shewn them to Jobson and Cuttlewell and Smith and Priestly (of Priestly,
Nicholson and Coombe), and others of his City cronies. How proud he had
been of them, how he had beamed and swelled with pride! He had hinted
that he might ask--might possibly--ask Priestley and the rest to witness
the ceremony. It had not been an actual promise, but next door to it,
made by him in a moment of joyous enthusiasm following a good lunch and
a bottle of excellent port.
And now the marriage was to be a small quiet affair, it was a blow, but
he took it like a man! He sought out Kathleen, he took her hand and
held it in his moist palm.
"My dear, Allan's told me, he says you're all for a quiet wedding; well
I did reckon on something a bit slap up and stylish and like that, but
if you're set on a quiet wedding, my dear----"
"I am, I want it very much, Allan understands," she said.
"Then, bless you, my dear, so it shall be, as quiet as you like! It's
for you to say, what you say goes with me, Allan told you, that's
right--why tears--my dear? Tears! Bless me, my lady, my dear, don't
cry!"
"You are very good to me, now I understand why Allan is--is what he is,
the fine man he is! He is like his father!"
"Like--like me--bless my soul, Allan like me, my love! My lady I
mean--I'm a common old chap! Allan's a gentleman, I made up my mind I'd
do my best for him and I done it--I'm what I am, my King, God bless him,
saw fit to make a "Sir" of me, but that don't make a gentleman of me, my
dear, and I know it!"
"I am going to be frank with you, truthful," Kathleen said. "I am going
to--to hurt you perhaps, and then I am going to try and make amends for
it--" She paused. "When my father first spoke of my marriage, my
marriage with Allan, I shuddered at the thought of it--not because of
Allan, but because of you!"
"I know, I know," he said sadly. "I ain't everyone's money, but----"
"No, listen, I looked down on you. I thought you were vulgar and
purseproud and boastful, and, oh, I thought a thousand evil things of
you and pretended to shudder when your name was mentioned!"
"My dear, I know, I know; don't, tell me more--I know!"
"But I am going to tell you more, I am going to tell you this!" She
caught his hand and held it. "It isn't what you have given and what you
are giving us, it isn't money--oh you know that, don't you? I was
wrong, wrong all the time! I know you better now and I like and respect
you and I envy Allan his father--yes, envy him his father and so I have
told him and--please kiss me because I am going to be your daughter,
aren't I? And because I want you to like me and be my friend!"
"God bless me!" he said. "God bless my--oh, my lady, my, my dear--Kiss
you? I'd be proud and happy!"
She laughed a little, she held up her face, there were tears on her
lashes. "Then kiss me, Allan's father!" she said.
My Lord had counted on an expensive and fashionable wedding, even more
than Sir Josiah had. He had specially ordered a frock coat of a
peculiar and delicate shade of grey, which would become him handsomely.
That he would easily outshine everyone present he knew with certainty.
He would give his daughter away, everyone would remark on his
appearance, the exquisite sensibility that would mark his every action.
They would not compare him with the Baronet, it was no question of
comparison. People would see with their own eyes how immeasurably
superior he was to Sir Josiah.
That the limelight would be mainly on himself, His Lordship had decided.
He had even rehearsed the part he would play. He would be the tender,
loving father, heart-broken and bereaved at losing his darling child,
and yet he would bear up bravely, carry himself proudly, with a touch of
tender gaiety. His speech at the reception he had written and
re-written--and now he was in a furious passion, shaking with rage, he
sought out Kathleen and swore viciously at her.
"What devil's tomfoolery is this?" he shouted. "What new pose have we
here? What's this confounded rotten, absurd business about, a twopenny
ha'penny housemaid's wedding, hey? Haven't I asked, unofficially of
course, but asked all the same a hundred people? Haven't Bellendon and
the Cathcarts and--and George Royhills and his wife practically delayed
their departure from Town for this wedding, and now--now what rotten
nonsense have you got in your head now, hey?"
She eyed him steadily. "Please don't swear at me, father?" she said.
"There is no need. I asked Allan----"
"Asked Allan, hang and confound Allan! Ain't I anyone? Don't I count?
I'm only your father! Haven't I planned this for you, haven't I
cherished the idea of making you a rich woman, haven't I----?" He
paused, floundering wildly in his fury.
"I asked Allan to humor me, I wanted a very quiet wedding, he was quite
willing, as eager as I almost. He spoke to his father and his father
has agreed----"
"His father! that confounded old City shark, that common, vulgar old
brute, who--who----"
"Whom you are very pleased and glad to take money from, who has treated
me with every kindness and respect and gave way at once to my wishes,
though they were opposed to his own. Yes, a common old man, but
generous and kind and good and--and I could wish, I could wish that my
father was as fine a gentleman!" And with a stately curtsey, she left
him.
"Well, I'll be damned!" His Lordship said in utter amazement.
*CHAPTER XII*
*THE HANDS OF ABRAM LESTWICK*
"You've got my wishes, Abram, you have!" said Mrs. Hanson.
He nodded. "I know," he said gloomily.
Abram Lestwick was of that curious, foreign type that one comes on
unexpectedly in our English country villages. He was about thirty-two
years of age, five feet nine in height and of a strong wiry build. His
complexion was swarthy, the skin sallow and drawn with a strange
suggestion of tightness, over the high and prominent cheek bones. The
eyes were small, black and very bright and deeply set beneath heavy
brows. No razor had ever touched the lower part of his face, which was
covered with a thin and straggling growth of coarse black hair, that
could scarcely be described as a "beard," for so thinly and far apart
did the hairs grow that the contour of a weak chin was clearly visible.
The whole appearance of the man suggested nervous unquiet and
restlessness, which particularly found expression in the constant
agitation of his hands. He had a restless, nervous habit of fingering
things within his reach.
At this moment he was sitting on the one "easy" chair at Mrs. Hanson's
little parlour. He had dragged down the antimacassar that usually
adorned the chair back and was plucking at the threads and rolling the
edge of it into a tight curl. Mrs. Hanson watched his face; she did not
look at his hands. There was something hateful about Abram Lestwick's
hands, the fingers were long, flexible and thin, save at the ends, where
they suddenly thickened out and flattened in a strange, unsightly
manner. But it was their restlessness, their never ceasing movement
that was so remarkable. Never for a moment were they still.
Mrs. Hanson, favouring the young man, yet knew she hated his hands!
"I feel, I du," she said to herself, "as I want to scream if I set and
watch them, but I du know he be a good man and a hard worker, with no
love for the alehouse and reg'lar to Church and like to make Betty a
good husband, and after all, what du a man's hands matter? So be as he
du work with them and earn his living honourable and upright in the
state of life which it du please God to call him!"
"I've got your wishes, I hev," he said, "I know that, but what be the
use of your wishes to me, Mrs. Hanson, so I haven't got Betty's liking?"
"You mustn't take too much notice of the maid; maids be strange and
fickle things, aye and vain they be! The man as praises a maid to her
face and tells her she be nice looking be the one as goes best with
they!"
"What do 'ee want I to do?" he said sullenly. "I know there beain't a
maid to compare wi' Betty, there beain't one as be fit to tie her
shoes!" A dull red crept into his checks, his voice shook, his fingers
worked more nervously and more rapidly at the destruction of the
antimacassar.
"Slow of speech I be," he said thickly, "and difficult it du be for me
to find words--there be a thousand things I would say to she--they be
here all in my brain, but my tongue won't utter them! I--I try--" he
paused, choking, "I try, I look at she dumblike and stupid and knowing
it, aye, curse it, knowing it!" His voice rose, he wrenched at the
antimacassar, he tore a piece away; his fingers were hideous to see at
this moment and Mrs. Hanson looked resolutely at his face. Yet she was
all the time conscious of the havoc his fingers were making.
"Do 'ee think I don't want to tell she? I du! I du, I try to, but my
tongue won't do me sarvice. I love her!" He paused. "I love her!" He
said it again. "Love her, I mean to tell her, yet like as not her'll
laugh at me!" He stood up, he flung the antimacassar to the floor, his
hands worked up and down his coat, tearing and fingering at the buttons
and the buttonholes.
"There bain't a maid in all the world like she, not a man fit to kiss
the grounds she treads on. If a man, a man in this village did look at
she wi' harmful eyes, I'd kill him!" He nodded. "Kill him!" He said.
"I'd get my hands on his throat and never let go! Sometimes when I
think of her I feel that I be going mad like, I see red--red passion
before my eyes. I tell 'ee, Mrs. Hanson, ma'am, I've got your wishes, I
know, I know! But I must hev that maid; no one else shall, as God hears
me, no one else shall!"
He went to the door, swinging his arms violently, his fingers clenched
and unclenching.
"I've got your wishes, I hev, I'm glad of them, ma'am. I thank 'ee, I
du--your good wishes, Ma'am, and I be obliged greatly, I be--and--please
don't mind my tempers! 'Tis thinking of the maid makes me so; a peaceful
man I be, and begging your pardon, Ma'am, that I did forget myself, but
'tis thinking of the maid that--that drives me like you see me, Ma'am!
But I beg your pardon I du, most politely!"
He was gone and Mrs. Hanson sighed and stooped and picked up from the
ground the work of her own busy fingers--and his! She sighed again,
looking at the destruction of it.
"A terribul man he be--in his wrath, fit to kill anyone belike!" she
said. "All tore it be, all tore and wrenched and broke apart--powerful
fingers he must hev! Ill would it go wi' man or maid that angered he
and did him hurt!"
Down the road in a tempest of passion went Abram Lestwick, swinging his
arms and muttering to himself like a madman, and yet at Farmer Patchams,
where he worked, they counted him as a man of an even and equable
temper. A foreman, he never cursed and swore at those under him. Little
things moved him not; his grim, glum, gloomy face never darkened with
rage. A polite tongue he had, though a slow one, a steady man and
quiet, and yet he himself knew of the tempest of unbridled passion, the
mad tumult that his brain was capable of.
Rarely did his passions master him before others. They had to-night,
before Mrs. Hanson, but he had her wishes, he was safe with her.
"If any man did look at she wi' wishful eyes," he repeated, "by God's
Heaven I would kill him!" He clenched at the air with his nervously
working hands. "Get my hands on his throat and kill him, grip and crash
it till the life were gone out o' he, I would!"
He stopped suddenly, bathed in perspiration, but the fury gone. She
stood before him in the gloaming of the evening.
"I be come from your house, Betty," he said, and his voice was mild as a
voice may be. "A pleasant half hour I did have along wi' your
grandmother, Betty!"
"I hope 'ee enjoyed yourself, Abram," she said with a little
contemptuous laugh.
"Aye, I did in a way, for I were talking about 'ee, Betty!"
She frowned.
"Betty!" He felt as if he were suddenly choking, he lifted those
working, restless hands of his to his own throat. They made as to tear
open his shirt, so that he might breathe the more freely.
"Betty, do 'ee know what I and your grandmother were talking about?"
"I doan't and I bain't curus to hear!" she said. She made to pass him,
but he held his ground.
"'Twere about 'ee!"
"Then 'twere nothing good," she said. "My left ear were burning cruel
and now I know!"
"Betty," he said, "wait, 'ee shall, 'ee shall I say, wait, there's
summut I must say to 'ee!"
"Let me--pass!"
"No, no." He caught her by the arm and held her.
"Betty, I du love 'ee so, I want 'ee to wife! If I don't have 'ee no
one else shall, no one, I swear! Look at me, stubborn o' tongue I
be--and difficult it be for me to speak the words I want to say, but
'tis all in this: 'I love 'ee better than life, better than death. I
love 'ee mad; mad I be, I tell 'ee wi' love for 'ee! My maid, I'd die
for 'ee and live for 'ee and kill they as come between us! Betty,
Betty, give yourself to me--to--cherish--" He paused, the words of the
marriage service came to him uncertainly, "to hold and to keep, to
cherish until death us du part. Give yourself to me, for never and you
go through the whole world will 'ee find a man as loves 'ee half so
well!"
"I bain't a marrying maid!" she said. "And I'll not marry 'ee or anyone
else and 'ee last and leastest of all, Abram Lcstwick. I'll never marry
'ee, never, never!"
"And I swear by Heaven 'ee shall!" he cried. His fingers were at work
on her arm, she felt and hated the touch of them. Hateful fingers--long
and sinuous, with their horrible, spatulated tips, they reminded her of
writhing snakes, with their venomous, flattened heads, just that! She
tried to break away from him.
"A great coward 'ee be, to so beset a maid. I hate 'ee, I du. Let me
be, let me be!"
"I'll never let 'ee be, for I du love 'ee mad, mad," he cried, "and 'ee
shall never belong to anyone else, never and----"
And then she broke from him, she lifted her strong young arm and smote
him across the face with all her strength. Abram Lestwick fell back
apace, his sallow skin went deathly white, he stood and stared at her.
"'Ee, 'ee made me du it!" she panted. "I--I had to du it, Abram, I
didn't mean it, I be sorry in my heart, I did strike 'ee!"
But he said nothing, he only looked at her, then without a word turned
and walked away down the road and she stood looking after him. Even now
she could see the restless, nervous working of his hands.
"I hate--hate and I be afeared o' him tu!" she said. "I be terribul
afeared o' him!" She broke down, sobbing and crying. "'Tisn't fair as
a maid should be so bothered as I be! I don't want to marry anyone,
leastest of all he, for I du hate him most mortally, I du!"
Her grandmother was waiting for her.
"Did 'ee see Abram Lestwick down the road?" she asked.
"Aye, I did see him!"
"Well?"
"Well?"
"Didn't he speak to 'ee, tell 'ee his mind?"
"Yes, he did and--and I hate him!"
"Hate?" said Mrs. Hanson. "Still filled wi' hate, 'ee be, which bain't
seemly in a young maid! What wi' your hating first this one and then
t'other, fair fed up I be wi' your hates, my maid, and 'tis time to put
a stop to all such nonsense! Abram Lestwick hev been wi' me to-night
and talking wi' me he hev been, and about you--moreover. And he be
willing to marry 'ee and a good match it'll be, my maid, which Mrs.
Colley have been angling for for that putty-faced 'Lizbeth o' hers,
though Abram would never look twice at she. But 'tis you he be after,
an upright, godly young man with thirty-five shillings a week and a
cottage and all, and a rare chance for the likes of 'ee, Betty Hanson,
wi'out a shillin' to your name!"
"I hate him and I'll never, never marry him; I hate him and am afeared
of him as well! And sooner than marry he I'd go and drownd myself in
the river, aye, that, I would, and that I will, for marry him I never
will!"
"That's what 'ee say, but hark to me, marry him I say 'ee shall and I
have told him, he has my wishes!"
A defiant white face, with big glittering eyes faced the wrinkled, angry
old face.
"Drownd myself I will gladly and willingly afore I marry he!"
"Go 'ee in!" said Mrs. Hanson. "A perilous bad maid 'ee be and 'shamed
of 'ee I be, and asking myself I be all the time--Be this my son Garge's
child, or be she a changeling? For such temper no Hanson ever did hev
yet--Go 'ee in, but mark this, marry him 'ee shall!"
"Mark this!" Betty cried. "Marry him I never will! I'll drownd myself
first! Aye and blithely and gaily--for I du hate and fear him more than
any mortal man and they fingers o' his that touched me--ugh! That
touched me and--" And then suddenly she broke down in a passion of sobs
and ran into the house.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE HOMECOMING*
Sir Josiah was performing his last friendly offices. Davenham had
finished his part of the work and had done it, as the Baronet knew he
would, with a complete and thorough knowledge and good taste.
Who, to look about one now, seeing those beautiful rooms with their
exquisite furnishing, that garden, a thing of delight and perfect
beauty, could reconcile it all with the desolate and derelict wilderness
of a place it had been three short months before?
"I'd like that there Van Norden, or whatever his name is, to see it, I
would!" Sir Josiah thought. "Hang me, I'd like him to take a stroll
around now! Them Americans are smart and wonderful skilful, aye, and
what's more a fine nat'ral taste they've got, appreciating fine things
and old things more than we do! I say all that and admit all that, but
this here Van Norden, he couldn't have beat what I've done in the time,
he couldn't! He'd own it, too, for I've yet to meet the American who
wasn't frank to admit the truth!"
Sir Josiah here was like a small king in great state. He was to
interview potential servants, advertisements appeared in the London and
the local papers, inviting cooks and housemaids, parlourmaids, footmen,
grooms, scullery maids, still room maids and the like to present
themselves at Homewood Manor on a certain day, when all their expenses
would be paid by Sir Josiah Homewood, who would engage the most suitable
persons. His own man Bletsoe was here to do honour to the occasion.
"How many are there, Bletsoe?"
"Nine young women, three old ones, two fellers and an old man as come
about the gardener's place, only I understand as you're keeping that old
feller, old Markabee, Sir Josiah!"
"That's right, keeping him on I am, a sensible man and clever at his
work, that garden's a credit to him! Old very likely, but I've known
men as weren't old, yet fools, Bletsoe!"
"Quite so, sir!" said Bletsoe. "And now about h'interviewing 'em?"
Sir Josiah frowned to hide his nervousness.
"How many old ones did you say, Bletsoe?"
"Three, sir, and one of 'em with a wonderful fine moustache as I ever
see!"
"There's the money, take it and settle with them, mark where they come
from and look up the fares in the A.B.C., Bletsoe, to see they don't
cheat you, then give 'em five shillings over and above. But pay 'em
their fares right and correct, not a penny more nor less, and Bletsoe,
when I say--ahem! like that, you'll know as that one's no good, you
see!"
It was hard work and none too pleasant, but the house had to be staffed.
Allan and Lady Kathleen were married, they were spending a brief
honeymoon on the East Coast; they would be back here soon to take
possession and Allan's father was resolved that when they came they
would find everything complete. Had not he himself pried in the store
cupboards, which Messrs. Whiteley had obligingly stocked at his request?
He had satisfied himself that everything necessary was there,
everything, that is, of an unperishable nature.
Salt and tea, sugar and pepper. He had been greatly disturbed in his
mind when he found that washing soda had been overlooked and he had
ordered a hundredweight forthwith. And now he was engaging servants.
"I am Sir Josiah Homewood, this house belongs to my son, Mr. Allan
Homewood, at present away on his honeymoon with his wife, the Lady
Kathleen Homewood, daughter to the Earl of Gowerhurst. They are
returning in a week and I desire to have everything in readiness for
them. What might your age be and what are your references and who were
you with last? And why did you leave your last place?"
"Begging your pardon, sir, my age, I respectfully beg to say, I don't
see hasn't nothing to do with the matter. As for my references, here
they are. I've lived in a Duke's family and there's but little I don't
know how to cook, even to peacocks, I have cooked, sir, and----"
"Bless my soul, I didn't know people eat 'em!" said the Baronet.
"Only the best of the quality, sir!"
"Bless me, very well, hum, hah!" He looked through the references, he
made notes on a piece of paper. "Please settle with this lady, Bletsoe,
and give her, her out of pockets as according to arrangement--a--hem!"
And so the fate of the lady with the moustache was sealed, though she
knew it not.
Betty had heard of this reception that Sir Josiah was holding to-day.
Girls from Little Stretton, Bush Corner, and even from Gadsover and
Lindney, had come to offer themselves for hiring. Betty hesitated,
since that evening when she had defied her Grandmother life had not been
very happy at Mrs. Hanson's little cottage. Should she go with the rest
and offer herself for service in the house? But could she bear it,
could she bear to see her own beloved garden again as it was now, not as
she remembered it? All the dear trees cut down, or most of them, and
hideous new walls put up, and her little stone friend gone from the lake
and a great ugly stone fountain erected in her place, for so she had
heard. Could she bear to see it all as it was now?
No, she could not, so she hesitated. The other girls went and were
engaged or not, as Sir Josiah decided, but Betty did not offer herself.
For three days after that night when she had struck Abram Lestwick in
the face, she did not see him, but on the evening of the fourth day he
presented himself at the door of her grandmother's cottage.
He said nothing of that last interview. His manner was nervous and
hesitating and without passion, his fingers worked incessantly, toying
and tearing at everything within his reach. He sat upright on a
horsehair-covered chair, and tore little hairs out of the cloth all the
evening. At a quarter to ten he rose and took his hat.
"I'll be wishing you good night, Mrs. Hanson, ma'am!" he said.
"Good night, Abram, and always glad to see you," said Mrs. Hanson
heartily.
"I thank you, Ma'am, good night, Betty!" he said.
"Go to the door, my maid, and see Abram off the step," said her
grandmother.
Betty hesitated, then went, with her red-lipped mouth firmly compressed.
On the step in the summer darkness Abram found his tongue.
"Well?" he said. "When is it to be!"
"When be, what to be?"
"Our wedding?"
"Didn't I tell 'ee?"
"Aye, but 'ee didn't mean it, besides I hev made up my mind; when is it
to be?"
"Never!" she said. "Never, never!"
He laughed softly to himself as she closed the door in his face, but
to-night there was no passion, no tempest within him. He laughed again
as he walked down the road in the velvety blackness.
There were lights in the Old Manor House, unfamiliar sight! He did not
ever remember seeing lights there before and strange lights they were,
very bright and brilliant, and so many of them. He stood still in the
road and stared at the house.
Presently the little arched green door in the wall opened and a woman
scuttled out, carrying a bundle suspiciously.
"Who be that? Law! How 'ee did frighten me!" she panted a little with
nervousness; perhaps that bundle had no right to be in her arms. "Be it
you, Abram Lestwick?" she asked, peering into the darkness.
"Aye!" he said briefly. "It be me all right, Mother Colley. What be
'ee doing here to-night?"
"'Tis the young new Squire, the old man's son, come home wi' his lady
wife. I see her for a minute, Abram, and a prettier creature I never
set eyes on, so kind and smiling her looks, too, and so mighty fond they
du seem to be of one another, arm in arm they was walking. 'Father,' he
were saying when I see him, 'Father have done wonders here, Kathleen!
You did ought to have seen the place no more than four months ago.
Father have worked wonderful, terribul hard for we!' he said."
"Ah!" said Abram.
"Yes," said Mrs. Colley, nodding her head, "and she wonderful sweet and
dainty her looked, I tell 'ee, Abram--'Wonderful kind and good he be,
Allan,' she says. And, Abram, why don't 'ee ever come in for a kindly
cup o' tea to our cottage? My maid 'Lizbeth continooally du ask me! A
clever maid her be wi' her fingers and a worker she, not like someone as
I could name, some as bain't too right in their mind!"
"Who?"
"I mention no names, Abram, only I say there be a kindly welcome and a
cup set for 'ee whenever 'ee do take the fancy and now I must be getting
along. A wonderful place they hev made o' it, and oh! the money it hev
cost! It fair sets me wondering how there ever du be so much money in
the world!"
"And if," Abram thought, "all the money in the world were mine, I would
lay it at Betty's feet!" So he went on his way, for the man who rises
at four in the morning must to bed betimes.
* * * * *
Allan had been in no hurry for the honeymoon to end. Every day of their
companionship added to his liking and respect for Kathleen. Now that
she was away from her father, now that she had shaken herself free from
the old environment, she seemed to be a different woman. Her laughter
was more spontaneous; the sadness, for which in his heart he had pitied
her, was going, if not gone from her eyes. She was a charming
companion, her good temper and entire unselfishness were never failing.
What more could a man ask?
He had rather dreaded the honeymoon, and now had come to realise that it
formed the most pleasant period of his life. But now that it had come to
its end, he felt a strange reluctance to go to Homewood.
He was young and healthy minded; for such a man to brood over a dream or
a vision was impossible. The effect of that May day dream of his had
well nigh worn away, the vision of the girl who had come to him in the
old garden and kissed him had grown vague and shadowy. Like most
visions, it was slowly passing and presently, unless something happened
to revive it, it would pass into oblivion altogether.
But this return to Homewood would and must revive it and bring back that
day and all that had happened on that day forcibly to mind once more.
And he asked himself, did he wish to be reminded? Was he not well
enough content with life as it was? He was married to a girl for whom
he felt a great liking, a growing affection, and a respect, a woman whom
he realised was the sweetest and best woman he had ever known.
It was not her beauty alone that attracted him, yet he could scarcely
repress a thrill of pride of possession that comes to many men when they
realise the envy of others and see the looks of admiration which were no
more than Kathleen's well deserved tribute.
So the honeymoon had been a very pleasant and happy time. They were
frank with one another, the best of friends. They kissed one another
with a quiet, undemonstrative affection that was not feigned. There had
not been one breath to mar the perfect serenity of their lives. No
foolish trumpery quarrel, but always that complete understanding and
good faith that willingness to give and take unselfishly.
Are honeymoons always such a success? When the passionate lovers are
united at last and drive away radiant and triumphant, amidst a shower of
rice and good wishes, who can tell what pitfalls her pretty little feet
may trip into, what obstacles he may go stumbling and floundering over?
They believed that they knew and understood one another so well, all
unconsciously perhaps they have kept up many pretences, have only
permitted one another to see the brighter side.
But there is always the other and darker side, Romeo's temper the first
thing in the morning may not be everything that is desirable. When
Juliet finds that one of her dresses does not fit her quite so well as
it might, she must vent her annoyance on someone--and there is only
Romeo!
The good ship of matrimony has scarcely weighed anchor and set sail and
the Captain and the Mate have yet to learn one another's characters,
perhaps they have even to decide who the Captain and who the Mate.
There are many little things to arrange, little difficulties to adjust.
Happy they who can do it all, with kindness and good temper, willing to
give freely and yet not asking for too much!
It was in the dusk of the late July evening that Allan and Kathleen came
to Homewood.
It was the last day of Sir Josiah's reign, and never a sovereign gave up
his sceptre with better grace. How he beamed, how he swelled with
visible pride, how he dragged them from room to room to see this and to
see that!
"There you are, my boy, what do you think of it? Wouldn't know the
place, would you? You'd 'a fallen through this floor three months ago;
look at it now!" And the old gentleman jumped up and down to prove the
soundness of the joists and boards.
"Well, my dear, and what do you think of it? Pretty, ain't it?
Davenham didn't let me down, there's nothing like going to the right
man! Davenham ain't cheap, but--" He caught himself up, this was no
time to talk of money and money matters. He had spent freely and
willingly. Perhaps never before in his life had he spent quite so
freely, quite so willingly. There was a heavy bill to meet, but what of
that? He could meet it!
He had picked up a good deal from careful observations and from
listening to Davenham's learned talk. The names Hepplewhite and Adam,
Sheraton and Chippendale tripped glibly from his tongue. True, he
confused Hepplewhite and Adam, but what did that matter? Allan and
Kathleen did not mind, perhaps did not know, and the old fellow was
happy and smiling, though there was just a little ache at his heart, for
to-morrow his work would be done, to-morrow he would pack his traps,
order the car, tip the servants and say good-bye. His reign would be
ended! The villagers would give him their bobs and their smiles and
perhaps a cheer, Dalabey would come from his shop and grovel for a
moment as he passed and then--then life would of a sudden become
strangely empty, strangely without aim and object.
"Can almost see 'em, can't you, Allan, my boy, those old Elmacotts; the
place must have looked very like this in their time. Lord, it's a pity
we've got into the way of dressing so plain and starchy like we do now!
But bless my soul! What would I look like in a flowered waistcoat and
powdered wig and silk stockings, eh? Ha, ha, ha! And how well she's
looking, how pretty she is, prettier'n ever, Allan, and what a lucky
fellow you are!"
"The luckiest in the world and the happiest I think, father!" Allan said
very soberly.
The old man nodded, "That's right, that's right, that's what I hoped to
hear. Now, take her and shew her round. It's a pity it's gone so dark,
so you can't see the gardens to-night. I tell you, Allan, the gardens
are even better than the house. You keep on that old Markabee, he knows
his job and you won't get no better man for thirty-seven and six a week,
cottage found!"
In the dawn of the summer morning Allan wakened, his sleep had been
strangely disturbed. He had dreamed, yet now he was awake the dreams
were all vague, half forgotten and meaningless. He rose and went to the
open window and looked out into the garden.
He saw it as he had seen it that day in May, in his dream, all trim and
fair, the weeds and the desolation gone, the flower beds all gay and
bright with bloom, the lawns--and how old Markabee and his men had
worked on these lawns! shaved and rolled and weeded.
And though remembering it as he had seen it, with the desolation of
years over it all, it all looked unfamiliar to him now and yet
wonderfully, strangely familiar.
Then suddenly there came to him with a sense of shock and anxiety a
question. What of the little stone nymph who had stood there in the
midst of the pool? Had they torn her from her pedestal and banished her
from the place she had held for centuries? Why had he never spoken of
her? Why had he never asked that she might be protected? Why--why above
all did he care? What had become of a little stone image with a broken
arm and a battered vase, and the slender little stone body all stained
green?
But he did care, and he wanted to know what her fate was. He turned
back into the room and saw his wife sleeping there. The sunlight
slanted in through the uncurtained window and touched her face, and he
stood looking at her.
Sleeping, she seemed, in spite of her eight and twenty years, to be such
a child. There was a smile on her lips, her face was pillowed on one
white bare arm, her hair fell about her on the pillow.
He stretched out his hand and lifted one heavy lock and held it lightly,
letting it slip softly through his fingers till it fell to the pillow
again.
And, watching her as she slept, he wondered why his heart did not throb,
why a great passionate love for her did not come--yet it did not!
He dressed and went out into the garden. He was early, early even for
old Markabee, from whose little cottage even now the smoke was curling,
thin and blue, into the morning air.
In spite of the panic of anxiety of a while ago, he had forgotten the
little stone maid. The enchantment of the garden was on him, his feet
trod the stone pathway, his hands were behind his back, his head bent a
little forward, yet he saw everything, the trim, carefully laid out
beds, the green grass, the foxglove and the hollyhock thrusting their
way to life and air and sun through the crevices in the old stone path.
So he stepped aside to avoid tramping on their loveliness, yet wondered
why they should be there.
Was it right? What would my Lady say? And he? Was not he dallying here
when he should be at his work?
What thoughts! What strange jumble of thoughts was this?
Hoe and rake, he must get them from the shed; the shed there behind the
old red wall. So he turned and came to the place and found no shed,
then started and came back to life again and frowned at himself for his
folly.
Was there some enchantment that brooded over the place, something that
held him in its grip when his feet trod the soil of this old garden?
"Dreams!" he said aloud, and again, "Dreams!" And then laughed at
himself and turned back to the broad stone pathway, then suddenly
remembered the object of his quest, and hurried on to the lake.
She was there, untouched! and he was conscious of a relief, a sense of
gladness--yet why? What did it matter? What would it have mattered had
they pulled her down and carried her away and used her to mend some
country road with and placed some fine marble fountain with basin all
complete in her place? Yet it did matter and he knew that it did!
He turned, conscious of a relief and yet wondering at it and went back
along the path to where was the great circle in the middle of which
stood the sundial, and he noticed that some artificer had replaced the
long lost gnomon, so that once again the shadow might fall and tell the
passing of the hours.
And there was the seat on which he had sat that day. Then it had been
half lost in a maze of tangle and growth. Now it had been cleaned and
even mended a little, the moss and green growth removed.
Allan sat down, as he had sat down that day; he laid his arm along the
back of the stone seat, just as then, and as then presently, the reality
about him grew faint and uncertain, and he drifted into a light sleep.
But in that sleep no dreams came, no vision of a little figure tripping
down the stone pathway, no dainty little figure in her flowered gown,
with mob cap on her shining head. Instead he opened his eyes and looked
into the face of an ancient man, who pulled a scanty lock of hair at him
and wished him "Good marning!" in purest Sussex.
"Good morning to you," said Allan and wondered for a moment who the old
man might be, then it dawned on him.
"A wunnerful and powerful difference be here," said the old man, "which
you will hev noticed, so be as you hev seen the place before!"
"I have seen it before, three months ago, and as you say a wonderful
difference is here," said Allan, "and you are----"
"Markabee be my name," the old man said, "gardener I were at Lord
Reldewood's place, near Smarden in Kent, though I be Sussex born and
bred."
There was interrogation in his still, bright eyes.
"My name is Homewood, Allan Homewood!"
"Then you be the young master, the old master be a proper fine man and a
thorough gentleman!"
Allan laughed. "I hope that you will be able to say the same of me,
though I warn you, Markabee, I am not such a fine man nor so good a
gentleman as my father!"
"That may be, that may be!" said Markabee. "One finds out, one does,
for one's self. But I be one as speaks as I du find and I say the old
gentleman be a proper fine man, free handed moreover and pleasant of
speech!
"Very late in the season, it were," Markabee went on. "May, pretty nigh
out, when I du come to this garden. Powerful difficult it were to make
much of a show, as I did say to Mr. Dalabey. 'Never mind,' says he, 'du
your bestest, Markabee, for you be working for a proper fine gentleman
who don't mind a little bit of extry money here and there, so be he gets
what he du want!'"
Allan nodded. Not for all the world would he hurt the old fellow's
feelings, but he could wish old Markabee safely off to his work in the
garden, leaving him here to his dreams in the sunshine.
But not so Markabee. For he was old and had seen many things and many
gardens; old and garrulous was he and eager above all to make a good
impression on the young master!
"Things I hev seen and changes," he said, "you wouldn't believe, and
now--how old might you take me to be, eh, young sir? What aged man
would you say I were?" He pulled himself up erect as a grenadier, and
his bright old eyes twinkled, while the long whisps of white hair fell
about his copper coloured face.
"Now, sir, make a guess, how old might 'ee take me to be, eh?"
"I should say--" said Allan cautiously, "that you might be sixty-five!"
"Ha, ha, ha, that be a good 'un, sixty-five--ha, ha!" He laughed till
his voice cracked and he nearly choked. "Two and eighty years hev I
seen, two and eighty wi' never a lie, and look at me, fit for a long
day's work I be with the best and youngest on 'em! Ask anyone here,
young sir, ask what sort of worker be old Markabee, ask 'em to satisfy
yourself, sir! Yes, two and eighty summers and winters hev I
seen--sixty-five--ha, ha, ha! Sixty-five!" And, chuckling with
laughter, he saluted, drew his old body erect and went marching off down
the garden with a jaunty air, and yet in his heart a little quavering
wonder and anxious fear.
"I wonder, du he think I be too old?"
If spell there had been, old Markabee had broken it. So though he might
sit here on the old stone seat, no drowsiness came to him now. He
watched a bee, a great velvety bumble bee, with its lustrous black and
tan body hurrying, full of business, from flower to flower. The sun was
low yet, and cast slanting shadows all softly blue on the stone pathway.
The dew glinted and glistened in the cups of the flowers and in the
heart of the starry green leaves of the lupins. He looked along the
broad straight pathway to the house and saw it, so strangely like he had
seen it that day, the windows open, the dimity curtains moving lightly
in the soft breeze. And now came a maid servant, but no mob cap and
flowered gown wore she, and her hair was black and her eyes sleepy, nor
did she trip daintily, but shuffled in sluggard fashion and let down the
new sun blinds outside the windows with a rasping, creaking sound of
iron on iron.
No dreams for him this day, nor did he want them? Why seek them, invite
them? For dreams would but bring him again to dissatisfaction and would
set him yearning and longing and even hoping for that which could never,
never come true. Allan rose and seemed to shake himself, though he
shook himself more mentally than physically, to lighten himself of these
fancies, which were idle and foolish and which he must not encourage nor
harbour.
He smiled to himself as he set off for a ramble about the garden, for he
saw what he must do. He must prove to old Markabee and to all the rest
that he was a man worthy of being his father's son.
"A proper fine man he be and a thorough gentleman," old Markabee had
said, and so he was. God bless him for a fine gentleman!
And then suddenly and unexpectedly, for he had wandered far into a part
of the garden where he had never been before and where even old Markabee
and his merry men had not yet penetrated, he came on a little stream
that flowed rapidly and clearly between high banks of thick green growth
and at one place was a deep pool where the water swirled and eddied,
obstructed for the moment in its course by an abrupt turn in the winding
of the stream. About him were the trees and the greenery, an
impenetrable leafy screen and the silence; but for the birds there was
nothing to interrupt the solitude of the place. So off with his clothes
and then a header into the cool green water for a brisk swim. Here,
under the shade of the trees, the water ran cold and its coldness sent
the blood leaping and throbbing through his veins.
A few minutes and he was out, glowing, dripping, a young giant in his
health and strength. Now he had put his clothes on caring nothing that
his skin was wet beneath them.
Back through the garden and the sunshine he strode--dreams, what idle
things were dreams! Only a fool or a poet might sit there on that old
old stone seat trying to conjure up visions of a long dead past. His
body was in a glow, he was conscious of a great and voracious appetite.
He saw the girl who had pulled the sun blinds down and called to her.
"What's your name?" he said. "Mary or Peggy, or Molly, eh?" he smiled
at her.
"Ann is my name, sir!" she said. "Ann!"
"You're not Sussex?"
She tossed her head. "Not me, thank you, sir, I come from the Fulham
Road!"
"Then, Ann, where you come from does not matter, but if you love me, get
me a cup of tea and--and--well anything--a good big hunk of bread and
butter will do, but see that it is big and that there is plenty of
butter on it and I'll wait here till you come back, Ann!"
"What a very strange young gent," the girl thought. "If I love him
indeed! There's a nice way of talking!" She tossed her head, yet went
off to get the tea and the bread and butter.
"If I love him indeed, well of all the impudence!"
*CHAPTER XIV*
*"HIS SON'S WIFE"*
"Well, well, my boy, what do you think of it all? How do you think the
garden looks?"
"Wonderful!"
"Wonderful, yes, that old Markabee's a treasure; you won't part with
him, Allan?"
"Nothing would induce me to, father. I hope he'll stay here another
twenty years at least!"
"That'll make him a hundred and two, the old man is very proud of his
age, eighty something!"
"Eighty-two and seems a mere boy!" Allan went to his father and put his
arms about the old man's shoulders.
"I--I'm not going to try and thank you!" he said.
"Don't, there's nothing to thank me for! I--I did it--I enjoyed doing
it, never enjoyed anything so much in my life, put myself into it heart
and soul. I'd like Cutler, you know Cutler, his daughter married the
Governor of somewhere or other--I'd like him to see this place!"
"Then why not?"
"Bless me--so I may--one day--I might bring him down, but, Allan, I'm
not going to interfere with you, not me! Two's company, three's none!
I know that! And--good morning, my dear, and I don't need to ask how
you slept! As fresh as a rose you look this morning, as fresh and as
handsome too!"
And she did, her cheeks were glowing, her eyes were bright. Fresh from
her cold bath, she was a picture of glowing health and beauty. She went
to him and put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him.
"And now I want to know what is the meaning of those horrible looking
bags and portmanteaux and things I saw on the landing?"
"Why--why bless me--they are mine--I--I didn't mean to leave 'em about,
my dear. I'd never have forgiven myself if you'd tripped and fallen
over them, but----"
"I don't mean that; what I want to know is: Why are they packed?"
"Because--because there's my things in 'em and I'm off for London.
Bletsoe's got his orders and after breakfast I'll start----"
"But supposing I don't mean to let you go?"
"Thank you, my dear, thank you and God bless you! I--I know what you
mean, but thank you, my dear, all the same! I--I like to think that
you're not in a hurry to push the old fellow out! I'll be glad to
remember that!" His eyes shone. "Yes, my love, I'll be glad to
remember that, but----"
"How are we going to manage without you?" she asked. "You have been so
clever, it's all so wonderful what you have done here. Allan told me
what a terrible, terrible state the place was in and how like a fairy, a
good fairy, you have touched it with your wand and it--is like it is
now! And we can't let our fairy go, can we?"
"But he'll come back, my love, he'll come back!" The old man cried
happily. "But you and Allan have got to settle down and I--I know what
it is, my dear, when Allan's mother and me were married, settling down
is a bit difficult--I think you and Allan are best left to yourselves,
and then when you want me, why I'll come, I'll come, you won't have to
ask twice. You ought to have the telephone on--" he paused, took out
his pocketbook and made a rapid note, "arrange telephone, Homewood,"
then you'll be able to ring me up and I'll be able to ring you up--now
and again, not that I want to be a nuisance or a worry to
you--but--but--what's that? What's that? Breakfast, eh?"
"Yes, sir, breakfast!" said the manservant.
Over breakfast they discussed an idea that had come to Kathleen.
"We must have a house warming," she said, "you know the old
superstition, there'll be no luck about the house unless we have a
warming!"
"To be sure!" said Sir Josiah, a little puzzled, "but I had the fires
lighted and kep' going for weeks and----"
"I know!" she laughed. "But I mean a party, a house party, just a few
of our nearest and dearest. You, of course, first and before all and
my--" she hesitated, "my father, of course, and then you will have one
or two of your own friends, Sir Josiah, won't you? Friends of yours you
might like to bring down?"
His eyes shone. "Cutler!" he said. "I'd like to bring him, take the
shine out of him, it will too. I'm fed up with Her Excellency, the
Governor's wife, that's Cutler's daughter. Why, my love, it'll stifle
him, that's what it will do! Why, of course, I'll come! And there'll be
a few things, wines and spirits and like that. I'll see about them, see
about 'em at once--and now----"
And now the time for parting had come, the time he had dreaded, but it
must come; the car was at the door, the bags were put into the car. And
the owner of the car dallied, he was in the morning room and Kathleen
was with him. She put her hand on his arm and delayed him, she had
smiled a signal to Allan to go out and leave them together for a moment
or so, and Allan had gone.
"You have been very, very good to us, you have given us this beautiful
home, you have given us more--I know--" she said and her eyes were very
bright and very kind, as she stood, a queenly young figure, with her
slim white hand resting on his arm--"And I want to tell you this--I want
to--to earn it all. I want to earn all your kindness and affection. I
want to prove myself worthy of it! You have given me all this and you
have given me your son and he--he is the best of all! A little while
ago I thought that I was an old, old woman; life seemed to hold very,
very little for me, my whole life was one long struggle, a struggle
between pride and poverty. I suffered--" she paused, "more than I can
ever tell. I knew what people said of me and of--" she paused, "of--of
me, and now all suddenly I seem to realise that I am not old, but that I
am young, and that I am not afraid of the years that lie before me. Our
marriage, Allan's and mine, was--was--at first sordid and mercenary, and
I hated it, but Allan and I talked about it and we agreed, long ago,
that we would make the best, the very, very best possible of our lives
and I think we are doing it. I know how you love him and I know how
deeply he loves you and so--so I wanted to tell you that Allan's wife
will try, with God's help, to be worthy of him and of you, that she will
be a good, true and faithful wife to him, helping him when she may help,
comforting him if he should need comfort. Perhaps--" she said softly,
"I am not a religious woman, I wish I were! But no religious woman
could have prayed to her God more fervently, more from her heart than I
have prayed from mine that I may never fail in my duty, that I shall be
all that he would have me, that I shall be a good, true and faithful
wife and friend to the man whose name I bear!"
He did not speak, his lips trembled a little, he put his arms about her
and held her very tightly for a moment and then he went out, seeing
nothing very clearly, for the mist that was before his eyes.
And as he drove through the little town and out into the white Sussex
roads, past the green fields and under the shadow of the Downs, he
remembered, not that his daughter was Lady Kathleen, daughter of the
Earl of Gowerhurst, but that she was the sweetest and the best woman he
had ever known.
*CHAPTER XV.*
*"WILL YOU TAKE THIS MAN?"*
The kindly cup of tea of which Mrs. Colley had spoken to Abram Lestwick
must have grown cold or been replaced and renewed many times, but it was
not partaken of by him for whom it was so hospitably intended.
Mrs. Colley, a short, little body, with a long, lean, bony face and
black hair, dragged back painfully from a protruding and shiny forehead,
watched for Abram as eagerly as ever a maid watched for the coming of
her lover.
'Lizabeth, sallow faced, black haired like her grandmother, and with the
bad teeth possessed by too many country girls, tossed her head.
"I don't go running after no man!" she said. "Abram Lestwick least of
all! I say if he doan't want our tea, let him stop away!"
"You fool!" said her grandmother, "and there be that Mrs. Hanson forever
dangling after he. Would you be beat, 'Lizabeth, by a pink and white
dolly faced hussy like Mrs. Hanson's Betty? I'd have more pride, I
would!"
"She be welcome to he!" said 'Lizabeth. "Too quiet and mum mouthed he
be to my liking and----"
"There he be!" said Mrs. Colley.
She bounded out of her chair and was across the little sitting room
kitchen and down the garden path to the gate all in a moment; a very
energetic woman, Mrs. Colley!
"Oh, Abram!" she said a little breathlessly. "Funny me coming out this
moment and meeting 'ee promiscus like, but I did see a great slug
a-settling on my geraniums and just at this very moment 'Lizabeth be
laying the tea and a fresh biscuit she hev baked, all hot from the oven,
so du 'ee come in now, Abram, for there be a powerful lot of things I
want to speak wi' 'ee about!"
"I be sorry," he said gloomily, "afraid I be I cannot stop!"
"And the tea fresh brewed and on the hob and the water on it not more'n
three minutes, Abram, and the biscuit of 'Lizabeth's baking, a currant
biscuit, Abram!"
He shook his head. "I wish 'ee good evening, Mrs. Colley," he said,
"and must be getting along!" He lifted his hat to her, a polite man,
Abram Lestwick, and went on. Mrs. Colley went back, beaten and angry.
"She hev laid a spell on him, 'tis a good thing for Mother Hanson her
bain't living a hundred years ago, or burned for a witch her would be,
certain sure! And his coat buttons, I never see such a sight,
'Lizabeth!"
"Drat his coat buttons! What be they to me?"
"Two gone out of the four and two others hanging by threads, and him
working his fingers whiles he were talking wi' me, pulling they off, a
rare busy time wi' her needle will Abram Lestwick's wife hev! Wonderful
restless and nervis he be about the hands, 'Lizabeth!"
"Drat his hands!" said Elizabeth Colley. "He doan't catch me sewing on
his buttons for him, no nor for the best man living neither, which Abram
Lestwick b'aint!"
Down the road went Abram Lestwick, the weak chin under the straggling
growth of black hair looked a shade more resolute this evening, for he
had made up his mind.
Was he, Abram Lestwick, the man to stand nonsense from a mere maid who
dared oppose his will with her own? No! Was he not Farmer Patcham's
foreman and first hand, looked up to and respected? He was!
Had he not a cottage of four rooms of his own? He had! Was he not in
receipt of a steady income of thirty-five shillings a week, of which he
had no less than forty-three pounds ten saved and standing in the Post
Office Savings Bank to his credit? He was!
Very well then!
Down the road strode Abram Lestwick.
"I'll put up wi' no more dilly dallying wi' she!" he said to himself, "I
be a strong intentioned man, not a boy like some, to be put off wi' a
grimace and a shake o' a head, and such like! And so I'll let her know
and I hev her grandmother's good wishes!"
He did not falter, he flung open the little green painted gate of Mrs.
Hanson's front garden and trod manfully up the broken stone pathway to
the cottage door.
"Why if it bain't Abram!" said Mrs. Hanson, in a tone of surprise,
though she had been watching the clock for him this past half hour.
Betty, pouring boiling water from the kettle into the brown teapot,
started, so that the hot water splashed on her hand, but she uttered no
sound. Her face turned white, perhaps it was the pain from the boiling
water, perhaps the sound of the man's voice!
"Good evening!" he said.
"Good evening to 'ee, Abram," said Mrs. Hanson. She looked across the
room to the girl. "Betty, here be Abram!"
"Aye, I know!"
Abram had taken off his hat, he was twisting it between his restless
fingers, plucking at the felt, bending the brim. Mrs. Hanson stared
resolutely at his face.
"Wun't 'ee draw a chair and set down, Abram?" she said. "An' put your
hat down!"
He nodded, he put his hat down and sat by the table. Betty's face was
white and set hard, her small round chin was thrust out obstinately.
Abram looked at her out of the corner of his eyes.
"I du hear good accounts of the new people at the Manor," he said.
"Aye, a sweet and pleasant spoken lady and the daughter of a Lord!" said
Mrs. Hanson. "And Mr. Allan Homewood, who I did speak with the very day
he came here first, a very nicely spoken gentleman, I'm sure!" She
looked at Betty.
Betty sat down, she stared straight before her, she knew that these were
but preliminaries, that which they were saying now mattered nothing at
all. Her grandmother poured out the tea. Abram took his cup, he
twisted it round and round in the saucer.
"I see Mrs. Colley as I passed the door, picking slugs she were! She
asked me in to tea, she said there was a fresh biscuit of 'Lizbeth's
baking!"
It was meant for conversation, and not as a reflection on the present
tea table, which was guiltless of a currant biscuit.
"A wunnerful hand at cooking, 'Lizbeth Colley be!" he said.
Mrs. Hanson shrugged her shoulders, "Hev you ever noticed her teeth,
Abram, terribul teeth they be!"
"Terribul!" he agreed; he looked at the girl facing him. He could not
see her teeth, for her small rosebud mouth was tightly compressed, but
he had seen them and remembered them for the whitest pearls he had ever
seen.
"A rare hand at fashioning and managing, 'Lizbeth Colley," he remarked.
He paused to drink with his mouth full of bread and butter. It was not
a pretty exhibition, but neither Mrs. Hanson nor Betty remarked it.
Bread and butter and tea taken at one meal had to mingle, sooner or
later; why not sooner than later?
The meal went on, Abram smacked his lips noisily. Mrs. Hanson tried to
make conversation.
"A bit of luck for an old man like Markabee getting a permanent job at
his time of life! I wonder how long du they think they'll keep he?" she
asked.
"Ah!"
"Though I du admit very agile he be for his years!"
It was all idle, it was all eating up time, till the meal should be
over. These, as Betty knew, were merely preliminaries, presently the
real business would start. Her grandmother had warned her.
"Ahram be here to-night, he be, to hev a direct answer and for 'ee to
make up thy mind and name the day!" said Mrs. Hanson.
"He'll get his direct answer, he will! And as for naming the day, there
wun't he no day to name!" said Betty.
"We'll see, my gell!"
"Aye, we'll see!" said Betty.
"I can't think what have come to that maid!" Mrs. Hanson thought. "All
contrairy and perilous defiant her be, and once----"
"Help me clear they things!" Mrs. Hanson said.
The meal was over at last. Abram brought out his pipe; he did not light
it, he did not even put it between his long, yellowish teeth. He held
it in his hand, he twisted it and turned it. He made of the bowl a
thimble, which he set on his finger; he picked at the thin silver mount
and all the time he watched Betty. And always that weak chin of his
under the coarse, sparse black hairs, seemed to grow stronger and more
protruberant, more pronounced.
Mrs. Hanson spun out the washing up, but it was over at last and she
came back and took her usual seat by the fireplace.
"And now, Abram?" she said.
It was the signal, Betty stiffened up, she clenched her small hands;
Abram dropped the pipe and stooped to recover it.
"Mrs. Hanson, Ma'am, and Betty, you both know full well why I be here
to-night," he said. "Terribul slow of speech I be--" He dropped the
pipe again and went in search of it; groping along the floor, again he
recovered it.
"Why not put the pipe down, Abram?" Mrs. Hanson said. "Pipes be
terribul easy things to drop!"
He nodded, he put the pipe down on the table and fell to plucking out
the horsehairs from the chair seat.
"Terribul slow of speech I be!" he repeated. "But you, Ma'am, Mrs.
Hanson, know, I think, why I be here to'night! 'Tis about the maid,
Betty, your grand-darter, Ma'am!"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Hanson.
"What hev your visits to do wi' me?" Betty demanded, a spot of vivid
colour in her white cheeks.
"I du love 'ee and want 'ee to marry me!" he said simply.
"That be well spoken, straight and to the point, that be!" said Mrs.
Hanson. "No man could speak fairer!"
"Then I will speak straight and to the point tu," Betty said. "I du not
love 'ee and will never marry 'ee! I would sooner be dead, and drownd
myself I will before I marry 'ee, Abram Lestwick!"
"Ah!" he said, his eyes roved towards Mrs. Hanson. What had she to say
to that?
"A perilous bad maid 'ee be!" said Mrs. Hanson.
"So 'ee've told me till I be sick to death o' hearing it. Perilous bad
and wicked and ungrateful, I be--an all that's bad! Why do he come here
a persecutering me? Why doan't he leave I alone?" the girl cried
passionately. "I doan't ask him to--to foller me and worry me--why
doan't he go and marry 'Lizbeth Colley, wi' her currant biscuits? A
wonderful fashioner and manager she be! He said it, said it and I--I
wun't marry him. I'll die--die willing and glad, yes die! Yes, I'll
die!"
She leaped to her feet, her face was burning, her eyes brilliant with
defiance and anger.
"No one hasn't the right to so persecute a maid like he du persecute I!
I doan't want him here. I--I can't bear nor bide 'ee, Abram Lestwick, I
can't!"
Her voice faltered. He sat there staring at her, never speaking a word
and his silence disconcerted her.
"A perilous--" began Mrs. Hanson.
"Say--say it again, say it again!" Betty panted, "And I'll scream, I'll
scream till I be dead. Say it, again!"
"And 'ee be my son Garge's child. Garge as were ever mild and quiet,
and I be Garge's mother!" Up rose Mrs. Hanson. "I be Garge's mother
and thy grandmother and I be the one to speak, Betty Hanson, and speak I
will!" She lifted a strong arm and pointed a long, thick-jointed finger
at the girl. "Marry him 'ee shall, and I say it! And wi' a good grace
tu, and come to your senses, 'ee shall, my maid, if I break a stick over
your back! And I'll hev no more o' these tantrums, no more of them, I
say, a perilous bad and wicked maid 'ee be! Hev not Abram done we a
great honour? Hev he not----"
"I'll kill myself before I marry him!" the girl said, but she said it
without passion, only with an immense certainty in her voice.
Abram blinked, he stared at the ill smelling, newly lighted lamp.
"Listen to me, Betty Hanson. Here be Abram asking 'ee to marry 'ee and
asking 'ee to name the day--answer!"
"I hev answered!"
"Answer as I order 'ee!"
"I shan't!"
Mrs. Hanson stalked across the room, she went to a corner by the
fireplace, in that corner stood the stout old stick that had supported
her husband's declining years. She had always kept that stick in the
corner, it was more homely to see it there. She took it now, she came
back to Betty.
"Will 'ee marry this good man?"
"No!"
One, two, three, down came the stick, heavily across the slender
shoulders. The girl's eyes filled with tears, born of the smart of the
blows, but she kept her white teeth clenched.
"I ask 'ee again, will 'ee name the day?"
"No, never!"
Thud, thud, thud!
Ahram Lestwick leaned forward, he stared at them both. He was tearing
the threads out of the fringe of the cheap tablecloth now. He watched
Betty's face without emotion. "Dogged abst'nate her be!" he muttered.
"Betty Hanson, my mind be made up! Will 'ee take this man to be your
lawful wedded husband, in sickness and in health, for better an' for
worser, till death du 'ee part?"
"I wun't, I hate him!"
Thud, thud, thud.
"And I hate 'ee tu!" said Betty suddenly.
"That be enough!" The stick fell. "'Ee've said it, Betty Hanson! Said
it! Said it past recall! Hate me, 'ee said it! And to-morrow 'ee go
out, go out, my maid, for I live in no house where hate du abide!"
"I'll go and glad, glad!" the girl said.
Abram rose slowly.
"I beg to thank 'ee for a good tea, which I did enjoy, Mrs. Hanson, 'tis
time for me to be going!" he turned towards the door. "A very good
tea!" he said. "I bain't partial to new baked currant biscuits!" He
paused at the door and looked at Betty.
"I'll ask 'ee to name the day some other time, my maid! I be a patient
man, a very patient man, I be in no hurry, no hurry at all! And I wish
'ee good night, Mrs. Hanson, and thank 'ee for your good tea once
again!"
Betty stared at him, her eyes were wide, filled with terror. She lifted
her hands to her face, she gripped her face between them, the sharp
little nails dug into the soft, peach-like cheeks, but she felt no pain,
was unconscious of what she was doing.
He looked at her and smiled, he backed out and closed the door, but she
did not move. She heard his steps outside, her breast was rising and
falling and when she spoke, she spoke in gasps, in short breathless
sentences.
"Did 'ee see--grandmother, did 'ee see--his hands--his hateful hands?
Grandmother, did 'ee see? One day--he'll kill someone wi' they hands,
kill 'em--grandmother, maybe--maybe 'twill be--me!"
*CHAPTER XVI*
*"MY LADY MERCIFUL"*
"I am glad Mr. Dalabey spared her," said Kathleen.
She nodded towards the little figure of the nymph standing up from the
middle of the lake.
"So am I!" Allan said. "But I've a great respect for Dalabey, he does
not look it, but he is an artist. He has a right perception, a sense of
fitness. Dalabey is a reader and a thinker, too. Kathleen, you would
be surprised by the depth of Dalabey's knowledge, for all that, he says
'I be' and 'Du 'ee?' Which, after all, may be better English than that
which you and I speak. You would hardly believe that Dalabey and Ruskin
have more than a nodding acquaintance, but so it is! Yes, I'm glad he
spared the little stone maid. Do you know the first morning we were
here, dear, I worried about her. I rose early and came out to see if
she were still here and there she was, a monument to Dalabey's good
sense! I've congratulated him since!"
She was listening to him with a smile on her lips. Now she glanced at
him, at the tall, big young man by her side--her husband!
"Allan," she said suddenly, "Allan, you seem to be very happy!"
"Happy!" he was startled. "Of course I am happy. Why--why did you say
that? I am happy and content. I Have the dearest and best man in the
world for father. I have a wife who is friend and comrade----" he
pressed her hand. "I have a home, the like of which there is not to be
found in all England! Happy--why not, Kathleen?"
She was silent for a moment. He had said the dearest father and his
wife--after all his wife was only friend and comrade--only! Why did she
feel vaguely dissatisfied, had she not set herself to be just that very
thing, that he said she was--friend, comrade, and now he had said it,
she felt a little regret.
"And you would not have things different from what they are, Allan?"
"No!" he said. "I'm very, very content, very proud and very happy,
Kathleen."
"And the dream," she said, "the dream you told me of, Allan, the pretty
girl who came----"
He laughed frankly, almost boyishly, a laugh so clear and so ringing
that it, was infectious.
"Because I had a pleasant dream and dreamed a pretty girl was imprudent
enough to come and kiss me, shall I moon about disconsolate and unhappy,
my mind filled with stupid longing and foolish regrets, eh?"
"But the dream did affect you for a time, Allan?"
"For a time," he said, "it was so clear, so real, so strange, so--so
undreamlike that it must affect me! Kathleen, I never think of it now,
I've put it out of my mind, I've sat there a score of times on that very
seat and no dreams have come, I've smiled at the foolish fancy of it,
laughed it all to scorn--and forgotten it----"
"But if it were not--all a dream, if one day she came into your
life--that girl----"
He shook his head. "She was a dream and she doesn't exist, she never
will and never can--she came and she went--for good!"
"And yet," she persisted, with a woman's strange persistence, "Allan,
if--if she came, if you saw her in life, if----"
"Then," he said quietly and looked her full in the eyes, "you have my
promise, dear, just as I have yours, but it will never, never
be--Kathleen, shall I be truthful, honest, candid with, you? I never
want it to be, dear, I am well content! And now come----" he went on
gaily, "and we'll talk to old Markabee, that young fellow who refuses to
grow old! Come, dear and----"
But she shook her head. "I am going to the village, Allan," she said,
"at least, not to the village, but to a little cottage between here and
Little Stretton, Mrs. Hanson's cottage."
"Hanson, I remember a kindly talkative old dame who has always a smile
and a country bob for us."
"I am afraid she is not as kindly as she looks!" Kathleen said.
"Why, what has the wicked old body been doing?"
"Ill-treating her granddaughter, so I have heard. It was Debly Cassons
who told me. She said she was passing Mrs. Hanson's cottage as she came
here last evening, and she heard the sound of beating and looking in
through the window saw that wicked old woman thrashing the girl with a
stick. And there----" Kathleen went on, "the girl was standing
accepting the blows without a sound, but later as Debly was going back,
she heard someone sobbing as thought her heart was breaking and she
found the girl lying on the grass in the little garden crying bitterly.
Debly is a kindly old soul and she tried to comfort her and find out
what the trouble was, but the girl would not answer, so----"
"So my dear little Lady Bountiful, my Lady Merciful is going to carry
comfort to the ill-used child, eh?"
He looked at Kathleen, then stretched out his hand and touched hers.
"Kathleen, you are a good woman," he said sincerely and gently, "I wish
I could think that I were worthy of you!"
Kathleen shook her head, she did not speak.
There was a trace of sadness in her eyes as she went back alone to the
house. It seemed to her that there was the chance of happiness of a
great and wonderful happiness, yet she could not stretch out her hand to
grasp it, could not because of memories, years old memories, memories of
another face and another voice, memories of a love that had filled her
life once. She had loved then, she told herself, as a woman loves but
once, as she could never love again.
"Allan's happiness and mine," she said to herself, "is built not on
love, but on friendship and respect, perhaps it is the surest, the best
foundation," yet while she consoled herself, she sighed a little and the
sadness stayed in her eyes.
Very grim and very silent was Mrs. Hanson this morning. Last night that
maid, the maid she had brought up from babyhood had told her that she
hated her, had said "shan't" to her, had defied her.
Mrs. Hanson had had a strict upbringing herself, she had married Hanson
because he was in regular work and was drawing good pay, twelve
shillings a week, no less. Her parents had told her to marry Hanson and
she had married him. The marriage market has its branches in the
smallest of villages and marriages of convenience are not luxuries
enjoyed only by the rich and the wellborn.
And she, in her turn, had found a very suitable husband for this wayward
maid who, lacking in duty and obedience, definitely refused to accept
that husband.
Very well then! Mrs. Hanson had every reason to be hurt and aggrieved.
Betty had risen early--as usual--had cleaned out the little cottage
kitchen, had polished the stove till it shone, had made the fire and had
prepared the breakfast just as usual, but all the time she was doing it,
she knew that she was doing it for the last time.