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diff --git a/45685.txt b/45685.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8b716e6..0000000 --- a/45685.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5817 +0,0 @@ - MR. POSKITT'S NIGHTCAPS - - - - -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 Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license. - - - -Title: Mr. Poskitt's Nightcaps - Stories of a Yorkshire Farmer -Author: J. S. Fletcher -Release Date: May 29, 2014 [EBook #45685] -Language: English -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. POSKITT'S NIGHTCAPS *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - - -[Illustration: Cover art] - - - - - MR. POSKITT'S - NIGHTCAPS - - _STORIES OF A YORKSHIRE FARMER_ - - - RE-TOLD BY - J. S. FLETCHER - - - - TORONTO - THE COPP CLARK CO. LTD. - 1911 - - - - - *INTRODUCTION* - - -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. - -J. S. FLETCHER. - -_London, May_ 1910. - - - - - *CONTENTS* - -CHAP. - -INTRODUCTION - -I THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM -II A STRANGER IN ARCADY -III THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY -IV LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE -V THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS -VI BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS -VII WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID -VIII THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR -IX AN ARCADIAN COURTSHIP -X THE WAY OF THE COMET -XI BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION -XII A MAN OR A MOUSE -XIII A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES -XIV THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE - - - - - *MR. POSKITT'S NIGHTCAPS* - - - - *CHAPTER I* - - *THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM* - - -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. - -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. - -"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!" - -"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." - -Isaac Greaves nibbled more busily at his straw. He lifted the -rakish-looking billycock and scratched his head. - -"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." - -"Aye--sadly neglected," said his brother. "Fine crops of thistles." - -"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?" - -Simpson Greaves shook his head. He, too, nibbled more zealously at his -straw. - -"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." - -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. - -"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." - -"Come on, then," assented Simpson. "It's only another five miles or -so." - -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. - -"I'll leave the talking to you, Isaac," whispered Simpson, who was more -reserved than his twin-brother. "Find out all you can." - -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. - -"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." - -The solicitor looked steadily at both brothers, one after the other. -Then he cleared his throat with a non-committal sort of cough. - -"Yes," he said, "yes. Have you been over the place, Mr. Greaves?" - -"We've been over every bit of it this morning," replied Isaac. - -"Well?" said the solicitor. - -"It's good land--badly neglected," said Isaac. - -"Very badly neglected," added Simpson. - -"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. - -The man of law consulted his delicately polished finger-nails. He -suddenly looked at Isaac with a frank smile. - -"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!" - -The twin-brothers looked at each other. Each shook his head. - -"That's a queer 'un, Isaac!" said Simpson. - -"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. - -The solicitor smiled--not too cheerfully--and spread out his hands. - -"They say the place is--haunted," he answered. - -"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?" - -"Not that I know of," answered Simpson, stolidly. - -The solicitor looked from one to the other and smiled. - -"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." - -Two pairs of blue eyes fixed themselves on the man of law's face and -grew wider and wider; two mouths gradually opened. - -"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." - -"That's where we got the keys of the house," said Isaac. - -"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." - -"With the ghosts?" said Simpson. - -"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." - -The twin-brothers were now thoroughly fascinated. Their eyes invited -more. - -"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." - -Isaac Greaves drew a long breath, stared hard at his brother, and shook -his head. - -"Well, of all the things I ever did hear tell of!" he said. "How might -you account for it, now, sir?" - -The solicitor spread out his hands. - -"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." - -"I expect everybody hereabouts knows this story?" asked Isaac. - -"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!" - -Isaac looked at Simpson. They regarded each other for a full moment in -silence; then Isaac turned to the solicitor. - -"You're asking ten shillings an acre?" he said. - -"I should be glad to get a tenant at that," answered the man of law -wearily. - -"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. - -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. - -"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." - -"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." - -"I wonder if we shall hear or see anything?" said Simpson, meditatively. - -Isaac glanced at a couple of up-to-date fowling-pieces which hung over -the mantel-piece. - -He wagged his head in a self-assured and threatening manner. - -"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." - -"Aye," said Simpson, "but then, according to what some folk say----" - -He paused, rubbing his chin, and his brother stared at him with the -suspicion of a doubt in his mind. - -"Well?" said Isaac, impatiently. "Well?" - -"According to some folk," said Simpson, "there's ghosts as you can't -see. You can only feel 'em." - -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. - -"I believe you're afraid, Sim!" he said. - -Simpson stared just as hard back. - -"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." - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -"All's right," said Isaac, as they finished up at the pigs. "By the -bye, where did Trippett fasten up that new dog?" - -"Back-yard, I told him," answered Simpson, laconically. - -"Let's have a look at him," said Isaac. - -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. - -"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?" - -"He says this is a rare good one with sheep, anyway," said Simpson. - -"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." - -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. - -"Doesn't look much of a plucked one," commented Isaac. "I expect he's -another of Trippett's failures. Come on, Sim." - -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. - -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. - -"It's a quietish spot this, Sim, at night," said Isaac, in a whisper -which was quite involuntary. "I'd no idea----" - -Crash went the lanthorn out of Simpson's hand--that hand, shaking, -convulsive, gripped his brother's arm as if with fingers of steel. - -"My God, Isaac, what's that! that--there!" he gasped. - -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. - -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. - -"Isaac," said Simpson, "there is something!" - -Isaac put his gun aside, shook himself, and tried to laugh. - -"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." - -"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." - -"An owl in the woods," said Isaac. - -"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!" - -"Oh, confound it!" said Isaac. "You'll make me think you're as bad as -the lawyer. Come on, let's go to bed." - -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. - -"Mr. Isaac, sir, Mr. Isaac, will you get up at once, sir!" - -"What's the matter?" growled Isaac. "Is the place on fire?" - -"That new dog, sir, that Trippett bought yesterday--oh, I do wish you'd -come down quick, sir--we're that afraid!" - -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. - -"I heard her," he said. "Come on!" - -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. - -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. - -"There is something, Isaac," he said, in a low voice. "There -is--something!" - -Isaac set his teeth and clenched his hands. - -"I'll see it through, Simpson," he said. "I'll see it through." - -"Aye, but what is it?" said Simpson. - -"Wait," said Isaac. - -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. - -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. - -A few mornings after that Simpson came down to breakfast attired for -travelling. - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -"That's it!" they exclaimed simultaneously. - -"Then whatever it is, it's coming," said the bloodhound's master. "Get -ready for it." - -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. - -Some minutes passed; then the bloodhound stirred and whined. - -"Coming," said the visitor. - -The bloodhound began to growl ominously--in the moonlight they saw him -bristle. - -"Close by," said his master. - -In the coppice in front of them they heard the faintest rustling sound -as of a body being trailed over dried leaves. Then---- - -"The eyes!" whispered Simpson. "Look--there!" - -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. - -"Steady!" whispered the visitor. "It'll get up--it's wondering which -side to go at him from. Wait till I give the word." - -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. - -"Now!" - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -"Why didn't you tell us Maidment had a dog?" growled Isaac. "I never -heard of it." - -"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?" - -"That," said the bloodhound's master, "is just what we are going to find -out." - -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. - -"There's a cave in there," said the bloodhound's master. "Give me the -light--I'm going in." - -"So shall I, then," said Isaac, stoutly. - -"And I," said Simpson. - -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. - -"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." - - - - - *CHAPTER II* - - *A STRANGER IN ARCADY* - - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -"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!" - -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 habitues -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. - -"Whose pig's that there?" he said, scratching his ear. "I don't -rek'lect seein' that pig before, nowhere." - -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. - -"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." - -"It'll be a poorish pig, then!" remarked the other man. "But Jack were -never much of a hand at pig-feeding." - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"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?" - -"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." - -"Aw, indeed!" remarked the pinder. "An' I wonder how she'd like -breaking off her dinner to put pigs in pound. Howsumever----" - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"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?" - -"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." - -Miss Lavinia looked more closely and saw the fugitive. - -"Dear me!" she said. "It must be hungry, Burton. Whose animal is it?" - -"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." - -"And who is going to feed it in the pound?" asked Miss Lavinia. - -Burton shook his head. He was much more concerned about feeding himself -than about feeding the pig. - -"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." - -"The poor animal needs food and rest," said Miss Lavinia with decision. -She turned and called across her lawn. "Mitchell--come here," she -commanded. - -A man who was obviously a gardener approached, looking his curiosity. -Miss Lavinia indicated the group in the road below the holly-hedge. - -"Mitchell," she said, "isn't there a piggery in the stable-yard?" - -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! - -"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." - -"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." - -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. - -"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." - -"You don't know what direction he came from?" asked Mitchell, anxiously. - -"Not I!" answered the pinder. "What for?" - -"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----" - -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 protege -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. - -"I'm glad to see you have made the poor thing so comfortable, Mitchell," -said Miss Lavinia. "Of course, you understand what pigs require?" - -"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." - -"Don't you think this is a very thin pig, Mitchell?" asked the mistress. - -"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." - -"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?" - -"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. - -"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?" - -Mitchell eyed the pig over. His glance was expressive. - -"I think he must have been sleeping out, ma'am," he replied. "When an -animal's homeless it gets neglected shocking." - -"Couldn't you wash him, Mitchell?" suggested Miss Lavinia. "I'm sure it -would do him good." - -Mitchell stroked his chin. - -"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!" - -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. - -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-- - -"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." - -Mitchell stroked his chin. He had different ideas--of his own. - -"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." - -"Very good, Mitchell," agreed Miss Lavinia. Then she added, -half-wistfully, "I hope his owner will be glad to have him back." - -"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." - -"And so beautifully clean, Mitchell, thanks to you," said Miss Lavinia. - -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. - -"Blest if I don't make something out of you yet, my fine fellow!" he -said. - -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. - -"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!" - -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. - -"So you have come about the pig which I found!" said Miss Lavinia -pleasantly. "You must have been very sorry to lose it." - -The caller elevated his eyes to the ceiling, examined it carefully, and -then contemplated the inside of his old hat. - -"I were sorry, mum," he said. "It were a vallyble animal, that there, -mum--it's a well-bred 'un." - -"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." - -The man scratched his head, and then shook it. - -"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." - -"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." - -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. - -"Yes, mum!" he said with conviction. "That's my pig--I know it as well -as I know my own wife." - -"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?" - -"A goodish few on 'em, mum," replied the man. - -"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. - -The red-haired person once more scratched his head. - -"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?" - -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. - -"Would you consider ten pounds a suitable sum?" she asked timidly. - -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. - -"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!" - -"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." - -"I'm sure of that, mum," said the seller. "And very pretty eating you'll -find him when his time comes." - -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. - -The red-haired man winked knowingly at the gardener. - -"Well?" said Mitchell. - -"All right," answered the other. He winked again. - -Mitchell began to look uneasy. - -"Where's the pig?" he asked. - -"Where I found it," answered the red-haired man. "In the sty." - -"Why didn't you bring it away?" asked Mitchell. "You said you would." - -The red-haired man again winked and smiled widely. - -"I've sold it," he said. "Sold it to your missis. For ten pounds." - -He slapped his pocket and Mitchell heard the sovereigns jingle. He -almost fell out of his seat. - -"Sold it!--to our missis!--for ten pounds!" he exclaimed. "You--why, it -weren't yours to sell!" - -"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." - -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. - - - - - *CHAPTER III* - - *THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY* - - - - I - - -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. - -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---- - -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. - -"Share and share alike," he said. "I ask no fairer, my lass." - -"Then," she answered, "if it's like that, you must try to buy Stephen -out, for he'll never do any good." - -"Ah, that's more like it!" said Michael. - -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. - -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. - -"What is it, Eliza Kate?" demanded Miriam. - -The girl pressed her hand to her side. - -"It's--th'--owd--maister!" she panted. "Margaret Burton thinks he's -bad--a stroke. An' will you please to go quick." - -"Look to the child," said Miriam, without a glance at him herself. "And -bring him back with you." - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -"Have you sent for the doctor?" asked Miriam, going up to the old man -and taking his hand. - -"Aye, one o' th' mill lads has gone post haste on th' owd pony," -answered the housekeeper. "But I'm afeard----" - -Tobias opened his eyes, and, seeing Miriam, looked recognition. His -grey lips moved. - -"'Tisn' a stroke!" he whispered faintly. "It's th' end. Miriam, I want -to say--summat to thee, my lass." - -Miriam understood that he had something which he wished to say to her -alone, and she motioned the housekeeper out of the living-room. - -"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!" - -"Yes, father?" - -"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." - -Miriam's heart leapt once and seemed to stand still; a sudden swelling -seized her throat. - -"Tell Michael?" she said. "Yes, father." - -"Miriam ... hearken. Michael--he weren't--he weren't born in wedlock!" - -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. - -"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." - -"Stephen takes all!" she repeated in a dull voice. - -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. - -"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----" - -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----" - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -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. - - - - II - - -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. - -"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." - -"There is such a lot to think of just now," she replied evasively. - -Michael, man-like, mistook her meaning. - -"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." - -"The lawyer!" exclaimed Miriam. "What lawyer?" - -"What lawyer? Why, Mr. Brooke, o' Sicaster, to be sure," answered -Michael. "Who else?" - -"What's he coming for?" asked Miriam. - -"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!" - -"Is there a will?" she asked. - -"Made five years ago, Mr. Brooke said this afternoon," he replied. - -"Do you know what's in it?" she asked. - -Michael laughed--laughed loudly. - -"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." - -"I didn't know," she said listlessly. - -"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." - -"There'll not be too much work, Michael," she answered. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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.... - -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. - -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. - -"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. - -"On the contrary, my friend," he said. "And--it is your father's will." - -"Father!" sneered Stephen's wife's mother. "A nice father to----" - -Michael rose with a gesture that brought silence. - -"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." - -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. - -"What do you want, you old hag?" he said, with another curse. "Get -out!" - -But the old woman stood--her bony fingers still on his arm. - -"Hester Stivven!" she said. "Mester Stivven! Has he--has he left me -owt?" - -Stephen burst into a harsh laugh and re-filled his glass. - -"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!" - -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. - -"Mester Stivven," she said, coaxingly, "come wi' me--I ha' summat to -tell you. Come!" - -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. - -"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?" - -"Twelve years before that, sir." - -"Twelve years before that--and in my mother's confidence," Stephen -continued. - -"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!" - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -"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." - -In the silence that followed Miriam heard the beating of Michael's -heart. He rose slowly, staring about him from one to the other. - -"It's not--true?" he said questioningly. "It's----" - -Miriam rose at his side and laid both hands on his arm. - -"It's true, Michael," she said. "It's true. Your father told me ten -minutes before he died." - -Michael looked down at her, and suddenly put his arm round her and -kissed her. - -"Come away, Miriam," he said, as if the others were shadows. "Come -away. Let's go home--the child'll be wanting us." - - - - - *CHAPTER IV* - - *LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE* - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -"No, m'm," said Martha Mary, "but there's Jane Pockett coming up the -garden just now." - -"Then we shall hear something or other," said Miss Partridge, who knew -Mrs. Pockett's characteristics; "Jane has always some news." - -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. - -"Hev' yer heerd the noos?" she said. - -"What news, Jane?" asked Miss Partridge. - -Mrs. Pockett selected a mint humbug from a bottle on the counter and -began to suck it. - -"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?" - -Miss Partridge's head bent over her knitting. - -"Yes," she said. - -"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?" - -"It's very sad," said Miss Partridge; "very sad." - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"Going to invest it, Miss Partridge?" said the cashier, smiling. - -"Y-yes," answered Miss Partridge. "Y-yes, sir--to invest it." - -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. - -"My dear madam," he exclaimed. "This is giving away all you possess." - -"No," interrupted Miss Partridge. "I have the shop." - -"Well, at any rate, take the place as security," began the solicitor; -"and----" - -"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." - -"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." - -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. - - - - - *CHAPTER V* - - *THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS* - - -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. - -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. - -"Young man," she said, "can you tell me if Mr. Watkin Vavasower's office -is anywhere about here?" - -"Mr. Vavasore, mum?--third floor, mum--just gone up, has Mr. Vavasore," -replied the lift-boy. - -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. - -"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----" - -"Step inside, mum," said the lift-boy. - -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. - -"Is it safe?" she said. - -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. - -"Well, I'm sure----" she began. - -"Second door on the left, mum," said the boy, and sank from view. - -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." - -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. - -"Is Mr. Watkin Vavasower in?" inquired the caller. - -The smart young lady rose from her desk with an air of condescending -patience. - -"What name, madam?" she asked. - -The caller hesitated. - -"Well, if it's agreeable," she said, "I'd rather not give my name to -anybody but the gentleman himself, though of course if----" - -"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 _Married_, 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. - -"And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you, my dear madam?" Mr. -Vavasour inquired blandly. - -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. - -"Of course," she said, "I am addressing Mr. Watkin Vavasower, the -matrimonial agent? The Mr. Vavasower as advertises in the newspapers?" - -"Just so, madam, just so," replied Mr. Vavasour in soothing tones. "I -am that individual. And whom have I the pleasure of receiving?" - -"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?" - -Mr. Vavasour swept a jewelled hand over his high forehead. - -"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!" - -"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." - -Mr. Vavasour made a lugubrious face, shook his head, and looked further -inquiries. - -"'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." - -Mr. Vavasour spread out fat hands. - -"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----" - -Mrs. Pringle favoured him with a knowing look. - -"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." - -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. - -"Who are the members of the family, ma'am?" he inquired. - -Mrs. Pringle looked him squarely in the face. - -"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----" - -"To be sure, ma'am, to be sure!" said Mr. Vavasour comprehendingly. "Of -course, you and your son have means that would justify----" - -"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." - -"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----" - -"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." - -Mr. Vavasour inclined his head. He was interested. - -"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." - -Mr. Vavasour, who had been thinking hard, rubbed his hands. - -"And the terms, my clear madam?" he said. "Let us consider the terms on -which we shall conduct this little matter. Now----" - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"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?" - -"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?" - -"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!" - -"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." - -"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." - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"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!" - -"Atteridge," said Mrs. Pringle's supposed niece. "But call me Poppy, -Mr. Jarvis--I shall feel more at home." - -"Poppy!" chuckled Mr. Jarvis. "Ecod, and a rare pretty poppy an' all! -Deary me--deary me!" - -"The Atteridges was always a good-looking family," said Mrs. Pringle. - -"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----" - -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. - -"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." - -"Happen I might if I'd anybody to play on it," said Mr. Jarvis, with a -sly look. - -"Oh, you could find lots of people to play on it," said Miss Atteridge. - -When the guest had retired Mr. Jarvis mixed his toddy, and in accordance -with custom, handed a glass to Mrs. Pringle. - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"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!" - -"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!" - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -"As if you ever was in Canada!" said Mrs. Pringle, sniffing. - -Miss Atteridge looked at her calmly and coldly. - -"I lived in Canada for three years," she answered. - -"A gal as goes to a agent to find a husband!" said Mrs. Pringle. - -"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." - -"And what did you come here for?" demanded Mrs. Pringle. - -Miss Atteridge looked at her interlocutor with a still colder glance. - -"Fun!" she said. - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -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 _Mark Lane Express_; Mrs. Pringle was in -the front kitchen superintending the cooking of a couple of stuffed -ducks. To her John William approached with questioning eyes. - -"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." - -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. - -"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." - -John William approached the new piano. - -"It's locked," he said, examining the lid of the keyboard. "Where's the -key?" - -Mr. Jarvis looked over the top of the _Mark Lane Express_. - -"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'!" - -Then John William sat down, and his mother laid the table in silence. - - - - - *CHAPTER VI* - - *BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS* - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"Have you a job of work that you could give a man, sir?" he asked. - -The rosy-faced farmer scowled. - -"No," he said. - -The man in the road hesitated. - -"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." - -"Aye, I dare say you would," said the farmer, scornfully. "I've heard -that tale before. Be off--the road's your place." - -The derelict sighed, turned away, half-turned again. He looked at the -well-fed countenance above him with a species of appealing sorrow. - -"I haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday morning," he said, and -turned again. - -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. - -"Daddy, shall I give the poor man my money-box? 'Cause it isn't nice to -be hungry. Shall I, daddy?" - -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. - -"Here, you!" - -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. - -"Come here," said the farmer. - -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. - -"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." - -The derelict smiled in spite of his hunger and weariness. - -"I've neither pipe nor tobacco, sir," he said. "I wish I had. But if I -had I'd keep my word to you." - -The farmer stared at him fixedly for a moment; then he pointed to the -gate. - -"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. - -"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." - -Then he picked up the child, who had clung to his coat, and lifting her -on to his shoulder, went back to the garden. - -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. - -The farmer came in with a clay pipe filled with tobacco. - -"Here," he said, "you can sit in the yard and smoke that. And then I'll -show you where you can sleep." - -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. - -"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." - -"Give him a good breakfast, then," said the farmer. - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"You're no idler!" he said, repeating the maid's words. "I'll give you -a better job than that to-morrow." - -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. - -Nor did the farmer go free of gibe and jest. - -"So ye've taken to hiring tramp-labour, I hear," said his great rival in -the village. "Get it dirt cheap, I expect?" - -"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?" - -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. - -"I've come to trust you fully," he said. "Look after the child till -to-morrow." - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"Lawk-a-massy!" said Rachel. "Why, you must ha' had bairns of your -own!" - -"A long time ago," answered the man. "A very long time ago." - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"You were a Man!" he said. "You were a real Man!" - -And then he suddenly remembered that he had never known the Man's name. - - - - - *CHAPTER VII* - - *WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID* - - -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. - -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. - -Matthew rubbed his hands. - -"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." - -"I'm afraid she's rather expensive, love," murmured Mrs. Dennison. - -"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." - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"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." - -Matthew scratched his head. - -"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?" - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"Here's a lady inquiring for you, sir," he said. - -The lady came forward with a smile and held out her hand. - -"Are you Mr. Dennison?" she said. "I am Miss Durrant." - -William Henry's first instinct was to open his mouth cavernously--his -second to remove his hat. - -"How do you do?" he said, falteringly. "I--I was looking about for -you." - -"But of course you wouldn't know me," she said. "I was looking for -you." - -"I've got a dog-cart outside," said William Henry. "Here, Jenkinson, -bring this lady's things to my trap." - -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. - -"I'm quite looking forward to seeing your dairy, Mr. Dennison," said -Miss Durrant. "It must be quite a model from your description." - -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. - -"Lord bless you!" he said. "It isn't my dairy--I know nothing about -dairying. It's father's." - -Miss Durrant laughed merrily. - -"Oh, I see!" she said. "You are Mr. Dennison's son. What shall I call -you, then?" - -"My name is William Henry Dennison," he replied. - -"And what do you do, Mr. William?" she asked. - -"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?" - -"I love anything about a farm," she answered. - -"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." - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"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!" - -"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." - -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. - -"She's a regular clinker, is that lass!" he exclaimed to his wife and -son. "I've found a perfect treasure." - -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. - -"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." - -"Doesn't seem to be very much cast down," said Matthew. "The lass is -light-hearted enough. But ye women always are fanciful." - -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. - -"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." - -"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." - -"Well, ye couldn't have a better instructress," said Matthew. "She can -show you something you never saw before, can Miss Durrant." - -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. - -"Matthew," she said, when William Henry and Miss Durrant had departed, -"that boy's smitten with Miss Durrant. He's making up to her." - -Matthew, who was disposed to a peaceful nap, snorted incredulity. - -"Ye women take such fancies into your heads," he said. "I've seen -naught." - -"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----" - -"And uncommon well she plays it, too!" grunted Matthew. - -"--and now he's taken her off to church!" concluded Mrs. Dennison. -"He's smitten, Matthew, he's smitten!" - -Matthew stirred uneasily in his chair. - -"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!" - -"Well, it all went on and ended in the proper way," said his wife, -sharply. "But how do you know where this'll end?" - -"I didn't know that aught had begun," said Matthew. - -Mrs. Dennison, who was reading what she called a Sunday book, took off -her spectacles and closed the book with a snap. - -"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!" - -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. - -"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." - -"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." - -Matthew slowly rose from his chair. - -"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!" - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -"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----" - -And at that moment the parlour door opened and William Henry walked in. - -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. - -"It's all right, Polly," he said. "It's all right! See!" - -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. - -"Mercy upon us, William Henry Dennison, what's the meaning of this?" -exclaimed William Henry's mother. "What does it mean?" - -William Henry picked up the letter. - -"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----" - -With that William Henry went out of the room in a meaning silence. - -"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." - -Polly jumped up and kissed him. Then she kissed Mrs. Dennison. - -"But, oh, Polly, Polly!" said Mrs. Dennison. "I meant you to marry -William Henry!" - -"But I don't love William Henry--in that way, aunt," replied Polly. -"And besides, William Henry loves----" - -And just then William Henry made a second dramatic appearance, holding -himself very stiffly and straight, and leading in Miss Durrant. - -"Father and mother," he said, "this lady's going to be your daughter." - - -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. - - - - - *CHAPTER VIII* - - *THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR* - - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"At your mercy," he repeated softly. "Ab-so-lute-ly at your mercy." - -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. - -"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?" - -Mr. Postlethwaite smiled and bowed. - -"You apprehend my meaning exactly, my dear sir," he said blandly. "Ruin -is the word." - -"It's not a very nice word to hear or to use in connection with any -man," said Martin Nelthorp. - -Mr. Postlethwaite coughed. But the smile remained round his -clean-shaven lips. - -"The ruin of most men, my dear friend," he said oracularly, "is brought -about by themselves." - -"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?" - -Mr. Postlethwaite fingered his papers and turned to some memoranda. He -scribbled certain figures on a scrap of paper and faced his client. - -"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." - -"You mean that I can sell him up?" said Martin Nelthorp bluntly. - -"Lock, stock, and barrel!" replied Mr. Postlethwaite. - -Martin Nelthorp rubbed his chin. - -"It's no very nice thing to ruin a man--and his family with him," he -remarked. - -Mr. Postlethwaite again coughed. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses -and affected to exercise great care in polishing them. - -"Is there any particular reason why you should consider Sutton before -considering yourself?" he said softly. - -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. - -"No!" he said. "That there isn't! On the contrary----" - -"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!" - -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. - -"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?" - -"He hasn't an idea of it, my dear sir," answered the solicitor. - -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. - -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--_An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth_! Again -he said to himself--Why not, now that the hour and the opportunity had -come? - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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? _An eye for an eye, a -tooth for a tooth...._ - -It never occurred to him to ask himself if there were any children who -might be affected. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _Mark -Lane Express_, 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. - -"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----" - -"What is it, my lad?" asked the elder man. "Speak out--I was only just -studying about a business matter--it's naught." - -Young Martin's diffidence increased. He shuffled his feet, became very -red, and opened and shut his mouth several times before he could speak. - -"It's like this," he said at last. "If you've no objection I should -like to get married." - -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. - -"Married!" he exclaimed. "Why, my lad--goodness be on us, you're naught -but a youngster yet!" - -"I'm twenty-six, uncle," said Young Martin. - -"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?" - -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. - -"Lavinia Sutton!" - -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. - -"Lavinia Sutton?" he said hoarsely. "What--Sutton of the mill?" - -"Yes," answered Young Martin. Then he added in a firm voice: "She's a -good girl, Uncle Martin, and we love each other true." - -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. - -"He's a poor man, is Sutton, my lad," he said. - -"I know that," said Young Martin stoutly. "But it's Lavinia I want--not -aught from him." - -"He's in a very bad way indeed," remarked the elder man. "Very bad." - -Young Martin made no reply. Old Martin took a long pull at the contents -of his glass and sat down. - -"I didn't know Sutton had children," he said absently. - -"There's only Lavinia," said his nephew. - -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. - -"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!" - -Young Martin knew all about it, but he was not going to say that he did. - -"That was not Lavinia's fault, uncle," he said softly. "Lavinia--she -wouldn't wrong anybody." - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"He shan't have her!" he said. "He shan't have her! A good girl!--what -good could come of stock like that?" - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -Then, before his nephew could find his tongue, Martin Nelthorp strode -over to the kitchen door and called lustily for his breakfast. - - - - - *CHAPTER IX* - - *AN ARCADIAN COURTSHIP* - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -Into this apparent Paradise suddenly entered a serpent. - -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. - -"Why, Susan Kate!" said I. "What is the matter?" - -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. - -"I'm afraid, Susan Kate," said I, with all the dignified gravity of -middle age, "I'm afraid you are in trouble." - -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. - -"It's all that there Lydia Lightowler!" she burst out, with the -suddenness of an April shower. "A nasty, spiteful Thing!" - -I drew my chair to the table. - -"And who is Lydia Lightowler, Susan Kate?" I inquired. - -Susan Kate snorted instead of sniffing. - -"She's the new girl at the Spinney Farm," she answered. - -"Oh!" I said. "I didn't know they had a new girl at the Spinney Farm. -Where's Rebecca got to?" - -"'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!" - -"Ah!" I said. "And what has Lydia Lightowler done, Susan Kate?" - -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. - -"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." - -"Quite so, quite so, Susan Kate," I said. "I quite appreciate your -meaning. So John Willie----" - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"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!" - -"Dear, dear, dear!" said I. "This, Susan Kate, is getting serious." - -"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!" - -"John William's conduct is most extraordinary," I said. "It is--yes, -Susan Kate, it is reprehensible. Reprehensible!" - -Susan Kate looked at me half suspiciously. - -"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!" - -Then Susan Kate retired, presumably to weep some more tears. But next -morning she was all pride again. - -"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." - -"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?" - -"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!" - -"Shall you go to the Flower Show, Susan Kate?" I inquired. - -"No, I shan't!" snapped out Susan Kate. "They can have it to themselves, -and then they'll happen to be suited." - -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. - -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. - -"I suppose you'll be going to the Flower Show to-morrow?" I said. - -Mr. Johnson shook his head over his whiplash. - -"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." - -"Look here," I said, "would you like to earn half-a-sovereign?" - -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. - -"How?" he said, and scratched his right ear. - -"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." - -Mr. Johnson scratched his ear again. - -"Happen Susan Kate won't go," he said, dubiously. "I've never walked -her out anywheres." - -"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." - -Mr. Johnson nodded his head. - -"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!" - -"Well?" I replied. - -"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." - -"Susan Kate will quite understand matters," I said. - -"Well, of course ten shilling is ten shilling," murmured Mr. Johnson. -"Otherwise I should have stopped at home." - -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. - -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. - -"You are soon home again," I remarked. - -"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." - -"And where is Susan Kate?" I inquired. - -Mr. Johnson took off the too-small billycock and scratched his head. - -"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." - -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. - -That, of course, accounted for the extraordinary happiness in Susan -Kate's face when she laid the cloth for supper. - - - - - *CHAPTER X* - - *THE WAY OF THE COMET* - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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-- - -"This is very serious news about this comet, Mr. Flitcroft." - -"What news?" asked Bartholomew. - -"Why about this comet that's hastening towards us," replied Mr. Pond. - -"What's a comet?" inquired Bartholomew. - -"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!" - -"How big is it?" asked Bartholomew. - -"Much bigger than what our earth is, Mr. Flitcroft," answered the -school-master. "Its tail is twenty millions of miles long." - -"And you say it's coming here?" continued Bartholomew. - -"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----" - -Mr. Pond finished with an expressive "Ah!" and Bartholomew gaped at him. - -"Is it all true?" he asked. "Is it in the newspapers?" - -"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!" - -"What'll happen?" asked Bartholomew. - -"We shall all be asphyxiated--smothered!" answered Mr. Pond, solemnly. -"We shall be withered up like chaff by fierce fire." - -When Mr. Pond had departed Bartholomew took up the _Yorkshire Post_, 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. - -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. - -"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?" - -"What comet?" asked the amazed widow. - -"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." - -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. - -"It's a very serious thing," he said. "I think we must put matters off. -The comet 'll be here soon." - -"I suppose you're going to look out for it?" said Mrs. Collinson in a -constrained voice. - -"Why, me and Mr. Pond, our school-master, has bought a telescope," -replied Bartholomew, grandly. "Yes, we propose to make what they call -observations." - -"I'm sure you couldn't be better employed," remarked Mrs. Collinson. - -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. - -"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." - -"But what shall I do?" cried Bartholomew, scratching his ear. - -"Do?" said Mrs. Collinson. "You can do what your precious comet 'll do. -Go back where you came from!" - - - - - *CHAPTER XI* - - *BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION* - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"He's after a woman!" - -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. - -"Who can she be?" he wondered, and his consternation was so great that -he let his cigar go out and his grog turn cold. - -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. - -"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." - -Matthew shook his head sadly. Something was coming. - -"Matrimony, Thomas," he answered feebly, "matrimony, now, is a thing -that never occurred to me." - -Thomas waved his hand comprehendingly. - -"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." - -Matthew took a moody sip of the contents of his glass. - -"Was you thinking of that state of life yourself, Thomas?" he inquired. - -Thomas grew in grandeur and importance until he looked like a large -frog. - -"I was about to make the announcement, Matthew," he said, "the important -announcement that I am about to lead to the altar Mrs. Walkinshaw----" - -"What, her of the Dusty Miller!" exclaimed Matthew, naming a well-known -hostelry in the market-town. - -"Mrs. Walkinshaw--Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as will be--certainly is -proprietor of that house, Matthew," replied Thomas. "Yes, she is!" - -"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." - -"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." - -"And there's no encumbrances, I think," remarked Matthew. - -"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." - -Matthew glanced about him once more and once more sighed. - -"Well, of course, it'll make a difference," he began. - -Thomas raised a deprecatory hand. - -"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." - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -"What's the matter, Thomas?" inquired the younger twin. - -Thomas groaned still more loudly. - -"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." - -"Then she's been a-deceiving of you, Thomas?" asked Matthew. - -"Deceived me cruel," sighed Thomas. "I shall never believe in that sex -again." - -Matthew blew out a few spirals of blue smoke before he asked a further -question. - -"I could hope," he said at last, "I could hope, Thomas, that it were not -on the money question?" - -Thomas shook his head dolefully, afterwards replenishing his glass. - -"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!" - -"Well?" asked Matthew, breathlessly. - -Thomas spread out his hands with a despairing gesture. - -"All passes from her if she marries again!" he said tersely. - -"Is it true?" inquired Matthew. - -"Told me so herself--this very evening," answered Thomas. - -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. - -"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?" - -"I have been cruel deceived," said Thomas. - -"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?" - -"No-o!" answered Thomas. - -"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. - -Thomas groaned. - -"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." - -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. - -"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." - -He drew a letter from his breast-pocket, and read it slowly through. -This is what he read-- - - -"PRIVATE -10, _Market Place, Cornborough_, -_May_ 11, 18--. - -"MR. MATTHEW POGMORE. - -"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 L15,237 odd; the net, L14,956 odd. In addition to this -the freehold, good-will, stock and furniture of the Dusty Miller was -also left to the widow. - -"I am, dear sir, yours faithfully, - "SAMUEL SHARPE." - - -Matthew folded this epistle carefully in its original folds and restored -it to his pocket, still smiling. - -"Ah!" he murmured. "What a thing it is to have a little knowledge and -to know how to take advantage of it!" - -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. - -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. - -"And pray what's become of Thomas these days?" she inquired, when -Matthew was comfortably placed in the cosiest chair. - -Matthew shook his head. His manner was mysterious. - -"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." - -"To Scarborough!" exclaimed Mrs. Walkinshaw. "What for?" - -Matthew sighed and then gave her an expressive look. - -"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." - -Mrs. Walkinshaw, who had listened to this with eyes which grew wider and -wider, flung down her fancy sewing in a pet. - -"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!" - -"We're all imperfect, ma'am," remarked Matthew. "Only some of us is -less so." - -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. - - -"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, - -"MATTHEW POGMORE. - -"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. - -"P.S. again.--Which, naturally, it has done." - - -After this Mr. Thomas Pogmore concluded to go home and lead the life of -a hermit amongst his sheep and cattle. - - - - - *CHAPTER XII* - - *A MAN OR A MOUSE* - - - PROLOGUE - - -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)-- - -"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 _I'll_ gi' thee -better advice nor onnybody 'at tha'll ever find--'cause I know! Listen -to me-- - -"(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! -Noae man's a bad 'un, soae long as ye get on t' reight side on him. An' -it's yer own fault, mind yer, if ye doaen't. - -"(ii.) Doaen'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. Doaen'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. - -"(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." - - - - I - - -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-- - - "_Every man is the maker of his own fortune._" - -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. - -Now we will begin with him. - - - - II - - -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. - -"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?" - -"Go home," said I. - -He was eating one of his usual jam-tarts at the time, and he looked at -me sideways over a sticky edge of it. - -"Poskitt--what's your father?" he asked. - -"My father's a farmer--but it's our own land," said I. - -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. - -"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----" - -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. - -"When I leave school," he resumed, "I mean to go into business. Now, -what do you think of business, Poskitt?" - -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. - -"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?" - -"How do you know?" I said, rather angrily. - -"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." - -"How do you get your tarts and your apples, then?" I asked. - -He gave me one more of those queer glances - -"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?" - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"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?" - -I don't think I made any answer then. - -"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 _want_. 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?" - -"Go and be a butcher!" I answered. "Like your father." - -He shook his head in mild and deprecating fashion. - -"I don't like the smell of meat," he said. "No--I shall take up some -other line." - -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. - - - - III - - -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. - -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 _en famille_ 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. - -"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. - -"When he feels inclined, and means it," said I. - -"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?" - -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. - -"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." - -"That's the very wisest thing you can do," I said. "But you'd better -tell the young lady so." - -"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." - -"Why don't you go and find a rich heiress, then?" I asked. - -"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." - - - - IV - - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"And where's the young lady of the early days?" I asked him. - -He stroked his whiskers and shook his head. - -"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." - -"Is she married?" I asked. - -"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." - - - - V - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - - - - VI - - -"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!" - -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. - -And so I come back to what my old friend said in his bluff Yorkshire -fashion-- - -"Doaen'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." - -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. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIII* - - *A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES* - - -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. - -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. - -"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----" - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -"The very latest, I assure you, ma'am," said their vendor. - -Mrs. Maidment fanned herself and gazed at the glory before her. - -"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." - -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. - -"Oh, my!" exclaimed Mary Ellen, lifting up her hands. "What a lot of -beautiful books!" - -"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?" - -"I like a good piece," answered Mary Ellen. - -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. - -"'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." - -"I learnt it once at school," said Mary Ellen. "Have you got any tales?" - -"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." - -"Is there any love in it?" asked Mary Ellen. - -"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." - -"That, ma'am, is the only sort I carry," said the book-proprietor. -"Now, miss, just let me show you----" - -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.... - -"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." - -"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." - -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. - -"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!" - -Mary Ellen exclaimed joyfully--and the old books went into a sack. - - -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. - -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! - -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. - -"This is a queer old book which I found in my cupboard, Mrs. Maidment," -he said. "May I look at it?" - -"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. - -"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!" - -Then the Summer Boarder went out into the garden and faced a big Moral -Problem. - - - - - *CHAPTER XIV* - - *THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE* - - - I - - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -"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." - -"And his dinner?" said my mother. - -"Give him it in a basket every day," replied my father. "And--put -plenty in for two. He can share with young Kellet." - -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. - -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. - -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. - -"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!" - -"That's not my father's life," I said. - -He shook his head knowingly. - -"Your father's a rich man," he said. "I know. I keep my eyes open. -No--I'm going into that business." - -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. - -"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." - -"Give me farming and a good horse and a good dog and gun!" said I. - -"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." - -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. - -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 _Sicaster Sentinel_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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--_Fire_! 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. - -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. - -"Yes--yes!" he answered. "Oh, yes!" - -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? - -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. - -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. - -"_I've got my way to make. I shall make it. I'll be Mayor of Sicaster -some day!_" - - - - II - - -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. - -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. - -"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----" - -"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?" - -"You are quite right, sir," I replied, "and Mr. Kellet used to say in -those days that he would be Mayor of Sicaster." - -"Aye, look there now, gentlemen!" exclaimed the loquacious one. "That -just proves the argument which----" - -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. - -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. - -"Poskitt!" he said, in a low voice, "do you remember when you used to -drive me into school and share your dinner with me?" - -"I do," said I. - -He waved his hand--a big white hand, with a fine diamond ring sparkling -on it--towards the shop and then around him. - -"Didn't I say I would be Mayor of Sicaster?" he said. - -"You did," said I. - -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. - -"And before noon I shall be, Poskitt!" he said. "The poor lad has -become the great----" - -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. - -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. - -"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." - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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!" - -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. - -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. - -"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----" - -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-- - -"_And who burned his shop in order to get the insurance money!_" - -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-- - -"_Aynesley! Come back!_" - -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. - - -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. - -Vanity of vanities--all is vanity! It is time for our nightcaps. - - - - - GOOD-NIGHT. - - - - - RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, - BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND - BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. 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