I THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM
II A STRANGER IN ARCADY
III THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY
IV LITTLE MISS PARTRIDGE
V THE MARRIAGE OF MR. JARVIS
VI BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS
VII WILLIAM HENRY AND THE DAIRYMAID
VIII THE SPOILS TO THE VICTOR
IX AN ARCADIAN COURTSHIP
X THE WAY OF THE COMET
XI BROTHERS IN AFFLICTION
XII A MAN OR A MOUSE
XIII A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES
XIV THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE
*MR. POSKITT'S NIGHTCAPS*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE GUARDIAN OF HIGH ELMS FARM*
In the cold dreariness of that February morning the whole glace looked
chilly and repellent in the extreme. There, on a little knoll, which by
comparison assumed almost hill-like proportions amongst the low level of
the meadows and corn-lands at its feet, stood the farmstead--a rambling
mass of rough grey walls and red roofs; house, barns, stables, granary,
and byres occurring here and there without evident plan or arrangement.
Two or three great elm-trees, now leafless, and black with winter
moisture, rose high above the chimneys and gables like sentinels
inclined to sleep at their posts; above their topmost branches
half-a-score of rooks flapped lazy wings against the dull grey of the
sky; their occasional disconsolate notes added to the melancholy of the
scene. And yet to an experienced eye, versed in the craft of the land,
there was everything to promise well in the outward aspect of High Elms
Farm. The house, if very old, was in good repair, and so were the
buildings; the land was of excellent quality. But it only needed one
glance to see that the house had not been tenanted for some time; its
windows gave an instant impression that neither lamp-light nor
fire-light had gleamed through them of late, and to enter the great
stone-paved kitchen was to experience the feeling of stepping into a
vault. That feeling of dead emptiness was in all the outbuildings,
too--the stables, the granary, the byres were lifeless, void;
ghostliness of a strange sort seemed to abide in their silence. And
beneath the curling mists which lay over the good acres of corn-land,
weeds were flourishing instead of growing crops.
On that February morning two young men, so much alike that no one could
mistake them for anything else than what they were--twin-brothers--stood
at the stone porch of the house, staring at each other with mutually
questioning eyes. They were tall, finely built, sturdy fellows of
apparently twenty-six years of age, fair of hair, blue of eye, ruddy of
cheek, with square, resolute jaws and an air of determination which
promised well for their success in life. Closely alike in their looks,
they carried their similarity to their dress. Each wore a shooting-coat
of somewhat loud pattern; each sported a fancy waistcoat with gilt
buttons; each wore natty riding-breeches of whipcord, which terminated
in Newmarket gaiters of light fawn colour. Each wore his billycock hat
inclined a little to the left side; each had a bit of partridge's
feather stuck in his hatband. And at this moment each was nibbling at a
straw.
"This is a queer place, Simpson," said one of these young men after a
silence which had lasted for several minutes. "A real queer place!"
"It is, Isaac!" assented the other. "It is, my lad. The queerest place
ever I set eyes on. You couldn't say a truer word."
Isaac Greaves nibbled more busily at his straw. He lifted the
rakish-looking billycock and scratched his head.
"What's the matter with it?" he said. "What's up with it, like? It's a
good house; they're good buildings, if they are old-fashioned; it's good
land."
"Aye--sadly neglected," said his brother. "Fine crops of thistles."
"That could be put right," said Isaac. "Matter of work and patience
that--the main thing is, it's good land. And--why can't they let it?"
Simpson Greaves shook his head. He, too, nibbled more zealously at his
straw.
"There's something against it, evidently," he said. "Those two last
tenants they had wouldn't stop--cleared out quick, both of 'em. For why,
I don't know."
Isaac threw away his straw and drew a cigar from his waistcoat pocket.
He lighted it and took two or three deliberate puffs before he spoke.
"Well," he said at last, "there's no doubt about it, Simpson--if it's to
be had at the rent we've heard of it's such a bargain as no man in his
senses should miss. I'm in for it, if you are. It's better land, it's a
better house, they're better buildings than what we've got at present,
and we're paying more than twice as much. And, of course, our time's up
come Lady Day. Look here--we've got the lawyer's directions; let's ride
on to Sicaster and see him and hear what he's got to say."
"Come on, then," assented Simpson. "It's only another five miles or
so."
There were two stout cobs attached by their bridles to the garden gate,
and on them the brothers soon rode into the nearest market-town. With no
more delay than was necessitated by stabling the cobs and drinking a
glass of ale at the Golden Lion, they presented themselves at the office
of the solicitor who acted as agent for the estate on which High Elms
Farm was situate, and in due course were conducted to his presence.
"I'll leave the talking to you, Isaac," whispered Simpson, who was more
reserved than his twin-brother. "Find out all you can."
Isaac was nothing loath--he knew his powers. He plunged straight into
the matter as soon as he and Simpson confronted an elderly man, who eyed
them with interest.
"Morning, sir," said Isaac. "Our name is Greaves, Isaac and Simpson
Greaves, brothers. We're just giving up a farm over Woodbarrow way
yonder, and we're on the look-out for another. We heard at Cornchester
market that you've a farm to let very cheap--High Elms Farm--so we
thought we'd like to have a look at it and see you about it."
The solicitor looked steadily at both brothers, one after the other.
Then he cleared his throat with a non-committal sort of cough.
"Yes," he said, "yes. Have you been over the place, Mr. Greaves?"
"We've been over every bit of it this morning," replied Isaac.
"Well?" said the solicitor.
"It's good land--badly neglected," said Isaac.
"Very badly neglected," added Simpson.
"That, of course, is why you're asking such a low rent for it,"
suggested Isaac, with a shrewd glance at the man of law.
The man of law consulted his delicately polished finger-nails. He
suddenly looked at Isaac with a frank smile.
"The fact of the case is that I can't let it," he said. "It's been
tenantless four years now. Two men have had it--one stopped a month, the
other a fortnight. Each said he'd rather pay a couple of years' rent to
get out than stop there any longer. So--there you are!"
The twin-brothers looked at each other. Each shook his head.
"That's a queer 'un, Isaac!" said Simpson.
"It is a queer 'un, Simpson!" responded Isaac with added emphasis. He
turned to the solicitor again. "And pray what's the reason, sir?" he
inquired.
The solicitor smiled--not too cheerfully--and spread out his hands.
"They say the place is--haunted," he answered.
"Haunted?" repeated Isaac. "What--ghosts, eh? Well, I don't think a
few ghosts more or less would make much difference to us, Simpson, my
lad--what?"
"Not that I know of," answered Simpson, stolidly.
The solicitor looked from one to the other and smiled.
"Well, I've told you what happened," he said. "Those other two men were
neither of them any more likely to be impressed by ghosts than you seem
to be, but I can tell you that I've seen both of them labouring under
such intense fear that they were on the very verge of breaking down.
That's all."
Two pairs of blue eyes fixed themselves on the man of law's face and
grew wider and wider; two mouths gradually opened.
"I'll just tell you about it," said the solicitor, who was plainly not
averse to playing the part of narrator, "and then, when you've heard
everything, you can decide for yourselves whether you care to go further
into the matter or not. Now, until just over four years ago High Elms
Farm was tenanted by an old man named Josiah Maidment, who'd been there
for quite thirty years. He was a queer, eccentric old chap, who had
never married, and who lived almost by himself. He never had a
housekeeper, nor a female servant in the house--whatever he needed doing
was done for him by the woman at the neighbouring cottage."
"That's where we got the keys of the house," said Isaac.
"Just so. Well," continued the solicitor, "a little more than four
years ago old Maidment suddenly disappeared. He went out of the house
one morning, dressed in his second-best suit, as if he was going to
market--and he was never seen again. Never seen--never heard of! Nor
could we find any relation of his. He had money in the bank, and he had
securities there which proved him a well-to-do man. We advertised and
did everything we could, but all to no purpose. We kept things going
for a while; then the stock was sold, and very soon we let the farm to a
new tenant. That's just three years since. And that was when all the
trouble began."
"With the ghosts?" said Simpson.
"Well, with something," said the solicitor, smiling. "The new tenant
had no sooner got his stock in than he became aware that there was
something wrong. The very first night he was there his sheep-dog, an
animal which he'd had for years, disappeared. They thought it had gone
back to the old home, but it hadn't--it had just disappeared. Then the
horses in the stables began to make such noises at night that it was
impossible to sleep. If you went to them you found them shivering with
fright. Just the same with the cows. As for the sheep, they were
always found in the morning huddled together in a corner of whatever
field they were in. In short, the whole place was panic-stricken. But
by what? Nobody ever saw anything. The farmer and his men watched for
nights, without effect. Yet as soon as ever their backs were turned the
thing began. And at the end of a month the men went--and were thankful
to go."
The twin-brothers were now thoroughly fascinated. Their eyes invited
more.
"The second man came, after an interval," continued the solicitor.
"Just the same things happened to him. His sheep-dog disappeared--his
horses, cattle, and sheep were frightened out of their lives. And then
came worse. This man was a young married man who had a wife and one
child. The child was a bright, lively boy of about five. One afternoon
its mother was busy, and had let it go into the orchard to play under
the apple-trees. As it was a long time in coming in she went to seek
it. She found it--yes, but how do you think she found it? Mad!
Utterly mad! that poor child had lost its reason--through fright. And
so that tenant went. There, gentlemen, is the story of High Elms Farm.
It's queer, but it's true."
Isaac Greaves drew a long breath, stared hard at his brother, and shook
his head.
"Well, of all the things I ever did hear tell of!" he said. "How might
you account for it, now, sir?"
The solicitor spread out his hands.
"Account for it!" he exclaimed. "My good sir, ask me to account for all
or any of the mysteries which baffle human knowledge! Nobody can account
for it. All I know is what happened to these men. I tell you they were
frightened--frightened in the worst way."
"I expect everybody hereabouts knows this story?" asked Isaac.
"You may be sure they do, or the farm would have been taken long since
at this reduced rental," answered the solicitor. "There's nobody
hereabouts would take it--not they!"
Isaac looked at Simpson. They regarded each other for a full moment in
silence; then Isaac turned to the solicitor.
"You're asking ten shillings an acre?" he said.
"I should be glad to get a tenant at that," answered the man of law
wearily.
"Make it eight, and we'll take it," said Isaac. "And we'll start on to
clearing things up at once. Ghosts, sir, don't bother me and Simpson
much--we'll take our chance. But----" and there Isaac branched off into
technical details about the conditions of tenancy, which showed the
solicitor that he had a shrewd man to deal with.
On Lady Day the twin-brothers brought their live stock to High Elms
Farm, and by nightfall everything was in place. The house had already
received their furniture, and had been made spick and span by their
housekeeper and a strapping maid. There was nothing cold and cheerless
about it now.
"We might have been settled down for a year or two, Isaac," said Simpson
as the two brothers sat smoking in the parlour that night. "Everything's
in order."
"Aye, and the next thing's to finish getting the land in order," said
Isaac. "We're not going to shift out of here as quickly as those other
chaps did, Simpson, my lad--ghosts or no ghosts."
"I wonder if we shall hear or see anything?" said Simpson, meditatively.
Isaac glanced at a couple of up-to-date fowling-pieces which hung over
the mantel-piece.
He wagged his head in a self-assured and threatening manner.
"If I see any ghosts," he said, "I'll let daylight through 'em. It'll
be a fine ghost that can stand a charge of Number 4."
"Aye," said Simpson, "but then, according to what some folk say----"
He paused, rubbing his chin, and his brother stared at him with the
suspicion of a doubt in his mind.
"Well?" said Isaac, impatiently. "Well?"
"According to some folk," said Simpson, "there's ghosts as you can't
see. You can only feel 'em."
Isaac mixed himself a drink and lighted a cigar. He plunged his hands
deep in the pockets of his riding-breeches, and facing his brother,
stared hard at him.
"I believe you're afraid, Sim!" he said.
Simpson stared just as hard back.
"Well, then, I'm not!" he retorted. "I'm afraid of naught--that I can
see and get at. All the same we both agreed that this was a queer
place."
"Queer or no queer, here we are, my lad, at a ridiculous rental, and
here we stop," said Isaac. "It'll take something that I've never heard
of to shift us."
An hour later, it then being nine o'clock--the brothers took a lanthorn
and, after their usual custom, went round the farm-buildings to see that
everything was safe for the night. They were well-to-do young men, these
two, and they had brought a quantity of valuable live stock with them.
The stables, the folds, the byres, the cow-houses were all full; the
pig-cotes were strained to their utmost capacity, for both Simpson and
Isaac believed in pigs as a means of making money. Not for many a year
had the old farmstead contained so much life.
They went from stable to stall, from fold to byre, from cote to
granary--all was in order for the night. The horses turned sleepy heads
and looked round at the yellow light of the swinging lanthorn; the cows
gazed at their owners with silky eyes; the young bullocks and heifers in
the knee-deep straw of the folds stared lazily at the two inspectors.
Over this bovine life, over the high roofs and quaint gables the deep
blue of the night hung, pierced with the shafts of a thousand stars.
"All's right," said Isaac, as they finished up at the pigs. "By the
bye, where did Trippett fasten up that new dog?"
"Back-yard, I told him," answered Simpson, laconically.
"Let's have a look at him," said Isaac.
He led the way round to a cobble-paved yard at the rear of the house,
where in a corner near the back-kitchen door stood a brick kennel. Out
of this, at the sound of their footsteps, came a diminutive collie, who,
seeing them, got down on his belly and did obeisance after his fashion.
Isaac considered him attentively.
"I never did see such dogs as Trippett contrives to get hold of,
Simpson," he said, half peevishly. "Why can't he get something decent
to look at?"
"He says this is a rare good one with sheep, anyway," said Simpson.
"He says that about all of 'em," said Isaac. "I'll try him myself
to-morrow. Come on--I see they've given him something to eat."
The dog, still grovelling, whined and trembled. He came the length of
his chain towards the two brothers, wriggling ridiculously, wagging his
tail, gazing slavishly out of his brown eyes.
"Doesn't look much of a plucked one," commented Isaac. "I expect he's
another of Trippett's failures. Come on, Sim."
They went off round the house, and the new dog, whom the shepherd had
that day purchased from a very particular friend for a sovereign,
shivered and whimpered as the light disappeared. Then he retreated into
his kennel and curled up ... listening as a frightened child listens in
a lonely room.
The two brothers went round the house by the outer paddock. All about
them lay the land, silent as the sea is when no wind stirs. There was
not a sound to be heard, not a light to be seen save in their own
windows. They stood for a moment under the great black-blue,
star-pierced dome.
"It's a quietish spot this, Sim, at night," said Isaac, in a whisper
which was quite involuntary. "I'd no idea----"
Crash went the lanthorn out of Simpson's hand--that hand, shaking,
convulsive, gripped his brother's arm as if with fingers of steel.
"My God, Isaac, what's that! that--there!" he gasped.
Isaac felt himself shiver as he looked. Right in the darkness before him
he saw what seemed to be two balls of vivid green fire--no, red fire,
yellow fire, all sorts of fire, burning, coruscating, and ... fixed on
him. And for a second he, like Simpson, stood spell-bound; then with a
wild cry of "A gun, a gun!" he turned and dashed for the parlour,
followed by his brother. But when they dashed back with their guns a
moment later the eyes had gone. And from somewhere in the adjacent wood
there suddenly rose into the profound stillness of the night a strange
cry, such as neither of them had ever heard before. It was a long,
wailing cry as of something in infinite despair.
The brothers, breathing hard, went back into the house and shut the
door. Inside the parlour, looking at each other, each saw the other's
brow to be dripping with sweat; each, after one look, turned away from
the other's eyes. And each, as by mutual instinct, poured out a glass
of spirit and drank it off at a gulp.
"Isaac," said Simpson, "there is something!"
Isaac put his gun aside, shook himself, and tried to laugh.
"Pooh!" he said. "We're a couple of fools, Simpson. Happen it's
because it's our first night here and we're feeling strange, and haven't
forgotten what the lawyer told us. It was a fox."
"A fox hasn't eyes that size," said Simpson. "And, what about that cry?
You never heard aught like that, Isaac, never! No more did I."
"An owl in the woods," said Isaac.
"You can't deceive me about owls," answered Simpson. "No, nor dogs, nor
foxes, nor anything else that makes a noise at night in the country.
Isaac, there is something!"
"Oh, confound it!" said Isaac. "You'll make me think you're as bad as
the lawyer. Come on, let's go to bed."
And to bed they went, and nothing happening, slept. But very early next
morning Isaac was awakened by loud knocking at his door. Then sounded
the housekeeper's voice, agitated and frightened.
"Mr. Isaac, sir, Mr. Isaac, will you get up at once, sir!"
"What's the matter?" growled Isaac. "Is the place on fire?"
"That new dog, sir, that Trippett bought yesterday--oh, I do wish you'd
come down quick, sir--we're that afraid!"
Isaac suddenly bounced out of bed, bundled on some clothes, and rushed
out of his room. On the landing he met Simpson, similarly attired to
himself, and very pale.
"I heard her," he said. "Come on!"
They ran down-stairs and through the kitchen to the little yard behind.
There stood a group of frightened people--the shepherd, Trippett, a
ploughboy or two, the housekeeper, the maid. In their midst, at their
feet, lay the unfortunate little collie, dead. And they saw at one
glance that his throat had been torn clean out.
Once inside the house again the brothers looked at each other for a long
minute without speaking. They were both very pale and their eyes were
queer and their hands shook. Simpson spoke first: his voice was
unsteady.
"There is something, Isaac," he said, in a low voice. "There
is--something!"
Isaac set his teeth and clenched his hands.
"I'll see it through, Simpson," he said. "I'll see it through."
"Aye, but what is it?" said Simpson.
"Wait," said Isaac.
Then began the same course of events which had signalized the short stay
of their predecessors. The horses were frightened in their stables; the
cattle were found huddled together and panting in the folds; the sheep
were driven off the land into the surrounding roads and woods. And the
two brothers watched and watched--and saw nothing, not even the fiery
eyes. Until that period of their existence neither Isaac nor Simpson
Greaves had known what it was to come in touch with anything outside the
purely material elements of life. Coming of a good sound stock which
had been on the land and made money out of the land for generations,
they had never done anything but manage their affairs, keep shrewd eyes
on the markets, and sleep as comfortably as they ate largely. They were
well-balanced; they were not cursed with over-much imagination; such
things as nerves were unknown to them. But with their arrival at High
Elms Farm matters began to alter. The perpetual fright amongst the
horses and cattle at night, the cause of which they could not determine;
the anxiety of never knowing what might occur at any moment; these
things, conspiring with the inevitable loss of sleep, affected health
and appetite. Simpson gave way first; he was a shade more susceptible
to matters of this sort than his brother, and possibly not so strong
physically. And Isaac noticed it and grew more incensed against this
secret thing, and all the more so because he felt himself so impotent in
respect to combating it.
One night matters came to a climax. In the very hush of midnight
pandemonium broke out in the stables. The horses were heard screaming
with fear; when the two brothers got to them they found that every beast
had broken loose and that they were fighting and struggling for life to
force a way out--anywhere. They burst through the door which Isaac
opened, knocking him down in their wild rush, leapt the low wall of the
fold, and fled screaming into the darkness of the fields. Some were
found wandering about the land in the morning; some were brought back
from distant villages. But one and all refused, even to desperate
resistance, to enter the stables again.
A few mornings after that Simpson came down to breakfast attired for
travelling.
"Look here, Isaac," he said, "ask no questions, but trust me. I'm going
away--about this business. I'll be back to-morrow night. Things can't
go on like this."
Then he made a pretence of eating and went off, and Isaac heard nothing
of him until the next afternoon, when he returned in company with a
stranger, a tall, grizzled, soldier-like man, who brought with him a
bloodhound in a leash. Over the evening meal the three men discussed
matters--the stranger seemed mysteriously confident that he could solve
the problem which had hitherto been beyond solution.
There was almost a full moon that night--at nine o'clock it was lighting
all the land. The stranger took his bloodhound out into the paddock in
front of the house and fastened it to a stake which Isaac had previously
driven securely into the ground. At a word from him the great beast
barked three times--the deep-chested notes went ringing and echoing into
the silent woods. And from somewhere in the woods came in answer the
long, despairing wail which the brothers had heard more than once and
could never trace.
"That's it!" they exclaimed simultaneously.
"Then whatever it is, it's coming," said the bloodhound's master. "Get
ready for it."
He spoke a word to the hound, which immediately settled down trustfully
at the foot of the stake. He and the brothers, each armed with a
shot-gun, took up a position behind a row of shrubs on the edge of the
garden, and waited.
Some minutes passed; then the bloodhound stirred and whined.
"Coming," said the visitor.
The bloodhound began to growl ominously--in the moonlight they saw him
bristle.
"Close by," said his master.
In the coppice in front of them they heard the faintest rustling sound
as of a body being trailed over dried leaves. Then----
"The eyes!" whispered Simpson. "Look--there!"
Out of the blackness of the coppice the two gleaming eyes which the
brothers had seen before shone like malignant stars. They were
stationary for a moment; then, as the bloodhound's growls grew fiercer
and louder they moved forward, growing larger. And presently into the
light of the moon emerged a great, grey, gaunt shape, pushing itself
forward on its belly, until at last it lay fully exposed, its head
between its paws, its baleful eyes fixed on the hound.
"Steady!" whispered the visitor. "It'll get up--it's wondering which
side to go at him from. Wait till I give the word."
The grey thing's tail began to lash from side to side; its body began to
quiver. Little by little it lifted itself from the ground and began to
creep circle-wise towards the bloodhound, now tearing madly at his
chain. The fierce eyes were turned slantwise; there was an ugly gleam
of bared white fangs; the tread was that of a panther. Suddenly its
back arched, its limbs seemed to gather themselves together.
"Now!"
The three guns rang out simultaneously, and the grey shape, already
springing, jerked convulsively and fell in a heap close to the tethered
hound. There it lay--still. Simpson Greaves fetched a lanthorn which he
had kept in readiness within the house, and the three men went up to the
dead animal and examined it. Till that moment they had felt uncertain
as to what it really was that they had destroyed--they now found
themselves looking at a great dog of uncertain breed, massive in size,
more wolf than dog in appearance, with a wicked jaw and cruel fangs
which snarled even in death. And one of them at least began to have
some dim comprehension of the mystery.
The noise of the shooting had roused the other inmates of the house;
they came running into the paddock to hear what had happened. There,
too, came hurrying the woman from the neighbouring cottage who had
cooked and tidied for Josiah Maidment in the old days. And gazing at the
dead beast in the light of the lanthorn she lifted up her hands with a
sharp exclamation.
"Lord ha' mussy, if that there isn't Mr. Maidment's gre't dog!" she
said. "It went away wi' him that very mornin' he disappeared."
"Why didn't you tell us Maidment had a dog?" growled Isaac. "I never
heard of it."
"Why, mister, I'm sure I never thought of it," said the woman. "But he
had, and that's it, as sure as I'm a Christian. It were the savagest
beast ever you see--wouldn't let anybody go near the old gentleman.
Where can it ha' been all this time?"
"That," said the bloodhound's master, "is just what we are going to find
out."
He released the hound from its chain, and putting it in a leash, bade
the brothers follow him. Then he set the hound on the dead animal's
track--hound and men broke into the deep woods. There was no break in
their course, no turning aside, no loss of scent. The baying of the
usurper had been instantly answered by the former guardian of High Elms
Farm. Through thick undergrowth, by scarcely passable paths, beneath
thickets and bushes, the three men, led by the straining hound, pushed
on until they came to a deep valley in the woods, where a limestone crag
jutted out from beneath overhanging trees. Here, behind a
bramble-brake, which concealed it from any one in the valley, the hound
stopped at a hole just large enough to admit a fully-grown man. By the
light of the lanthorn which Simpson had brought with him they saw the
footprints of a dog on the loose soil.
"There's a cave in there," said the bloodhound's master. "Give me the
light--I'm going in."
"So shall I, then," said Isaac, stoutly.
"And I," said Simpson.
The tunnel leading into the cave was not more than a few feet in length;
they were quickly able to stand upright and to throw the light around
them. And with a mutual fear they gripped each other's arms, for there
huddled on the floor lay the body of an old, grey-headed man, who had
evidently been stricken with death as he was counting over the secret
hoard of which he had made this lonely place the receptacle.
"We will give that poor brute a fitting burial," said the bloodhound's
master, as they went back to the farmstead. "He was a primitive savage
in his ways, but a rare upholder of what he felt to be his rights. Bury
him under the big elm-tree."
*CHAPTER II*
*A STRANGER IN ARCADY*
Where the animal which subsequently became so famous in the village to
whose sober quietude it brought an unexpected breath of romance first
came from no one ever knew. Its coming was as mysterious as the falling
of rain or growing of corn in the night; it must, indeed, have arrived
in the night, for it was certainly a part and parcel of Little St.
Peter's when Little St. Peter's awoke one morning. Those early birds
who were out and about before the gossamers on the hedgerows had felt
the first kiss of the autumn sun were aware of the presence of a
remarkably lean pig, who was exploring the one street of the village
with inquisitive nose, questioning eyes, and flapping ears. It went
from one side of the street to another, and it was obviously on the
look-out for whatever might come in its way in the shape of food. There
was an oak near the entrance to the churchyard; the stranger paused
beneath it as long as there was an acorn to be found amongst the fallen
leaves. Farther along, there was a crab-apple-tree in the parson's
hedge, the fruit of which was too bitter for even the most hardened boy
of the village; it stopped there to devour the fallen sournesses which
lay in the shining grass. But always it was going on, searching and
inquiring, and its eyes grew hungrier as its swinging gait increased in
speed. And coming at last to a gap in the fence of Widow Grooby's
garden, it made its way through and set to work on the lone woman's
potatoes.
It was an hour later that the marauder was driven out of this harbour of
refuge, bearing upon its lean body the marks of the switch with which
Widow Grooby had chased it forth, but within its ribs the comfortable
consciousness of a hearty meal. When it had uttered its final protest
against the switch, it went along the street again, furtive and
friendless, but this time with the more leisurely pace of the thing that
has breakfasted. Widow Grooby gazed after it with an irate countenance.
"I could like to know whose gre't hungry beast that there is!" she
remarked to a neighbour who had been attracted to her cottage door by
the pig's lamentations as he quitted the scene of his misdeeds. "It's
been all over my garden and etten half-a-row o' my best potatoes, drat
it. And it couldn't have done that, Julia Green, if your Johnny hadn't
made that gap in my fence when I ran him out t'other night for being at
my winter apples, no it couldn't! I think your William might ha' mended
that gap before now--that's what I think."
"Our William's summat else to do than mend gaps," said Mrs. Green
sullenly. "And the gap were there before our Johnny came through it.
And it's none our pig anyway, for ours is in its sty at this here
present moment, a-eating its breakfast, so there!"
The styless and proper-breakfastless pig, unconscious of this discussion
and of its possibilities of development into a good, old-fashioned,
neighbourly quarrel, went farther along the village street, still
prospecting. There were people about now, men and women, and the door
of the Fox-and-Fiddle had been thrown open, and one or two habitues
stood within the sanded hall, taking their accustomed morning glass.
The pig passed by, and as he passed turned an inquisitive nose towards
the scent of stale ale and tobacco. He went forward, and as he went,
one man put his head out of the door after him.
"Whose pig's that there?" he said, scratching his ear. "I don't
rek'lect seein' that pig before, nowhere."
Another man, standing at the bar, strode to the door and looked forth at
the stranger. He was a curious-looking individual, very porcine of
appearance, very red and greasy of face and hand, and as bald as man
could be. He wore a blue linen apron over his clothes, and from his
side a formidable steel dangled from a leather belt. He was, in short,
the butcher and pig-killer of the village, and had a professional
interest in pigs of all classes. And he surveyed the wandering pig with
a keen eye, shook his head, and went back to his ale. He knew every pig
in Little St. Peter's--this was a stray-away from somewhere else.
"That's none of ours," he said, with a sniff of disdain. "Jack
Longbottom's pig's the only one in Peter's that's in a badly way, and
it's a stone heavier nor what that pig is."
"It'll be a poorish pig, then!" remarked the other man. "But Jack were
never much of a hand at pig-feeding."
The ownerless pig continued his explorations. He went up a by-lane or
two, looked in at the gates of a farmstead here and a farmstead there,
but always returned to the street unsatisfied. He managed to get a
light lunch off a bowl of potato peelings which a woman threw into the
road as he passed, but he was still hungry, and had visions of a trough,
liberally furnished with pig-meal. And at noon, being famished, and
remembering the gap in Widow Grooby's garden fence, he went recklessly
back to it, and finding that William Green had not yet repaired it,
pushed his way through and once more entered on work of a destructive
nature.
This time Widow Grooby on discovering him made no personal effort to
dislodge the intruder. She was doing a day's starching and ironing,
being by profession a laundrywoman, and she and her assistant, a young
woman from a few doors away, were as throng, said Mrs. Grooby, as
Throp's wife, and were not to be interrupted by anything or anybody.
"Blest if that there dratted pig isn't in my garden agen!" exclaimed
Widow Grooby. "That's the second time this morning, and now it's at them
carrots. Howsumever, it's not a woman's place to take up stray
cattle--Martha Jane, slip round to James Burton's, the pinder's, and
tell him there's a strange pig on my premises, and I'll thank him to
come and take it out at once and put it in the pinfold, which is its
lawful place. Them as it belongs to can come and pay for it--and then
I'll talk to 'em about paying me for the damage it's done."
The pinder, interrupted at his dinner, came slowly and unwillingly to
perform his duty. It was no easy thing to drive a stray pig into the
village pound; stray horses, donkeys, and cattle were not so difficult
to manage, but a pig was a different thing.
"Whose pig is it?" he inquired surlily, as he followed Martha Jane and
munched his last mouthfuls. "If it be that rampagious rorp-scorp o'
Green's, why don't they fetch it out theirselves?"
"Then it isn't," answered Martha Jane. "It's an animal as comes from
nowhere, and you've to put it in the pinfold this minute, Mrs. Grooby
says."
"Aw, indeed!" remarked the pinder. "An' I wonder how she'd like
breaking off her dinner to put pigs in pound. Howsumever----"
There were boys and girls coming from school just then, and Mr. Burton
enlisted their services in driving the stray pig out of the widow's
garden and conducting it to the place of incarceration. Pig-like, as
soon as it began to be chivied it showed a powerful inclination to go
anywhere but where it was wanted to go. In a few moments the quiet
street was riotous with noise and commotion.
The pinfold lay in the shadow of the old lych-gate which gave admittance
to the churchyard, the spreading yew-trees, and the ancient church
itself. Like all the rest of the things about it, it was grey and
time-worn, and redolent of a long-dead past. A square enclosure of
grey, lichen-covered walls, against one of which stood the village
stocks, against another the mounting-steps from which many a fine old
squire and sprightly damsel had taken saddle to ride homeward after
church, its interior, now rarely used, was a mass of docks and nettles;
its door was green and mouldy, and would scarce have withstood a couple
of sturdy kicks from a stout ass. When that door was opened, however,
for the reception of captives, most of them backed away.
The pig proved himself as unwilling to enter the pound as any of his
many predecessors. He looked in, saw the uninviting gloom, the nettles,
the docks, the absence of anything amongst which he could root, and he
turned and made valiant efforts to escape his captors. He doubled this
way and that; he struggled out of corners; he tried to wriggle through
the lych-gate. The pinder, remembering his interrupted dinner, shouted;
the boys yelled; the girls screamed. But the stray pig, dodging hither
and thither, still eluded their attempts to impound him, though he now
screamed a little and was getting short of breath. Suddenly he
collapsed against the churchyard wall, as if wearied out.
It was at this moment that Miss Lavinia Dorney, who occupied the pretty
house and garden close to the church, came down to the foot of her lawn,
attracted by the unwonted commotion, and beheld the exhausted pig and
his tormentors. Miss Lavinia was a spinster lady of fine presence, very
noble and dignified in manner, who was noted for her shawls and her
caps, both of which she wore with distinction. She looked very imposing
as she stood there, half-concealed by the shining holly-hedge whose
neatly clipped edges fitted in so well with the elegance of their
surroundings, and Burton touched his cap, the boys pulled their
forelocks, and the girls curtsied.
"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Lavinia, lifting a pair of elegantly-mounted
pince-nez to the bridge of her aristocratic nose. "Dear me, what a
noise! Oh, that's you, James Burton, isn't it? And what is all this
commotion about?"
"We want to get that there pig into the pinfold, mum," answered the
pinder, wiping his forehead. "But it's the contrariest beast ever I
see! It's eaten up nearly all Mistress Grooby's kitchen garden."
Miss Lavinia looked more closely and saw the fugitive.
"Dear me!" she said. "It must be hungry, Burton. Whose animal is it?"
"Dunno, mum," answered the pinder, in a tone that suggested an utter
lack of interest in the subject. "But it's none a Little Peter's
pig--it's too thin, there's naught but skin and bone on it. It's my
opinion, mum, it would eat anything, that pig would, if it had the
chance."
"And who is going to feed it in the pound?" asked Miss Lavinia.
Burton shook his head. He was much more concerned about feeding himself
than about feeding the pig.
"Dunno, mum," he replied. "It's none of my business. And nobody might
never come for that there pig, and it's naught but skin and bone as it
is."
"The poor animal needs food and rest," said Miss Lavinia with decision.
She turned and called across her lawn. "Mitchell--come here," she
commanded.
A man who was obviously a gardener approached, looking his curiosity.
Miss Lavinia indicated the group in the road below the holly-hedge.
"Mitchell," she said, "isn't there a piggery in the stable-yard?"
Mitchell, coachman, gardener, general factotum in Miss Lavinia's small
establishment, gathered an idea of what his mistress meant and almost
gasped. A pig in his scrupulously kept preserves!
"Well, ma'am," he said, rubbing his chin, "there is certainly a sty,
ma'am. But it's never been used since we came here, ma'am."
"Then we will use it now, Mitchell," said Miss Lavinia. "There is a
poor animal which needs rest and refreshment. Burton and the bigger
boys will help you to drive it in, and Burton may have a pint of ale,
and the boys some apples. See that the pig has straw, or hay, or
whatever is proper, Mitchell, and feed it well. Now, all you smaller
children, run home to your dinners."
No one ever dreamed of questioning any order which Miss Lavinia Dorney
issued, and the stray pig was ere long safely housed in a sty which had
certainly never been used before.
"Nice new job for you, Mitchell!" said Burton, over a jug of ale in the
kitchen. "And if you want a word of advice, keep the beast fastened
in--he's a good 'un for gardens."
"You don't know what direction he came from?" asked Mitchell, anxiously.
"Not I!" answered the pinder. "What for?"
"Nothing," said Mitchell. "At least, if you did, I'd send my son on the
road, making inquiries about him. He must belong to somebody, and I
don't want no pigs in my stableyard. And you know what the missis
is?--if she takes a fancy to anything, well----"
Mitchell ended with an expressive grimace, and Burton nodded his head
sympathetically. Then he remembered his dinner and hurried off, and the
gardener, who had not kept pigs for many years, begged another jug of
ale from the cook in order to help him to remember what the staple
sustenance of those animals really was. As he consumed it his ideas on
the subject became more and more generous, and when Miss Lavinia Dorney
went into the stable-yard after luncheon to see how her latest protege
was getting on she found the new-comer living and housed in a style
which he himself may have dreamed of, but certainly never expected two
hours previously.
"I'm glad to see you have made the poor thing so comfortable, Mitchell,"
said Miss Lavinia. "Of course, you understand what pigs require?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am!" replied Mitchell. "What a fine pig like that wants is
plenty of good wheat straw to lie in, and the best pig-meal--that's
crushed peas and beans and maize and such-like, ma'am--and boiled
potatoes, and they're none the worse for a nice hot mash now and again.
They're very nice eaters, is pigs, ma'am, as well as uncommon hearty."
"Don't you think this is a very thin pig, Mitchell?" asked the mistress.
"Yes, ma'am, he's uncommon thin," replied Mitchell. "I should say,
ma'am, that that there pig had known what it was to feel hungry."
"Poor thing!" said Miss Lavinia. "Well, see that he has all he can eat,
Mitchell. Of course, I must advertise for his owner--you're sure he
doesn't belong to any one in the village?"
"I'm certain he doesn't, ma'am!" replied Mitchell. "There isn't another
pig in Little St. Peter's as thin as what he is. Nor in Great St.
Peter's, neither, ma'am," he added as by an afterthought.
"Well, as his former owner, or owners, seems to have neglected him,"
said Miss Lavinia with severe firmness, "I shall feed him well before
advertising that he is found. So see to it, Mitchell. And by the bye,
Mitchell, don't you think he is very dirty?"
Mitchell eyed the pig over. His glance was expressive.
"I think he must have been sleeping out, ma'am," he replied. "When an
animal's homeless it gets neglected shocking."
"Couldn't you wash him, Mitchell?" suggested Miss Lavinia. "I'm sure it
would do him good."
Mitchell stroked his chin.
"Well, ma'am," he said, "I never heard of a pig being washed unless it
was for show or after it had been killed, ma'am, but I dare say I could,
ma'am. As soon as I've an hour to spare, ma'am," he continued, "I'll
get my son to help me, and we'll have some hot water and turn the
biggest hosepipe on him in the little yard--I'll get it off him, ma'am!"
Miss Lavinia cordially approved this proposition and went away, and
Mitchell remarked to himself that no man ever knew what a day might not
bring forth, and went to smoke in the loneliest part of the garden.
Later in the afternoon he and his son performed the pig's ablutions, and
the junior Mitchell, remarking that it was no use doing things by
halves, got a stout scrubbing-brush from the scullery and so
successfully polished the animal that he looked as if he had just been
killed and scalded. Miss Lavinia, going to see him next morning on her
usual round of the stables and poultry-yard, was delighted with his
changed appearance, and praised her gardener unreservedly.
Mitchell, however, was not so much enamoured of his new occupation as he
professed to be in his mistress's presence. For one thing, he was just
then very busy in the garden; for another, the pig began to make more
and more calls upon his time. It speedily developed, or, rather, made
manifest, a most extraordinary appetite, and by some almost malevolent
prescience discovered that it had only to call loudly for anything that
it wanted to have its desires immediately satisfied. No one who had
chanced to see its entry into Little St. Peter's would have recognized
it at the end of a fortnight. Its ribs were no longer visible; it was
beginning to get a certain breadth across its back; its twinkling eyes
were disappearing in its cheeks. The weekly bill for its board and
lodging amounted to a considerable figure in shillings, but Miss Lavinia
neither questioned nor grumbled at it. She was delighted with the pig's
progress, and she believed it had come to recognize her. There was
distinct regret in her voice when one morning she remarked--
"Now that the animal is so much better after its wanderings, Mitchell, I
think we must advertise for its owner. He will no doubt be glad to have
his property restored to him. I will write out the advertisement
to-day, and send it to the newspaper."
Mitchell stroked his chin. He had different ideas--of his own.
"I don't think there's need to do that, ma'am," he said. "I've been
making an inquiry about that pig, and I rather fancy I know who it is as
he belongs lawful to. If you'll leave it to me, ma'am, I think I can
find out for certain, without advertising of him."
"Very good, Mitchell," agreed Miss Lavinia. Then she added,
half-wistfully, "I hope his owner will be glad to have him back."
"I don't think there's much doubt about that, ma'am," said Mitchell,
glancing at the pig, who at that moment was stuffing himself out with
his third breakfast. "I should think anybody 'ud be glad to see a pig
like that come home looking as well as what he does."
"And so beautifully clean, Mitchell, thanks to you," said Miss Lavinia.
Mitchell replied modestly that he had done his best, and when his
mistress had gone into the house he slapped the pig's back just to show
that he had better thoughts of it than formerly.
"Blest if I don't make something out of you yet, my fine fellow!" he
said.
That evening, after he had had his supper, Mitchell put on his
second-best suit and went to call on a small farmer who lived up a
lonely lane about three miles off. He spent a very pleasant hour or two
with the farmer and came away full of that peaceful happiness which
always waits on those who do good actions and engineer well-laid schemes
to success.
"It'll benefit him and it'll benefit me," he mused, as he went homeward,
smoking a two-penny cigar which the small farmer had pressed upon him in
the fulness of his gratitude. "And if that isn't as things ought to be,
well, then I'm a Dutchman!"
Next day, as Miss Lavinia sat in her morning-room, going through the
weekly accounts, the parlour-maid announced the arrival of a person who
said he had come about the pig. Miss Lavinia looked dubiously at the
spotlessness of the linen carpet-cover, and asked the parlour-maid if
the person's boots seemed clean. As it happened to be a bright frosty
morning the parlour-maid considered the person suitable for admittance
and brought him in--a shifty-eyed man with a shock of red hair who
ducked and scraped at Miss Lavinia as if he experienced a strange joy in
meeting her.
"So you have come about the pig which I found!" said Miss Lavinia
pleasantly. "You must have been very sorry to lose it."
The caller elevated his eyes to the ceiling, examined it carefully, and
then contemplated the inside of his old hat.
"I were sorry, mum," he said. "It were a vallyble animal, that there,
mum--it's a well-bred 'un."
"But it was so thin and--and dirty, when it came to me," said Miss
Lavinia with emphasis. "Painfully thin, and so very, very dirty. My
gardener was obliged to wash it with hot water."
The man scratched his head, and then shook it.
"Ah, I dessay, mum!" he said. "Of course, when a pig strays away from
its proper home it's like a man as goes on the tramp--it don't give no
right attention to itself. Now, when I had it, ah!--well, it were a
picture, and no mistake."
"You shall see it now," said Miss Lavinia, who felt the caller's last
words to contain something of a challenge. "You will see we have not
neglected it while it has been here."
She led the way out to the stable-yard or to the sty, where the pampered
pig was revelling in the best wheat straw and enjoying a leisurely
breakfast--even Miss Lavinia had noticed that now that it was certain of
its meals, and as many of them as it desired, it ate them with a lordly
unconcern. It looked up--the man with the red hair looked down. And he
suddenly started with surprise and breathed out a sharp whistle.
"Yes, mum!" he said with conviction. "That's my pig--I know it as well
as I know my own wife."
"Then, of course, you must have it," said Miss Lavinia. There was a
touch of regret in her voice--the pig had already become a feature of
the stable-yard, and she believed that he knew his benefactress. "I
suppose," she continued, "that you have many pigs?"
"A goodish few on 'em, mum," replied the man.
"Would you--I thought, perhaps, that as you have others, and this one
seems to have settled down here, you might be inclined to--in fact, to
sell him to me?" said Miss Lavinia hurriedly.
The red-haired person once more scratched his head.
"Well, of course, mum, pigs is for selling purposes," he said. "But
that there pig, he's an uncommon fine breed. What would you be for
giving for him, mum, just as he stands?"
At this moment the pig, full of food and entirely happy, gave several
grunts of satisfaction and begun to rub its snout against the door of
the sty. Miss Lavinia made up her mind.
"Would you consider ten pounds a suitable sum?" she asked timidly.
The red-haired man turned his head away as if to consider this proposal
in private. When he faced round again his face was very solemn.
"Well, of course, mum," he said, "of course, as I said, he's a vallyble
animal is that there, but as you've fed him since he were found and have
a liking to him--well, we'll say ten pounds, mum, and there it is!"
"Then if you will come into the house I will give you the money," said
Miss Lavinia. "And you may rest assured we shall treat the pig well."
"I'm sure of that, mum," said the seller. "And very pretty eating you'll
find him when his time comes."
Then he got his money, and drank a jug of ale, and went away, rejoicing
greatly, and on his way home he met Mitchell, who had been to the
market-town in the light cart, and who pulled up by the road-side at
sight of him.
The red-haired man winked knowingly at the gardener.
"Well?" said Mitchell.
"All right," answered the other. He winked again.
Mitchell began to look uneasy.
"Where's the pig?" he asked.
"Where I found it," answered the red-haired man. "In the sty."
"Why didn't you bring it away?" asked Mitchell. "You said you would."
The red-haired man again winked and smiled widely.
"I've sold it," he said. "Sold it to your missis. For ten pounds."
He slapped his pocket and Mitchell heard the sovereigns jingle. He
almost fell out of his seat.
"Sold it!--to our missis!--for ten pounds!" he exclaimed. "You--why, it
weren't yours to sell!"
"Weren't it?" said the red-haired man. "Well, there you're wrong, Mestur
Mitchell, 'cause it were. I knew it as soon as I set eyes on it, 'cause
it had a mark in its left ear that I gave it myself. And as your missis
had taken a fancy to it and bid me ten pound for it, why, of course, I
took her at her word. Howsumever," he concluded, putting his hand in
his pocket, "as you put me on to the matter, I'll none be unneighbourly,
and I'll do the handsome by you."
Therewith he laid half-a-crown on the splashboard of the light cart,
winked again, and with a cheery farewell strode away, leaving the
disgusted gardener staring at the scant reward of his schemings.
*CHAPTER III*
*THE MAN WHO WAS NOBODY*
I
That was one of the finest of all the fine mornings of that wonderful
spring, and Miriam Weere, when she saw the sunlight falling across the
orchard in front of her cottage, and heard the swirl of the brown river
mingling with the murmur of the bees in their hives under the
apple-trees, determined to do her day's work out of doors. The day's
work was the washing of the week's soiled linen, and no great task for a
strapping young woman of five-and-twenty, whose arms were as muscular as
her gipsy-coloured face was handsome. Miriam accordingly made no haste
in beginning it--besides, there was the eighteen-months-old baby to wash
and dress and feed. He woke out of a morning sleep as she finished her
breakfast, and began to make loud demands upon her. She busied herself
with him for the next hour, laughing to herself gleefully over his
resemblance to his father, big blue-eyed, blonde-haired Michael; and
then, carrying him out to the daisy-spangled grass of the orchard, she
set him down beneath an apple-tree, and left him grasping at the white
and gold and green about him while she set out her wash-tubs a few yards
away.
Miriam Weere had never a care in the world. Her glossy hair, dark as the
plumage on a rook's breast, her clear hazel eyes, her glowing cheeks,
the round, full curves of her fine figure, combined with the quickness
and activity of her movements to prove her in possession of rude and
splendid health. There was only another human being in Ashdale who
could compete with her in the appearance of health or in good looks--her
husband, Michael, a giant of well over six feet, who, like herself, had
never known what it was to have a day's illness. The life of these two
in their cottage by the little Ash was one perpetual round of good
humour, good appetite, and sound sleep. Nor was there any reason why
they should take thought for the morrow--that is, unduly. Higher up the
valley, set on a green plateau by the bank of the river, stood Ashdale
Mill, between the upper and nether stones of which most of the grain
grown in the neighbourhood passed. And Ashdale Mill was the property of
Tobias Weere, Michael's father, who was well known to be a rich man, and
some day Michael would have----
That was the only question which occasionally made Miriam knit her
brows. What would Michael have when old Tobias died? The mill, the
mill-house, the garden and orchard around it, two or three acres of land
beside, and the fishing rights of the river from Ashdale Bridge to
Brinford Meadows belonged absolutely to Tobias, who had bought the
freehold of this desirable property when he purchased the good-will of
the business twenty years before. He had only two sons to succeed to
whatever he left--Michael and Stephen. Michael was now general
superintendent, manager, traveller, a hard indefatigable worker, who was
as ready to give a hand with the grain and the flour as to write the
letters and keep the books. Stephen, on the other hand, was a loafer.
He was fonder of the village inn than of the mill, and of going off to
race meetings or cricket matches than of attending to business. He was
also somewhat given to conviviality, which often degenerated into
intemperance, and he had lately married the publican's daughter, a
showy, flaunting wench whom Miriam thoroughly detested. Considering the
difference that existed between the two brothers, it seemed to Miriam
that it would be grossly unfair to share things equally between them,
and more than once she had said so to Michael. But Michael always shook
his head.
"Share and share alike," he said. "I ask no fairer, my lass."
"Then," she answered, "if it's like that, you must try to buy Stephen
out, for he'll never do any good."
"Ah, that's more like it!" said Michael.
Miriam was thinking of these things as she plunged her strong arms into
the frothing soapsuds and listened to her baby cooing under the
apple-trees. She had heard from a neighbour only the night before of
some escapade in which Stephen had been mixed up, and her informant had
added significantly that it was easy to see where Stephen's share of old
Toby's money would go when he got the handling of it. Miriam resolved
that when Michael, who was away on business in another part of the
country, came home she would once more speak to him about coming to an
understanding with his brother. She was not the sort of woman to see a
flourishing business endangered, and she never forgot that she was the
mother of Michael's first-born. Some day, perhaps, she might see him
master of the mill.
Save for the murmur of the river flowing at the edge of the garden
beneath overhanging alders and willows, and the perpetual humming of the
insects in tree and bush, the morning was very still and languorous, and
sounds of a louder sort travelled far. And Miriam was suddenly aware of
the clap-clap-clap of human, stoutly-shod feet flying down the narrow
lane which ran by the side of the orchard. Something in the sound
betokened trouble--she was already drying her hands and arms on her
rough apron when the wicket-gate was flung open and a girl, red-faced,
panting, burst in beneath the pink and white of the fruit-trees.
"What is it, Eliza Kate?" demanded Miriam.
The girl pressed her hand to her side.
"It's--th'--owd--maister!" she panted. "Margaret Burton thinks he's
bad--a stroke. An' will you please to go quick."
"Look to the child," said Miriam, without a glance at him herself. "And
bring him back with you."
Then she set off at a swift pace up the steep, stony lane which led to
Ashdale Mill. The atmosphere about it suggested nothing of death--the
old place was gay with summer life, and the mill-wheel was throwing
liquid diamonds into the sunlight with every revolution. Miriam saw
none of these things; she hurried into the mill-house and onward into
the living-room. For perhaps the first time in her life she was
conscious of impending disaster--why or what she could not have told.
Old Tobias lay back in his easy-chair, looking very white and worn--his
housekeeper, old Margaret Burton, stood at his side holding a cup. She
sighed with relief as Miriam entered.
"Eh, I'm glad ye've comed, Mistress Michael!" she said. "I'm afeard th'
maister has had a stroke--he turned queer all of a sudden."
"Have you sent for the doctor?" asked Miriam, going up to the old man
and taking his hand.
"Aye, one o' th' mill lads has gone post haste on th' owd pony,"
answered the housekeeper. "But I'm afeard----"
Tobias opened his eyes, and, seeing Miriam, looked recognition. His
grey lips moved.
"'Tisn' a stroke!" he whispered faintly. "It's th' end. Miriam, I want
to say--summat to thee, my lass."
Miriam understood that he had something which he wished to say to her
alone, and she motioned the housekeeper out of the living-room.
"There's a drop o' brandy in the cupboard there," said Tobias, when the
door was closed upon himself and his daughter-in-law. "Gi' me a sup,
lass--it'll keep me up till th' doctor comes--there's a matter I must do
then. Miriam!"
"Yes, father?"
"Miriam, thou's a clever woman and a strong 'un," the old man went on,
when he had sipped the brandy. "I must tell thee summat that nobody
knows, and thou must tell it to Michael when I'm gone--I daren't tell
him."
Miriam's heart leapt once and seemed to stand still; a sudden swelling
seized her throat.
"Tell Michael?" she said. "Yes, father."
"Miriam ... hearken. Michael--he weren't--he weren't born in wedlock!"
Michael's wife was a woman of quick perception. The full meaning of the
old man's words fell on her with the force of a thunderstorm that breaks
upon a peaceful countryside without warning. She said nothing, and the
old man motioned her to give him more brandy.
"Weren't born in wedlock," he repeated, "and so is of course
illegitimate and can't heir nowt o' mine. It was this way," he went on,
gathering strength from the stimulant. "His mother and me weren't wed
till after he were born--we were wed just before we came here. We came
from a long way off--nobody knows about it in these parts. And, of
course, Michael's real name is Michael Oldfield--his mother's name--and,
by law, Stephen takes all."
"Stephen takes all!" she repeated in a dull voice.
Old Tobias Weere's eyes gleamed out of the ashen-grey of his face, and
his lips curled with the old cunning which Miriam knew well.
"But I ha' put matters right," he said, with a horrible attempt at a
smile, "I ha' put matters right! Didn't want to do it till th' end,
'cause folk will talk, and I can't abide talking. I ha' made a will
leaving one-half o' my property to my son, Stephen Weere; t'other half
to Michael Oldfield, otherwise known as Michael Weere, o' Millrace
Cottage, Ashdale, i' th' county----"
The old man's face suddenly paled, and Miriam put more brandy to his
lips. After a moment he pointed to a bunch of keys lying on the table
beside him, and then to an ancient bureau which stood in a dark corner
of the living-room. "It's i' th' top--drawer--th' will," he whispered.
"Get it out, my lass, and lay the writing things o' th' table--doctor
and James Bream'll witness it, an' then all will be in order. 'Cause,
you see, somed'y might chance-along as knew the secret, an' would let
out that Michael were born before we were wed, an' then----"
Sick and cold with the surprise and horror of this news, Miriam took the
keys and went over to the old bureau. There, in the top drawer, lay a
sheet of parchment--she knew little of law matters, but she saw that
this had been written by a practised hand. She set it out on the table
with pen and ink and blotting-paper--in silence.
"A lawyer chap in London town, as axed no questions, drew that there,"
murmured Tobias. "Wants naught but signing and witnessing and the date
putting in. Why doesn't doctor come, and Jim Bream on the owd pony? Go
to th' house door, lass, and see if ye can see 'em coming."
Miriam went out into the stone-paved porch, and, shading her aching
eyes, looked across the garden. Eliza Kate had arrived with the baby,
and sat nursing it beneath the lilac-trees. It caught sight of its
mother, and stretched its arms and lifted its voice to her. Miriam gave
no heed to it--her heart was heavy as the grey stones she stood on.
She waited some minutes--then two mounted figures came in sight far down
the lane, and she turned back to the living-room. And on the threshold
she stopped, and her hand went up to her bosom before she moved across
to the old man's chair. But the first glance had told her what the
second confirmed. Tobias was dead.
Miriam hesitated one moment. Then she strode across the living-room,
and, snatching up the unsigned will, folded it into a smaller compass,
and thrust it within the folds of her gown.