time. But -I'm all for home, myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Walkinshaw, who had listened to this -with eyes which grew wider and wider, flung -down her fancy sewing in a pet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, upon my word!" she exclaimed. -"Gone gallivanting to Scarborough without -even telling me. Then I'll take good care he -never comes back here again. A deceitful old -rip!—I don't believe he was ever after -anything but my money, for I tried a trick on him -about it the other night, and he went off with a -face as long as a fiddle and never said -good-night. Old sinner!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We're all imperfect, ma'am," remarked -Matthew. "Only some of us is less so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he proceeded to make himself agreeable, -and eventually went home well satisfied. -And about five weeks later Thomas, whose -holiday had been prolonged on Matthew's -advice, received a letter from his twin-brother -which made him think harder than he had ever -thought in his life.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"DEAR BROTHER" (it ran),—"This is to tell -you that you can return home safely now, as I was -married to Mrs. Walkinshaw myself this -morning. I have decided to retire from farming, -and she will retire from the public way of -business, as we find that with our united fortunes -we can live private at Harrogate and enter a -more fashionable sphere of life, as is more -agreeable to our feelings. Business details -between you and me can be settled when you -return. So no more at present, from your -affectionate brother,</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"MATTHEW POGMORE.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"P.S.—You was misinformed in your -meaning of what Mrs. Matthew Pogmore meant -when she spoke of her fortune passing at her -second marriage. She meant, of course, that -it would pass to her second husband.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"P.S. again.—Which, naturally, it has done."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>After this Mr. Thomas Pogmore concluded -to go home and lead the life of a hermit -amongst his sheep and cattle.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-man-or-a-mouse"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A MAN OR A MOUSE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">PROLOGUE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The cleverest man I ever knew was at the -same time the wisest and kindest-hearted of -men. Not that the possession of wisdom, nor -the grace of kindness to his fellow-creatures, -made him clever in a high degree, but that when -I was in the journeyman stage of learning, -feeling my feet, as it were, he gave me what I have -ever since known—not considered, mind you, -but known—to be the best and most invaluable -advice that one creature could give to another. -It was this—put into short words (and, mind -you, this man was a big man, and a very -successful business man, inasmuch as he raised one of -the biggest concerns in his own town out of sheer -nothing, and died a rich man, having used his -wealth kindly and wisely at a time when things -were not what they are now)—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poskitt—tha'rt nowt but a young 'un! -Tha's goin' inta t' world, and tha'll find 'at -theer'll be plenty o' men to gi' thee what they -call advice. Now, I seen all t' world o' Human -Nature, and </span><em class="italics">I'll</em><span> gi' thee better advice nor -onnybody 'at tha'll ever find—'cause I know! -Listen to me—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"(i.) I'steead o' trustin' nobody, trust -ivverybody—till thou finds 'em out. When -thou finds 'em out (if thou ivver does), trust -'em agen! Noä man's a bad 'un, soä long -as ye get on t' reight side on him. An' it's -yer own fault, mind yer, if ye doän't.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"(ii.) Doän't think ower much about makkin' -Brass. It's a good thing to mak' Brass, -and a good thing to be in possession on it, -but Brass is neyther here nor theer unless ye -ware it on yer friends. Save yer Brass as -much as ye can. Keep it for t' rainy -Day—ye never know when that rainy Day's -comin'—but don't skrike at a sixpence when -ye know that a half-crown wodn't mak' a -diff'rence. Doän't tak' yer sweetheart to -market, and let her come home wi' a penny -ribbon when ye know in yer own heart 'at ye -might ha' bowt her a golden ring.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"(iii.) To end up wi'—trust ivvery man ye -meet—not like a fool, but like a wiseacre. -Love your neighbours—but tak' good care -that they love you. If ye find that they don't, -have nowt to do with 'em—but go on loving -'em all the same. If theer's Retribution, it -weern't fall on you, but on them. But at th' -same time, ye must remember that ivvery one -on us mak's the other. An', to sum up all -the lot, ivvery man 'at were ivver born on this -earth mak's himself."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>In one of those old Latin books which I -sometimes buy in the old book-shops in the -market-towns that I visit, out of which I can -pick out a word or two, a sentence or two -(especially if they are interleaved with schoolboys' -attempts at cribs), there is a line which I, -at any rate, can translate with ease into -understandable English—a line that always puts me -in mind of my old, wise friend's blunt sayings—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Every man is the maker of his own fortune.</em><span>"</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>And that's why I am going to tell you this story -of a man who did Three Things. First: Made -Himself a Millionaire. Second: Lived in a -Dream while he was in the Process. Third: -Came out of the Dream—when it was all too -late.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now we will begin with him.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Samuel Edward Wilkinson, when I first -knew him, was a small boy of twelve who, in -the privacy of the back garden of a small -provincial grammar-school, ate tarts and apples -which he never shared with his school-fellows. -He was the last of a large family—I think his -mother succumbed to the strain of bearing him, -the tenth or eleventh—and he had the look of -a starved fox which is not quite certain where -the nearest hen-roost is. The costume of small -boys in those days—the early forties—did not -suit him; the tassel of his peaked cap was too -much dependent upon his right eyebrow, and -the left leg of his nankeen trousers was at least -an inch and a half higher than its corresponding -member.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poskitt," he said to me, the first time that I -ever indulged in any real private conversation -with him, "what shall you do when you leave -Doctor Scott's?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go home," said I.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was eating one of his usual jam-tarts at -the time, and he looked at me sideways over a -sticky edge of it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poskitt—what's your father?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My father's a farmer—but it's our own -land," said I.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He finished his tart—thoughtfully. Then he -took out a quite clean handkerchief and wiped -the tips of his fingers on it. He looked round, -more thoughtfully than before, at the blank -walls of Doctor Scott's back garden. I was -sensible enough even at that age to see that he -was regarding far-away things.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My father," he said, after an obvious -cogitation, "is a butcher. He makes a lot of money, -Poskitt. But there are eleven of us. I am the -eleventh. When I leave school——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stopped short there, and from his trousers -pocket drew out two apples. You may think -that he was going to give me one—instead of -that he looked them over, selected what he -evidently considered the best, bit into it, and -put the other back in his pocket.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When I leave school," he resumed, "I mean -to go into business. Now, what do you think -of business, Poskitt?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I was so astonished, boy as I was, to hear -this miserable mannikin talking as he did, that -I dare say I only gaped at him. Between his -bites at his apple he continued his evidences of -a shrewd character.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You see, Poskitt," he said, "I've thought a -great deal while I've been here at Doctor -Scott's. I don't think much of Doctor Scott—he's -very kind, but he doesn't tell any of us -how to make money. Your father's got a lot -of money, hasn't he?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do you know?" I said, rather angrily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because," said he, quite calmly, "I see him -give you money when he comes to see you. -Nobody gives money away who hasn't got it. -And you see, Poskitt, although my father makes -a lot of money, too, he doesn't give me -much—sixpence a week."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do you get your tarts and your apples, -then?" I asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He gave me one more of those queer glances</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My mother and my sisters send me a -basket," he answered. "Of course, Poskitt, -we've got to get all we can out of this world, -haven't we? And I want to get on and to make -money. What do you consider the best way to -make money, Poskitt?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I was so young and irresponsible at that time, -so full of knowledge of having the old -farmstead and the old folks and everything behind -me, that I scarcely understood what this boy -was talking about. I dare say I gave him a -surly nod, and he went on again—very likely, -for aught I remember, eating the other apple.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You see, Poskitt," he said, "there's one -thing that's certain. A man must be either a -man or a mouse. I won't be a mouse."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I was watching his face—I was at that time -a big, ruddy-faced lad, with limbs that would -have done credit to an offspring of Mars and -Venus, and he looked the sort that would -eventually end in a shop, with white cheeks -above and a black tie under a sixpenny -collar—and a strange revulsion came to me, farmer -and landsman though I was. And I let him go on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I won't be a mouse, Poskitt!" he said, with -a certain amount of determination. "I'll be a -man! I'll make money. Now, what do you -think the best way to make money, Poskitt?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I don't think I made any answer then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've thought it all out, Poskitt," he resumed. -"You see, there are all sorts of professions and -trades. Well, if you go into a profession, -you've got to spend a great deal of money -before you can make any. And in some trades -you have to lay out a good deal before you can -receive any profit. But there are trades, Poskitt, -in which you get your money back very quickly—with -profit. Now, do you know, Poskitt, the -only trades are those which are dependent on -what people </span><em class="italics">want</em><span>. You can't live without food, -or clothes, or boots. Food, Poskitt, is the most -important thing, isn't it? And why I talked to -you is because I think you're the wisest boy in -the school—which trade would you recommend -me to enter upon?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go and be a butcher!" I answered. "Like -your father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head in mild and deprecating fashion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't like the smell of meat," he said. -"No—I shall take up some other line."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then, as the smell of dinner came from the -dining-room, he added the further remark that -as our parents paid Doctor Scott regularly once -a quarter, we ought to have our money's worth, -and so walked away to receive his daily share -of it.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Samuel Edward Wilkinson duly left school, -and became, of his own express will, an apprentice -to a highly respectable grocer who enlarged -upon his respectability by styling himself a -tea merchant and an Italian warehouseman. -The people who visited the shop (which was -situate in a principal street in an important -sea-port town) were invariably impressed by the -powder-blueness of the sign and by the -red-goldness of the letters which stood out so -plainly from the powder-blue. It had a cachet -of its own, and the proprietor had two daughters. -But Samuel Edward was then scarcely over -fourteen years of age, and as his parents and -the proprietor were of a distinctly Dissenting -nature, his time was passed much more in -stealing sugar-candy out of newly-opened boxes, -and in attending prayer-meetings at the nearest -chapel, than in following the good example of -London 'prentices of the other centuries. In -fact, by the time Samuel Edward Wilkinson -was nineteen years of age, he was not merely a -money-grubber, but that worst of all things—a -tradesman who looks upon God Almighty and -the Bible as useful weights to put under an -illegal scale. And as Samuel Edward gained -more of his experience in the knowledge of his -fellow make-weighters, the more he began to -believe less in his fellow-men—with the natural -result that certain women who were not his -fellows suffered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As he grew up, Samuel Edward, naturally, -had to live somewhere else. His master had no -room in his house for apprentices who had -approached to maturity. But, like all masters -of that early-Victorian age, he knew where -accommodation in a highly Christian family -was to be had, and Samuel Edward found himself -</span><em class="italics">en famille</em><span> with a middle-aged dressmaker -and a pretty child whose sweet sixteenity was -much more appealing than the maturer charms -of his master's daughters. Samuel Edward was -not without good looks, and the child fell in -love with him, and remained so for longer years -than she had counted upon. But Samuel -Edward was as philandering in love as he was -pertinacious in business, and the idea of -marriage was not within his immediate purview.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At what age do you think, a man ought to -marry, Poskitt?" he said to me during one of -his periodical visits to the old village, he being -then about two-and-twenty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When he feels inclined, and means it," said I.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course, Poskitt, a man should never -marry unless he marries money," he continued. -"For a young man in my position, now, what -would you say the young woman ought to be -able to bring?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I had sufficient common sense even at that -age to make no reply to this question. I let -him go on, silent under his sublime selfishness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't you think, Poskitt, that it's only right -that when a man marries a woman he should -expect her to make a certain amount of -compensation?" he said. "It's a very serious thing, -is marriage, you know, Poskitt. Anybody with -my ambition—which is to be a man and not a -mouse, or, in other words, to pay twenty -shillings in the pound, and keep myself out of the -workhouse—has to look forward a good deal. -Now there's a young lady that I know of—where -I lodge, in fact—that's very sweet on me, -but I don't think her mother could give her -more than a couple of hundred, and, of course, -that's next to nothing. You see, Poskitt, I -want to have a business of my own, and you -can't get a business without capital. And -money's very hard to make, Poskitt. I think—I -really think—I shall put off the idea of -getting married."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's the very wisest thing you can do," I -said. "But you'd better tell the young lady so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you see, Poskitt," he answered, stroking -his chin, "the fact is—there are two young -ladies. The other one is—my cousin Keziah. -Now, of course, I know Keziah will have money -when her father dies, but then I don't know -when he will die. If I could tell exactly when -he'll die, and how much Keziah will have, I -should make up my mind—as it is, I think I -shall have to wait. After all, it really doesn't -make such a great deal of difference—one -woman is about as good as another so far as -marriage is concerned, Poskitt, isn't she? The -money's the main thing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why don't you go and find a rich heiress, -then?" I asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah!" he replied. "I only wish I could, -Poskitt! But you must remember that I've no -advantages. My father's only a butcher, and -trade is trade, after all. You've great -advantages over me—your people own their -land—you're nobs compared to what I am. But I shall -make myself a man, Poskitt. There's only one -thing in the world that's worth anything, and -that's money. I'm going to make money."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>I never saw Samuel Edward Wilkinson again -for a great many years—in fact, not until he -came back to the village to marry his cousin -Keziah. It was then publicly announced that -Samuel and Keziah had been engaged since -early youth—but anybody who knew anything -was very well aware of the truth that the -marriage was now hastened because Keziah's father -was dead and had left her a thousand pounds. -During those intervening years Samuel Edward -had been steadily pursuing his way towards -his conception of manhood. He had spent -several years in London, and never wore anything -in the way of head-covering but a silk hat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Poskitt," he said, "it's taken me a -long time, but I've saved enough money at -last—with Keziah's little fortune thrown in, of -course—to buy my first master's business. It's -a very serious thing, is business, you know, -Poskitt, and so is marriage. But Keziah's a -capable girl, you know, Poskitt—very capable."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As Keziah was then quite forty years of age, -her capability was undoubted, but it seemed to -me that Samuel Edward had been a long time -making up his mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And where's the young lady of the early -days?" I asked him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stroked his whiskers and shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you know, Poskitt," he replied, "it's -a very unfortunate thing that she, of course, -resides in the very town where I've bought my -business."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is she married?" I asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," he answered, "no—she's not married, -Poskitt. Of course I couldn't think of -marrying her when Keziah was able to put her hands -on a thousand pounds. After all, everybody's -got to look after Number One. It's a very -anxious time with me just now, Poskitt, I do -assure you. What with getting married and -setting up a business, I feel a great deal of -responsibility. If you're ever our way (and I -expect you'll be coming to the cattle markets), -call in, and I'll show you the improvements I've -made. It's a very fine position, Poskitt, but it's -a difficult thing in these days for a man to get -his own."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Samuel Edward's name duly appeared in -blazing gilt on the powder-blue of the old sign, -and he and Keziah settled down in a suburban -street in company with a handmaiden and a -black-and-tan terrier. Their lives were discreet -and orderly, and they went to the particular -Dissenting community which they affected at -least once every Sabbath Day. At eight o'clock -every morning Samuel Edward repaired to -business; at seven in the evening he returned -home to pour out his woes to Keziah. One of -his apprentices had done this; an assistant had -done that; a customer had fled, leaving a bill -unpaid. Keziah, who was as keen on -money-making as her husband, was invariably -sympathetic in these matters, which were about the -only things she understood, apart from her -knowledge that her thousand pounds was in the -business. She and Samuel Edward were both -resolved on making money.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And suddenly came a thunderstorm over their -sky. The little dressmaking lady, having been -formally engaged to Samuel Edward for long -years, finding herself jilted, suddenly awoke to -the knowledge that she had a spirit, and caused -the faithless one to be served with a writ for -breach of promise. And Samuel Edward's -men of law, going into the matter, told him that -he had no defence, and would have to pay.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Samuel Edward took to his bed, and refused -to be comforted. Keziah wept, entreated, -cajoled, threatened—nothing was of use. All -was over, in Samuel Edward's opinion. The -other side wanted the exact amount represented -by Keziah's dowry—one thousand pounds. -Samuel Edward lay staring at the stencilled -wall-paper, and decided that life was a distinct -disappointment. He would die.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Keziah took matters in hand. She, -with the help of an astute man, paid the -thousand pounds—whereupon the little dressmaker, -who was still well under forty, promptly -married another. And then Keziah literally -tore Samuel Edward out of bed, shook him into -life, and gave him to understand that from that -day forward he would have to work harder, -earlier, and later than he had ever done before. -And Samuel Edward fell to—under a ceaseless -and never-varying supervision.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">VI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I'm a warm man, you know, Poskitt," he -said to me many a long year after that. "A -warm man, sir! There's nobody knows except -myself, Poskitt, how much I have. No, sir! -Made it all, you know. Look at my business, -Poskitt!—one of the biggest and best businesses -in the country. Twenty different -establishments. Four hundred employees. Bring -my own tea from Ceylon and China in my own -ships. All the result of energy, Poskitt—no -sitting still with me, as you rustics do—no, sir!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now let us analyze what this man really was. -Because Keziah literally drilled him into the -pulling of himself together after his first great -slap in the face, he began to amass money, and -very soon so deepened his boyish instincts that -money became his fetish. Money—money—money—nothing -but money! He estimated the -value of a man by the depth of that man's purse; -he thoroughly believed, with the Northern -Farmer, that the poor in a lump are bad. And -at last he was a very rich man indeed—and -then found, as all such men do, that he had no -power to enjoy his wealth. He could travel—and -see nothing, for he did not understand what -he saw. He could buy anything he liked—and -have no taste for it. The little dressmaker had -children—he had none. And as his wealth -increased, his temper grew sour. He had never -read anything beyond his trade journal and his -newspaper, and therefore he had nothing to -think about but his money.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And so I come back to what my old friend -said in his bluff Yorkshire fashion—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Doän't think ower much about makkin' -Brass! It's a good thing to mak' Brass, and -a good thing to be in possession on it, but -Brass is neyther here nor theer unless ye -ware it on yer friends."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And whether Samuel Edward Wilkinson -considered in the end of his days that he had -made a man of himself, or whether he had, after -all, a sneaking idea that he was little more than -a mouse, I can't say. But his great idea (that -he could buy so many people up ten times over -and feel none the worse) had a certain pathos -in that fact, that even to his dull brain there -came at times the conviction that when the end -came he would be as poor as any mouse that -ever crept into its hole.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-deal-in-odd-volumes"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was baking-day at Low Meadow Farm, -and the kitchen being rendered unusually hot -by the fact that it was also a blazing afternoon -in July, Mrs. Maidment, in the intervals of -going to the oven, sat in a stout elbow-chair at -the kitchen door and fanned herself with her -apron. She was a comfortably built lady of -at least fifty, and heat told upon her, as she -had remarked several times since breakfast. -Her placid, moon-like countenance, always -rosy, was now as fiery as a winter afternoon's -sun, and when she was not fanning herself she -mopped her brow with one of her late husband's -handkerchiefs, which she had taken from a -drawer in the press as being larger than her -own, and therefore more suitable for the -purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>While she sat at the door Mrs. Maidment -glanced at the prospect before her—at the -garden, the orchard, the fields beyond where -the crops were already whitening to harvest. -Her thoughts were of a practical nature.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure if Maidment can look down from -Above," she murmured, "he'll say it's all in -very good order. He never could abide -naught that were not in proper order, couldn't -Maidment. And if we only get a good -harvest——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment the widow's thoughts were -interrupted by the sudden clicking of the side -gate. She turned and saw a strange man -leading an equipage into the yard. The equipage -consisted of a very small pony, which looked -as if a generous feed of corn would do it good, -and of a peculiarly constructed cart, very -shallow in body, and closed in at the top by two -folding doors—it resembled nothing so much, -in fact, as a cupboard laid flat-wise and -provided with wheels. As for the person who led -in this strange turn-out, and at whom -Mrs. Maidment was staring very hard, he was a -somewhat seedy-looking gentleman in a -frock-coat which was too large and trousers which -were too short; there was a slight cast in his -right eye, but there was no mistaking the would-be -friendliness of his smile. He bowed low as -he drew the pony towards Mrs. Maidment, and -he removed a straw-hat and revealed a high -forehead and a bald head. Mrs. Maidment -stared still harder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-afternoon, ma'am," said the stranger, -bowing again. "Allow me to introduce myself, -ma'am, as a travelling bookseller—it's a -new departure in the book trade, and one that -I hope to do well in. Permit me to show you -my stock, ma'am—all the newest volumes of -the day by the most famous authors."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He threw back the folding-doors of his cart -with a flourish and stepped aside. The July -sun flashed its fierce beams on row upon row -of flashily-bound, high-coloured volumes in -green and scarlet and much fine gold.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The very latest, I assure you, ma'am," said -their vendor.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Maidment fanned herself and gazed at -the glory before her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I don't know, master," she said. -"I'm not one for reading myself, except the -newspaper and a chapter in the Bible of a -Sunday. But my daughter's fond of her -book—she might feel inclined. Here, Mary -Ellen!—here's a man at the door selling books."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Mary Ellen Maidment, a comely -damsel of nineteen with bright eyes and -peach-like cheeks, emerged expectant from the -kitchen. The itinerant bookseller greeted her -with more bows and smiles.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, my!" exclaimed Mary Ellen, lifting -up her hands. "What a lot of beautiful -books!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your ma said you were fond of your book, -miss," said the owner of this intellectual -treasure mine. "Yes, miss, this is an especially -fine line. What's your taste, now, miss? -Poetry?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I like a good piece," answered Mary Ellen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The itinerant selected two gorgeously bound -volumes, and deftly balancing them on the -palm of one hand, pointed to their glories with -the outstretched forefinger of the other.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'The Complete Poetical Works of Mrs. -H*ee*mans,'" he said. "A very sweet thing -that, miss—one of the best articles in the poetry -line." He pointed to the other. "'The -Works of the late Eliza Cook.' A very -superior production that, miss. It was that -talented lady who wrote 'The Old Arm-Chair,' -of which you have no doubt heard."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I learnt it once at school," said Mary Ellen. -"Have you got any tales?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tales, miss—yes, miss," replied the vendor, -setting Mrs. Hemans and Miss Cook aside, -and selecting a few more volumes. "Here's -a beautiful tale by the talented Emma Jane -Worboise, the most famous authoress of her day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is there any love in it?" asked Mary Ellen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My daughter," broke in Mrs. Maidment, -"likes books with love matters and lords and -ladies in 'em—she reads pieces of 'em to me -at nights."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That, ma'am, is the only sort I carry," said -the book-proprietor. "Now, miss, just let me -show you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the end Mary Ellen purchased one tale -which dealt with much love and many lords and -ladies, and another which the seller described -as a pious work with a strong love interest, and -recommended highly for Sunday reading. -She also bought Mrs. Hemans, because on -turning over her pages she saw several lines -which she thought were pretty. And while she -went up-stairs to fetch her purse Mrs. Maidment -asked the stranger inside to drink a jug -of ale. One can imagine his sharp glance -round that old farmhouse kitchen, with its -lovely old oak furniture, its shining brass and -pewter, its old delf-ware....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't happen to have any old books -that you want to clear out of the way, do -you, ma'am?" he said, when he had been paid, -and was drinking his ale. "I buy anything -like that—there's lots of people glad to get -rid of them. I've a sack full of 'em now under -the cart there. Of course, they're worth -nothing but waste paper price. That's what I -have to sell them at, ma'am."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, there's some old books in that chest -there," said Mrs. Maidment, pointing to an old -chest in the deep window-seat. "I'm sure I've -oft said we'd burn 'em, for they're that old and -printed so queer that nobody can read 'em. -Let him look at 'em, Mary Ellen."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What treasures were they that the wandering -merchant's knowing eyes gazed upon? He -gazed upon them for some time, according to -the eye-witnesses, before he spoke, examining -each book with great care.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye, well, ma'am," he said at last. "Of -course, as you say, nobody could read them -now-a-days. I'll tell you what—I'll give miss -here three new books out of the cart for them, -and you can pick for yourself, miss!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Ellen exclaimed joyfully—and the old -books went into a sack.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was not until the next year that a Summer -Boarder from London took up temporary -quarters at Low Meadow Farm. According to -the account which Mrs. Maidment gave to her -gossips of him he was a very quiet gentleman -who, when he wasn't rambling about the fields -and by the streams, was reading in the garden, -and when he wasn't reading in the garden was -writing in the parlour. And the books he had -brought with him, she said, were more than the -parson had.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One day, the Summer Boarder, rummaging -in a cupboard in his bedroom, saw, on a -top-shelf, an old, dust-covered book, and took it -down and knocked the dust off and opened it. -And then he sank in a chair, gasping. There, -in his hand, lay a perfect copy of a fifteenth-century -book, so rare that there is no copy of it -in either the British Museum or in the -Bodleian Library—no, nor at the Vatican!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stared at it for a long time, and then, -carrying it as some men would carry a rare -diamond, he went down to the kitchen, where -Mrs. Maidment was making plum-pies.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is a queer old book which I found in -my cupboard, Mrs. Maidment," he said. "May -I look at it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye, and welcome, sir!" said Mrs. Maidment. -"And keep it, too, sir, if you'll accept -of it. Eh, we'd a lot of old stuff like that in -that box there in the window-place, but last -year——" And then the Summer Boarder -heard the story of the travelling bookseller.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I'm sure, sir, it were very kind of the -man," concluded Mrs. Maidment, "and I've -always said so, to give Mary Ellen three new -books, and bound so beautiful, for naught but -a lot of old rubbish that nobody could read!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then the Summer Boarder went out into the -garden and faced a big Moral Problem.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-chief-magistrate"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>I suppose there never was a man in the world -who was as full of pride as Abraham Kellet -was on the morning of the day which was to see -him made Mayor of Sicaster. That particular -9th of November, as I remember very well, was -more than usually dismal and foggy—there -were thick mists lying all over the lowlands -and curling up the hill-sides as I drove into -the town to take part in the proceeding of the -day (for I was an old school-fellow of -Abraham's, and he had graciously invited me to -witness his election), but I warrant that to his -worship-to-be no July day ever seemed so -glorious nor no May-day sun ever so welcome -as the November greyness. All men have their -ambitions—Abraham's one ambition since -boyhood had been to wear the mayoral chain, the -mayoral robes, to sit in the mayoral seat, to be -the chief magistrate of his adopted town, to -know himself its foremost burgess, to have -everybody's cap raised to him, to have himself -addressed by high and low as Mr. Mayor. It -was a worthy ambition, and he had worked hard -for it—now that at last he was within an ace of -fulfilling it his pride became apparent to -everybody. It was not a vaunting pride, nor the -pride which is puffed up, but the pride of a man -who knows that he has succeeded. He was a -big-framed, broad-countenanced man, Abraham -Kellet, who put down a firm foot and showed a -portly front, and after it was settled that he -was to be the next Mayor of Sicaster his tread -was firmer than ever and his front more portly -as he trod the cobble-paved streets of the little -town. I can see him now—a big, fine figure -of a man of not much over fifty, his six feet of -height invariably habited in the best -broadcloth; his linen as scrupulously white and -glossy as he himself was scrupulously shaven; -his boots as shining as the expensive diamond -ring which he wore on the little finger of his -left hand. Decidedly a man to fill a mayoral -chair with dignity and fulness, was Abraham -Kellet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I thought as I rode into Sicaster that eventful -morning of the story of its new mayor's life. -Like myself, Abraham was the son of a farmer, -but whereas my father was a man of considerable -substance, his was a poor man who had to -work hard, early and late, to make a living out -of a farm the land of which was poor. I have -always had an idea that it was my father who -paid for Abraham's schooling at Sicaster -Grammar School, though it is but an idea, -because he was the last man in the world to let -his left hand know what his right hand did. -Anyway, Benjamin Kellet was a poor man, as -things go, and had a growing family to keep, -Abraham being the eldest, and none of his other -children got more education than the village -school afforded for the customary fee of -two-pence a-week. Why Abraham went from the -village school to Sicaster Grammar School was -because he was regarded as a very promising -youth, whose education ought to be improved. -The village school-master, in fact, when -Abraham was twelve years old, said that he could -not teach him any more—no very great thing -in those days when nothing was taught but -reading, writing and arithmetic, with perhaps a -smattering of English history and a little -grammar and geography—and that it was no -use his staying any longer at the red-tiled -school-house, which lay under the shadow of -the church. Possibly the parson and my father -(who was vicar's churchwarden for many a long -year before his death) put their heads together -about Abraham. However the case may have -been, Abraham was sent to Sicaster Grammar -School with the understanding that he was to -remain there two years, when it would be time -for him to be apprenticed to some trade. He -made his entrance there the same day that I -did—that was where I got to know him better. I -had known him, of course, all along, but not -intimately, because my mother had insisted on -having a governess for my two sisters—both -dead now, many a long year ago!—and so I -had never gone to the village school, nor had -I mixed much with the village boys. But when -I was nine years old, my father said I had had -quite enough of apron-strings, and I must go to -Sicaster Grammar School, as soon as the next -half began.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To Sicaster Grammar School!" said my -mother, speaking as if my father had said I -was to go to the Cannibal Islands. "Why, -Sicaster's six miles off! The child can't walk -twelve miles a day and learn his lessons as well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who wants him to?" asked my father. -"He can have the little pony and phaeton and -drive himself in and out. I'll buy another for -you and the girls. And there's that eldest lad -of Keller's—he's going, too, and he can drive -with him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And his dinner?" said my mother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give him it in a basket every day," replied -my father. "And—put plenty in for two. He -can share with young Kellet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That was how I came to go to school with -Abraham Kellet. I used to set off with the -little pony-phaeton at a quarter to eight every -morning and pick Abraham up at the end of the -lane which led to his father's farm. At first he -used to bring his dinner with him, but it soon -became an understood thing that his dinner was -in my basket—we made no pretence, and had -no false ideas about it on either side. We used -to jog into Sicaster with great content, put the -pony and trap up at the King George and go -to school. In winter we used to eat our meat -pasties and our fruit pies and drink our milk -in one of the class-rooms; in summer we spread -our cloth under the trees on a certain knoll in -the play-ground. And afternoon, school over -we jogged home again as easily as we had come.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I have no great recollection of what I did at -school, except that I had the usual healthy -boy's dislike of mere book-learning, and was -always unfeignedly glad when half-past four -struck. Horses and dogs and the open air, -cricket and fishing, and running after the -fox-hounds when they came our way, appealed much -more to me than anything else. I believe -Abraham did most of my home exercises as -we drove to and from school. As for himself -he learned all he could—within certain limits. -He would have nothing of Latin or Greek, but -he slaved like a nigger at French, and during -play-hours was always scheming to get into the -company of the French teacher. He cared -little about history, but a good deal about -geography—French, arithmetic, and, above all, -book-keeping were Abraham's great loves. -His handwriting brought tears of joy and pride -into the eyes of the writing-master; his figures -might have been printed; his specimens of -book-keeping would have done credit to a -chartered accountant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The reason of Abraham's devotion to these -particular subjects was this—he had set his -mind on being a—Draper. Not a small, pettifogging -draper, to deal in cheap lines of goods, -but a draper of the big sort who would call -himself Silk Mercer. There stood in the -centre of the market-place at Sicaster such an -establishment—it was the daily sight of it which -inspired Abraham's dreams. A solid, highly -respectable establishment it was—though it -would be thought old-fashioned now, it was -considered to be something very grand then, -and in its windows were set out the latest -London and Paris fashions. There was a -severely plain sign in black and gold over the -windows under the Royal Arms, with an equally -plain inscription—Paulsford and Tatham, Silk -Mercers and Drapers to H.M. the Queen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's where I mean to be apprenticed, -Poskitt," said Abraham, as we set out one -afternoon across the market-place. "That's the -trade I fancy. No farming for me. Farming! -Slaving all day after a plough and coming -home up to your eyes in clay and as tired as a -dog—and then nothing to show at the year-end! -No, thank you!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's not my father's life," I said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head knowingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your father's a rich man," he said. "I -know. I keep my eyes open. No—I'm going -into that business."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I looked at him, trying to imagine him behind -a counter, selling laces and ribbons. He was -a big, heavy boy, whose clothes were always -too small for him, and it seemed to me even -then that it would look queer to see such big -hands handling delicate things.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's why I give so much attention to -figures and to French, you see, Poskitt," he -said presently. "You can't get on in business -unless you're good at figures and book-keeping, -and if you can speak French you're at a great -advantage over fellows who can't, because you -stand a chance of being sent over to Paris to -see and buy the latest fashions."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give me farming and a good horse and a -good dog and gun!" said I.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said, "but you were born with a -silver spoon in your mouth. I've got my way -to make. I shall make it. I'll be Mayor of -Sicaster some day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The first step towards Abraham's attainment -of that wish came when he left the Grammar -School and was duly apprenticed to -Messrs. Paulsford and Tatham. He was then fourteen, -and because of his big frame, heavy -countenance, and solemn expression, looked older. -I used to see him in the shop sometimes when -I went there with my mother or sisters—he -assumed a tailed coat at a very early age and -put on the true manner with it. His term of -apprenticeship, as was usual in those days, was -seven years—whether his indentures were -cancelled or not I do not know, but he was buyer -to the firm at eighteen and manager when he -was twenty-one. He became known in Sicaster. -His conduct was estimable, and everybody -spoke well of him. Six days of the week found -him at his post from eight to eight, and on -Saturdays till ten; the seventh found him -diligent in attendance on the services of the -Church, and in teaching in the Sunday-school. -He lodged with a highly-respectable widow -lady, the relict of a deceased tradesman, -and he was never known to pay anything -but the most decorous attention to young women.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In this way ten years of Abraham's life -passed—to all outward appearance with -absolute smoothness. The wiseacres of Sicaster, -especially those who congregated in snug -bar-parlours and smoked their pipes and drank their -grog of a winter's evening, wagged their heads -and said that young Kellet must be saving a -pretty penny, and that he well knew what he -was about. And I believe that few people, -either in Sicaster itself, or in the neighbourhood, -were at all surprised when it was suddenly -announced in the </span><em class="italics">Sicaster Sentinel</em><span> that -the old-established business of Messrs. Paulsford -and Tatham had, because of the great age -and failing health of the sole remaining partner, -Mr. Jonas Tatham, been sold to their manager, -Mr. Abraham Kellet, who would in future carry -it on in his own name.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So now the old sign came down and a new -one went up, and Abraham was no longer the -watchful, ubiquitous manager, but the -lynx-eyed omnipresent master. The look of power -came into his eyes and manner; he trod the -streets and crossed the market-place with the -tread of a man who had a stake in the town. -Men who knew him as an apprentice boy were -quick to "sir" him; some, to cap him; he had -shown that he could make money. Everybody -knew now that he was going to write his name -in large letters on the rolls of Sicaster, whereon -there were already a good many names that -were not of inconsiderable note.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then, just as Abraham seemed to have -settled down to the opening stages of a brilliant -commercial career of his own building, a great -calamity happened. It happened just when it -might have been least expected to happen—for -all things seemed auspicious for Abraham's -greatness. He had bought a handsome house -and was furnishing it handsomely. He had -just become engaged to the daughter and only -child of Alderman John Chepstow, who was a -heiress in her own right and might be expected -to inherit her father's considerable fortune in -due time. Fortune seemed to be smiling upon -him in her widest and friendliest fashion. -Suddenly she frowned.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One night the quiet, sleeping streets of -Sicaster were suddenly roused to hitherto -unknown noise and activity. The rushing of feet -on the pavement, the rattle of horses' hoofs on -the cobble-stones, the throwing up of -casements, the inarticulate cries of frightened -people—all these things culminated in one -great cry—</span><em class="italics">Fire</em><span>! And men and women rushing -into the market-place saw that the stately -old shop, Paulsford and Tatham's for sixty -years, and Abraham Kellet's for two, was on -fire from top to bottom, and that high above the -holocaust of flame a thick cloud of black smoke -rose slowly towards the moon-lit sky.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Kellet's, late Paulsford and Tatham's, was -burnt to the ground ere the daylight came. -There was one small fire-engine in the -basement of the Town Hall, which spat at the fire -as a month-old kitten spits at a mastiff, and -when the brigades arrived from Clothford, -twelve miles away in one direction, and Wovefield, -eight in another, there was little but a -few walls. They who saw it, told me that -Abraham Kellet, arriving early on the scene -and seeing the hopelessness of the situation, -took up his stand on the steps of the market-cross, -opposite, and watched his property burn -until the roof fell in. He never uttered a word -all that time, though several spoke to him, and -when all was over, he turned away home. -Then a reporter tugged at his elbow, and -asked him if he was insured. He stared at the -man for a moment as if he was mad; then he -nodded his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—yes!" he answered. "Oh, yes!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Everybody was very sorry for Abraham -Kellet—although he was insured against fire it -seemed to the Sicaster folk that a disaster like -this must cripple his business. But they did -not know Abraham. He seemed to be the only -person who was really unconcerned, and he -immediately developed a condition of -extraordinary activity. There was a large building -in the town which had been built as a circus—before -ten o'clock of the morning after the fire -Abraham had taken this and had sent circulars -round announcing that his business would be -carried on there until his new premises were -built. He added that the temporary premises -would be ready for the reception of customers -in four days. Then he completely -disappeared. People laughed, and said that he -must have lost his reason. How could he have -temporary premises open in four days when -every rag of his stock had perished? How -could he make that old circus, damp and musty, -into a place where people could go shopping?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Abraham was one of those men who -refuse to believe in impossibilities. How he -managed to do it, no one ever knew who was -not actively concerned. But when the -temporary premises were opened the old circus had -been transformed into a sort of bazaar, and -there was such a stock as had never been seen -in the old shop. The whole town crowded -there, and the county families came, and -everybody wanted to congratulate Abraham. But -having seen the temporary premises fairly -going, Abraham was off on another track—he -was busy with architects about the plans of the -new shop. He laid the foundation stone of that -himself, well within a month of the big fire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The new shop was finished and opened just -twelve months later—competent critics said it -was as fine as a London or Paris shop, -excepting, of course, for size. The day after the -opening Abraham married Miss Chepstow, and -indulged himself with a week's holiday. Then -Mr. and Mrs. Kellet settled down in their fine -house to a life of money-making and social -advancement. And Abraham in time had -leisure to devote to municipal affairs and -became a councillor, and then an alderman, and -at last reached the height of his ambition and -saw the mayoral chair and chain and robes -before him—close at hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">I've got my way to make. I shall make it. -I'll be Mayor of Sicaster some day!</em><span>"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>I thought of all those things, as one will, -half-unconsciously, think of memories when -something recalls them, as I rode into Sicaster -that chilly and foggy November morning to -take part in the grand doings which always -mark the election of a new mayor in that -historic town. There would be ample -opportunity for Abraham to display his greatness. -First the election in the Council Chamber in -the Town Hall; then the procession through -the market-place to the parish church; finally, -the mayoral banquet in the evening—Abraham, -I said to myself, thinking of the time when I -used to drive him to school and he shared my -dinner, would (as we say in these parts) be in -full pomp all day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I was chilled with my ride, and when I had -seen my mare stabled at the King George I -turned into the bar-parlour to take a glass of -whisky. There were several townsmen hob-a-nobbing -there, as they always do when there -is a general holiday in the town (and not seldom -when there isn't!), and, of course, all the talk -was of the mayor-elect. And one man, a -tradesman, who as I knew (from sad experience -on market-days) was uncommonly fond of -hearing himself talk, was holding forth on the -grandeur of those careers which begin at the -bottom of the ladder and finish at the top.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The self-made man, gentlemen," he was -saying when I entered, "the self-made man -is the king of men! What is a Peer of the -Realm, gentlemen—yes, I will even go further, -and with all respect say, what is the Sovereign -in comparison with the man who has made -himself out of nothing? Our worthy mayor-elect——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why," said another man, interrupting the -wordy one and espying me, "I believe Mr. Poskitt -there used to drive Abraham into school -in Sicaster here when they were lads together. -Wasn't that so, Mr. Poskitt, sir?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are quite right, sir," I replied, "and -Mr. Kellet used to say in those days that he -would be Mayor of Sicaster."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aye, look there now, gentlemen!" exclaimed -the loquacious one. "That just proves -the argument which——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But I gave no heed to him—as I have said, -I got enough of him on market-days, and my -attention had been attracted to a man, a stranger -(you know how quickly we country-folk always -spot a man who does not belong to us), who -sat in a corner of the bar-parlour, which, as I -should say, you are all very well aware, is a -dimly-lighted room. He sat there, apart from -everybody, a glass on the table before him, a -cigar in his hand—and the cigar had been -lighted, and had gone out, and while the other -men talked he made no attempt to relight it, -but sat quietly listening. He was an oldish -man, well dressed in clothes which were, I -considered, of foreign cut and material; his hair -was grey and rather long and tangled about -his eyes, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat well -pulled down over his brows. "An artist -gentleman," I thought, and then thought no -more about him and finished my whisky and -went out into the market-place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>My invitation was to Abraham's private -house, from which, in accordance with custom, -he was to be escorted by a few private friends -to the Town Hall at eleven o'clock. It was a -fine, indeed a noble house, standing in the -market-place exactly in front of his shop, and -the interior was as grand as the exterior—paintings -and gildings and soft carpets and luxuries -on all sides. Abraham kept a man-servant by -that time, and I was conducted in state up a -fine staircase to the drawing-room, where I -found a goodly company already assembled—the -Vicar, and the Town Clerk, and some of the -aldermen and big-wigs of the place, and -Abraham in his usual—but new—attire of -broadcloth and white linen, and his wife and two -daughters in silks and satins, and everything -very stately. There were rare wines set out -on the tables, but I took a drop more whisky. -And presently Abraham grasped my arm and -led me across to one of the windows overlooking -the market-place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poskitt!" he said, in a low voice, "do -you remember when you used to drive me into -school and share your dinner with me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do," said I.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He waved his hand—a big white hand, with -a fine diamond ring sparkling on it—towards -the shop and then around him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Didn't I say I would be Mayor of Sicaster?" -he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You did," said I.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He put his thumbs in the arm-holes of his -waistcoat—a favourite trick of his when he -stood in the middle of his shop, looking about -him—and spread himself out like a turkey-cock.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And before noon I shall be, Poskitt!" -he said. "The poor lad has become the -great——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He suddenly broke off there, and I saw his -broad countenance, which was usually ruddy, -turn as white as paste. He leaned forward, -staring through the window with eyes that -looked like to start out of his head. And -following his glance I saw, standing on the -opposite side of the market-place, and staring -curiously at Kellet's house, the stranger whom -I had seen a quarter of an hour before in the -bar-parlour of the King George. He looked -from window to window, up, down, and -sauntered carelessly away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Abraham Kellet pulled himself together and -glanced suspiciously at me. There was a -queer look on his face and he tried to -smile—and at the same time he put his hand to his -heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't say anything, Poskitt," he said, -looking round. "A slight spasm—it's nothing. -The excitement, eh, Poskitt? And—it's time -we were making a move."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went back to the middle of the room and -asked his company to join him in a final glass -before setting out for the Town Hall, at the -same time bidding his wife and daughters to -be off to their places in the gallery set apart for -ladies. And I noticed when he helped himself -to a drink that he filled a champagne glass -with brandy, and drank it off at a gulp, and that -his hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his -lips. Others, no doubt, noticed that too, and -set it down to a very natural nervousness. He -laughed, somewhat too boisterously, at an -old-fashioned joke which the Vicar (who was as -fond of his fun as he was of old port) made—that, -too, might have been put down to nervousness. -But I attributed neither the shaking -hand nor the forced laughter to nervousness—it -seemed to me that Abraham Kellet was -frightened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I told you that it was the custom in those -days for the mayor-elect to be accompanied -from his private residence to the Town Hall -by a company of his friends—it was a further -custom that each man walking in this little -informal procession should carry what we then -called a nosegay, and is now-a-days called a -bouquet, of flowers. And so as we filed down -the wide staircase of Abraham Kellet's house, -each of us received at the hands of the -man-servant a fine posy of such autumn blooms as -were procurable. Thus decorated we went out -into the market-place, passing between two -groups of people who had gathered on either -side the entrance to see the mayor-elect leave -his house. They set up a hearty cheer as -Abraham's burly figure came in sight, and that -cheering continued all the way to the Town -Hall, with an occasional blessing thrown in -from old women who hoped, later in the day, -to be sharers in the new mayor's bounty. -Abraham walked through the market-place with -erect head and smiling face, nodding and -bowing right and left, but I, walking just behind -and a little on one side of him, saw that he -kept looking about him as if he were searching -for a face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Town Hall was full when Abraham's -party arrived—full, except for the seats which -they had reserved for the favoured. Those for -our party were in the front row of the -right-hand gallery—when I had got into mine I took -a leisurely survey of the scene. The Town -Hall at Sicaster is a chamber of some size and -pretensions—at one end is a wide and deep -platform, behind which is a sculpture representing -the surrender of Sicaster Castle at the time -of the Civil War, and upon this platform, -arranged in their due order of precedence, were -already assembled the aldermen and councillors -of the borough. They sat in semicircles -round the platform—in the middle space stood -a velvet-covered table on which were set out -the ancient insignia of Sicaster, the mace, the -cap of maintenance, the seal, the Bible. -Behind this table were set three chairs, the one in -the middle being placed on a sort of dais, a -much more imposing one than those which -flanked it. In front of the platform were seats -for the grandees of the town, extending -half-way down the hall, the remainder of which was -open to the public, who had already packed it -to its full extent. The right-hand gallery, in -which I sat, was reserved for friends of -members of the corporation; the opposite gallery for -ladies, and in the front row there, immediately -overlooking the platform, were Mrs. Kellet and -her daughters, proud and beaming. The -gallery at the rear of the hall was, like the lower -half below, thrown open to the public. And -glancing its packed rows over I saw, sitting -immediately over the clock in the centre of the -balustrade, the man whom I had seen in the -King George and afterwards staring at -Abraham Kellet's house.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was sitting with his elbows fixed on the -balustrade in front of him, and his chin propped -in his hands, staring intently at the scene and -the people. It seemed to me (and even twenty -years ago, when I was only a matter of fifty -odd years old, I flattered myself a bit on -reading people's faces!) that he was recognizing, -calling to mind, noting the differences which -time makes. Without moving body or head, -he let his eyes slowly search the galleries on -either side of him just as they were searching -the platform when I first saw him. And I -began to wonder with a vague uneasiness who -this man was and what he did there. Was he -a mere stranger, actuated by curiosity to see an -old English ceremony, or was he there of set -purpose? And why had Abraham Kellet been -moved at sight of him? For I was sure he had.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a bustle and a stir, and the -outgoing Mayor, accompanied by his deputy, the -Town Clerk, and the other officials came on to -the platform, accompanied by Abraham Kellet -and two or three other aldermen, who passed -to their usual seats. I saw Abraham, as he -sat down, glance around the crowded hall with -that glance which I had noticed in the marketplace. -And I saw, too, that he did not see the -man who sat over the clock. But now that -Abraham was there, on the platform, in his -aldermanic robes, the man had no eyes for -anything but him. He watched him as I have -seen a cat watch the hole out of which it knows -a mouse is going to emerge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The proceedings began. As Abraham's -proposer and seconder moved his election, -Abraham seemed to swell out more and more and -his wife's beam assumed a new dignity. All -the civic virtues were his, according to -Alderman Gillworthy; it was he who, as Chairman -of the Watch Committee, had instituted a new -system of clothing for the police; it was he -who, as Chairman of the Waterworks -Committee, had provided Sicaster with pure -drinking water. Mr. Councillor Sparcroft -dealt more with his moral virtues, remarking -that Alderman Gillworthy had exhausted the -list of their friend's municipal triumphs. He -reminded the Council that Abraham was a -shining example of rectitude, and drew the eyes of -the whole assemblage on Mrs. Kellet and her -daughters when he spoke of him feelingly as -a model husband and father. He referred to -him as a Sunday-school teacher of well over -thirty years' standing; as vicar's churchwarden -for over twenty; he was connected with all the -benevolent societies, and the poor knew him. -Then the councillor, who was celebrated for -his oratory, turned to the business side of -Abraham's history and sketched his career in -trenchant sentences and glowing colours. His -humble origin—his early ambitions—his -perseverance—his strenuous endeavours—his -misfortune at a time when all seemed fair—his -mounting, Phoenix-like, from the ashes—his -steady climb up the mountain of success—his -attainment of its topmost height—all these -things were touched on by the councillor, who -wound up a flowery speech with a quotation -from Holy Scripture—"Seest thou a man -diligent in business?—he shall stand before -kings!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was no opposition to Abraham Kellet—the -Council was unanimous. He was duly -elected Mayor of Sicaster—the three hundred -and seventy-fifth since the old town received its -charter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I suppose there had never been such a -moment of emotion in Abraham Kellet's life as -when, duly installed in the mayoral chair, -wearing the mayoral robes, invested with the -mayoral chain, he rose to make his first speech -as chief magistrate of Sicaster. For once the -pomposity of manner which had grown upon -him slipped away; he seemed to revert to a -simple, a more natural self. He looked round -him; he glanced at his wife and daughters; -he caught my eye—it was a full moment before -the applause which had greeted the Mayor's -rising had died away that he could command -himself to speak. When he spoke his first -sentences were nervous and hesitating, but he -gained confidence when he began to refer to -Sparcroft's references to his career as a tradesman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You see before you one," he said, "who -never knew what it was to fear a difficulty, who -refused to believe in obstacles, who always -meant to march on with the times, and who——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He paused there for a second, for he was -troubled with a slight cough that morning, and -in that second a voice, penetrating, cold and -sharp as steel and as merciless as the implacable -avenger's hand when it drives steel home, -rang out across the hall—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">And who burned his shop in order to get the -insurance money!</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I have never had a clear recollection—no, -I never had a clear realization—of what -followed. I remember a sea of white, frightened -faces, a murmur of voices, of seeing the man -behind the clock stretching an accusing finger -across the space between the gallery and the -platform. And I remember Abraham Kellet, -palsy-stricken, gripping the table before him -and staring, staring at the accusing finger and -the man behind it as one might stare at the Evil -Thing. It seemed hours before that second -passed and a cry, more like the cry of a lost -soul than of a man, burst, dryly, hoarsely, from -his lips—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Aynesley! Come back!</em><span>"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then in all his mayoral finery he fell heavily -across the table, and the mayoral chain rattled -against the mace which had been carried before -many an honest predecessor for twice two -hundred years.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>There was no procession to church that day -and no mayoral banquet that night, but Sicaster -had plenty to talk of, and it is a gossip-loving -town. And the shameful story was all true. -The fire of many a long year before was a -clever piece of incendiarism on Abraham -Kellet's part, and his manager Aynesley had -detected his guilt and had been squared by -Abraham, who had subsequently endeavoured, -to put a nice phrase on it, to have him removed. -And Aynesley had sworn revenge, and had -worked and schemed until he, too, was a rich -man—and he had bided his time, waiting to -pull Abraham from the pinnacle of his glory -just as he reached it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vanity of vanities—all is vanity! It is time -for our nightcaps.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">GOOD-NIGHT.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, -<br />BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND -<br />BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="backmatter"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst" id="pg-end-line"><span>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>MR. 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