“An' wassist tha doin' drest oop in this foinery? Wheer gettist thee
that goawn? Thissen, or thy maester? Nowt even a napron, fit for thy
wark as maaid at serviss; an' parson a gettin' tha plaace at Hall! So
thou'lt be high and moity will tha! thou'lt not walk wi' maaids, but
traipse by thissen like a slut in the toon--dang tha!”
Although it was plain to Sadie that the old man, in his wandering
perception, had mistaken her for his granddaughter in service at the
Priory, there was still enough rudeness in his speech for her to have
resented it. But, strange to say, there was a kind of authority in it
that touched her with an uneasiness and repulsion that was stronger than
any other feeling. “I think you have mistaken me for some one else,”
she said hurriedly, yet wondering why she had admitted it, and even
irritated at the admission. “I am a stranger here, a visitor at the
Priory. I called with Miss Amelyn at your cottage, and saw your other
granddaughter; that's how I knew your name.”
The old man's face changed. A sad, senile smile of hopeless bewilderment
crept into his hard mouth; he plucked his limp cap from his head and
let it hang submissively in his fingers, as if it were his sole apology.
Then he tried to straighten himself, and said, “Naw offins, miss, naw
offins! If tha knaws mea tha'll knaw I'm grandfeyther to two galls as
moight be tha owern age; tha'll tell 'ee that old Debs at haaty years
'as warked and niver lost a day as man or boy; has niver coome oopen 'em
for n'aporth. An' 'e'll keep out o' warkus till he doy. An' 'ee's put by
enow to by wi' his own feythers in Lanksheer, an' not liggen aloane in
parson's choorchyard.”
It was part of her uneasiness that, scarcely understanding or, indeed,
feeling any interest in these maundering details, she still seemed
to have an odd comprehension of his character and some reminiscent
knowledge of him, as if she were going through the repetition of some
unpleasant dream. Even his wrinkled face was becoming familiar to her.
Some weird attraction was holding her; she wanted to get away from it as
much as she wanted to analyze it. She glanced ostentatiously at the sky,
prepared to open her parasol, and began to edge cautiously away.
“Then tha beant from these pearts?” he said suddenly.
“No, no,” she said quickly and emphatically,--“no, I'm an American.”
The old man started and moved towards her, eagerly, his keen eyes
breaking through the film that at times obscured them. “'Merrikan! tha
baist 'Merrikan? Then tha knaws ma son John, 'ee war nowt but a bairn
when brether Dick took un to 'Merriky! Naw! Now! that wor fifty years
sen!--niver wroate to his old feyther--niver coomed back, 'Ee wor
tall-loike, an' thea said 'e feavored mea.” He stopped, threw up his
head, and with his skinny fingers drew back his long, straggling locks
from his sunken cheeks, and stared in her face. The quick transition
of fascination, repulsion, shock, and indefinable apprehension made her
laugh hysterically. To her terror he joined in it, and eagerly clasped
her wrists. “Eh, lass! tha knaws John--tha coomes from un to ole
grandfeyther. Who-rr-u! Eay! but tha tho't to fool mea, did tha, lass?
Whoy, I knoawed tha voice, for a' tha foine peacock feathers. So tha be
John's gell coom from Ameriky. Dear! a dear! Coom neaur, lass! let's see
what tha's loike. Eh, but thou'lt kiss tha grandfather, sewerly?”
A wild terror and undefined consternation had completely overpowered
her! But she made a desperate effort to free her wrists, and burst out
madly:--
“Let me go! How dare you! I don't know you or yours! I'm nothing to you
or your kin! My name is Desborough--do you understand--do you hear me,
Mr. Debs?--DESBOROUGH!”
At the word the old man's fingers stiffened like steel around her
wrists, as he turned upon her a hard, invincible face.
“So thou'lt call thissen Des-borough, wilt tha? Let me tell tha, then,
that 'Debs,' 'Debban,' 'Debbrook,' and 'Des-borough' are all a seame!
Ay! thy feyther and thy feyther's feyther! Thou'lt be a Des-borough,
will tha? Dang tha! and look doon on tha kin, and dress thissen in silks
o' shame! Tell 'ee thou'rt an ass, gell! Don't tha hear? An ass! for all
tha bean John's bairn! An ass! that's what tha beast!”
With flashing eyes and burning cheeks she made one more supreme
effort, lifting her arms, freeing her wrists, and throwing the old man
staggering from her. Then she leaped the stile, turned, and fled through
the rain. But before she reached the end of the field she stopped! She
had freed herself--she was stronger than he--what had she to fear? He
was crazy! Yes, he MUST be crazy, and he had insulted her, but he was an
old man--and God knows what! Her heart was beating rapidly, her breath
was hurried, but she ran back to the stile.
He was not there. The field sloped away on either side of it. But she
could distinguish nothing in the pouring rain above the wind-swept
meadow. He must have gone home. Relieved for a moment she turned and
hurried on towards the Priory.
But at every step she was followed, not by the old man's presence, but
by what he had said to her, which she could not shake off as she had
shaken off his detaining fingers. Was it the ravings of insanity, or had
she stumbled unwittingly upon some secret--was it after all a SECRET?
Perhaps it was something they all knew, or would know later. And she had
come down here for this. For back of her indignation, back even of her
disbelief in his insanity, there was an awful sense of truth! The names
he had flung out, of “Debs,” “Debban,” and “Debbrook” now flashed upon
her as something she had seen before, but had not understood. Until she
satisfied herself of this, she felt she could not live or breathe! She
loathed the Priory, with its austere exclusiveness, as it rose before
her; she wished she had never entered it; but it contained that which
she must know, and know at once! She entered the nearest door and ran
up the grand staircase. Her flushed face and disordered appearance were
easily accounted for by her exposure to the sudden storm. She went to
her bedroom, sent her maid to another room to prepare a change of dress,
and sinking down before her traveling-desk, groped for a document. Ah!
there it was--the expensive toy that she had played with! She hastily
ran over its leaves to the page she already remembered. And there, among
the dashes and perpendicular lines she had jested over last night, on
which she had thought was a collateral branch of the line, stood her
father's name and that of Richard, his uncle, with the bracketed note in
red ink, “see Debbrook, Daybrook, Debbers, and Debs.” Yes! this gaunt,
half-crazy, overworked peasant, content to rake the dead leaves before
the rolling chariots of the Beverdales, was her grandfather; that poorly
clad girl in the cottage, and even the menial in the scullery of this
very house that might be HERS, were her COUSINS! She burst into a laugh,
and then refolded the document and put it away.
At luncheon she was radiant and sparkling. Her drenched clothes were
an excuse for a new and ravishing toilette. She had never looked so
beautiful before, and significant glances were exchanged between some
of the guests, who believed that the expected proposal had already come.
But those who were of the carriage party knew otherwise, and of Lord
Algernon's disappointment. Lord Beverdale contented himself with
rallying his fair guest on the becomingness of “good works.” But he
continued, “You're offering a dreadful example to these ladies, Miss
Desborough, and I know I shall never hereafter be able to content them
with any frivolous morning amusement at the Priory. For myself, when
I am grown gouty and hideous, I know I shall bloom again as a district
visitor.”
Yet under this surface sparkle and nervous exaltation Sadie never lost
consciousness of the gravity of the situation. If her sense of humor
enabled her to see one side of its grim irony; if she experienced a
wicked satisfaction in accepting the admiration and easy confidence of
the high-born guests, knowing that her cousin had assisted in preparing
the meal they were eating, she had never lost sight of the practical
effect of the discovery she had made. And she had come to a final
resolution. She should leave the Priory at once, and abandon all idea of
a matrimonial alliance with its heir! Inconsistent as this might seem
to her selfish, worldly nature, it was nevertheless in keeping with a
certain pride and independence that was in her blood. She did not love
Lord Algernon, neither did she love her grandfather; she was equally
willing to sacrifice either or both; she knew that neither Lord Algernon
nor his father would make her connections an objection, however they
might wish to keep the fact a secret, or otherwise dispose of them by
pensions or emigration, but she could not bear to KNOW IT HERSELF!
She never could be happy as the mistress of Scrooby Priory with that
knowledge; she did not idealize it as a principle! Carefully weighing it
by her own practical common sense, she said to herself that “it wouldn't
pay.” The highest independence is often akin to the lowest selfishness;
she did not dream that the same pride which kept her grandfather from
the workhouse and support by his daughters, and had even kept him from
communicating with his own son, now kept her from acknowledging them,
even for the gift of a title and domain. There was only one question
before her: should she stay long enough to receive the proposal of Lord
Algernon, and then decline it? Why should she not snatch that single
feminine joy out of the ashes of her burnt-up illusion? She knew that an
opportunity would be offered that afternoon. The party were to take tea
at Broxby Hall, and Lord Algernon was to drive her there in his dogcart.
Miss Desborough had gone up to her bedroom to put on a warmer cloak, and
had rung twice or thrice impatiently for her maid.
When the girl made her appearance, apologetic, voluble, and excited,
Miss Desborough scarcely listened to her excuses, until a single word
suddenly arrested her attention. It was “old Debs.”
“What ARE you talking about?” said Sadie, pausing in the adjustment of
her hat on her brown hair.
“Old Debs, miss,--that's what they call him; an old park-keeper, just
found dead in a pool of water in the fields; the grandfather of one of
the servants here; and there's such an excitement in the servants' hall.
The gentlemen all knew it, too, for I heard Lord Algernon say that
he was looking very queer lately, and might have had a fit; and Lord
Beverdale has sent word to the coroner. And only think, the people here
are such fools that they daren't touch or move the poor man, and him
lyin' there in the rain all the time, until the coroner comes!”
Miss Desborough had been steadily regarding herself in the glass to see
if she had turned pale. She had. She set her teeth together until
the color partly returned. But she kept her face away from the maid.
“That'll do,” she said quietly. “You can tell me all later. I have some
important news myself, and I may not go out after all. I want you to
take a note for me.” She went to her table, wrote a line in pencil,
folded it, scribbled an address upon it, handed it to the girl, and
gently pushed her from the room.
*****
The consul was lingering on the terrace beside one of the carriages; at
a little distance a groom was holding the nervous thoroughbred of Lord
Algernon's dog-cart. Suddenly he felt a touch on his shoulder, and Miss
Desborough's maid put a note in his hand. It contained only a line:--
Please come and see me in the library, but without making any fuss about
it--at once. S. D.
The consul glanced around him; no one had apparently noticed the
incident. He slipped back into the house and made his way to the
library. It was a long gallery; at the further end Miss Desborough stood
cloaked, veiled, and coquettishly hatted. She was looking very beautiful
and animated. “I want you to please do me a great favor,” she said, with
an adorable smile, “as your own countrywoman, you know--for the sake of
Fourth of July and Pumpkin Pie and the Old Flag! I don't want to go
to this circus to-day. I am going to leave here to-night! I am! Honest
Injin! I want YOU to manage it. I want you to say that as consul you've
received important news for me: the death of some relative, if you like;
or better, something AFFECTING MY PROPERTY, you know,” with a little
satirical laugh. “I guess that would fetch 'em! So go at once.”
“But really, Miss Desborough, do let us talk this over before you
decide!” implored the bewildered consul. “Think what a disappointment to
your host and these ladies. Lord Algernon expects to drive you there; he
is already waiting! The party was got up for you!” Miss Desborough made
a slight grimace. “I mean you ought to sacrifice something--but I trust
there is really nothing serious--to them!”
“If YOU do not speak to them, I will!” said Miss Desborough firmly. “If
you say what I tell you, it will come the more plausibly from you. Come!
My mind is made up. One of us must break the news! Shall it be you or
I?” She drew her cloak over her shoulders and made a step forwards.
The consul saw she was determined. “Then wait here till I return, but
keep yourself out of sight,” he said, and hurried away. Between the
library and the terrace he conceived a plan. His perplexity lent him a
seriousness which befitted the gravity of the news he had to disclose.
“I am sorry to have to tell you,” he said, taking Lord Beverdale aside,
“that I was the unlucky bearer of some sad news to Miss Desborough this
morning, through my consular letters--some matter concerning the death
of a relation of hers, and some wearisome question of property. I
thought that it was of little importance, and that she would not take
it seriously, but I find I was mistaken. It may even oblige her to catch
the London train to-night. I promised to make her excuses to you for the
present, and I'm afraid I must add my own to them, as she wishes me to
stay and advise her in this matter, which requires some prompt action.”
Miss Desborough was right: the magic word “property” changed the slight
annoyance on the earl's face to a sympathetic concern. “Dear me! I trust
it is nothing really serious,” he said. “Of course, you will advise her,
and, by the way, if my solicitor, Withers, who'll be here to-morrow,
can do anything, you know, call him in. I hope she'll be able to see
me later. It could not be a NEAR relation who died, I fancy; she has no
brothers or sisters, I understand.”
“A cousin, I think; an old friend,” said the consul hastily. He heard
Lord Beverdale say a few words to his companions, saw with a tinge of
remorse a cloud settle upon Lord Algernon's fresh face, as he appealed
in a whisper to old Lady Mesthyn, who leaned forward from the carriage,
and said, “If the dear child thought I could be of any service, I should
only be too glad to stay with her.”
“I knew she would appreciate Lady Mesthyn's sympathy,” said the
ingenious consul quickly, “but I really think the question is more a
business one--and”--
“Ah, yes,” said the old lady, shaking her head, “it's dreadful, of
course, but we must all think of THAT!”
As the carriage drove away, the consul hurried back a little viciously
to his fair countrywoman. “There!” he said, “I have done it! If I have
managed to convey either the idea that you are a penniless orphan, or
that I have official information that you are suspected of a dynamite
conspiracy, don't blame me! And now,” he said, “as I have excused myself
on the ground that I must devote myself to this dreadful business of
yours, perhaps you'll tell me WHAT it really is.”
“Not a word more,” said Miss Desborough; “except,” she added,--checking
her smile with a weary gesture,--“except that I want to leave this
dreadful place at once! There! don't ask me any more!”
There could be no doubt of the girl's sincerity. Nor was it the
extravagant caprice of a petted idol. What had happened? He might have
believed in a lovers' quarrel, but he knew that she and Lord Algernon
could have had no private interview that evening. He must perforce
accept her silence, yet he could not help saying:--
“You seemed to like the place so much last night. I say, you haven't
seen the Priory ghost, have you?”
“The Priory ghost,” she said quickly. “What's that?”
“The old monk who passes through the cloisters with the sacred oil, the
bell, and the smell of incense whenever any one is to die here. By Jove!
it would have been a good story to tell instead of this cock-and-bull
one about your property. And there WAS a death here to-day. You'd have
added the sibyl's gifts to your other charms.”
“Tell me about that old man,” she said, looking past him out of the
window. “I was at his cottage this morning. But, no! first let us go
out. You can take me for a walk, if you like. You see I am all ready,
and I'm just stifling here.”
They descended to the terrace together. “Where would you like to go?” he
asked.
“To the village. I may want to telegraph, you know.”
They turned into the avenue, but Miss Desborough stopped.
“Is there not a shorter cut across the fields,” she asked, “over there?”
“There is,” said the consul.
They both turned into the footpath which led to the farm and stile.
After a pause she said, “Did you ever talk with that poor old man?”
“No.”
“Then you don't know if he really was crazy, as they think.”
“No. But they may have thought an old man's forgetfulness of present
things and his habit of communing with the past was insanity. For all
that he was a plucky, independent old fellow, with a grim purpose that
was certainly rational.”
“I suppose in his independence he would not have taken favors from these
people, or anybody?”
“I should think not.”
“Don't you think it was just horrid--their leaving him alone in the
rain, when he might have been only in a fit?”
“The doctor says he died suddenly of heart disease,” said the consul.
“It might have happened at any moment and without warning.”
“Ah, that was the coroner's verdict, then,” said Miss Desborough
quickly.
“The coroner did not think it necessary to have any inquest after Lord
Beverdale's statement. It wouldn't have been very joyous for the Priory
party. And I dare say he thought it might not be very cheerful for YOU.”
“How very kind!” said the young girl, with a quick laugh. “But do you
know that it's about the only thing human, original, and striking that
has happened in this place since I've been here! And so unexpected,
considering how comfortably everything is ordered here beforehand.”
“Yet you seemed to like that kind of thing very well, last evening,”
said the consul mischievously.
“That was last night,” retorted Miss Desborough; “and you know the line,
'Colors seen by candlelight do not look the same by day.' But I'm going
to be very consistent to-day, for I intend to go over to that poor man's
cottage again, and see if I can be of any service. Will you go with me?”
“Certainly,” said the consul, mystified by his companion's extraordinary
conduct, yet apparent coolness of purpose, and hoping for some further
explanation. Was she only an inexperienced flirt who had found herself
on the point of a serious entanglement she had not contemplated? Yet
even then he knew she was clever enough to extricate herself in some
other way than this abrupt and brutal tearing through the meshes. Or was
it possible that she really had any intelligence affecting her property?
He reflected that he knew very little of the Desboroughs, but on the
other hand he knew that Beverdale knew them much better, and was a
prudent man. He had no right to demand her confidence as a reward for
his secrecy; he must wait her pleasure. Perhaps she would still explain;
women seldom could resist the triumph of telling the secret that puzzled
others.
When they reached the village she halted before the low roof of Debs's
cottage. “I had better go in first,” she said; “you can come in later,
and in the meantime you might go to the station for me and find out the
exact time that the express train leaves for the north.”
“But,” said the astonished consul, “I thought you were going to London?”
“No,” said Miss Desborough quietly, “I am going to join some friends at
Harrogate.”
“But that train goes much earlier than the train south, and--and I'm
afraid Lord Beverdale will not have returned so soon.”
“How sad!” said Miss Desborough, with a faint smile, “but we must bear
up under it, and--I'll write him. I will be here until you return.”
She turned away and entered the cottage. The granddaughter she had
already seen and her sister, the servant at the Priory, were both
chatting comfortably, but ceased as she entered, and both rose with
awkward respect. There was little to suggest that the body of their
grandfather, already in a rough oak shell, was lying upon trestles
beside them.
“You have carried out my orders, I see,” said Miss Desborough, laying
down her parasol.
“Ay, miss; but it was main haard gettin' et dooan so soon, and et
cooast”--
“Never mind the cost. I've given you money enough, I think, and if I
haven't, I guess I can give you more.”
“Ay, miss! Abbut the pa'son 'ead gi' un a funeral for nowt.”
“But I understood you to say,” said Miss Desborough, with an impatient
flash of eye, “that your grandfather wished to be buried with his
kindred in the north?”
“Ay, miss,” said the girl apologetically, “an naw 'ees savit th' munny.
Abbut e'd bean tickled 'ad 'ee knowed it! Dear! dear! 'ee niver thowt et
'ud be gi'en by stranger an' not 'es ownt fammaly.”
“For all that, you needn't tell anybody it was given by ME,” said Miss
Desborough. “And you'll be sure to be ready to take the train this
afternoon--without delay.” There was a certain peremptoriness in her
voice very unlike Miss Amelyn's, yet apparently much more effective with
the granddaughter.
“Ay, miss. Then, if tha'll excoose mea, I'll go streight to 'oory oop
sexten.”
She bustled away. “Now,” said Miss Desborough, turning to the other
girl, “I shall take the same train, and will probably see you on the
platform at York to give my final directions. That's all. Go and see if
the gentleman who came with me has returned from the station.”
The girl obeyed. Left entirely alone, Miss Desborough glanced around
the room, and then went quietly up to the unlidded coffin. The repose of
death had softened the hard lines of the old man's mouth and brow into a
resemblance she now more than ever understood. She had stood thus only
a few years before, looking at the same face in a gorgeously inlaid
mahogany casket, smothered amidst costly flowers, and surrounded by
friends attired in all the luxurious trappings of woe; yet it was the
same face that was now rigidly upturned to the bare thatch and rafters
of that crumbling cottage, herself its only companion. She lifted her
delicate veil with both hands, and, stooping down, kissed the hard, cold
forehead, without a tremor. Then she dropped her veil again over her dry
eyes, readjusted it in the little, cheap, black-framed mirror that hung
against the wall, and opened the door as the granddaughter returned. The
gentleman was just coming from the station.
“Remember to look out for me at York,” said Miss Desborough, extending
her gloved hand. “Good-by till then.” The young girl respectfully
touched the ends of Miss Desborough's fingers, dropped a curtsy, and
Miss Desborough rejoined the consul.
“You have barely time to return to the Priory and see to your luggage,”
said the consul, “if you must go. But let me hope that you have changed
your mind.”
“I have not changed my mind,” said Miss Desborough quietly, “and my
baggage is already packed.” After a pause, she said thoughtfully, “I've
been wondering”--
“What?” said the consul eagerly.
“I've been wondering if people brought up to speak in a certain dialect,
where certain words have their own significance and color, and are part
of their own lives and experience--if, even when they understand another
dialect, they really feel any sympathy with it, or the person who speaks
it?”
“Apropos of”--asked the consul.
“These people I've just left! I don't think I quite felt with them, and
I guess they didn't feel with me.”
“But,” said the consul laughingly, “you know that we Americans speak
with a decided dialect of our own, and attach the same occult meaning to
it. Yet, upon my word, I think that Lord Beverdale--or shall I say Lord
Algernon?--would not only understand that American word 'guess' as you
mean it, but would perfectly sympathize with you.”