KENELM rose betimes the next morning somewhat stiff and uneasy, but
sufficiently recovered to feel ravenous. Fortunately, one of the
young ladies, who attended specially to the dairy, was already up, and
supplied the starving hero with a vast bowl of bread and milk. He
then strolled into the hayfield, in which there was now very little
left to do, and but few hands besides his own were employed. Jessie
was not there. Kenelm was glad of that. By nine o'clock his work was
over, and the farmer and his men were in the yard completing the
ricks. Kenelm stole away unobserved, bent on a round of visits. He
called first at the village shop kept by Mrs. Bawtrey, which Jessie
had pointed out to him, on pretence of buying a gaudy neckerchief; and
soon, thanks to his habitual civility, made familiar acquaintance with
the shopwoman. She was a little sickly old lady, her head shaking, as
with palsy, somewhat deaf, but still shrewd and sharp, rendered
mechanically so by long habits of shrewdness and sharpness. She
became very communicative, spoke freely of her desire to give up the
shop, and pass the rest of her days with a sister, widowed like
herself, in a neighbouring town. Since she had lost her husband, the
field and orchard attached to the shop had ceased to be profitable,
and become a great care and trouble; and the attention the shop
required was wearisome. But she had twelve years unexpired of the
lease granted for twenty-one years to her husband on low terms, and
she wanted a premium for its transfer, and a purchaser for the stock
of the shop. Kenelm soon drew from her the amount of the sum she
required for all,--L45.
"You be n't thinking of it for yourself?" she asked, putting on her
spectacles, and examining him with care.
"Perhaps so, if one could get a decent living out of it. Do you keep
a book of your losses and your gains?"
"In course, sir," she said proudly. "I kept the books in my goodman's
time, and he was one who could find out if there was a farthing wrong,
for he had been in a lawyer's office when a lad."
"Why did he leave a lawyer's office to keep a little shop?"
"Well, he was born a farmer's son in this neighbourhood, and he always
had a hankering after the country, and--and besides that--"
"Yes."
"I'll tell you the truth; he had got into a way of drinking speerrits,
and he was a good young man, and wanted to break himself of it, and he
took the temperance oath; but it was too hard on him, for he could not
break himself of the company that led him into liquor. And so, one
time when he came into the neighbourhood to see his parents for the
Christmas holiday, he took a bit of liking to me; and my father, who
was Squire Travers's bailiff, had just died, and left me a little
money. And so, somehow or other, we came together, and got this house
and the land from the Squire on lease very reasonable; and my goodman
being well eddyeated, and much thought of, and never being tempted to
drink, now that he had a missis to keep him in order, had a many
little things put into his way. He could help to measure timber, and
knew about draining, and he got some bookkeeping from the farmers
about; and we kept cows and pigs and poultry, and so we did very well,
specially as the Lord was merciful and sent us no children."
"And what does the shop bring in a year since your husband died?"
"You had best judge for yourself. Will you look at the book, and take
a peep at the land and apple-trees? But they's been neglected since
my goodman died."
In another minute the heir of the Chillinglys was seated in a neat
little back parlour, with a pretty though confined view of the orchard
and grass slope behind it, and bending over Mrs. Bawtrey's ledger.
Some customers for cheese and bacon coming now into the shop, the old
woman left him to his studies. Though they were not of a nature
familiar to him, he brought to them, at least, that general clearness
of head and quick seizure of important points which are common to most
men who have gone through some disciplined training of intellect, and
been accustomed to extract the pith and marrow out of many books on
many subjects. The result of his examination was satisfactory; there
appeared to him a clear balance of gain from the shop alone of
somewhat over L40 a year, taking the average of the last three years.
Closing the book, he then let himself out of the window into the
orchard, and thence into the neighbouring grass field. Both were,
indeed, much neglected; the trees wanted pruning, the field manure.
But the soil was evidently of rich loam, and the fruit-trees were
abundant and of ripe age, generally looking healthy in spite of
neglect. With the quick intuition of a man born and bred in the
country, and picking up scraps of rural knowledge unconsciously,
Kenelm convinced himself that the land, properly managed, would far
more than cover the rent, rates, tithes, and all incidental outgoings,
leaving the profits of the shop as the clear income of the occupiers.
And no doubt with clever young people to manage the shop, its profits
might be increased.
Not thinking it necessary to return at present to Mrs. Bawtrey's,
Kenelm now bent his way to Tom Bowles's.
The house-door was closed. At the summons of his knock it was quickly
opened by a tall, stout, remarkably fine-looking woman, who might have
told fifty years, and carried them off lightly on her ample shoulders.
She was dressed very respectably in black, her brown hair braided
simply under a neat tight-fitting cap. Her features were aquiline and
very regular: altogether there was something about her majestic and
Cornelia-like. She might have sat for the model of that Roman matron,
except for the fairness of her Anglo-Saxon complexion.
"What's your pleasure?" she asked, in a cold and somewhat stern voice.
"Ma'am," answered Kenelm, uncovering, "I have called to see Mr.
Bowles, and I sincerely hope he is well enough to let me do so."
"No, sir, he is not well enough for that; he is lying down in his own
room, and must be kept quiet."
"May I then ask you the favour to let me in? I would say a few words
to you, who are his mother if I mistake not." Mrs. Bowles paused a
moment as if in doubt; but she was at no loss to detect in Kenelm's
manner something superior to the fashion of his dress, and supposing
the visit might refer to her son's professional business, she opened
the door wider, drew aside to let him pass first, and when he stood
midway in the parlour, requested him to take a seat, and, to set him
the example, seated herself.
"Ma'am," said Kenelm, "do not regret to have admitted me, and do not
think hardly of me when I inform you that I am the unfortunate cause
of your son's accident."
Mrs. Bowles rose with a start. "You're the man who beat my boy?"
"No, ma'am, do not say I beat him. He is not beaten. He is so brave
and so strong that he would easily have beaten me if I had not, by
good luck, knocked him down before he had time to do so. Pray, ma'am,
retain your seat and listen to me patiently for a few moments."
Mrs. Bowles, with an indignant heave of her Juno-like bosom, and with
a superbly haughty expression of countenance which suited well with
its aquiline formation, tacitly obeyed.
"You will allow, ma'am," recommenced Kenelm, "that this is not the
first time by many that Mr. Bowles has come to blows with another man.
Am I not right in that assumption?"
"My son is of hasty temper," replied Mrs. Bowles, reluctantly, "and
people should not aggravate him."
"You grant the fact, then?" said Kenelm, imperturbably, but with a
polite inclination of head. "Mr. Bowles has often been engaged in
these encounters, and in all of them it is quite clear that he
provoked the battle; for you must be aware that he is not tho sort of
man to whom any other would be disposed to give the first blow. Yet,
after these little incidents had occurred, and Mr. Bowles had, say,
half killed the person who aggravated him, you did not feel any
resentment against that person, did you? Nay, if he had wanted
nursing, you would have gone and nursed him."
"I don't know as to nursing," said Mrs. Bowles, beginning to lose her
dignity of mien; "but certainly I should have been very sorry for him.
And as for Tom,--though I say it who should not say,--he has no more
malice than a baby: he'd go and make it up with any man, however badly
he had beaten him."
"Just as I supposed; and if the man had sulked and would not make it
up, Tom would have called him a bad fellow, and felt inclined to beat
him again."
Mrs. Bowles's face relaxed into a stately smile.
"Well, then," pursued Kenelm, "I do but humbly imitate Mr. Bowles, and
I come to make it up and shake hands with him."
"No, sir,--no," exclaimed Mrs. Bowles, though in a low voice, and
turning pale. "Don't think of it. 'Tis not the blows; he'll get over
those fast enough: 'tis his pride that's hurt; and if he saw you there
might be mischief. But you're a stranger, and going away: do go soon;
do keep out of his way; do!" And the mother clasped her hands.
"Mrs. Bowles," said Kenelm, with a change of voice and aspect,--a
voice and aspect so earnest and impressive that they stilled and awed
her,--"will you not help me to save your son from the dangers into
which that hasty temper and that mischievous pride may at any moment
hurry him? Does it never occur to you that these are the causes of
terrible crime, bringing terrible punishment; and that against brute
force, impelled by savage passions, society protects itself by the
hulks and the gallows?"
"Sir; how dare you--"
"Hush! If one man kill another in a moment of ungovernable wrath,
that is a crime which, though heavily punished by the conscience, is
gently dealt with by the law, which calls it only manslaughter; but if
a motive to the violence, such as jealousy or revenge, can be
assigned, and there should be no witness by to prove that the violence
was not premeditated, then the law does not call it manslaughter, but
murder. Was it not that thought which made you so imploringly
exclaim, 'Go soon; keep out of his way'?"
The woman made no answer, but, sinking back in her chair, gasped for
breath.
"Nay, madam," resumed Kenelm, mildly; "banish your fears. If you will
help me I feel sure that I can save your son from such perils, and I
only ask you to let me save him. I am convinced that he has a good
and a noble nature, and he is worth saving." And as he thus said he
took her hand. She resigned it to him and returned the pressure, all
her pride softening as she began to weep.
At length, when she recovered voice, she said,--
"It is all along of that girl. He was not so till she crossed him,
and made him half mad. He is not the same man since then,--my poor
Tom!"
"Do you know that he has given me his word, and before his
fellow-villagers, that if he had the worst of the fight he would never
molest Jessie Wiles again?"
"Yes, he told me so himself; and it is that which weighs on him now.
He broods and broods and mutters, and will not be comforted; and--and
I do fear that he means revenge. And again, I implore you to keep out
of his way."
"It is not revenge on me that he thinks of. Suppose I go and am seen
no more, do you think in your own heart that that girl's life is
safe?"
"What! My Tom kill a woman!"
"Do you never read in your newspaper of a man who kills his
sweetheart, or the girl who refuses to be his sweetheart? At all
events, you yourself do not approve this frantic suit of his. If I
have heard rightly, you have wished to get Tom out of the village for
some time, till Jessie Wiles is--we'll say, married, or gone elsewhere
for good."
"Yes, indeed, I have wished and prayed for it many's the time, both
for her sake and for his. And I am sure I don't know what we shall do
if he stays, for he has been losing custom fast. The Squire has taken
away his, and so have many of the farmers; and such a trade as it was
in his good father's time! And if he would go, his uncle, the
veterinary at Luscombe, would take him into partnership; for he has no
son of his own, and he knows how clever Tom is: there be n't a man who
knows more about horses; and cows, too, for the matter of that."
"And if Luscombe is a large place, the business there must be more
profitable than it can be here, even if Tom got back his custom?"
"Oh yes! five times as good,--if he would but go; but he'll not hear
of it."
"Mrs. Bowles, I am very much obliged to you for your confidence, and I
feel sure that all will end happily now we have had this talk. I'll
not press further on you at present. Tom will not stir out, I
suppose, till the evening."
"Ah, sir, he seems as if he had no heart to stir out again, unless for
something dreadful."
"Courage! I will call again in the evening, and then you just take me
up to Tom's room, and leave me there to make friends with him, as I
have with you. Don't say a word about me in the meanwhile."
"But--"
"'But,' Mrs. Bowles, is a word that cools many a warm impulse, stifles
many a kindly thought, puts a dead stop to many a brotherly deed.
Nobody would ever love his neighbour as himself if he listened to all
the Buts that could be said on the other side of the question."