VILLAGE POLITICS.
ONLY a signature! Nothing more, and only occupying two or three
moments, but, nevertheless, it roused the scattered population of
a certain quiet district in an island thousands of miles away, and
caused more eyes to open in amazement, and more heads to be scratched
in perplexity, than had been known within the memory of the oldest
inhabitant.
The loyalty of England's people, and the stability of her government
presented a happy contrast to the restless experiments which agitated
all classes in a neighbouring country; the law of primogeniture still
upheld the dignity of rank, while constitutional rights secured the
liberty of all. Landowners and tenants mutually sympathised for the
common welfare, and this exception on one side excited general surprise
and indignation.
For there suddenly sprang up, at all points of the doomed estate that
skirted a thoroughfare, huge boards, either hung to trees or mounted
on poles, bearing large printed advertisements, which also placarded
barn doors and wayside gateposts for miles in every direction, while
newspapers echoed the eloquent praises of,—
"All that valuable, desirable, and fertile estate known as the Falcon
Range, comprising every charm, indulgence, and delight that human
taste, desire, or imagination could conceive or covet. Game for the
sportsman, fish for the angler, views for the artist, and traditions
for the poet; relics for the antiquary, and specimens for the
naturalist."
In fact, an Eden of bliss for the happy purchaser, were he either of
these accomplished amateurs, or all in one.
Even the dull wits of the villagers could not avoid connecting these
strange advertisements with the appearance of a gentleman in a gig,
with his clerk and a blue bag, who drove through the village street
without stopping at the Falconer's Arms (as all respectable travellers
invariably did), and up the avenue to the Moat House without favouring
anyone with an idea of his business there.
It was a dismal day; the wind in the east, and provoking in the extreme
that gentlemen with blue bags should presume to excite curiosity
without satisfying it, especially when people felt out of sorts and had
nothing particular to do.
So when towards evening the great placards began to appear, the cat had
jumped out of the blue bag, and an endless theme of wonder and remark
was provided.
"TO BE SOLD"
First caught the eyes of Mr. Spadeley, the village clerk and sexton, as
he came past the gates of the principal entrance to the park.
He stopped, stared, put on his spectacles, and read carefully again,
"To be Sold." Yes, there it was and no mistake.
"Why sure the old master must be mad, and Mr. Geoffry, too," said he
to himself. "To be sold, indeed! How can they? How dare they?" And the
very spade in his hand seemed to share his indignation as it bounced
down upon the road with a cutting remark upon the hardness of the world
and its ways.
Still more disgusted was he, as he approached his own peculiar
province, to find one of the obnoxious placards stuck upon the
churchyard gate without his leave asked or cared for! And an assembly
of village urchins spelling out the whole particulars and slowly
apprehending their meaning.
"Well," said Mr. Spadeley, clerk and sexton of Falcon Range, before
whom the rising generation were not wont to play pranks, but on whose
countenance there was something they construed sympathetically just
now.—"Well, what do you think about it?" he asked.
"Do it mean selling her house over her head?" asked a sharp-looking lad
at his elbow, and pointing towards the Moat.
"Yes, that's what it means, seemingly."
"Then here goes! I say, stand out of my way, will ye?"
And, with sudden inspiration in his legs, the boy clambered up the
gate-post, balanced one foot on an iron spike, and tore down the great
placard in shreds. The little rabble shouted and jumped about with
energy and triumph, and dared some other presumptuous feats before
Mr. Spadeley's eyes, while instead of clutching the hero by the hair,
as had happened more than once, the sexton only patted him on the
shoulder, quietly dropped a halfpenny into his dirty cap, and edged
himself out of the noisy demonstration.
* * * * * * *
The errand of the gentleman in the gig to the lady at the Moat House
was not a pleasant one. He knew that he must look very like a deputy
tyrant, and she like an innocent victim, and it required a wonderful
amount of coolness and self-possession to face the gaze of pained
inquiry which met the first unfolding of his mission.
"How lovely she is still," thought Mr. Penacre; "I wish my client had
written direct, instead of thrusting his ugly errand upon me."
But, to his credit, he executed it with as much courtesy as it
permitted, trying to veil the abominations of pride, malice, and
covetousness, beneath professional technicalities, providential
circumstances, and naturalization in a foreign land.
But threading her way through the maze and gloss of an eloquent
peroration, Mrs. Falconer traced at last the real core of its meaning.
"Then I am to understand," said she calmly, "that the Moat House is
to pass into other hands, and is no longer my home, or that of my
children?"
"I regret to say that your view of the matter is correct, madam,"
replied the attorney bowing.
"But my son is presumptive heir, unless Mr. Geoffry Falconer were to
have a son," said she thoughtfully.
"Not now, madam. I thought I had explained that the entail is cut off
by a deed legally executed by the owner and his heir, old Mr. Falconer
and his son Mr. Geoffry. This enables them to sell the estate."
"And is there no charge upon it on my late husband's behalf, sir?"
asked the lady. "His father had appropriated a large sum due to him,
and now of course due to his widow and children."
"I am instructed to say, madam,—hem!—a—it is difficult to explain these
things to ladies unused to business; but my client's idea is this: that
having had the benefit of a home at the Moat so long—somewhere about
ten years, I think—any debt on the proprietor's part is cancelled by
that tenancy, for which no rent has ever been paid. Moreover, the house
is greatly dilapidated, and must be sold at a loss in consideration of
repairs, which would have been exacted from any other occupant."
The lady seemed to comprehend at last, and her pale face became paler
still, as some of the consequences of this cruel act began to loom into
view.
"One thing more I have to add," said Mr. Penacre; "that you are at
liberty to remove any articles of the family plate which bear Mr. Guy
Falconer's initials. The rest will be sold with anything else that the
purchaser of the estate may wish to dispense with, and a valuation is
to be made immediately—that is, at your convenience, madam."
"Whenever you please," said the widow; "we shall not waste any time in
opposition to this unexpected change, for armed with the authority you
represent, it would be useless to remonstrate. I had thought, however,
that during the life of my father-in-law—"
"Pardon me, madam, for interrupting you, but though the fact was not
positively announced by the mail which brought my instructions, I have
reason to believe that Mr. Falconer died even before the ship sailed.
So that you perceive there is no redress—no hope, I mean, of any
alteration of purpose."
"I will give orders that every attention is paid to you here, in the
execution of your business, Mr. Penacre. Of course you will remain at
the Moat until you have settled everything."
"If it is no intrusion, it would certainly convenience me much, and I
shall be grateful for the hospitality."
"And in the meantime you will, I am sure, kindly excuse me."
Whereupon Mr. Penacre rose, and bowed solemnly.
The lady rose also, curtsied, and left the room, no more to re-enter
it as the mistress of Moat House. The last item in the information
conveyed that day was for a time first in her thoughts. Her husband's
father was, probably, no more on earth, and what that fact might
involve to him was a matter of trembling apprehension. Probably she
would never know more until "the day should declare it." And now, in
her worldly circumstances, she seemed at the mercy of one who knew
little of sympathy or liberality, who disliked her with the mortified
vanity of a selfish unforgiving spirit, because a younger brother had
many years before been preferred to himself.
* * * * * * *
Passing events had many commentators beside the demonstrative heroes of
the rising generation, and Mr. Spadeley's meditations led him as usual
to the society of his intimate friend, the landlord of the Falconer's
Arms, whose sympathies had been born and grown up in, and were limited
like his own to the region of the Falcon Range.
"Who'd have thought of him quartering himself on the Moat House with
his mean pitiful business?" said Timothy Turnbull, shaking the ashes
from his pipe, and replenishing his own and his companion's tankards
with his best "own brewed." "It's just like her to allow it though."
"Just like her, as you say; but I reckon she don't understand all
about it yet. You see it's a hard, shameful crush for the poor young
gentleman, and they say, leastways the housekeeper told Mrs. Tribe, who
told my daughter, and she told me, that he went into an awful rage when
he heard it."
And Mr. Spadeley sipped his ale to drown his decided approbation of
this particular rage, though known to advise people in general to
keep their tempers under all provocation; for he made it a rule to
confirm the opinions expressed in the pulpit as decidedly as those
from the desk, more especially since the fact that the young minister
who succeeded the old one not long deceased, had entirely hindered his
little nap in his little den during the sermon, thus enabling him to
follow up the exhortations with more practical impressiveness.
"Ah, yes, poor boy! I'm right sorry for them all," said Timothy.
And the two gossips shook their grey heads, and looked gloomily at each
other, and up to the interlacing branches of the grand old elms that
overshadowed their bench and table, the comfortable trysting-place
where they had discussed the affairs and fortunes of their neighbours
for more than a quarter of a century.
"We all hoped poor Mr. Guy's son was born to the honours as well as the
name of his ancient house," he continued, glancing round at the sign of
"The Falconer's Arms," which swung over the porch of the village inn
behind him.
"You see," said the sexton, "when men can bring themselves to cutting
off entails, there ain't much hope of the family hanging together.
It's who's the highest bidder after that. I wonder who's to be highest
bidder here?"
"There's one coming along who could tell us, if he'd a mind," said
Timothy, lowering his voice, as a gentleman on horseback approached
along the road, and stopping before the inn, permitted his horse to
accept the refreshment ready in a moment from the ostler's pail.
It was the owner of the blue bag returning from a ride over the estate,
and his authority would certainly be trustworthy in such a matter.
"Good evening, friends." said he pleasantly. "This is a pretty spot,
this Falcon Range; some fine timber left yet; rich meadows, quite
justifying the description given of it."
The landlord could never resist a cheery voice, or a civil speech, so
he felt bound to speak.
"True, sir; more's the pity that it's got to change hands. I suppose
nobody's offered yet—it would take all the county by surprise."
"It is a pity, and I'm very sorry for the family," said the stranger,
rising instantaneously in the estimation of at least one of his
hearers; "but if we get Mr. Hazelwood here, there will be nothing to
regret in the matter of the landlord."
"Mr. Hazelwood! Squire Hazelwood of Hazel Copse! You don't say so!"
said Timothy.
"Yes I do; he is anxious to purchase, seeing that the lease of Hazel
Copse is running out, and he can't agree to terms of renewal."
"Well, he's a fine man, they do say. I've heard of him many a time, for
I've a friend as come from his parts."
The sexton began to feel impatient of this praise of a purchaser of the
Falcon Range, and put in a word.
"Whoever and whatever he be, sir, it's a shame to blot out a good old
family from their neighbourhood and inheritance. So Squire Hazelwood,
if he was my lord mayor himself, needn't think to come in triumphant
here. Money won't buy no hearts in Falcon Range."
"No, no," cried Timothy, shaking his fist at the singular animals, of
species unknown, which represented the Falconer's Arms; "there hangs
the old sign put up by my great grandfather, when his honoured master
set him going in business in this very house, and no other shall swing
there while Timothy Turnbull can hold his own."
"It is a very ancient painting apparently," said the lawyer, looking
at it as respectfully as if it had been a Rembrandt, or a Holbein;
"time-worn and weather-beaten."
"Aye, sir, that's true enough, but we do brighten it up a bit now and
then; I've a nephew in the oil ana colour trade, and he puts a fresh
coat on it beautiful; the feathers and claws looks ready to fly and
clutch the game, I'll warrant you, after that!"
"No doubt of it, Mr. Turnbull; you stand up for the old families, I
see, and the Falconers seem to be of a venerable stock."
"Aye, sir. Find a venerabler one in the three kingdoms, if you can,"
exclaimed the sexton proudly. "Why, they came in with the Conqueror,
the Falconers did!" And he gave a complacent puff to the tobacco, as if
to say, "There, you are annihilated now!"
"Well," said Mr. Penacre undauntedly, "it is nevertheless a fact that
Mr. Hazelwood's family can trace back to the time of King Alfred and
the old Saxon parliament, with certain grants then made to an ancestor
for service rendered to the king. What do you say to that?"
"You don't go for to set a Saxon churl before a Norman knight, I hope,
sir," said Mr. Spadeley, with great disdain.
"Put earl for churl, and adventurer for knight, and give each his due,"
said the lawyer good-humouredly. "You know it was Saxon plenty that
attracted lackland knights, and since they've shaken so well together,
and bygones are bygones, it doesn't much matter whether we quarter arms
with a Saxon bow or a Norman lance. For my part, I'm content to trace
back to Noah, with whom your progenitor and mine, good friends, outrode
the storm that swept away all landmarks. Good evening to you, and don't
despise Squire Hazelwood himself, whatever you may think of his bluff
ancestors."
And dropping a silver coin into the ostler's empty pail, he trotted
away, raising his hat smilingly to the village parson, who just then
came up and heard his concluding remarks.
[Illustration: VILLAGE POLITICS.]
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