SOWING THE SEED
Next morning George invited the dreary Dyer to step into the parlour
with a view to continuing the diplomatic conversation commenced the
previous day. The baker responded with a certain amount of trepidation,
as he thought it possible Mr. Drake might desire to buy a share in the
business, and he did not at all relish the idea of confessing that the
profits were considerable. His relief, therefore, was only equalled by
his amazement when George inquired:
"Did you ever buy a penny weekly journal, Mr. Dyer?"
"Never in my life, sir," replied the baker.
"Then you know nothing about picture puzzles?"
"Never heard of 'em avore, sir."
"A penny weekly journal exists upon its picture puzzles," George
continued. "The last time I went away I bought one of these papers. The
competition interested me, as the pictures represented the names of
certain railway stations, and that's a subject I know as much about as
any man in England."
"I don't know as I quite get your meaning," said the baker.
"I'll explain. Suppose the picture is intended to represent Marylebone.
You may be shown a drawing of a little girl eating a mutton chop. Of
course, you are expected to have some brains."
"I wouldn't use mine vor such a purpose," said the baker somewhat
sharply.
"It's quite simple when you've got the trick. You have to assume the
little girl's name is Mary, and _le_ is French for the, and there's more
bone than anything else in a mutton chop. Well, I went in for this
competition, and I've won second prize. I don't know why I didn't get
the first, but perhaps that was suppressed for economic reasons."
"I suppose it would be the same sort of thing as a flower show,"
suggested Dyer. "I got second prize for carrots once. It should ha' been
half a crown, but they ran short o' money, so I got only eighteen pence,
and I never showed again."
"My prize was worth winning," said George, who had really received a
solatium of ten shillings. "It was fifty pounds."
Dyer repeated the amount, firstly as a shout of admiration, secondly as
a whisper of covetousness; then he released all kinds of exclamations
for some moments; and presently observed with emotion:
"Education does it, sir! If I could ha' gone to a big school, and to
the University, I might ha' gone in vor them pictures too. Little gal
eating a mutton chop--well done, sir! They'm nought but bone as you ses.
You found out her name wur Mary, and you talked French, and you learned
all about the railways. Ah, that's wonderful! But I fancy, sir, you must
ha' used a map."
"I did it by skill entirely, but of course I had an advantage over my
competitors owing to my connection with the railways. Now you are
wondering why I'm telling you this?"
"We all knows you does business in railways," said Dyer absently.
"I find myself with a large sum of money, and I mean to make a good use
of it. I propose spending the whole amount in giving happiness to
others; but I want to do it unobtrusively. I intend to give a meat tea
to the old folk of this parish, but I shall hand the money to the vicar
and request him to keep my name out of it."
"Perhaps, sir, you'm a-paying vor the cakes ordered yesterday," cried
Dyer.
"Don't mention the matter," said George.
"You can trust me, sir."
"Another thing I am anxious to do is to give the Mudges a real good
holiday. That's what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Dyer. I know you
wish to keep your promise--about the wedding present, you know--but, of
course, you can't afford it. My idea is to send them away for a week to
the seaside. Bessie served my uncle and aunt faithfully for a number of
years, while Robert was always ready to make himself useful in the
house; but I've done nothing for either of them. We could give them the
best week of their lives for five pounds."
"Did you say anything about me, sir?" asked the baker.
"Yes, because I felt sure you would insist upon contributing something,
though I should like them to think the whole amount comes from you.
Suppose I give three pounds. You can make up the other two."
"Can't be done, sir. Can't possibly be done. Besides, sir, business is
looking up, owing to your generosity, and I can't spare Robert."
"It will give you a splendid reputation for liberality. Everybody in the
parish will know you have given the Mudges five pounds and a week's
leave of absence."
"I works vor my reputation, sir. Two pounds would ruin me. I can't tell
ye how bad things be; I'd be ashamed to speak the truth, sir; I don't
hardly like to think on it. Often, when missus fancies I'm asleep, she
has a gude cry. She knows we can't pay five shillings in the pound if
miller wur to call vor what us owes 'en."
"I'll subscribe four pounds, if you will give the other," said George.
"Where would I get a pound from?" asked Dyer, more drearily than ever.
"I'd have to borrow, or sell the bed I tries to sleep on, but can't vor
all the trouble. A sovereign, sir, is more to me than to any one else in
this parish."
"I've heard that before, and I believe it."
"And it's the truth. Twenty shillings might make the difference between
pulling down the blinds today, or keeping 'em up till next week."
"Will you give ten shillings?" George inquired desperately.
The baker shook his head like one in pain, muttering something about
last straws and poor relief.
"Will you give anything?"
"Well, sir, to show my heart's in the right place I'll sacrifice a
shilling. I'll grab it from the till when missus ain't looking."
"Here is the money," said George, counting out five sovereigns. "You had
better see Robert at once: tell him to get away tomorrow. This is
September, and fine weather may break any day."
Such a rush of philanthropy numbed the baker's faculties; but even in
that semi-paralysed condition he remained a man of business. His fingers
closed upon the coins, his feet carried him to the door; then he turned
back to face this benefactor, who was shedding sovereigns in the
reckless fashion of a tree casting its autumnal leaves. The old folk
were to be provided with a meat tea; the Mudges were to be given a week
at the seaside; the donor was to remain anonymous. Dyer in all his
dreariness could not understand why Mr. Drake should desire to benefit
his fellow creatures at all; but, more than that, he was actually
proposing to do good stealthily. Where then was the advertisement?
"It's a lot of money, sir. You could buy a bit of land vor this," he
said at last.
"I do not require any land," George answered.
"You don't get any profit so far as I can see," the baker proceeded.
"I am helping you to give Robert and Bessie the first real holiday they
have ever known; I am enabling you to keep your promise; and I am
enjoying the satisfaction of performing an unselfish action."
"'Tis there I'm beat. Why don't ye give the money to Robert, and tell
'en 'tis a present from me and you?"
"I will, if you like, and tell him your share is one shilling."
Dyer again moved towards the door; but still he hesitated.
"They could do it on less than five pounds, sir."
"Give them four, then, and keep the other sovereign for yourself,"
George replied, breaking out into bribery.
"What about the shilling?" asked Dyer eagerly.
"I'll let you off that."
The baker became a reformed character at once. He did not profess to
understand Mr. Drake's extraordinary conduct, but he was quite willing
to benefit by the eccentricities of any man. His meanness had become a
by-word in the parish. Now Mr. Drake was offering to purchase him a
reputation for generosity, which was almost as good as an annuity, and
was giving him a sovereign for himself. Dyer was not the man to shrink
from duty that was profitable.
"You're the son of your uncle, sir," he said with feeling.
"I have always set his example before me," replied George.
"I'll spare Robert a week from tomorrow. Don't ye think, sir, four
pounds are a bit too much?"
"I couldn't let them do it on less," said George firmly.
"And you don't want me to tell 'em part of the money comes from you?"
"I want them to think you are keeping your promise."
The baker retired, muttering, "He wants to get 'em out of Highfield
House vor certain. But that don't matter to me so long as I get my
profit."
George went for a long walk to refresh himself, not bothering about his
popularity any longer, as he was contemplating an act which would make
future residence in Highfield impossible; but he met the Wallower in
Wealth, who demanded his musical box; and the Dumpy Philosopher, who put
searching questions concerning the railway and the amount of
compensation for wounded feelings he was likely to receive; and the
Yellow Leaf, who had just lost his wife and was going courting.
Returning, during the late afternoon, he stopped at his own house,
knocked, but received no answer from that side of the street. Bessie
looked out from the cottage window opposite and invited him to step in
that direction.
"Have ye heard the news, Mr. George?" she whispered excitedly. "Master
ha' given Robert three pounds and a week."
"Three pounds!" cried George fiercely.
"Us can't make any one believe it. Three solid sovereigns, sir! Robert
ha' got teethache through biting 'em."
"I am not surprised," said George. "Dyer has been left a lot of
money--he told me yesterday. An uncle, who went to New Zealand years
ago, has just died and left him thousands. He can buy up the whole
village if he wants to."
"Master never told Robert he'd been left money. He gave 'en the
sovereigns and said 'twas a reward vor the way Robert had worked.
Couldn't spare 'em, he said, but his conscience worried him. They do say
the Dyers ha' never given away anything avore 'cept the water what they
boiled their cabbage in."
"When are you off?"
"First thing tomorrow. We'm going to my home, so it won't cost nothing
'cept the railway. I'm getting our things together now."
"Where's Robert?"
"Going round wi' the bread--that's him a-whistling. He'm fair mazed, Mr.
George."
"Who is to take care of the house?"
"I'll lock it up and take the keys away wi' me. Why shouldn't us go? No
one won't go near the house, wi' you and policeman about."
"I think you ought to wait until Miss Yard comes back," said George, who
knew enough about women to be aware how the spirit of opposition acts
upon them.
"And lose our holiday! The only real holiday we've had, and the chance
to see my folks again. Not likely, Mr. George! If we don't go tomorrow,
master will ask vor them three sovereigns back again. How did you
manage to find out he'd been left all this money?"
"I was talking with him yesterday and--it just slipped out. You will
hear more when you come back."
"I'll make Robert ask 'en vor a rise. How long be you staying, Mr.
George?"
"I might be here when you return or, on the other hand, I might go
tomorrow. Do you want me to take charge of the keys?"
"Somebody ought to go in and open the windows."
"I don't mind doing you a favour. If I'm called away I will leave the
keys with Mrs. Dyer."
"Not wi' she. Leave 'em wi' Mrs. Cann to the post office. You come this
evening, and I'll give ye the keys."
"All right," said George. "But you know I don't approve of your going
after having been left in charge."
"If I don't go, Robert will, and he ain't going home without me," said
Bessie. "I wouldn't like leaving if Kezia wur here, vor I'd dread her
selling some of my things; but Robert ha' told the volks the house
belongs to you, so there's no fear of any one breaking in, unless it be
the Brocks. Policeman ha' promised to keep his eye on them."
George went on to punish the baker, who had succeeded with grievous
pangs in handing over three sovereigns, but had failed in his endeavour
to part with the fourth. Dyer affirmed Robert had lied, by no means for
the first time; but, when George threatened to call the Mudges that they
might give evidence upon oath, Dyer admitted it was just possible the
missing coin might have slipped through a hole in his pocket; so he
called his wife to light a candle and to sweep the floor. The elusive
piece of gold, however, had passed entirely out of vision, although
neither of the Dyers could feel surprised at that; the lady declaring it
was wonderful how easily things lost themselves; while her husband said
he had done nothing except drop money all his life.
"Very well, Mrs. Dyer," said George. "When you make up my bill for
lodgings and bread puddings, just remember that you owe me a pound."
"You wouldn't think of such a thing. You'm too much of a gentleman,"
cried Mrs. Dyer.
"The missus fancies you meant it, sir. She ain't very humorous,"
explained the baker.
George had a trick of nodding after supper, and that evening he did not
wake until it was nearly time to sleep more seriously. Remembering that
Bessie would be sitting up to surrender the keys, he hurried out; but
when he entered Windward House modestly by the back door--hoping to
overhear some scraps of conversation--the house appeared deserted,
until he pushed open the kitchen door, to discover the Wallower in
Wealth sipping a cup of something hot beside the fire.
"Where are the Mudges?" cried George.
"Where's my musical box?" retorted the man in possession.
George had made a rule never to use bad language; by an exception then
he proved the rule's existence. Some men are frightened when sworn at
because they never know what may come next; and the Wallower in Wealth
belonged to that class. He sat silent and sulky, while George repeated
his question with one more exception.
"Gone vor their holiday," came the answer. "I looked in to wish 'em
gude-luck, and Mrs. Mudge asked me to bide till you come. Keys be in the
doors, I was to tell ye."
"Their train doesn't go till seven o'clock tomorrow morning."
"Postman told 'em there's an excursion up to London at eleven, so they
reckoned they'd go part of the way in that, and get there quicker."
"The fools!" cried George. "That train will take them in the very
opposite direction."
"They was a bit mazed. Robert had begun to enjoy his holiday, and Bessie
wur trying to catch up wi' 'en. Now they'll ha' to wait all night
outside the station."
"What are you drinking?" asked George, sniffing at the fumes.
"Mrs. Mudge said 'twur coffee, but it tastes more like hot whisky and
water. I'll give ye thirty shillings vor the musical box."
"I'm not going to talk business at this time of night. It's my bedtime
and yours too," said George, making a motion towards the door.
"There's a drop o' this wonderful nice coffee in the jug."
"Take it with you."
"I won't take it in the jug, lest I forget to bring it back. Your very
good health, Mr. Drake--and I'll give anyone thirty-five shillings for
that musical box."
George hurried into the town next morning, and ascertained from a porter
who had relations in Highfield, that the muddled Mudges had started upon
their journey in the right direction shortly after midnight, by
obtaining an introduction to the guard of a goods train and
travelling--contrary to all regulations--in his van. The porter
mentioned that the guard had possibly been influenced by the fact that
Bessie was carrying a basket of delicacies, while the neck of a bottle
protruded from the pocket of Robert's overcoat.
Satisfied on this point, George visited a certain place of business, and
interviewed the manager who promised to send up to Highfield, very
early on the following morning, two furniture vans, with sufficient men
to do the packing in one day. The simplicity of working out a plot
caused George to laugh aloud; also to treat himself to a luncheon from
which bread and margarine pudding was rigorously excluded.
On the way home he sighted, in the dip of the road, a pair of strolling
youngsters, boy and girl, who looked back often as if expecting
somebody; the back of the one, and the beauty of the other, seemed
familiar. Suddenly the girl took to her heels and raced round the bend,
while the boy allowed George to draw up to him.
"Why does the little girl run so fast?" asked George in a paternal
fashion.
"She's full of beans," replied Sidney.
"Taking a holiday?" George continued.
"I fancied a friend might be coming by the three o'clock train; but I've
had the walk vor nothing."
"Another young lady, I suppose?"
"That's right," said the laughing profligate.
"Well, I'm confounded! It seems to me you are collecting girls," George
muttered.
"There's plenty. I'll leave ye a few to choose from," said Sidney.
"I've done my choosing and I'm going to settle down after this month. I
suppose you know we are all clearing out of Highfield? Miss Blisland
has gone already, and you'll never see her again. You tried to catch
Nellie," said George, who frequently lost by his silly conversation all
he had gained by his cunning. "But she saw through your nasty little
ways, my lad. She didn't fancy your harem. Nellie is one of the most
sensible girls I have ever met, and she's got the makings of a good
woman in her."
"I reckon," said Sidney, like an oaf.
"It's a bit of a change to me to marry any one, but I don't mind
sacrificing myself," George rambled on. "There's no secret about it.
We've taken a house at a place called Drivelford, and we're going to let
Miss Yard live with us. You won't get the chance to congratulate Nellie,
and I shouldn't permit it in any case, as I don't think you are the sort
of young fellow she ought to speak to; but I do hope you are feeling a
bit sorry for yourself. I'm not perfect, but I do think a man ought to
be honest and truthful, and be satisfied with one wife, so long as she
does what he tells her."
"That's right enough," said Sidney.
"You see what a callous young fellow you are already. You pretended to
be in love with the future Mrs. Drake; but, now that you have lost her,
you don't care a hang."
"Not that much," said Sidney, snapping his fingers.
"That's your character," said George bitterly. "Why should you care?
There are plenty of Dollies, and Teenies, and painted ladies, cheap for
cash as the advertisements say."
"Here, you mind what you're saying. You're going a bit too far!" cried
Sidney, rounding angrily upon his oppressor.
"I'm not insulting you," George explained. "But I do want to give you a
little good advice before we part. I can quite understand that you don't
want to hear the truth about your young women, and they wouldn't like to
hear it either. That little girl ran away just now because she couldn't
face a decent gentleman."
"She ran because she wouldn't be introduced to you."
"That shows she can't be altogether bad," said George approvingly. "Now
I must leave you, as I'm going to take the short cut across the fields.
I do hope you will remember what I've said. When this new young woman
arrives, try to show yourself a lad of courage. Send her home again or,
if you don't like to do that, send her to me."
For some inscrutable reason Sidney could not restrain his laughter.
"Ah, you think I should want to make love to her," said George angrily.
"I know your nasty mind. You and your grandfather had better be
careful. You haven't got a friend in the parish."
"Except the vicar," Sidney reminded him.
"And, if he goes on visiting you, he won't have a friend in the parish
either. Do you know what they call you in the village?"
"Do you know what they call you?" Sidney retorted joyously.
"They call you the Mormon."
"And they call you Ananias!"
"Well, that beats everything," gasped George, as he dropped clumsily
over the stile. "I never tell lies except in the way of business. I
always speak the truth in private life."
Days were shortening, so that by the time George had finished his tea,
which included a propitiatory offering of doughnuts, the boom of beetles
sounded in the street. As life was dull in the bakery, he decided to
spend a tranquil evening in his own house, surrounded by the furniture
he had been brought up with. He went and settled himself in an easy
chair with one of the copies, still unburnt, of his uncle's monumental
work, "A History of Highfield Parish." But reading grew tedious, and the
doughnuts he had consumed so recklessly began to trouble, and the
buzzing of flies and wasps became tempestuous.
Yet these sounds recalled pleasant memories of the past; he had not done
much with his life, still he had managed to win distinction as an
insect killer. He had eased his uncle's labours by crushing the wasp,
and averted his aunt's displeasure by obliterating the blowfly. He rose
and went into the kitchen to search for a cork.
The lighted candle cast weird shadows as he blundered through the pantry
to the larder; discovering at last a cork which smelt of alcohol. That
at least would give the wasps a pleasant death. But, while hurrying back
to the insect-haunted parlour, he heard a new disturbance: no sleepy
buzzing, but the fall of active footsteps. Then a handbag was flung
recklessly through the open window; banging upon a chair, rolling to the
floor. The footsteps died away, and the gate of the garden slammed.
With horrible dread of a possible explosion, George crept towards the
missile, and touched it gingerly. It was a neat brown bag, ridiculously
small to hold a wardrobe, and it bore the initials N.B.
"That's what they put in books, when they want to draw your attention to
something," he muttered.